1961

Searock

Chapter 1

I

Connecticut, December 29, 1960

Children are living beings-more living than grown-up people who have built shells of habit around themselves. Therefore, it is absolutely necessary for their mental health and development that they should not have mere schools for their lessons, but a world whose guiding spirit is personal love.

— Rabindranath Tagore

I like children. If they’re properly cooked.

— W.C. Fields

I

woke just before sunrise in a warm bed beneath Grandmother’s cream and teal barnyard-critter quilt, one eye opened. I waited. I reflected on how exceptional life was, and felt excited about the year ahead.

My bedroom door gently pushed open into the room—slowly—silently. She crept like a ninja, believing me unaware. I, her compliant victim, lay awake and still, but apprehensive of what came next.

As my victimizer sidled up to within a foot from where I lay, I cringed and braced. What she carried in hand was all too familiar.

She reached down and attacked.

My first buttering of the day. I submitted. Why fight the inevitable?

It was my 13th birthday. Buttering, was a wacky tradition on Mom’s side of the family. One ducked and weaved all day or submitted. At least the butter was real and not some cheapo hydrogenated cottonseed oil tub turned. If attacked with some Bread-Loaf Mountain Dairy butter, however, it was practically a treat. Without fail, Mom acquired her yellow gold from Miss Graves Dairy in Granville, Vermont. The fifty-year-old farmer produced her one-pound blocks from cream separated by hand and finished in small glass churns. She kicked around the idea to switch to a barrel churn, but promised Mom to fill her orders the same as she had for the past ten years. Eyes closed, it almost tasted like the spring grass fed to her Jerseys. It arrived creamy yellow, rich and sweet. Mom always said, I just can’t understand why someone would spend hours in a kitchen baking and ruin their dessert with margarine. It doesn’t make a bit of sense to me.

As globs melted and dripped from my nose, I was forced to stick out my tongue for another taste before I ultimately complained and wiped it away.

December 29th was not only my birthday, it was Spencer’s, too—my best friend. We were born in the early hours of a post-war Monday. I came into the world at 11:15 a.m., Spencer arrived at 11:38 a.m. eastern standard time.

At first light, clouds hung heavy. Winds blew strong at 35 miles per hour. The temperature remained in the low teens as it had for the past few weeks. A peculiar winter it was—no snow fell, high winds constantly whipped up unraked brittle oak leaves and fine sand. The river ice fluctuated between too thin and just barely thick enough. The surface wore a glossy frozen rippled effect. All in all, winter sucked as usual. The only winter sport I liked—ice hockey—was infrequent because it was hard to find enough kids to play at any one time. Sledding, skiing, snow-fort making, snow fights, and any other activities that involved the fluffy white stuff, were on hold. Even the White Mountains of New Hampshire were bone dry.

At thirteen, my hair had grown a longish-dark brown, my eyes a strange navy-blue speckled with gold. When we shopped for pants, there were only two categories to choose from: slim and husky. At 91 pounds slim, but due to beefy calves, husky fit best. People described me as remarkably handsome—followed by, But he talks way too much.

A buttinsky, I didn’t miss a trick. I tried not to voice all my thoughts, but that was hard work. Really hard work.

My family and I lived in a small Connecticut town—our house had just sold, and we were about to move back to Vienna, Austria, to a building owned by my mother’s side of the family since 1887.

In Vienna, our family occupied the residence’s second level. We rented the third to various small colleges for study-abroad programs. The first floor housed the lobby, marble staircase, elevator, and Mrs. Ingersleben’s apartment. Below grade, a large kitchen, the building’s mechanics and a dining room that often substituted as a classroom.

Mrs. Ingersleben, a cantankerous old biddy, then in her seventies with well-coiffed pearly hair and unblemished skin, stood four feet eleven inches. Employed by my parents, my mother’s parents, and their parents, all who knew her back then agreed she was striking in her younger days. At 14, she arrived on a stormy bleak spring day back in 1898.

