MY CHRISTMAS STORY

I watched The Christmas Story again for perhaps the 50th time since its debut in the 80’s and I thought of Jean Shepherd, it’s author and my TV colleague and friend.  We spent a lot of time together as we produced PBS network shows and I heard the “real skinny,” as he would call it, about his stories – which by the way he always firmly stressed “…were not memories…for god sakes!  I’m a writer, don’t they get it? Except for  brother Randy the rest of them are not real!”

And then I am back in Millville 1953 and remembering my own Christmas story.

Every kid I knew had BB guns but a couple even younger than me had real 22 rifles – REAL bullet shooting rifles.  And this Christmas I was intent on getting something more than a Roy Rogers cap gun and a dozen of those red rolls of caps. So, I started a quest for my 22 when Mom asked , “What’s on your  “Christmas List”?  Playing it cool, I didn’t start with a target rifle.   I slipped it in after some “educational” stuff designed to soften her up.  I began with an “Art Kit”.  I had an  "artistic nature" according to Nanny who always appreciated my drawings.  Next, I mentioned a Gilbert chemistry set that I saw in the Sears & Roebucks’ Wish Book- the kid's Christmas gift bible.  “On page 85”,  I added just to make sure mom would find it - but it wasn’t a priority I just saw when I searched for the sporting goods sections and found two models of Craftsmen 22 rifles available for shipping – one with a plain wood stock and the other, the deluxe model, came with a case and paper targets that looked like deer and bears.  Mom countered the chemistry ploy immediately, “You’ll blow up the kitchen!”  This was not a good sign.  Yikes I thought - is this no time for a sales pitch about a weapon?  “You are definitely not getting any guns either,” Mom barked (reading my mind as she often did), leaving no room for negotiation  – so I folded.  “I guess that’s all I can think of for now…” and I finished dinner in silence. 

As Mom and Nanny cleared the dishes, I pulled out the Sears catalog once again.  The Wish Book was worn out after a month of pawing through it; dog earring pages; reading brief descriptions that accompanied the photos of toys held by joyous kids; not looking at prices that appeared in fine print at the end of each clever description.  If I wasn't getting a genuine target practicing  gun, now what?   

Since summer, I had been imagining myself as the  “great safari hunter of Stratton Avenue” roaming my backyard jungle. (I emulated Ramar of the Jungle which I devotedly watched every Saturday morning as he saved one of the friendly tribe from an attacking carnivore.)  Frankly, at 10 years old I had few toy fantasies left – not because I was getting too old for toys – but because I had almost everything a boy could ever want – except something I could really shoot.   As I rifled (pun intended) through the pages once again,  I couldn’t find one good toy I needed, let alone wanted.  And then I saw on the same page as the hunting rifles – An Archery Set!!!   Maybe mom would accept an less deadly alternative to the dangers of a gun.

Immediately, I erased my African safari from my memory banks and cooked up one about Indian warriors.  (And yes, we called them “Indians” in those days).  I saw myself tracking bison on the plains and skinning pelts for wampum.  Tonto, pal of  the Lone Ranger could shoot arrows with great results and I would too.  I studied the  “beginner’s” set which included: a fiberglass bow; 6 maple arrows with steel tips and  genuine feathers; an arm protector and 5 targets with bullseye over a deer in full stride.  Done deal!  This was indeed a great compromise and  I decided to add this sportsman’s hobby gift suggestion to my list  at dinner tomorrow evening.

The next evening the moment we sat down for supper I announced -  

“You know what?  I have decided what I really need Santa to bring me!  All scooping and passing stopped.  A Sears Sportsman’s Beginners Archery Set!!!”  Mom paused for just a beat, then said, “I think arrows are more dangerous than guns, ya never know where those arrows are going to end up.”   Yikes foiled again as they said in the movies.  My hopes at becoming a backyard hunter were dashed, and I couldn’t think of a good argument to make my point.  I now realized that this Christmas I was just going to get  more clothes (which could start a trend for the rest of my kid years).  So, dejectedly,  I stopped making gift suggestions at dinner as the days marched on to  by the greatest day on the kid-calendar.

Christmas Day I was up early after a restless night of tossing and turning with no sugar plums dancing.  My house had changed dramatically while I was semi-asleep.  The tree in the living room was now trimmed by Santa.  Red and green crepe paper decked our hall.  And there were great smelling candles burning everywhere.   And beneath the tree a mountain of neatly wrapped gifts – (Later in life I would appreciate that it was mom not Santa that did do all the great themed wrappings -  she was a much more patient wrapper than I would ever be).   

