An old coot never said
“There’s nothing to do”!
“There’s nothing to do!” -
Those words were never spoken when I grew up on the southside of Binghamton in
the 1950’s. I first heard them from my two oldest daughters in the late 1960's,
as they sat in their toy room, the floor strewn with "Barbie’s" -
coloring books - tricycles - wagons and blocks, a TV blasting and a sing-along
record playing on a Mickey Mouse phonograph. We didn’t have all that stuff in
my day, but we always had something to do. Our problem, was finding enough time
in the day to take advantage of the "entertainment" at our disposal,
most of all, our imaginations, which easily turned idle time into an afternoon
of fun. I played basketball by myself sometimes, but I wasn’t really alone; in
my head, I was the American underdog battling the "mean-cheating-Russian
commies," coming from behind to win at the last second, in spite of the
bloody head and broken arm I’d received from my imaginary opponents.
At other times, if you
peered around the outside corner of our garage, you might spot me with my back
to the wall, throwing a screw driver, or a hatchet, into the ground on the
steep side hill that marked the edge of our property. In that scenario, I was
either a knife thrower in the circus, coming dangerously close to the
unblemished skin of my attractive assistant, or an Indian, fighting off an
attack from a band of rogue cowboys. Boredom didn't exist with my generation. We
were outdoors as much as possible; when stuck inside we were board-game, log
cabin logs, blocks and checker fanatics. Birthday parties were relished, not
just for the cake and ice cream, but also for the prospect of a "Pin the
Tail on the Donkey" game, or better yet, a fast-paced round of “musical
chairs.”
Checkers, Parcheesi, Uncle
Wiggly, Monopoly, were among our favorites. So much Monopoly was played at my
friend Woody’s (Walls) house that the board wore out and his parents duplicated
the image on a piece of plywood, protected with a coat of shellac. Among my favorite
memories at Woody’s house are the times we hunkered down on his living room rug
in front of their family console radio, playing a board game or building houses
with blocks on a cold winter evening with a blizzard howling outside while the
exploits of Sergeant Preston of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police wafted
through the room from the radio’s 10 inch speaker.
Life in those dark ages was
good. The “something to do” options offered by my mini-universe were endless.
How could it not be so, considering the forty-three playmates who lived in our
two street neighborhood (Chadwick & Denton Rd.), on the hill above the
“Flats” (MacArthur Park), surrounded by the woods on South Mountain, farm
fields to the east and west and an array of interesting venues we conjured up
with our imaginations. Like, the roof on my family’s house. It wasn’t just a
great place to bounce a tennis ball in a hot game of roof tennis, but it also
provided a climbing challenge equivalent to Mount Everest. Woody and I would
sneak out my parent’s bedroom window, onto a porch roof (the base camp) and on
to the summit via a narrow steep assent past the chimney. It was a great spot
to sit and watch the "Norman Rockwell" world below.
All alone, or with Woody,
Warren Brooks or Buzzy Spencer, I spent hours watching life on the block: the
Gazda's in their garden, weeding and nurturing a crop of tomatoes, beans and
corn, the three Soldo girls skipping rope, Bea Krupa sailing a homer out of the
park on "Junk" Street, Mike Almy and Tommy Spagnoletti on pogo
sticks, my sister Madeline and her friends playing a hot game of jacks on the
front stoop, Bunny Horowitz fastening a piece of cardboard to the fender on his
bike with a clothes pin to “motorize” it, the Colavito brothers flipping
baseball cards, Bobby Ahearn setting the fields on fire. We did it too, but we
never needed the fire department to come and put it out like he did (several
times one summer). Nothing to do? I don’t know the meaning of the phrase.
