Memory Lane road trip. Published October 28, 2018

An Old Coot takes a road trip down memory lane.

By Merlin Lessler

When I was growing up on Binghamton’s south side in the 1950’s, there were four gas stations at the intersection of Vestal and Pennsylvania Avenues: Richfield&Atlanticwere two;my mind is blank on the others, probably Texaco and ESSO. They sold gas, fixed cars, provided free air and that’s it. No groceries, no lottery tickets, no coffee (for public consumption). They had a shop pot, but no customer in their right mind would drink it,not that black, oily swill the mechanics consumed after it sat stewing for hours. They did,however, sell soda, cigarettes and candy from vending machines, though I think they were their own best customers. Cigarettes were 25 cents a pack, matches a penny extra.

It was still that way when I became “married with children” in the 1960’s. We had three daughters, a used 1958 Volkswagen Beetle and not much money, yet we traveled around quite a bit. We rarely drove more than an hour at a stretch, having to stop for one thing or another. If the Bug wasn’t low on gas, then a diaper needed changing, my wife and I needed coffee or the oldest two, camped out in the window well behind the back seat, were having an “I hate you” war with each other and begging for a bag of chips in between volleys. A multipurpose stop of this sort took over half-an-hour. We’d go to the gas station first, since we religiously waited until to the very last minute before conceding that the car couldn’t goany farther on fumes alone. The fill-up task took a lot longer than it does today. Most places wouldn’t let you pump your own,so you waited your turn, oftenbehind a young male townie, driving a souped upChevy with dual, purring “Hollywood” mufflers. We would patiently watch while an attendant with awell-deserved nickname like “Turtle,” pumped a dollar’s worth of gas into Billy-Bob’s tank, as Billy-Bob leaned back and lit a “Lucky” having pulled a pack from the rolled-upsleeve of his T-shirt. After the four gallons (26 cents a gallon back then) were pumped in,Turtle checked the oil level, washed the front and back windows, the side view mirror and ended the ritual on his knees, checking the air pressure in all four tires. Of course, Billy-Bob never had cash. He’d whip out aTexaco charge card, kicking off a new routine that sent Turtle ambling to the office and back to process the transaction. Finally, it would be our turn; we got the works too, except we paid cash and our threadbare tires were left untouched, lest they spring a leak from the attendant’s rough hands.

A block from the station was where our eldest, Wendy, usually announced that she had to go to the bathroom, “Real bad!” This happened, even though her mother had grilled her while the tank was being filled as to the status of her bladder. No matter, we had no choice but to hang a “Ueee” and go back to the station, get the key to the restroom, that invariably was chained to a wooden paddle the size of a tennis racquet, and enter the abyss referred to on Texaco billboards as “clean restrooms.” That distasteful chore accomplished, we moved on to the next stop, a restaurant, the only place you could get a cup of coffee in those days. The routine was always the same. I’d walk in and stand by the cash register at the end of a long counter with spinning red leather stools occupied by a mismatched collection of locals who turned in unison to eyeball the “stranger” in town. Turtle’s sister, Pokey, would amble down the counter to take my order, “What’ll it be Honey?” “Two coffees to go, please.” I always seemed to get the bottom swill, with a generous helping of grounds.

Finally, back in the car, I’d sigh, “We’re on our way,” but my reverie was immediately brought to a halt by an ear-splitting screech from the back, “You forgot our potato chips”! One more stop, this time at a grocery store. Getting the chips was the easy part. The hard part was standing in line behind a “long talker” in pink rollers pushing an overflowing cart while Turtle and Pokey’s sister, Gabby, searched each item for a price tag and related every minute of last night’s movie to a surprisingly interested customer. Smart, organized adults avoided most of this by packing a lunch and snacks in a cooler and filling a thermos with coffee. We weren’t that smart or that organized, and even the people who were had to go through the long stop ordeal on their return trip back home.