After what seemed like hours of opening gifts, Mom said, “Well do you like everything you got from Santa?”  I said without thinking, “Almost, thanks Mom, Nanny, Pop!”  Then Pop with a smile reached behind the sofa and handed me one more gift.  A very long box with a red ribbon. Inside I found the archery set.  My Christmas  was complete.  My grandfather showed me how to string the bow and notch an arrow.  Then he did something that shocked everyone.  He turned and let an arrow fly right into our kitchen.  BANG!  It pierced a metal trash filled with remnants of ripped wrappings.  Gads, the arrow went right through it.  Pop looked me in the eye and said, “This is not a toy, Calvin.  Never point it at a living thing.  Be very careful this is not a toy – you hear me!”  My mother and grandmother just shook their heads - I think they were still in shock from Pop's surprise gift.  “Yes Pop,” I said...

...and then I had an instant revelation that would last a lifetime.  guns, arrows, weapons, all seem glamorous in the movies.  But now I saw them for what they really were and why they were dangerous – they were made to hurt things or worse.

In the backyard that afternoon I learned how to shoot my bow and arrow – but not once did I try for a robin or a blue jay. I knew, from that day on, I would never be the great hunter of Stratton Avenue - or anywhere else for that matter!

O HOLY NITE

In central Florida where I now live Christmas starts November 1 and there tons of twinkling lights and towns with their own snow making machines that gives one the spirit of the holidays without the frostbite.  And now after concerts, parades and festivals at all the theme parts it's just  a week until the big day…

...And I’m thinking about a much different time... riding with my family looking at the many heavily decorated houses in Millville that were our competition vying for the annual big prize – the Christmas Home Decorating Contest which included a picture on the front page of the Daily Republican and a $25.oo savings bond (which would cover about two days of the added charges on the electric bill)  After years of adding lights and wishing, I was determined that we was going to be “OUR YEAR!”  I had a plan.

We had just moved into our new very modern designed home.  And I had an idea for a decoration so unique it would be a sure  winner.  I found it thumbing through a well-read Popular Mechanics at the barber shop.  Now I just had to convince my Dad that we could construct  this plywood decoration?  And it was going to fit perfectly on our big stone fireplace wall that was the front of our house.

At supper two weeks before the contest I showed the plan  for my 16-foot creation.  My Dad looked at it and was a bit skeptical.  “Hum…that’ll take a lot of plywood,” was his only response.  But he wasn’t noted for being very verbose.  Right away I could see reasoning wasn’t going to work with the realist of the family – so I started to work on my Mom. She could get him to do practically anything.  Two nights later after the dishes were put in our brand-new dish washing machine my Dad said, “Let’s see those plans again.”  And I knew the mom had done her part.  

We started the next evening in the “workshop” which my Dad built before he started building our new house – he was an artist in wood and his shop had every wood working machine a craftsman could want from lathe to router. I say “we worked” on my plan – but like most times he worked, I watched.  First, he laid out a full-scale drawing of the decoration on brown paper.  Transferred it to two sheets of plywood on the shop floor – this very large work of art was taking shape.  Over the next few nights he cut out the intricate shapes.  He was very patient and methodical in his work.  My job was to paint all the surfaces a flat black as each piece was done.  He trusted me to handle that task.  The night of the judging  was looming closer and I was worried we wouldn't make it.  My mom had  filled out the entry blank and mailed it to the newspaper – with the title of our entry – “O Holy Night”.  The die was cast and we had to finish it in before the weekend.  And we made it.   I helped Dad attach our masterpiece to the front of our house on the chimney.  I could not wait until dark so we could see how it looked.  Darkness came early as always on my Mom’s birthday, December 21st and I announced that winning the prize was going to be her present!  With a birthday so close to Christmas mom always got gypped out a present and a party.  We all went to the front of our house.  Dad plugged in the extension cord and our tribute to the season beamed with a yellow glow.  There it was, a 16’ by 4’  backlit silhouette that told the Christmas Eve Story – on the left were the three Magi riding plywood camels toward the palm trees of the City of a Bethlehem which was in the center complete with a radiating star in the imagined sky;  on the right were a couple shepherds staring at an angel hovering above them; running along the bottom of the tableau in 12  inch letters  “O HOLY NITE” – (we didn’t have room for “night”).   The plan seemed to have worked out.  And it was indeed unique – except for the countless other readers of PM that attempted to make it – but in Millville it would literally stand alone.  I knew it would win us the coveted prize – a $25 dollar savings bond and a year of bragging rights at school.  My mother, with tears in her eyes, whispered, “It’s just beautiful…the best birthday present ever…just beautiful…”  My Dad said, “I wish it was brighter.”  He was always the perfectionist.  I said nothing but I was very proud of the way it turned out.

