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

The Mole People (Again!) August 27, 2017

Old Coot Joins the Mole People.

By the Old Coot (Merlin Lessler)

History does repeat itself. Ten years ago, NYSEG announced its Smart Meter program. Nine years ago, I responded with a smart-aleck Old Coot commentary. Last month the program was launched, with the installation of the first meter in Ithaca, NY. And, here I am repeating my moan, about how I’ll have to change my ways to fit into an evolving high-tech world. Smart meters are expected to be installed in 1.2 million homes by 2022 at a cost of $400 per meter. I did the math; that’s an expenditure of $480,000,000. I sure don’t want to be stuck with the bill, so I’m going to become a mole person.

These meters are so smart they will know when we’re using electricity; NYSEG can then price it based on the instantaneous cost on the grid. More people use electricity during the day, so the price will be higher than at night. There are several periods when the cost will be astronomical, like at the wake-up hour, when factories and offices are firing up and a legion of teenagers are into their morning ritual, the “hour of shower.” Another peak comes toward the end of the workday, when businesses are still going full tilt and people are turning on lights and appliances at home. The cost will vary throughout the day and throughout the year, so the smart meter will keep a record of when we use power. The cheapest rate will be between 11 pm and 6 am. That’s the only time I’ll be able to afford the stuff. I’ll live out my life in the dark; that’s why I’m becoming a mole person.  

It’s like being in grade school all over again, except this time around it’s not a tattletale telling the teacher that I’m chewing gum, it’s a stupid, “smart” meter telling the NYSEG billing people that I turned on the dishwasher at noon. The theory is, that when I get the bill for using electricity at peak periods I’ll change my ways. (Provided they can revive me after seeing what I owe). I’m not going to wait until my new meter arrives; I’m converting myself into a mole person now. It’s going to be hard. I’ll get up at 11 pm, take a shower, turn on the TV and start the coffee maker. It sounds like electricity will practically be free at that time of the day. Then I’ll put on my miner’s hat, switch on the built-in light and go out and mow the lawn. I hope the neighbors don’t complain. But what can you do? When I finish the yard work I’ll take a stroll into downtown Owego. The Owego Kitchen, Carol’s Art & Coffee Bar and Dunkin Donuts will be closed. Harris Diner will be closed. Riverow Books will be closed. I won’t have any place to stop for a chat. After a while people will wonder what happened to the Old Coot, why he’s not around anymore.   

My whole identity will be stripped away. I won’t be the nice old guy you see around the village. I’ll be that weirdo that slinks through town in the dark, in a minor’s helmet. Eventually, I’ll get stopped by the police and questioned for my odd behavior. They’ll ask me my name and I’ll have a senior moment. I won’t be able to come up with an answer. They’ll take me away. My family will report me missing. You’ll see my picture on bulletin boards in supermarkets and on utility poles, right next to the photos of missing cats and dogs.

Maybe that’s what they had in mind, the real reason they came up with the smart meter. They want to rid the world of old coots. I found out who’s to blame. It isn’t exactly NYSEG. The Public Service Commission is the instigator behind the scenes. You know, the same group of zealots who made the utilities sell their generating plants and now force us to select a supplier every year or so. They said it would introduce competition into the picture and give us choices and lower prices. That didn’t work, so now they have a new plan, “smart meters.” I tried to call the PSC to complain. I called at 11 pm, during my mole hours, so the electricity I used in looking up their number was the cheap stuff. But nobody was there. An answering machine picked up and told me to call between 8am and 5pm. Apparently, they aren’t getting ready for a smart meter at their place. They probably haven’t bought any minor helmets either.

Merlin Lessler is a freelance writer who lives in Owego.     

“What a strange thing to happen to a little boy” *A south side kid looks back)

The Old Coot back then

I’m Looking at a picture of a little boy, not quite a year old, gazing into the camera lens in innocent curiosity. He’s wearing a sailor hat and showing off his new step-climbing skill. The playpen he escaped from is behind him as is his mother’s deluxe, folding clothes dryer. A single cloth diaper flaps in the breeze.

I stare at him and wonder what he’s thinking. Does he have the slightest inkling of the life that lies ahead? Certainly not. But, I do, for I am that little boy, fast forwarded seventy some years. An old man trying to figure out this thing we call life. It’s unnerving, the two of us staring at each through the distance of time. One, gazing ahead. One, jealously looking back.