That agonizing, time consuming travel scenario is long gone. It’s now accomplished in a few short minutes at the one of the thousands of combination mini-mart - gas station – restaurantsacross the country. A truly marvelous American creation. Life is good! Except for the traffic. When we took our road trips back then, there were 54 million cars on the road. Today there are close to 270 million. Not surprising when you consider the US population has grown from under 200 million to 328 million. Quicker stops for sure, but slower movement on the road whenever you enter an urban region. Life is trade off, we get the bad with the good.

Ps, if someone hopped off Route 17, which went right through the center of the city back then, and moseyed past the soldier standing on one leg at the Memorial Circle and across the South Washington bridge to the south side for a travel stop, they not only had the four gas stations at the intersection of Pennsylvania and Vestal to choose from, they could get coffee at the Park Dinner, at the soda fountain in Armand Emma’s drug store kiddy corner from the Grand Theater or the little restaurant on South Washington across from the Busy Bee 5 & 10 cent store. The potato chips could be purchased at any number of mom & pop, neighborhood grocery stores, like the Baby Bear Market, or at the brand spanking new, Loblaws Super Market on Vestal Ave, just down and across the street from the Barron’s Fish Market. They’re all gone now, except for the Park Dinner. It’s eternal. Thankfully. I make sure to stop in there at least once or twice a year. But, they don’t have “Mule Train” on the jukebox, which my sister, Madeline, and I played for a nickel when we went there for a Saturday family dinner out. 

Published June 10, 2018 (No you-yo champ blues)

Almost a yo-yo Champion!

By Merlin Lessler

I was nervous! As I stood there on the sidewalk in 1952, in front of Mayberry’s, Park Avenue store on Binghamton’s south side. I’d made it to the finals in a neighborhood yo-yo contest. Two yo-yo virtuosos from the Philippines were conducting the event. They’d spent the previous several weeks putting on yo-yo demonstrations at school assemblies and running neighborhood contests all around town. So, there I was, on a chilly Saturday morning, showing my stuff, along with a group of 25 anxious contestants.

The location was an ideal gathering spot – in front of our favorite penny-candy store, one block from Longfellow Elementary School (PS-13), at the intersection of Cross and Park, next to the creek. The very corner I was assigned as a patrol boy, one of the perks of being male, and in the fourth grade. The kid friendly store had the longest penny candy counter around and the owners (Mr. and Mrs., Mayberry) never rushed us as we carefully picked out a nickel or dime’s worth of spearmint leaves, orange slices, licorice babies, fireballs and the like. It also had a Coca Cola cooler where the bottles were suspended in ice cold water, a must on a hot, muggy, August afternoon. Heaven, for 5 cents (plus a 2-cent bottle deposit).   

The contest started with simple yo-yo maneuvers: You had to sleep your yo-yo for five seconds (spin it at the end of the string before jerking it back into your hand), walk the dog (skid a sleeping yo-yo along the ground as you took a step or two, as though with a dog on a leash), then came “Around the World” (cast the yo-yo out in front of you and around in circle over your head and  back into your hand). These preliminary feats whittled the field down to ten. Then, came the hard stuff; rock the baby, thread the needle and bite the dog, where the dog (yo-yo) bites and sticks to your pants as you swing in between your legs and pull it up behind you. A simple maneuver, but one that was totally unpredictable.  

Five of us made it through that stage. I’d only been this far once. The dog bite trick always did me in.  The championship would be determined by how many loop-de-loops we could do. We all got busy preparing our yo-yos for this event, winding the string tighter so the yo-yo wouldn’t spin. If we didn’t get it right, and it started spinning when we threw it out in front of us, it would be almost impossible to get it to come back to cast out for another loop. Each time the yo-yo made a loop, it loosened the string. Eventually, it would sleep, and knock you out of the contest. I hoped I mine was tight enough to avoid that disaster.