That weekend when Dad turned on the rest of our electric testament to the season – my city of Bethlehem just looked like a large black stripe on our fireplace wall. We hadn’t factored into the design the ambient light from about hundred red and green lights under the eves and outlining our entire house.   Dad added more lights for two nights straight - but the effect or lack of effect remained the same.  I was crushed.  My creation turned out to be just an ugly black box.  Needless to say,  we didn’t win; we didn’t even get on the  honorable mentions.  

The next Christmas Dad tried the shadow box once again in a different spot but with the same result and then it was relegated to the scrap woodpile.  Year after year we added  lights, a plastic Santa and Sleigh, candelabras in each window - but  we never did when the contest.  But I did learn an important lesson.  The best laid plans may look great on paper – but sometimes in the bright light of reality - they just don't work.

CHRISTMAS IN THE CITY OF LOVE

 A few weeks before every Christmas, we made a pilgrimage, not to Bethlehem or Mecca but to Gimbels and Lit Brothers.  I think of this every year around December 1...

... It's a very early Saturday, the first weekend after Thanksgiving 1953.   Mom, Nanny, and I walked to the Public Service Bus garage and waited (what seemed like forever) for the bus to Philly.  I was filled to the brim with excitement.  This trip was the beginning of the best part of the kid year, as heralded by the Millville Daily Republican (which wasn't published on Sunday?) that posted its first little box in the box on the front page = "25 days 'till Christmas".  I made a mental note to get my Christmas must-have list in order.  But right now I was focused on waiting. 

Now waiting for a bus is worse than waiting for a tea kettle to boil.  Time slows in a way only a physicist could understand.  But finally, the big shiny behemoth roared out of the garage, and we were on our way.  The bus driver said, "Vineland Margaret?" and she replied, "No, Eddie, all the way to 13th and Market streets." The fare was a buck fifty each – a costly trip in kid finance, but worth it; we were on our way to wonders that predated Disney World.  The trek took over an hour as we stopped to pick up new passengers every 14 feet.  The bus is full.  And then we sailed over the big bridge and were there.  Downtown Market Street and the big stores were all in a row.  Lit Brothers, Gimbals, Woolworth's, W.T. Grants, Sears and Roebucks, and the Taj Mahal of Retailers – John Wanamaker's.  And we were going to walk every floor of them all.  This was our day to "window shop" Christmas. 

However, our first stop was traditionally at Horn & Hardart's Automat.  I had seen their commercials on TV for months, and now I could taste their delicacies in "living color" instead of black and white. Mom let me put 30 cents in a slot this year. A little door opened, and I grabbed a ham and cheese on white from the little box. This menu was a fine instant cuisine that predated the fast food burgers to come, but that was years off at this point.  Another quarter in a row, and I got a slice of very spicy apple pie with a slice of yellow cheese on top.  My mother splurged and spent 40 cents on a BLT, her favorite. Nanny had liverwurst (which I wouldn't acquire a taste for until I was introduced to it at a Jewish Deli in Atlantic City years later).

Now the fun finally began - Next stop, Wanamaker and the train in the sky. 

Escalator or elevator?  This was great fun for Millvillians, as we basically have a one-story town - we rarely rode up anywhere in Millville.  I voted for the escalator because, as we glided to the next floor, we could see the delights below and the sparkling decorations on each aisle.  As she did every year, Mom cautioned me not to get my foot caught in the moving steps, which seemed impossible to me - but.  Five floors later, we arrived at the Toy Department, which occupied an entire floor - this was a kid's dream come true.  Riding high above the countless counters of model airplanes, puppets, and pop guns was the Toyland Express Train, also known as The Rocket, which circled the perimeter of the floor twice with about 25 kids aboard on each trip.  I always waited in line for the ride first so I could get my bearings - over there was the Hopalong Cassidy stuff in the first aisle, the board games over there.  Bikes below.  I waved to Mom and Nanny.  And then saw "Santa" (his helper, of course) seated on a giant golden throne.  (I would later see Gimbel's Santa; I like him better, he had a real beard)  After I made the two revolutions on the Polar Express of my day, I was then off to view the treasures up close.  I moved through the rows of glass-topped counters like a hunter on a safari, up and down each aisle, scanning the displays.  I particularly liked the toy gun arsenal and the Gilbert's Erector Set display of a skyscraper that resembled the Empire State (which no kid would ever be able to duplicate).  Ticker Toys were not a favorite - too babyish. 