Her assignments were to keep the lobby, staircase, and the basement clean. Also, she was to let in drunk college students without their keys at all hours of the night. When a group of revelers rang the ancient doorbell after her bedtime of 9:00 p.m., she became a real bitch. Invariably, it happened after 9:00 p.m. The students generally paid her no mind. The one and only time she yelled at me was the day I asked her to speak in English rather than German."Sie lernen, Wiener Deutsch zu sprechen, wenn man in dieser Stadt sind, und ich spreche kein Deutsch, ich spreche Wiener! I got the gist of it—learn to speak Viennese German when you are in this city, and I don’t speak German, I speak Viennese!

Freddie, my annoying nine-year-old brother clung to Gramps like dog hair on a wool suit. Pops’ father, Gramps, in 1961 was fifty-seven years of age. He lived with my parents from the first day the love of his life died. Ellen, his wife, and the grandmother I never knew, passed in 1945. Pops, just sixteen, took it hard, and vowed to care for Gramps until he kicked the bucket. Pops and Gramps were best of friends and cherished each other dearly.

In 1961, Rocket, our two-year-old, four-and-one-half-pound long-haired Chihuahua ruled. He often perched on Gramps’ shoulder-especially at night to watch television. My pal, Willy, lived down the road. His father befriended a squirrel that constantly chomped nuts, scratched and let fly unpleasant noises—he also perched. Dogs on television garnered both the squirrel’s and Rocket’s attention. The squirrel ran and hid. Rocket emitted barks that lifted him off his seat. He lived to run with the big dogs and held his own unless his twig-like legs or itty-bitty feet were stepped upon. A master of self-preservation, he quickly relocated and avoided contact as gingerly as gentleman Floyd Patterson. Rocket was so tiny when he came to live with us at six weeks old he wore a minuscule bell—ever so careful, we shuffled when we walked. Never fitted with a collar, just a cat harness—his dog license too substantial for him so kept at the bottom of his toy box.

Our family was old money rich. On many occasions I was instructed never to talk about our fortune. Pops always said, People with money are just people with money, no better and no worse than anyone else because of money, or lack of it.

We lived on a short street. Everyone knew everyone, for better or for worse. To reach Riverside Lane you crossed a narrow bridge suspended over the Mount Hope River. Once over the bridge you faced a stop sign, two choices, right or left. To the right six houses and a dead end. To the left six houses and a dead end. Any strange cars in the neighborhood either visited or were deemed suspect.

In the spring of 1960 we held a family meeting. It was announced that the Connecticut house was sold and we’d travel in 1961 for Pops’ business. He explained how much he missed us when gone for extended periods and wanted ‘61 to be different. The only information I had about Pops’ business was what he told me, I know people, and people from time to time need my help. I guess you could say, I help people. He wouldn’t elaborate, so I stopped the third degree and went along for the ride. Friends and acquaintances referred to him as das fixiermittel or il fissatore [the Fixer].

II

Spencer

M

y best friend Spencer and I met on our eighth birthday at a party hosted by his aunt and uncle, Oliver and Alexis Duffy. The Duffys occupied a large house located at the opposite end of our little street. The rambling ranch consisted of seven bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms, and a den, way too small for a family with twelve children. During Christmas vacations Spencer and his family stayed with the Duffys. Spencer’s father was the brother of Mr. Duffy. Spence was one of eight children. For nearly two weeks, twenty-four people ate and slept under one roof.

Spencer also vacationed with his cousins most summers and Thanksgiving breaks. His father was a major in the Air Force. The family settled by the Banana River in Cocoa Beach, Florida.

Self-assured and adventurous best described Spencer, he soaked up his surroundings like a sponge. A bit short for his age but all muscle. His beach-blonde hair, was cut burr style. His wide chocolate eyes were full of life, accented by long curly lashes. Always ready to take on the world, consequences be damned.

Spencer spilled the beans the day he arrived in ‘60. During that year’s summer break his Aunt Alexis ran away with a twenty-six-year old professor that taught at a nearby university. The Christmas of 1960, even without her, the body count remained stable at twenty-four, (if you included Henrietta, the proxy mother and live-in help).

III

Christmas, 1960

W

e celebrated a different Christmas that year. Mom somewhat committed herself to no sleds, flying saucers, or any of the bulky things we boys enjoyed. Only gifts we could easily tote to Austria. She said, Big things come in small packages. I didn’t really believe her back then. I also didn’t believe she could stick to her plan. Big presents were inevitable once she caved, and cave she would.