The first two kids bombed out after six and eleven loops respectively. The third made it to 23 loops. The next kid’s yo-yo spun on his first cast and he didn’t finish a single loop. Now it was my turn. I was nervous, but confident. I had my favorite “Diamond” Dunkin yo-yo, the Cadillac of yo-yos, and I’d exceeded 23 loops many times when I practiced in my driveway at home. My first loop was a little shaky; the yo-yo turned sideways and I just barely got it under control. But I did, and was on my way: five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Then came the disaster, on my 21 cast, it spun! I jerked hard, but it stayed out in front of me, spinning and heading toward the ground. One last jerk got it back into my hand, but it was encased in a wad of string. I was finished. Second place earned me a new yo-yo, but I didn’t get the highly coveted yo-yo championship, sleeveless sweater, that would show the world I was a champion. After the contest, the yo-yo virtuosos from the Philippines stuck around and carved palm trees and birds into the sides of our yo-yos. I still have that Diamond Dunkin, and every time I get it out to see if I can still do rock-the baby, walk the dog and enough loop-de-loops to beat the guy wearing “my” championship sweater, I get that same pit in my stomach I got when I messed up those sixty odd years ago.

 

Old Coot Today - doing rock-the-baby with diamond yo-yo 

Championship Sweater (ALMOST)

Why the Old Coot can't dance the box step.

Why an old coot can’t dance the box step.

Published March 25, 2018

The invitation came in the mail on a snowy December afternoon in 1955. It offered seventeen weeks of dancing classes, conducted by Mrs. Charles Quillman at the Monday Afternoon Club. I scribbled an acceptance note. This was my entry into “dignified” society, 13 and 14-year-old girls and boys learning social manners and the box step. A rite of passage.

Unfortunately, my mother caught me trying to stick the note in the mailbox and let me know in no uncertain terms, I would not be donning a pair of white gloves once a week for four months and box stepping around a dance floor to the snap of castanets. Not at a cost of $30!

I was devastated. A Southsider trying to break into the high social circles of Westsiders, whose frequent chant in the halls of West Junior High was, “The west side is the best side!”   So, I pouted; I stewed; I grumbled, “Life isn’t fair,” like a typical self-focused, teenage brat, and penned the following letter of non-acceptance to Mrs., Quillman (she apparently returned it to my mother, because years later I found it in a scrapbook between my Junior Lifesaver ID card and a picture of me in the West Junior Band, holding a French horn that I often played off key.   

Here is what it said, warts and all: Dear Mrs. Charles Quillman, I can’t except your offer because my mother doesn’t led me do anything on my own. I try to do things without concerning her and she gets all riled up. The other day I wanted a paper route. She said okay. Then I wanted to get working papers. “you can’t get excused from school,” she said. “Remember your record (perfect attendance).” Well I lost the job. It’s awful hard to live with such a person. She always wants to check my homework or something. Well there isn’t enough paper to write what I want. So I have to end.  Merlin Lessler

I recently caught up with some of the dance class students in Florida, where all things old eventually gravitate: Dave Niles, Janet Multer, Stu Williams, Dave Robinson and Woody Walls. I wanted the inside scoop on what I’d missed those sixty some years ago. I learned of the mad scramble in the hall outside the dance floor to pick a partner and avoid a disastrous pairing, the agonizing stroll across the ballroom floor to “present” your partner to Mrs. Quillman, the swish of skirts sweeping across the polished, hardwood floor to master the box step with sweaty hands held at bay, in white cotton gloves. The skirts hovered above three layers of sugar starched crinolines that legend had it, attracted sugar loving ants. No jitterbug, no East Coast Swing, no The Twist – just the “socially proper” box step. They chuckled at the memory of snowball fights initiated by Robert Ridings on the front lawn before class, resulting in 20 male pairs of soggy white gloves that the poor girls had to clasp for the next hour while gazing at a dance partner with a wet-head, the result of a humiliating face wash in the snowball fight. I missed it all. I never did learn the box step. Just ask the women whose feet I stepped on over the years.

The Clinton Street Run!

An old coot revisits a rite of passage.