On the way down, we would ride the elevator and stop on each floor as the uniformed operator  called out their wares  - When he  said, "3rd floor, ladies' underwear." I always giggled.  This announcement cracked me up every year.  

Next, out in the windy air, I visited every store on the street - Lit Brother's featured a complete set of kid armor for $300.  I knew that would not be on my Christmas list.  I was a realist, even at the age of 10. Anyhow, I probably was too big for it.  Plus, there would never be another kid in my neighborhood that I could have a joust with. 

We stopped several times along the busy sidewalks filled with shoppers carrying armloads of packages, often in front of furniture stores, to pretend we were buying a pop-up easy chair.  Actually, we went in to sit down and rest our feet for a few minutes.  We moved from the easy chair to the sofa and tested each for its potential comfort!  Those with footstools were mainly of interest.   Nanny found one recliner with a vibrating seat, which we all tried.

Our last stop was always at Lit Brothers - a small but wonderful department store. Here, there were more exotic toys to see. In the massive atrium, patterned after a Roman temple, a free and famous hourly concert of carols took place, accompanied by a giant tree on a marble-pillared balcony high above the crowd. The tree was decorated, as advertised, with 20,000 lights that blinked in time with the music.  After every carol in the book was played at ear-splitting volume, there was a big finale. The tree danced to Joy to the World as red and green spotlights made it sparkle, and as every year - WOW! was all I could say, along with a bunch of oh's and ah's from the large crowd.  The lights slowly dimmed to the last chords of Silent Night, and the show was over.  Done until a waiting crowd filled the atrium again.

We were done too - well done.  We had walked all day, and Nanny said her "dogs were barking!"  She always had an old saying that made me laugh.  As the big stores closed, we caught the bus home, and I slept most of the way back to Jersey, dreaming of my idol Hopalong Cassidy and his double-holstered cap guns with simulated pearl handles - the dream ended all too soon when the bus lurched to a stop, and we were home again.

Years later, I realized that every time Mom had walked away that day "to look at something" as I gazed at the toys, she was ordering stuff  "for Santa" and a week later the "big brown" truck would bring many of the things I said, "I really...really like" to Stratton Ave.   

Our holiday shopping was over, and I slept well that night.  These were some of the best days in my life.  But those great monuments on Market Street are gone now and replaced by internet orders to an invisible store called Amazon.  They're just memories  - when a magic bus trip took us to a wonderland in the City of Brotherly Love.

A "MARY" THANKSGIVING

It's Thanksgiving time again, as the days grow shorter… my heater came on today.  I wondered if there would be frost tonight.  And I thought about past holidays, and one special celebration with Aunt Mary and her son, Louis, came to mind.  I can see their long driveway that led to a little white house in Vineland, and Aunt Mary was small too – she was my grandfather's younger sister, and as round as she was tall.  She wasn't more than 4 feet 6 inches.  And even though she was born in Brooklyn 65 years ago,  she still spoke with a strong Italian accent.  (Her father, Sebastian, had emigrated from Rome to Brooklyn and then moved to Vineland to work on a truck farm. Work he did in the old country.  He joined many other immigrants who spoke his language and understood his ways.) One of my family traditions was to spend most holidays with my mother's side of the family,  Aunt Mary and her bachelor son Louis.  And I suspected that the main reason was that she was a great cook.  "I make everything like in the old country," she told me many times.      But I am ahead of myself.  I had a tradition too.  The day before each feast, I would take the bus 10 miles to "assist" Aunt Mary in making our special dinner.  Homemade ravioli was her specialty, and it was on every menu.  I asked her once why we always made only one hundred and ten pieces, and she replied that she rolled out the dough to fit on her porcelain-topped table, and when cut, it made that many pieces each time.  Her kitchen was small and always had a trace of garlic in the air.  The preparations for her dinner had started the day before I arrived.   Her incredible "gravy" had been quietly simmering on the stove for about 24 hours - the fresh plum tomatoes cooked down and marinating with pieces of sausage, pork, and her "secret" spices.  Aunt Mary had cousins in Switzerland and Italy who mailed magic seasonings several times a year.   This wasn't just cooking; it was a family ritual handed down through many generations.      I rolled up my sleeves and we began.  Aunt Mary dusted the table with flour and then kneaded a dough ball the size of a basketball with her hands in an ancient ceramic bowl.  She plopped it on the table with a loud thud – and the job I waited a long time for came next.  Using a large rolling pin, I spread the dough out to the corners of the table into a thin, four-foot square.  I would take great pains as Aunt Mary hovered behind me, saying, "Calvin, make it thin, make it very thin."  (Actually, she said, tin rather than thin - her English faltered sometimes).  When I finished, my arms ached - but this was a welcome price to pay.   Next, Aunt Mary spread the filling on half of the dough —a combination of spinach, hand-ground beef, and pork mixed with the ragout cheese, as she called it.  Next, she carefully folded the dough over.  This took a very experienced hand.  My "second best" job was next.  I got to make the little pockets with a serrated wheel on a handle that turned the table of dough into ravioli.  This whole process took most of our afternoon.  After we finished,  Aunt Mary made me a cup of tea and gave me some cookies before I caught the 5:05 for home.   I could not wait until tomorrow when I would brag about how "I made the pasta."  All 110 pieces.  I did the math on the bus trip and figured that each of us got about 20 each, and we usually didn't have any leftovers.   Plus, there would be the turkey turned to a golden brown in her ancient oven.  And my favorite dessert ever – "orange ice-a-box cake". This was a concoction that I had only at Aunt Mary's and never again.  I think she invented it.  Its basic ingredient was "ladyfinger cookies, store-bought," as she would say.  Cookies with a tangy orange custard.  – No matter how full I was, there was always room for two bowls of it.