That, in a nutshell, is the puzzle of old age. A paradox for sure. A store of wisdom because I know what the little boy doesn’t know. His future! Playing in the woods on South Mountain, crawling through the drainage system under Ross Park. His first day of school. His time spent in the corner, the cloak room, the principal’s office, learning the behavioral side of education. His encounters with bullies, his skill at adapting to life as it is, not as he thought it should be. Oh, the education he got at that old brick building on Pennsylvania Ave (Longfellow Elementary), not just the three R’s, but life skills too. It prepared him well when he left schooling on Binghamton’s south side and entered junior high across the river and then Central High downtown. Foreign lands at the time, when homeland for him was defined as the south side, and bicycle expeditions to the West Side, the 1^st Ward, the East and North Sides were daring adventures.  

Along came life’s passages: girlfriends, sports (mostly sandlot, but some organized), knowledge of the good sort and the bad: Marlboro cigarettes, nine ball in the pool hall, blood brother rituals, cub scouts and driving dad’s car without a license. Broome Tech launched him into the work world in good stead with a job at GE and provided the meeting ground for his first wife, Jackie. Then marriage and kids (when they were just kids themselves). First a daughter, Wendy. A second career start, this time at NYSEG, a transfer to Elmira, a second daughter, Kelly, a third, Kathy and a degree from Elmira College night school.

More transfers and a fourth daughter, Amy, born in Putnam County. On and on life went, many, many highs and some real lows. His dad died, then his wife. Time heals all wounds? Not really, but they do scab over and life goes on. Eventually a new wife, Marcia, a lucky man to have yet another soul mate on the journey through time. Then a son, Zachary. College graduations, weddings and his mother’s passing all moved him along the river of life, calm waters and rapids alike. Life flew by and retirement came in a rush followed by the birth of the “Old Coot,” a little premature, but eventually the “old” part became a reality. Now, here he is, here I am, looking back at this little boy in a sailor hat and marveling at how swift the space of time between us disappeared. “What a strange thing to happen to a little boy!” *

* (A comment on getting old, made by poet George Oppen to author, Paul Auster.)

The Old Coot today

Binghamton Press Article Published circa January, 2017

An old coot explains the Boot Generation.

by Merlin Lessler (AKA the Old Coot)

I was thinking about boots today. It started when I glanced out the kitchen window at a group of high school kids waiting for the bus, on this, a snowy winter morning. It’s the fourth or fifth set of kids I’ve watched grow up at the bus stop. Today, they wore several different forms of winter wear, at teenager’s version anyhow: spring coats, sweatshirts, T-shirts, sneakers, flip flops and the like. Only two wore winter coats. No one was wearing winter footwear. Nothing close to the buckle boots I trudged off to school in on snowy mornings. That’s when it hit me, my generation is misnamed. We’re not the Silent Generation, especially those of us born at the very end of the period when the world was at war and just before the Baby Boomers started emerging.  We’re the Boot Generation.

We started off, in “booties,” graduated to baby shoes, that weren’t shoes at all, more like boots since they came above our ankles. Then came cowboy boots. We had to have them, having cut our hero worship teeth on the likes of Roy & Dale, Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry and The Lone Ranger. Mine came from a boot and saddle shop on a street now buried under the Broome County Arena. It was my favorite store. The owner let us sit on the display saddles that were propped up on sawhorses. It was almost as good as the pony rides we waited in line for when the carnival or circus came to town.

Next came high-cuts, military looking leather boots that rose half way to our knees and had a pouch on the side for a jack knife. The world we lived in was awash in WWII surplus military goods and the high cuts were a fashion necessity for kids in my south side neighborhood. We spent much of our time hiking in those high-cuts through the woods on South Mountain. An Army or Navy knapsack was on our back and a canvas wrapped, metal canteen hung from our belt. Some kids wore low-cuts; they were a buck or two cheaper at the regular shoe store, but we opted for high cuts and bought them at the EJ outlet. Even cheaper yet. (The store is also buried near the Arena, only a little closer to the river)

Buckle boots (overshoes that adults called galoshes) got us back and forth on our journey to and from school on snowy days, though it took a lot of effort to jam our shoes into them. Next, came ski boots (and Army surplus skis) from the downtown Salvation Army store. The store was loaded with donated items, including a huge section of military surplus goodies, at deeply discounted prices. (Yet another buried memory, this time, a little north of the Collier Street Bridge, which started out as the State Street bridge when it was built in the mid 1950’s. Buried Binghamton was a pretty cool place before the urban renewal swept it away.) Anyway, when we put on those boots and skis (with a bear trap clamp system, guaranteed to break your ankle if you fell, and trudged to the top of the hills above our neighborhood, we pretended we were in the Alps, tackling the steepest slopes in Europe.