By Merlin Lessler

(As written, but not published this way. Underage drinking is apparently not acceptable journalism. The "as published" version follows after this. It was published in Binghamton, NY Press Feb 4, 2018)

An old coot revisits a rite of passage.

By Merlin Lessler

 It was August 1959. I was sixteen. Standing at the corner of Washington Street and East Clinton, getting ready for the rite of passage: The Clinton Street Run. A brown felt hat was cocked at an angle on top of my head. The shirt I wore was white with the sleeves rolled up; a loosened necktie hung down just below an unbuttoned top button. An unlit Marlboro cigarette rested on top of my ear. It was everything I could think of to make me look older. To make me ready for the “RUN.” A fake “Senior” driver’s license was in my back pocket. It claimed I was 18, not sixteen, that my name was Jim Steel and I lived in Elmira. All lies! It was the one thing I couldn’t be without if I wanted to complete the ritual, and drink a draft beer in each of the 26 bars along Clinton Street. I’d made the phony license myself, getting a blank senior license from the license bureau (not called the DVM in those days) and placing my sister Madeline’s, legitimate senior license over it, inserting a piece of carbon paper between the two forms and running a pen over the official seal on hers, transferring it to “Jim’s.”

I wasn’t alone when I did the RUN. I’m not positive who was with me, after all these years, but most certainly two or three from the crew of my fellow travelers through our salad years: John Denniston, Matt Goukas, Tommy Conlon, Jim Wilson, Don Campbell, Wally Zagorsky, Woody Walls, Buzzy Spencer, Warren Brooks or John Manley. We worked up our courage and walked into the first bar, Bobby’s, and casually ordered a beer. Drafts were small back then, six or eight ounces and priced between ten cents and a quarter. Sounds cheap, but that was more than we ever spent on beer. Our usual purchase was three quarts of Topper, from Emmett’s Store on Park Avenue, the most popular place for south siders to make a buy. You didn’t need good proof there. I once tried my Social Security card. It looked official and Mrs. Emmett’s didn’t check to see if had a birth date on it. It didn’t. The bartender at Bobby’s didn’t blink an eye. He poured the beer and took our money. We were on our way.

The same held true for the other two bars on East Clinton, Viib’s and The White Horse. We were a happy team as we headed across the Clinton Street Bridge and under the railroad tracks to the Clinton Hotel. Our swagger didn’t win the day there. “How old are you girls?” the bartender asked, accompanied by snickers from the old geysers lining the mahogany bar. “Eighteen,” we replied in unison. One of our nervous voices squeaked high. Probably mine. We pulled out our fake proof and laid it on the bar, acting casual, hoping he didn’t notice our big nervous gulps. It worked. He set three beers with a big head of foam in front of us, but doubled the price. Smart guy. He knew what we were up to. Had witnessed this scene on many occasions. Had probably done the same when he was a kid.

Off we went. Back and forth across the street, bar to bar: Lynch’s, The Welcome Inn, Elmo’s Marble Grill, Andre’s, Muska’s The Lincoln Hotel, Pat & Mike’s Palace-A and finally to The Brass Rail, the fourteenth bar, one past the halfway mark. That’s as far as I made it. My Uncle (Paul Carns) was sitting at the bar nursing a boilermaker and nibbling on a pickled pig’s foot when we staggered in. He hopped up and came right over to me. The jig was up. The rest of my teammates fled out the door like rats from a sinking ship. He couldn’t let his 16-year-old nephew get arrested for both underage drinking and public intoxication? Especially, since his brother, (also my uncle) was Captain Carns, who headed up the Binghamton Police Department’s Youth Bureau. Fortunately, he never got to see the phony proof I’d used that night. 