I anticipated retribution that Christmas because of the trouble I managed to get into the previous week. Each year Freddie and I searched the house to uncover Christmas’s hidden treasures before their time. That year I accidently discovered, at least that was my story, a shortcut. In Mom’s wallet, folded ever so small and neat, I found a complete list of gifts with names scribbled next to each. I made an error in judgment when I told Freddie everything on his list, he wailed as though shot in the ass.

You’ve ruined everything, he cried over and over and over again. If not for the fire I accidently started in the woods behind our house a few months before, the Christmas list predicament was probably the most idiotic stunt in a long while. Not idiotic because I found the list, idiotic that I told the little crybaby.

Hours past our ordinary bedtime we lined up for inspections, brushed teeth, combed hair, white shirts, black pants. Before we left for Midnight Mass we were allowed to open one present, new coats for church, what a surprise. We had one last inspection before we pulled out of the drive. What were we? Quick change artists?

Jack, if you snap those glove holders one more time you’re going to sit in the car and freeze until Mass is over!

I’m bored!

That’s because you’re not singing!

Neither is Pops! He’s counting again!

According to my Aunt Rita, on her third marriage to the same Uncle Dick, Pops converted to Catholicism just before he married Mom. Gramps voiced he wouldn’t acknowledge the marriage or any children the marriage produced unless he did. Since Pops considered himself a Congregationalist in name only, it made little difference to him.

Throughout Mass, Pops counted window panes, ceiling beams, rows of pews, number of people, number of women, number of men, how many times we knelt, how many times we said, Amen. You name it, he counted it.

IV

Christmas Morning, 1960

"F

red, Fred, Freddie, Freddieeee!"

What? Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack!

It’s Christmas!

Each Christmas morning, we woke Mom and Pops who then scooted us back to our bedrooms.

Mom always played Christmas music while Pops lit and tended to a roaring fire.

Pops yelled Ho, Ho, Ho, and Merry Christmas one and all!

Doors flew open. We bolted, pushed and elbowed each other to be the first to the living room. Presents from Santa were never wrapped. We received a pile of toys with our names written on red paper with glued green letters. The only wrapped boxes-gifts from Gramps, and the presents Mom and Pops gave to each other.

In my pile, an electric See ‘em Pop popcorn maker, and an electric pitching machine that signaled if I hit a single, double, triple or homer when the bat connected with the ball. Along with the pitching machine—a baseball suit that included a gray shirt and trousers, cap, blue socks, and press-on letters. At the bottom of the pile a Frisbee, and for my Matchbox collection, a blue Triumph Motorcycle with sidecar, yellow Caterpillar Tractor, green Land Rover and a tan Bedford Wreck Truck. I also dug out a Deluxe Fisherman & Clipper Boat made by Tonka. The truck, blue with a white roof, hauled a red and white boat on a blue trailer. Up against the wall we spotted two pogo sticks—one for each of us.

Freddie’s pile included an Etch-A-Sketch, a paint-by-numbers kit with canvases of sail boats, two Troll Dolls, a 400-piece set of hard plastic Civil War Soldiers and a can of Play-Doh.

Tucked away in a large white envelope placed in the tree, was the yearly Letter from Santa. The Letter simultaneously caused great concern and excitement. Each year Santa expressed what made him proud of us since the previous Christmas, and what we needed to improve on. Then we were told where Santa hid our primo present.

Before the reading of the Letter we washed, brushed teeth and played with our toys while Uncle Ed prepared his annual breakfast of Swedish pancakes, bacon, orange juice, and sweet buns. I wasn’t sure who Uncle Ed was. We were told he worked for Dad and had no family of his own. Ed was a fat man with loads of tattoos. Freddie thought he was Santa in disguise—cooking breakfast as a way to kick back after he flew around the world to deliver presents.

When the Letter was taken from the tree I felt sweat build on my forehead, my hands clammy.

Nothing too bad—the fire mentioned, and I was lectured a bit before I received high-marks for my report cards. My big present, a 2.2 HP Gasoline Engine for my bicycle, hidden in the tool shed. How to get it to Vienna was anyone’s guess. She caved.