Then came the “COOL YEARS,” teenage days in the 1950’s. The boots were desert boots, a late arriving competitor to the white bucks and dirty bucks that were all the rage. Especially when paired with an oxford cloth, button down collar shirt and a pair of pegged, black flannel pants, the legs so narrow at the ankle they were a challenge to get on. Lastly, at the end of that growing up phase of our lives, which seems like just a few years ago, came shinny black leather, pointy toe boots that we saw teenage hoods wear in movies like Blackboard Jungle and Rebel Without a Cause.

Booties, baby boots, cowboy boots, high cuts, buckle boots, ski boots, desert boots, and hood boots. What else could you call my generation but the Boot Generation.  

Binghamton Press Article - Published 9/11/2016

An old coot earned ink privileges in third grade the hard way.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s that time of year again; school is back in session. It was over 60 years ago when I was a kid heading back to start my prison sentence in 3^rd grade at Longfellow Elementary School on Binghamton’s south side. It was with mixed feelings that I left the playground and ran to the side door as the morning bell rang. I was sorry, because summer vacation had come to an end, yet excited to see my fellow classmates and to make the transition from pencil to pen & ink. We’d been working toward this transition for two years, filling pages and pages with letters of the alphabet, various size loops, endless coils and other shapes, imprinting writing skill patterns into the cortex of our brains. Those exercises were carried out under close supervision of the teacher who roamed the aisles, observing and correcting our pencil holding technique, and "tsking" when the coils or loops started to wander outside the lines. We did this every day, working toward the payoff that would ultimately come in 3^rd grade. Ink day!

It started one month into the term. Our teacher, Mrs. Babcock, walked over to Alex Palmer’s desk holding a quart bottle of black ink, a tiny nozzle protruding from the top. She slipped open the flap on an inkwell recessed into the upper right hand corner of Alex’s desk and filled it with that black magic. We sat in awe as she handed Alex a wooden penholder, a pen point, a small wiping rag and a blotter with an advertisement for Gardner Motors, the Olds dealer on Front Street. Alex’s face was bright red with embarrassment. Our faces were dark green with jealousy.

Alex now did her schoolwork in ink. All of a sudden, those loops became important; we wanted ink! Little by little, the inkwells around the room began to fill up. Finally, came my turn. By that time, the ink filling duties had been handed over to the students. It joined hall monitoring, eraser cleaning, blackboard washing and other classroom tasks on the chore list by the door. Teacher’s aides didn’t exist in that era. The school staff consisted of a single teacher for each classroom, a principal and a janitor (Mr. Vanick) who took care of the three-story building, inside and out by himself, except for the chores we handled in the classroom.

Blots and spills were common sights on the papers handed in from the boy’s side of the room. The girls, on the other hand, proved yet again, that moderation is best. Like the rest of the boys, I dipped deep and filled my pen point to the max. I didn’t want to bother dipping it into ink every few seconds. As a result, my paper was decorated with a variety of blobs and blots. I didn't know that ink privilege could be withdrawn if I was too messy. I wasn’t the last kid to get ink, but I think I was the first to have my ink well removed and told to use a pencil again. I’d spent too much “discipline” time standing in the hall, the cloak roam and the principal’s office to make the required progress in my pen and ink skills.

I still remember the thrill of dipping the pen point into ink that first time, and even more, the agony I felt when I lost the privilege. I couldn’t produce a single page that didn’t contain at least a blot or two. And, when I tried to use an ink eraser to remove the evidence, it usually tore a hole in the paper. I eventually mastered the technique and by the time I graduated from 6^th grade and entered West Junior I was pretty proficient. But, that’s when we put the inkwell, wooden penholder and steel pen point behind us; we moved on to fountain pens. My first one was an Esterbrook. Later that year I ascended to fountain pen “nirvana. I bought the “Cadillac” of pens, a Sheaffer Snorkel. You didn’t have to dip it into an ink bottle and have the point become a dripping mess; you manipulated a mechanism that pushed a snorkel out the end of the pen point, and then dipped that into the ink, pushed a small lever on the side and the ink was sucked into an internal bladder. My messy days were behind me.  