Thanksgiving Day came, and I watched the Macy's famous parade in living black and white on our new and bigger 12" Admiral.  I had never been to a Macy's store, but I imagined it had to be a great place if it could have a two-hour parade on TV.  I dressed in my "Sunday School outfit" (my mother insisted that I "dress up" on holidays).  And we made our pilgrimage to Vineland and our afternoon celebration.  We filled the small living room (which doubles as a dining room) with its large, round table. Louis brought up folding chairs from the basement and insisted that he and Aunt Mary use them – "You are guests", he always said.  Dinner was laid on the table immediately.  I then had to recite the blessing (which I always hated to do, but…). After our moment of thanks, the passing of giant bowls and the tasting began.  My mother would say, as she did each year, that the pasta was the "best" she had ever had – "Aunt Mary, you outdid yourself this year."   Aunt Mary always waved off this compliment and worried out loud, "I hope the turkey is not too dry". There was very little chatter as we dug into the feast.  Louis never said anything unless asked a question.  He was a middle-aged, lifelong bachelor who had spent his adult life, after returning from World War II, caring for his widowed mother – he was a good Italian son and a quiet man.  In all my years, I had never heard him say more than 10 to 15 words per holiday.  Mostly "how are you "goodbye," and "happy Thanksgiving".  He had a look of sadness – the look of a man who had resigned himself to his duty but wishing there had been more. But Aunt Mary depended on him.   I would smile when she would instruct him to "make the light once" or "Louis, I feel a draft" which was her cue for him to turn up the thermostat.  Aunt Mary lived into her late 80s in that small cottage and soon stopped asking Louis for things.  Our holidays with her stopped.  She spent the last five years of her Life sitting quietly with her memories in a straight-backed chair with a knitted shawl on her shoulders.     After dinner, I was always so full I could hardly move.  As I did every visit, I asked cousin Louis if I could see some more of his Life Magazines. Louis had collected every issue of Life since its inception.  He had them in neat, year-by-year stacks in the basement on shelves with curtains to keep out the dust.  Louis brought up a stack of magazines.  Somehow, he seemed to remember which editions I had seen on my last visit.  I flipped page after page of this weekly history of Life in pictures until it was time to go home, fascinated by their content.  As we started to say our goodbyes, Louis neatly gathered up the magazines as if they were first editions of great literary works and returned them to their resting place.  (When Aunt Mary passed away, he moved to a rented room and deposited his entire collection in a dumpster – I was devastated.  When I scolded him about this significant loss, he just smiled and in his quiet way said, "Oh well…it was time…")     Aunt Mary's ravioli with fragile dough – turkey, orange icebox cake – and the history of the world in pictures, that was my Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter for many years.  And the menu never changed.  Many holidays have rolled by since we stopped going to Vineland.  Aunt Mary and Louis are gone now.  And I have spent many holidays in fine and famous eateries – and yet I still yearn for one more homemade ravioli dinner that I helped make. Sharing an old country meal with those who are gone...gone like the people on the pages of Louis's treasured magazines.

The Halloween Double Feature

    

    It's that time of year for ghosts, goblins, and Reese's Cups (my favorite, which my granddaughters each save for me from their stash!).  And every Halloween since the 50's, I remember one afternoon at the Levoy Theater…when I became a monster and terrorized over 1000 kids… 

…There was going to be a great kids' event.  A Halloween live magic show at the movies – an afternoon I had been waiting for since it was first advertised on a big poster in the lobby during the summer.  "Coming in October to Your Theatre…Dr. Silkini's Traveling Magic Show - Live on Stage…and a Double Creepy Feature…Abbott and Costello Meet the Wolfman and Meet the Mummy…PLUS AN APPEARANCE OF THE REAL FRANKENSTEIN AND DRACULA LIVE ON STAGE. 