Freddie was told not to fight when asked to take baths. To brush his teeth and not just put his toothbrush under running water. To not daydream and listen to his teachers more. He received praise for finishing all his vegetables without fuss. His big present, hidden in the basement behind the furnace, an electric race cart that sped up to 5 miles per hour and included goggles and a helmet. I knew the race cart, batting machine, pogo sticks and my new engine would be sent to Perdido Key.

Mom received the biggest present of all-hidden in our neighbor’s garage: a 9-passenger Ford Country Squire station wagon. The beauty sported a fold-down rear seat and an AM/FM radio. That year’s model boasted a redesigned tailgate assembly, a self-storing window which could either be rolled down into the gate by a crank on the outside, or by an electrical motor actuated by the key. The main body color was laurel green, wood panels on both sides and the tires white walled. She also scored a full length Russian sable coat.

Pops received a new tuxedo, burgundy Derby Shoes, Ray-Ban Aviator Sunglasses and a set of 1830 ornate dueling pistols in an elaborately decorated and carved wood case.

Gramps really cleaned up with gifts of two tailored suits and a photo of a Vespa 150 GS parked beneath our Perdido Key beach house. Written on the reverse of the photo—Your new toy has a 150 cc engine, 4-speed gearbox, standard long saddle, aerodynamically-styled handlebar-headlamp unit, wheels with 10 tires. This Vespa can reach 100 km/h. Merry Christmas, 1960, from Santa. Be careful old man!"

As we explored our gifts, Mom reminded us we had stockings full of presents. We snatched them from the mantel and dumped the contents on the floor. The stockings included the usual nuts, candy bars, toothbrushes, Pez dispensers and pencils. Both Freddie and I found small blue savings passbooks with notes that read—here is $10,000 for you to spend on your 25th birthday. You must promise to add at least $1000 to your account each year—save for the day you become an adult.

25th Birthday! I’ll be an old man by the time I can spend the money. Why 25? Why not 21 or even 18?

Mom laughed, You know your father and his fixation with numbers. He woke this morning and the number 25 came to him and when he gets a number in his head there’s no changing his mind. By the way, Jack, you will not be an old man at 25, you’ll be a beautiful young man with most of your life ahead of you.

Each stocking also contained a yellow envelope with the typed words Keep in a Safe Place. Inside was a deed to ten acres of land in Florida. I wasn’t positive what it meant—everyone but Freddie and I made it out to be a big deal.

V

Below Ice, December 29, 1960

I

jumped on my most coveted possession—a Schwinn black and red Phantom. This gem decked out with whitewall tires, pinstripes, deluxe leather saddle, spring fork, built-in horn, streamlined tank, fender lights, automatic brake light, an integrated lock kickstand, and luggage rack. She shined chrome all around. Every kid that laid eyes on her wanted to take her for a spin—Spencer was the only one I trusted.

Spence and I joined up just after 11:00 a.m. We grabbed our sleds and sped down to the Mount Hope River. In the summer it provided a great swimming hole, in the winter we used it to skate and sled.

A well-worn path led us through a thick stand of trees past an old abandoned foundation to an embankment thirty feet above the river. A rope, meant to swing, hung from an old oak frozen in place. A sandy steep vertical slope led from bank to water. The middle of the river was punctuated by the turtle-shaped sunning rock that protruded a few feet above ice. Except for an open area around the sunning rock, the river wore a rippled shiny coat of ice. In the open water floated a large inner tube with an ice covered jump-rope fastened to it.

Spencer and I slid down the slope and out onto the ice to dislodge the rope, grab the inner tube, and store it in the woods until summer.

A few feet from open water we heard that unmistakable sound. Ice cracked. Before we had time to react we found ourselves on a block that broke free. We stood on the same side of the iceberg, off balance. We plunged in and struck out, at first confident, then swept below ice by the rushing current. My head scraped the ice’s underside. Hidden rocks below surface grazed my body, tossed and turned me as though in a clothes dryer. I felt Spencer bump. He spun. His boot smashed my nose and opened up my lip. Seconds later he hurtled away. I was desperate for air but couldn’t determine up from down. I tried not to swallow, but was winded and in need of oxygen.