Writing with was a big deal back then. It wasn’t called cursive or script. It was just called writing, an important aspect of public education. The Binghamton School System employed a Penmanship Director, Elizabeth J. Drake. She oversaw and audited the writing curriculum in all six of the Binghamton elementary schools. At the end of each semester we submitted our best writing sample for evaluation. It was pasted in a "Penmanship Progress Folder and sent to Mrs. Drake.  When we graduated from Longfellow we received a diploma for class work and a penmanship certificate. We also got to keep our writing progress folder showing how much we’d improved from 3^rd grade to 6^th grade. I stumbled upon mine a few weeks ago and all those ink memories flooded back. My proudest accomplishment was getting the highly prized gold seal on my writing certificate. Today’s kids don’t need to bother with what was once an educational requirement. Keyboard skills have replaced writing skills. I’m so jealous. School life would have been so much easier.

 

  

Binghamton Press & Sun Bulletin Article June 12, 2016

Silt piles, a sure sign of spring. 

by Merlin Lessler (The Old Coot)

A silt pile by the curb. It was a sign of spring! You’d see them all over town. Oh sure, robins started showing up long before the silt piles, they were the proverbial early birds, but I didn’t put my faith in them when I was a kid growing up on the south side of Binghamton. Not while enduring a biter cold April and seeing them sit around on snow-covered branches.

But, the silt piles! That confirmed it! Spring was really here.

I lived on Chadwick Road during the silt pile era. There was a storm sewer grate right in front of our house. Something I was well acquainted with since it gobbled up a half dozen of my baseballs, tennis balls and rubber balls every summer. I kept a look out for a city truck to pull up to the curb. When a worker hopped out of the bed of the truck with an iron bar and a long handled, spoon shovel I made my move, ran out the door, crossed the yard and stood by the curb as he pried off the grate with the iron bar started pulling up silt with his shovel.

He was there for the silt; I was there for the balls. The ones I’d tried to retrieve with a hoe or a long stick with a nail sticking out the end. My attempts failed most of the time; the sewer won. The city worker would grunt as he lifted out a shovel full of silt and placed it in a pile next to the curb. I watched for a ball, reaching over and grabbing it when he turned to dip his shovel back into the catch basin. Eventually he lifted out all the silt, left the pile behind and moved on to the next one. I followed. There were two of these ball-eating storm sewer grates on our street.

The neighborhood was eventually dotted with silt piles, awaiting the arrival of the pick up crew, who drove up in the same truck they used in the winter to spread ashes across the road after a snowstorm. The same guy who spooned out the silt in the spring, stood in the bed of the truck tossing long swashes of ash, mixed with sand and cinders across the road in the winter. This combination was the primary source of the silt that ended up in the storm sewer.

We always begged the ash crew to leave a strip along the curb so we could ski and ride sleds down the hill. Sometimes they did, but most often they ignored our pleas. One of the times they left us a strip, my mother skidded her car on it and smashed into a brand new demo in a neighbor’s driveway. I thought I was in for it; I had not only begged for and received a snow strip, I’d bragged to her about it. But, she didn’t blame me; she blamed my father. For buying a car with a “new fangled” automatic transmission (a 1954 ford hardtop). “You can’t control the darn things!” she complained. “It just goes where it wants!”

Anyhow, the silt piles are long gone, as are the city workers with long handled spoon shovels. A giant vacuum machine has taken over the task. All we have now are the robins. And again this year, their prediction of spring weather was premature. 

My sister patsy finishes up clearing the driveway on the 

ill-fated day my mother's car slid down the hill and into a neighbor's car.

Highway to heaven on a pair of ball bearing roller skates (Published May 15, 2016 - Binghamton Sunday press)

Highway to heaven on ball bearing roller skates.

by Merlin Lessler

Roller skates were a big deal for kids who grew up in the 40’s and 50’s. We slipped into our first pair when we were kindergarten age. No big deal. No big skill needed. We schlepped about, pretending to glide along like the older kids who had ball bearing in the wheels of their skates. The wheels on our  “baby” skates barely turned at all.