"All this and more for one low ticket price…"  The words were blood red across a background of bats surrounding a photo of the great grand magusi himself – Dr. Silkini with a fireball shooting from his wand!  This was going to be the great Halloween – I just knew it and started to cross off the days on the Abbott's Fine Bakery calendar hanging in our kitchen. 

    Finally, the Saturday before Halloween came, and I couldn't wait to get to my favorite seat at the movie – I got there as the doors opened.  But as I walked through the lobby, a young lady stopped me and said, "Young man, you look like somebody who might enjoy having extra fun today. How would you like to be in our show?  I am Dr. Silkini's assistant, Miss Carol, and I think you would be a perfect fit for our show!"  How did she know I was a Charter Member of the International Brotherhood of Magicians and had been playing the Cub Scout Blue & Gold Dinner circuit since I was a kid?  (I started to do magic shows when I was 9, four years ago) This was an incredible piece of good luck.  I was going backstage with a "real" magician and, even better, a part of his big act.   Miss Carol instructed me to come backstage through the exit door to the right of the stage just before the first movie ended so I could get my script and makeup.  Makeup! I was going to get makeup – this was real showbiz.  As Bud Abbot and sidekick Lou Costello ran from a monster for the last time,  I made my way backstage. I was in the dim light behind the translucent, flickering screen.

    This was a real backstage with dressing rooms, ancient theater posters on the walls, ropes and pulleys – I had no idea that our local movie house was a real theater - a stop on the traveling vaudeville circuit.  I was very excited until I saw a half dozen of my friends sitting on folding chairs – I wasn't going to be the only star of this show.  A man, dressed in sneakers and a sweatshirt, got our attention (this was the famous Dr. Silkini, but he didn't look much like a wizard or a doctor; he looked like just a person).  He asked us to form a line, and as he walked by each of us, he quickly made assignments for the show. "You two will be floating hands.  You will be Dracula; all you have to do is lie in that coffin and sit up when I  knock on the lid.  You other two will work the flying bats; Miss Carol will show you how.  And you (me), big guy, will be my Frankenstein.  When I cue ya, just walk out on stage (he demonstrated the stiff Karloff monster walk), make some loud monster noises, and when the lights go out, jump off the stage and run, I repeat run as fast as you can, up the center aisle, and wait for us in the lobby to get you back here.  Thanks, guys, for your great help, and all of you will get an autographed picture of me as a souvenir of our big Halloween show."  And that was it. 

    Miss Carol, who came from the one dressing room, now in her very brief red sequined outfit, helped me get into my costume, consisting of a giant padded black canvas coat and a pair of shoes with six-inch blocks of wood attached to the soles.  She advised me to practice walking because walking in them was not easy.  She handed me a well-used Frankenstein rubber mask that covered my whole head.  I pulled it on.  It smelled like Swiss cheese, and I practiced walking and trying to see where I was going while the "hands" and the "bat" guys got dressed in long black robes with hoods.  Miss Carol sprayed their hands with white fluorescent paint – and they glowed magically as they waited in the dark wings of the stage.  She raced through our last instructions - "Listen to Doc...just follow what he says - hands just walk around the stage and wave at the audience.  Bat guys' fly' the bats at the edge of the stage out over the audience when he tells you - like casting with a fishing pole.  Drac, I'll push you out to the center, and don't forget to sit up.  Frank, you will come on when the Doc cues you".

    The "live" show started with the Doc doing a few traditional magic tricks –  Chinese linking rings, an ancient and weary rabbit appeared and disappeared, and then he did his "big finish" - he cut Miss Carol in half and restored her, no worse for wear!  She pranced into the wings. (And from my point of view, I now knew how this trick was done, but I would never tell).  The stage darkened. And black lights above the stage were turned on -  (Note: for the un-magician, these lights made things glow in the dark.)  

    Next, eerie music filled the theater from a record player in front of an ancient PA mike.  Dr. Silkinni, with a flashlight under his chin, spun a scary tale of Halloween, and the audience started to shriek as the stage went totally black.  Miss Carol pushed the six hands out on the stage, and the audience screamed as they saw them floating in mid-air.  Next, as the Doc continued his tale, the evil glowing bats flew to even louder shrieks.  Dracula was summoned and sat up on cue. The audience of hundreds of kids was now hysterical – and I was too...I was next.  Doc's story then introduced the greatest monster of them all – me.   Miss Carol gave me a not-so-gentle push out on the stage – I clomped to the center, doing my best monster impersonation (Boris would have been proud) - the music was deafening.  Thunder roared and strobes flashed as Doc yelled, "JUMP"!  