Instead of panic, a sense of loneliness, then a peaceful glow of warmth and love. As I took in water an intense pain bloomed in my chest. My body smashed into tree branches and a new pain shot from my side. I continued to spin as the current hurled me down river. A holy light suddenly came toward me, not a blinding but a warm, bright beautiful light. I heard music play and thought, I think I’m dead. I felt comforted.

Light crashed into me as the river shoved my face into a crevice full of skin slashing reeds and stone. Everything stopped. I wiggled from side to side then pushed up with all my might. Broke through thin ice and found myself at the river’s edge. I lifted my head, volumes of water flew from my mouth and lungs. I gasped for air while water continued to pour out of me.

I scanned the scene. Searched for Spencer and spotted him downriver, up against a fallen maple tree—his head above water. I tried to stand but felt a heavy weight on my chest. I had no choice but to move. Spencer appeared dead. If I could do anything for him, I needed to do it fast.

Soaked and weighted down by my husky denim pants and heavy jacket, I crawled along the bank. Once parallel to Spencer I slithered across the ice like a snake. I spotted a huge gash in his forehead and his arm seemed dislocated at the shoulder. He looked peaceful and angelic. I felt a sense of sadness that I left the warm place beneath the ice, yanked back to earth. Then I welcomed great relief. I reached Spencer.

With my ear against his chest, I heard his heart beat and raspy breath. I yelled for him to open his eyes. I pulled back my hand and slapped his face hard. He groaned and fear-filled eyes popped open, and stared straight up to the sky. When I yelled his name, he screamed from pain. The screams excited my senses—he would make it.

With Spencer’s help, I pulled his legs from the water and up onto the tree trunk. His pants were ripped off and his long-johns torn. I wrung out my jacket and covered him.

Spencer are you all right? I need to go for help, but I want to make sure you won’t fall back under. There’s no way I can get you out of here by myself.

I think so, but my arm is fucking killing me.

He vomited. I ran.

I found Gramps on the sunporch. He read his morning paper and drank the usual black coffee. He took one look at me and jumped out of his seat.

Jack, what’s happened? Your face is full of blood!

Gramps, Spencer needs your help. He’s downriver past the swimming hole, hanging onto a tree for dear life. We gotta go. I’m scared he’s going to pass out, fall back into the river and be dragged under the ice again.

Jack, calm down. How far down past the hole is he?

He’s just before the Laverdier’s dock.

Gramps ran to the liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle of brandy then flew into the garage. He retrieved rope, blankets and a handful of rags.

At full speed, Gramps and I shot down Laverdier’s driveway, cut through their backyard and down to the river. A few yards up we spotted Spencer. He still hung on.

Listen to me, Jack. Run back to the house and call the fire department—their number is on the side of the refrigerator. Tell them what’s happened and how to get to us—we’ll need an ambulance. Stay on the road and lead them here.

Our birthdays ended with the two of us hospitalized for an overnight stay. The doctors worried I might have suffered some brain damage from lack of oxygen and wanted to monitor my condition. My face was ripped up by reeds, but the rest of me cleaned up pretty well. Spencer’s arm was put back in its socket. The gash on his forehead looked worse than it actually was.

Secure and warm in our hospital beds, the lectures from both sets of parents began. They tried to act tough but we saw tears in their eyes and heard the quiver of their voices.

The afternoon edition of the Chronical reported on our near-death experience. I was embarrassed. Spencer, happy as a clam. One Candy Striper flirted with him often as he played up his injuries with bravado, grinning from ear-to-ear. She giggled each time he got an erection, its size evident to all. She didn’t care that he was only thirteen.

My best friend and I looked forward to our fourteenth birthday and beyond.

Chapter 2

I

New York City, Mid-January

It’s a town you come to for a short time.

— Ernest Hemingway

New York is to the nation what the white church spire is to the village-the visible symbol of aspiration and faith, the white plume saying the way is up!

— E.B. White

A

t 8:00 a.m., Wednesday, January 18th we were in our suite at the Algonquin Hotel at 44th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues in New York City, we ate breakfast delivered by an elderly Latino man dressed in a white jacket and white gloves. It was a dismal morning. Snowflakes dusted thoroughfares, gyrated and careened off concrete and stone. Our Sylvania was tuned to the Today show with Dave Garraway.