Then came the big day. Move up day. To “ball bearings.” Like most of the toys that came our way back then, they only came on a special occasion: Christmas, Easter or birthday, unless you were lucky enough to break an arm or leg in a bike or tree climbing accident. Then, you could cash in on it. Pity paid. A new toy was a perfect way to speed up ones recovery.  

I received my first pair of ball bearing roller skates on the Easter when I was seven. I still remember that cold April day; I sat on our front step and put them on using a skate key to tighten the toe clamp and buckling a leather strap around my ankle. I stood up, took one step and was instantly airborne. My arms flailed, my legs kicked, and then, WHAM! I fell back to earth, HARD! I knocked the wind out of myself. I thought I was dying. I crawled over to my father and squeaked, “I’m dead!” There wasn’t enough oxygen in my lungs to speak above a whisper.

It took a few weeks, but I eventually got the hang of it. I could glide along a sidewalk like my older sister Madeline and her friends, often sporting a huge scab on one knee or the other. It was freeing, this newfound ability to cover ground with so little effort. It wasn’t on a par with a bicycle, but a close second. That world was different from today's world. If you looked around a

residential neighborhood in Binghamton, or any small town in America, you’d see kids everywhere: gliding by on skates, playing in school yards, whizzing along on bicycles with baseball cards flapping in the spokes, bouncing on pogo sticks, walking on stilts, tossing baseballs and footballs back and forth. Kids, kids, kids! Outside! Moving! Unsupervised!

And, when we were inside, it wasn’t in front of a TV. Our sloth time came when we lay down on the living room rug in front of the radio, listening to Suspense or Captain Midnight. More often than not though, we were in our bedroom or down in the basement when we couldn’t go outside. A basement that bears no resemblance to the finished rec rooms and man caves of today. There was room to skate in mine, as long as I avoided my mother’s ringer washer and the wet clothes hanging from a line strung along the ceiling. It was a good place to “hang out” on a rainy day. It didn’t matter to us what we did, skate, play games, read comic books, as long as we were out from under the thumb of adults. Kids and adults resided in separate worlds back then and both camps liked it that way.

Ball-bearing roller skates expanded our arena. They took us out of the neighborhood to other parts of the city. Most often, mine took me downtown. I lived on a hill, the third house from the top of Chadwick Road on the south side so I had to walk down to Vestal Ave before I put on my skates. And, like all kids, I skated without a helmet, elbow or kneepads. My route downtown took me through the fifth ward shopping district, past Armand Emma’s Drug Store, which was kitty corner from the Grand Theater where Hop-a-long Cassidy and Roy Rogers graced the silver screen most Saturday afternoons. Past the Baby Bear Market, the Busy Bee 5 & 10 cent store and the Fire Station #5 (now the Number 5 Restaurant). Kids from Longfellow and Lincoln Elementary Schools went there on field trips, and once a year, we lined up in front of an open bay with our dogs to get a free rabies shot. (The dogs, not us) I left the south side, crossing the Washington Street Bridge, which carried cars across the river back then, past the statue of a soldier standing on one leg holding a rifle in the middle of Memorial Circle and on to the center of town.

Planter’s Peanuts on Court Street was my first stop, for a free sample from a guy in a giant peanut costume, then on to McLain’s Department store for a ride on the demonstration saddle in the equestrian department and finally to the soda fountain at Woolworth’s or Kresge’s. Kids had freedom in those days. How different it is now. My friend Woody (Walls) and I took it a little too far one Sunday afternoon when we were about five years old; we decided to walk to State Park. We made it across town to Clinton Street before deciding we’d gone far enough. Our parents never knew we left the neighborhood. If a kid did that today his parents would be charged with child neglect. Even dogs had freedom in those days. My dog, Topper, so named because he was the first of seven puppies to climb the basement stairs, accompanied me wherever I went, even downtown. He patiently waited for me on the sidewalk outside a store or movie theater, while I was inside enjoying a special double feature: two cowboy movies and ten cartoons.

I eventually outgrew the roller skates. They weren’t macho enough. I took them apart and nailed them to a couple of boards to make a hot rod. If you couldn’t afford a set of wheels it was another way to get you racing down the steep south side hills. Sometimes making it to the bottom with the vehicle still intact. It was a male right of passage in the 1950’s. I’d love to strap on a pair of those skates today, but I’m sure I’d be airborne all over again. And, this time I might really end up dead.