    I jumped off the stage into the black void. My giant shoes crunch through the aged floorboards in what used to house an orchestra pit.  I was stuck.  Finally, I pried both feet out and tried to find the center aisle - but I was immediately pounced on by all the kids in the first row.  I was pummeled with their tiny fists, showered in popcorn, beaned with Good and Plenty's – I feared that I would actually become one of the living dead – or worse.  I couldn't see anything in the sweaty mask. I desperately tried to find a way to escape.  I now realize why the Doc had repeated during our "rehearsal' that I should "immediately run" up the closest aisle. 

    Then a firm hand grabbed my arm – Miss Carol pulled me up the aisle as the house lights came on to a crescendo of rolling applause and hoots, then slowly dimmed. The next movie, Frankenstein and the Three Stooges, began.  And I had been saved from the kid monster hunters.  Safely backstage, Miss Carol said, "Great job, Frankenstein. Want to do it for our evening show tonight?  You can come to the movie for free."  How could I say no?  

    After my evening performance, my showbiz career was over for a while. Still, I was bitten that day, not by a horror show vampire, but by a showbiz bug whose effects have been with me ever since.

A TREAT OR A TRICK

     

Looking back, I have decided that my Mother was amazing!  She worked at a glass factory 8 hours a day and still came home to spend time with me before bedtime, read a story, and play Parcheesi (a game I insisted on playing).  But one Halloween, she outdid herself for sure.  I was 9 or 10, and Halloween was still a significant event in my kid year.  I looked forward to it almost as much as Easter, but not nearly as much as Christmas.  So, one night in early October at play time, Mom asked, “How would you like to have a Halloween party?”  “Why sure!” I replied, but I was not really sure what a Halloween party would be like, and I guess I looked puzzled because she added, “Just leave it to me…I will call the moms of your Cub Scout Den, and you invite your cousins, and don’t forget Bruce.”  I was surrounded by “cousins” one or twice removed.  My grandfather had built our small cottage between the homes of his two brothers, and they both had a bunch of kids. One cousin, Bruce, was my nemesis – the famous neighborhood bully. He was noted for his violent reprisals whenever anyone beat him at marbles, basketball foul shots, or even rummy on a rainy day.   I wondered why my Mother had decided that I had to invite Bruce.  Little did I realize she was up to producing a Halloween trick!  So, after throwing a marble game, I asked him the next day, and losing one of my favorite Tommy Trollers to avoid a black eye or worse.  To my surprise, he said he would come!   Yikes, he never went to parties; of course, he was never invited to any, primarily out of fear that he would do something bad to someone before the cake was served.  And so, a couple of nights before Halloween, ten boys all in costume, except Bruce, were assembled in our living room.  My Mother had been working on the event for days.  And it was a big secret as she worked in the laundry room.  It was off limits for me, and this was driving me crazy.  The festivities began with my grandmother turning out all the lights and turning on our record player – eerie organ music filled the darkness.  Mom entered carrying a candle – and she was dressed like a witch!  Tall, peaked hat, black cape (I later learned my grandmother made the costume), and she was riding an old broom.  We all shrieked, except Bruce, who was too cool to be impressed.  We sat mesmerized as this green-faced old witch cackled and conjured up the fun. First, she “read” our palms and told our fortunes – and she was hilarious.  I had no idea where she got the script for this.  (Later, she told me she had chatted with all the moms for some funny stuff to tell)  Next, Nanny served us cider and homemade cinnamon donuts.  We ate and played games for a couple of hours, pin the tail on the ghost, guess the monster charades, and then the big moment arrived.  Mom produced a long tube from a roll of paper towels that she had painted black and orange. – After showing it, she said in her best witch impersonation that it was a “magic spyglass” and if someone peered into it, they would see a real ghost.  But it only works once a night, so who would like to be brave enough to take a look?  Bruce immediately grabbed it and declared, “I’m the oldest, and the rest of you are too afraid.” This was the first sound he had said all night. Most of the time, he had been scowling, letting everyone know that he was much too cool to enjoy the kid games.  Mom explained that he had to look deep into the darkness of the device.  He put it to his eye and growled that he saw nothing.  Mom said maybe he should turn it a bit.  He did.  Not a thing! She suggested he try the other eye – again, NOTHING he yelled.  He took the tube away and snarled, “This lousy thing ain’t working”!  The room went wild with laughter!  The tube left big black circles around each eye.  Mom had added her mascara to the end of the tube.   For us ten-year-olds, this was the greatest practical joke ever, played on the one person that surely deserved it – we hooted for a long time, not caring that we might later feel the wrath of Bruce the next day after school.  For once, Bruce got the black eyes, not one of us.  Bruce had no idea what was going on until Mom gave him a mirror and he took a look.  He was mortified.  She gave him a wet paper towel to wash off his “black eyes”!  He didn’t say another word and just grabbed another donut.  And we all knew he knew he was undone by a mom no less, and not by a big kid’s punch.  The next day, I saw him on the school playground and anticipated a bad end to my mom’s practical joke, but he just looked at me with a smirky smile rather than his usual glare. 