I never did finish the Clinton Street Run, not in one night anyhow. I did, however, hit each of the remaining bars that summer, but only one or two at a time. I could brag that I completed THE RUN, I just didn’t mention the staggered process. Half the kids who claimed completing this Binghamton rite of passage were liars too. But, today I can truthfully lay claim to doing it. It took place a few weeks ago. The friend I grew up with since my infancy, Woody Walls, and I did it together. We started at The Old Union Hotel and finished up at the Brass Rail. The only bars still operating on Clinton Street. The Clinton Street Run is history! And, so are we 

This is the published version.

It was the summer of 1960, a time between my graduation from Central High School and the start as a freshman at Broome Tech. I was a teenager, standing on the corner of Washington Street and East Clinton, ready to start the Binghamton rite of passage, The Clinton Street Run. A brown felt hat was cocked at an angle on top of my head. The shirt I wore was white with the sleeves rolled up; a loosened necktie hung down just below an unbuttoned top button. An unlit Marlboro cigarette rested on top of my ear. It was everything I could think of to make me look older, so I wouldn’t get asked for ID at each of the 26 bars I was planning to visit. I couldn’t be without it if I wanted to complete the ritual and imbibe in a draft beer at each of those watering holes along Clinton Street. I was paranoid that I’d lose my ID somewhere along the route, so I made myself look older than I was.

I wasn’t alone when I did the RUN, but I’m not positive who was with me after all these years. Most certainly, it included several of my fellow travelers through the salad years: John Denniston, Matt Goukas, Tommy Conlon, Jim Wilson, Don Campbell, Wally Zagorsky, Woody Walls, Buzzy Spencer, Warren Brooks or John Manley? However many it was, we worked up our courage and walked into the first bar, Bobby’s, and casually ordered a beer. Drafts were small back then, six or eight ounces, and priced between ten cents and a quarter. Sounds cheap, but that was more than we ever spent on beer. Our usual purchase was three quarts of Topper (for a dollar) at Emmett’s Store on Park Avenue, the most popular place for south siders to buy the stuff. The bartender at Bobby’s didn’t blink an eye. He poured the beer, took our money and we were on our way.

The same held true for the other two bars on East Clinton, Viib’s and The White Horse. We were a happy team as we headed across the Clinton Street Bridge and under the railroad tracks to the Clinton Hotel. Our swagger didn’t win the day there. “How old are you girls?” the bartender asked, accompanied by snickers from the old geysers lining the mahogany bar. “Eighteen,” we replied in unison. One of our nervous voices squeaked high. Probably mine. We pulled out our IDs and laid them on the bar. He barely looked, and quickly set a row of beers with a big head of foam in front of us, but doubled the price. Smart guy. He knew what we were up to. Had witnessed this scene on many occasions. Had probably done the same when he was a kid. He knew we needed to be served at every bar along the way, and took advantage of it.

Off we went. Back and forth across the street, bar to bar: Lynch’s, The Welcome Inn, Elmo’s Marble Grill, Andre’s, Muska’s The Lincoln Hotel, Pat & Mike’s Palace-A and then to The Brass Rail, the fourteenth bar, one past the halfway mark. That’s as far as I made it. My Uncle (Paul Carns) was sitting at the bar nursing a boilermaker and nibbling on a pickled pig’s foot when I wandered in. He hopped up and came right over to me. The jig was up. The rest of my teammates fled out the door, like rats from a sinking ship. He couldn’t let his teenage nephew get arrested for public intoxication. Especially, since his brother, (also my uncle) was Francis Carns, a captain on the Binghamton Police Force.

 I never did finish the Clinton Street Run, not in one night anyhow. I did, however, hit each of the remaining bars that summer, one or two at a time. I bragged that I completed THE RUN, I just didn’t mention the staggered process. Half the kids who claimed completing this Binghamton rite of passage were liars too. But, today I can truthfully say I did it. It happened a few weeks ago. Woody Walls, a friend since we were toddlers, and I did it together. We started at The Old Union Hotel and finished at the Brass Rail. They are the only bars still operating on Clinton Street. The Clinton Street Run is history! And, so are we.

                                           Me (left) Woody (right) Finally did it LOL