Saturday, June 19, 2021

Old Coots always had something to do in the 1950's. A Binghamton Press Memories Column - October 2020

 

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.

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