    The best Halloween Ever was over for another year, and from that day forward, Bruce the Bully left all of us alone.  

TRICK OR TREAT?

  

  The kitchen calendar flipped to October 1, 1952, and I started to think of Halloween and my annual monumental decision - What would I be this year?  But that day, fate stepped in when I saw a full-face rubber mask of Frankenstein in the window of W.T. Grants.  It was $7.50 - yikes, a fortune in kid money, but I was sure I could talk my grandfather into a "loan".  My most excellent costume of all time was in the works.

    My grandmother was a great seamstress, and she turned an old black remnant into a monster's jacket. Next, a feat of genius, she fit the jacket perfectly, and it went over a large cardboard box, which gave me giant shoulders. My pop gave up his favorite pair of black work pants, and he nailed a couple of slabs of pine to the soles of a pair of worn-out work boots. I clomped around the house all week. Boris Karloff would have been proud.

    The wait slowed the clock as usual. The days ticked off. Now in South Millville, treating or Treating took more than one day to ensure we got to everyone.   We went out in a gang two nights before and then the big one, Halloween, filling a pillow case each night - with no worries about straight pins in our Baby Ruth bars.  As a warm-up, we also appeared at the Bacon School PTA Halloween party, marched around the gym, and ate hard gingerbread cookies from the cafeteria with a cider chaser.

    Back to mischief night - we tossed toilet paper over Aunt Kathleen's trees and ran.  We threw a couple of eggs at each other and would have turned over an outhouse if we could find one, but they had disappeared when we got city water.   We did not think of burning a neighbor's car, stealing a TV from a department store window, or destroying anything - we just had fun and always hoped we would meet the Jersey Devil at the second street hollow - just once.  But we never saw him/her/it.

    Each night, I donned the mask and stumbled out into the dark.  Actually seeing in the mask was not an option.  All around us were the hoots and shrieks of ghouls and a couple of gals dressed as Princess Summer Fall Winter Spring – a popular character on The Howdy Doody show and one of the best-selling store-bought costumes at our Woolworth's 5 & 10 @ $2.89.  I made the rounds from third to second and back with my friends.  Warren was choking in the skeleton costume he had outgrown about two years ago.  Danny was the Lone Ranger with a mask and a cap gun ready.  He fired off a few cap rounds at every door as a greeting.  And Sylvia was a "something" – none of us could figure just what.  But it was a raggedy, mismatched outfit held together with safety pins that decades later a famed pop star would wear the same on TV and change the world of fashion for teenage girls.  

    Inside my prized rubber mask, I was drenched as my breath condensed in the cool fall air into a moist and steamy mixture that got into my eyes.  This was a small price for what I was sure would be the biggest candy haul ever.  I thought that nobody would ever guess who this giant monster was.  I had practiced my monster voice all week, trying to sound like Mr. Boris K., but I was immediately recognized at each door.  "Great, get up there, Calvin," my uncle Harold said.   My bag of treats grew heavy, and I  dragged it behind me.  And then it was over, as all holidays must - too soon..

I staggered home and immediately got out of my wet mask to dump my haul on the living room floor and counted my stash.  32 candy bars, 7 homemade chocolate chip cookies, 46 cents in change, a rusty token from the NYC subway, and a pencil which said, Prince's Lumber Company.  I had bagged enough sugar to make a dentist drool.  Of all the treats, I preferred the regular-size Reese's Cups over the others.  They had a special flavor on the candy connoisseur's palate for at least two bites. On the other hand, I never ate the Mary Janes, those hard chomping waxy morsels that my mom tossed after they hung around for a few months.

    I put my dripping mask away, and it would stay on that shelf in my room until a yard sale 10 years hence.   But it remains the best mask I ever had for Halloween.