Pops had a brown shopping bag by his chair and talked on the phone. Mom worked on the New York Times crossword puzzle and bit the eraser at the end of her perfectly sharpened #2 pencil. Gramps and Freddie played a game of War and drank orange juice cocktails. Spence and I sat cross legged in front of the TV, ate bagels and worked on post cards. It was decided Spencer would travel with us to Kennedy’s inauguration and meet up with his father when he landed at Bolling Air Force Base. He was due to take off shortly from Patrick AFB, located not far from their home in Cocoa Beach.

When Pops hung up the phone, he stood in front of our little group and said he had some announcements. In an hour he would leave for meetings to discuss the finishing touches on the Children’s Zoo in Central Park. Mother and Freddie had an all-day affair to shop and sightsee.

Pops reached into his brown bag and pulled out two small identical boxes wrapped in crazy paper with red lightning bolts on a white background covered with tiny black dots. Next he pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Gramps. Followed by a large blue folder and composition books for Spence and me.

Jack and Spencer, the two of you are going to have a blast today. Your mother and I are sending you on a scavenger hunt along with your grandfather. We’ve put together 10 questions you must answer by traveling to spots around the city. If you get all 10 correct, you’ll receive these two boxes along with twenty-five dollars each for a trip to FAO Swartz. There’s no time limit so take it easy and enjoy the city. I know it’s a bit cold out so make sure you have your gloves and hats on all day—if you don’t I’ll know it.

We opened our folders and read together…

II

Scavenger Hunt

B

oys, you’re about to undertake a Scavenger Hunt. It is a hunt, not for items, but for knowledge. Outside the hotel’s front door there is a cab waiting. The driver will remain with you for the entire time it takes to complete the hunt. You are to bring along your mother’s Colorsnap camera and take photographs to prove you reached each of your destinations. Good luck and Godspeed.

At the Waldorf Astoria’s Restaurant, behind the Men’s Bar, sit two bronze statues of animals. What are they?

Also at the Waldorf Astoria, who is performing tonight in the Empire Room?

At St. Patrick’s Cathedral there is a tomb for what American saint?

Also at St. Patrick’s Cathedral there is a large famous Rose Window—what sits just beneath it?

In Bryant Park there is a stature of William Earl Dodge. Is his right or left leg bent?

At the Plaza Hotel located at 768 5th Avenue, find out which Alfred Hitchcock movie had the hotel as one of its locations.

In front of the NYC Public Library at 5th Avenue between 40th and 42nd Streets, sit two majestic lions. They are entitled _____ & _____?

Also at the library, go up to the desk and ask for the names of two of the most famous documents in their collection. You only need two.

In Central Park there is a statue located west of East Drive and 67th Street and north of the zoo. What is the statue and what is its name?

At the 65th Street Transverse in Central Park you’ll find a carousel. How many horses does the carousel have? How many chariots does it have?

We strode out of the Algonquin. A cold rush of air flew through the canyons. The chill blasted the right side of our faces as a warm breeze from the lobby played with the back of our ears and necks.

At curbside a Checker A9 taxi, with a bright yellow body and a checkered design along each side and across the roof line, waited—the sign on top read Reserved. Our driver was Mickey and within minutes we knew he grew up in Brooklyn, had three brothers, six sisters, a mother in Miami, and a father in the ground. He wore a zip-up red-and-tan short jacket straight out of an LL Bean catalogue, scuffed black thick-soled shoes, brown corduroys, red suspenders, and on his head a chauffer’s cap, put there just for us. He was 28 and had a girlfriend Ginger named after Ginger Rogers. Ginger who?

As we made our left hand turn onto Park Avenue a burst of snow surrounded our taxi and brought visibility down to a car’s length. The wipers slapped at full speed even though impossible to see the street lights overhead—most cars came to a standstill. Horns blared. Mickey shook his head and said he never understood why New Yorkers were so impatient.

They always think they’re late for something every second of their lives. I bet you dollars to doughnuts the heart attack rate in this city is sky high.

As soon as we pulled up to the limestone art-deco behemoth known as the Waldorf Astoria, a white-gloved doorman, umbrella in hand, pulled open our door. Spence and I ran into the lobby as a voice behind yelled out, No running, please.

We wandered around in amazement at the sheer size of the building’s lobby, comprised of registration and