Home for Supper (6) – When I was six years old, I noticed something very strange, at least it was for a six-year-old. Our next-door neighbors, the Carmichaels, were suddenly gone. Since they didn’t have any kids, this didn’t really bother me all that much. It did make me wonder, though. Why would anyone want to leave their home? It just didn’t make any sense. 

I knew they were gone because there were now strangers living in their house. Our new neighbors were the Steinbergs, and they were of much more interest to me. The reason? Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg had two kids. Why they only had two kids was almost as confusing as our old neighbors leaving their home. Being a good Catholic family, we were now up to nine kids and counting. 

Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg didn’t look that much younger than Mom and Dad, so I wondered why their turnout was so small. I spoke of this puzzle with some kids at school. They said that Jewish people didn’t believe in large families. Why was this? And what did they mean by “Jewish” people? No matter, once they’d settled in, I thought I’d try to get to the bottom of it.

One summer day, I noticed the younger of the two boys in their backyard. It was a great backyard, probably twice the size of ours. It’d been wasted for years by our newly vanished neighbors, since they hardly ever used it. Being a shy kid, I had to work up the nerve to talk to my new neighbor. I cautiously approached the barberry bushes, which lined the property's border.

“Hey,” I called out to the quiet kid. This was the same kid who would eventually become my best childhood friend. He slowly made his way towards me.

“Hi,” he replied suspiciously.

“I’m Joey. What’s your name?”

His name was Norman, a name I’d never heard of before. All of my brothers had normal names. They had saintly names like Joseph, Paul, and John. They had names everyone in the world had heard of. You know, regular names. Who’d ever heard of a Saint Norman? I later found out that Jewish people didn’t believe in saints, so why name their kids after one? 

We talked for a little while, and I found out his older brother’s name was Stephen. I laughed to myself that they’d accidentally named him after a saint after all. I then wondered what they’d do if they ever found out their mistake. Norman was a skinny, average-looking kid with short brown hair and a kind face. I was bigger in comparison, due to both my height and my appetite. My blonde hair was much shorter, thanks to a buzz cut from Dad. I squinted at him due to the sun and my nearsightedness. 

The more we talked, the more I decided that Jewish kids weren’t much different than Catholic kids. Except that they went to church on Saturdays and we went on Sundays. Oh, and they called their church “temple.” When I got around to asking him why his parents had so few kids, he countered by asking me why we had so many. Neither of us had a good answer.

As the weeks went by, we took turns playing in each other's yards. Even though I found out Norman was two years younger than me, it didn’t seem to matter. His mom was also average-looking, with a round face, surrounded by curly, light brown hair. She was always smiling and really nice to me. How else would I describe someone who kept offering me delicious snacks when I was over at their house? I spent as much time at Norman’s house as I could. His dad, however, was nothing like his mom. 

It wasn’t that Mr. Steinberg was mean, but I guess he was like most dads, kind of gruff, scary, and without a sense of humor. I didn’t see him very much during the week because, like our dad, he spent all day at work. Unlike our dad, he seemed to walk to work each day. I’d sometimes see him on school days, dressed in a suit, carrying his book bag, while walking down the block. He’d then disappear around the corner. I found out from Norman that his dad took a bus to work, just like I did to go to school. I wasn’t sure I believed him. 

Sometimes I’d see his dad on the weekends in their backyard, but he rarely spoke to me. Late one Saturday afternoon, Norman and I were playing in his yard, trying on a wide variety of poly noses. Mrs. Steinberg opened the back door and called for him to come in and wash up for dinner. That’s another thing I noticed. Jewish people called it dinner, while Catholics called it supper, just like Jesus.

Our supper was not for a while, so I kept myself busy in our backyard. I threw a ball against the brick wall at the back of the house. The sound of rubber echoed throughout the yard, but I slowly became distracted. 

“What’s that smell?” I wondered hungrily.

It was somewhat familiar, but not quite. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious.

I stopped tossing the ball and listened to a sizzling sound coming from my new neighbor’s yard. It was the same place that the mouthwatering smell was coming from. Standing only a few yards away was Mr. Steinberg. He leaned over a black covered gas grill, which I didn’t know existed until then, since our dad always grilled over charcoal. He held a pair of metal food grabbers in one hand and a big empty plate in the other. I stared at the fiery grill with my mouth hanging open. Then, he turned and looked directly at me, saying in a gravelly voice, 

“Hey, Joey!”

I was both curious and afraid, not knowing what to say or expect.

“Hey, Joey,” he repeated a little louder. 

I didn’t even know he knew my name.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Was I hungry? I was always hungry. That was one of the reasons for my chubby predicament. 

“Do you want a hot dog?” he asked.

He was grilling hot dogs? The aroma of these hot dogs was certainly not like anything I had smelled before. They smelled G-O-O-D.

“Okay,” I replied sheepishly.

I hopped over the barberry bushes and approached him cautiously, just in case it was some kind of trick. He skillfully snatched a hot dog with his grabbers and placed it onto the hot dog roll before handing it to me. I took a bite.

It was delicious! 

I liked hot dogs, but ours didn’t taste anything like his. His were juicier and tasted different than ours. His had … flavor. It was at that moment that I knew Jewish hot dogs were much better than Catholic ones. 

I must’ve eaten that hot dog in less than a minute; it was that good. Seeing that I was finished, Mr. Steinberg offered me another. I greedily accepted his second present and gobbled it down, much to his delight. He chuckled, then asked,

“Do you want another one?”

I stood motionless, thinking about his question for a good long time. Finally, I gave him my answer,

“I really would, but… I probably should go home for supper!”

Based on his uncontrollable laughter, Mr. Steinberg must’ve thought that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Maybe it was because I was only six years old that I didn’t get the joke. 

Maybe someday, I would.

A Drug (store) Problem (7) – In my mind, the sole purpose of life was candy. When could I get candy? How could I get candy? Was there a holiday coming up that would offer me more candy? With candy being the center of my personal universe, the next most important thing, only slightly behind the procurement of candy, was getting my weekly allowance. Because, of course, this would lead me directly to…. candy.

I first started to receive an allowance when I was seven years old. Why Mom and Dad started giving me money for simply being alive was outside my youthful comprehension. Even so, I certainly wasn’t going to argue. They’d devised an intricate formula to determine the exact amount and frequency of that allowance. 

They took the number of birthdays I’d celebrated and multiplied that by a nickel. Having always had a knack for numbers, I shrewdly estimated my weekly take to be $0.35 in cold, hard cash. After I received my first installment, it took me only a few seconds to realize the obvious. I was no longer solely dependent on special occasions to satisfy my sugary desires. I could now get my own candy!

My mathematical wizardry quickly calculated that I could buy seven, five-cent candy bars. Geez! I could have a candy bar every day for an entire week! Then it would start all over again! How could life get any better? Then, stark reality hit me. What if I wanted the significantly larger and more desirable ten-cent bar? My candy bar supply would run out sometime in the middle of the week. As a growing boy, the larger bar was always preferable, but the math didn’t add up. I had to come up with a new plan.

The candy store was about a five-minute walk away, located around the block and a ways down Saddle River Road. It was, appropriately, the first and best store in a strip of several, most of which I had no use for. Or so I thought.

Next to the candy store was the grocery store, with boring stuff like fruits and vegetables. On a rare occasion, I might wander in for some Hostess cupcakes. Otherwise, it was pretty much useless. Then, even worse, there was a dry cleaner. Why someone would go to a store to dry their clothes made absolutely no sense to me. All you needed to do was hang them on a clothesline like Mom. How lazy could you be? There was also a bike shop, a drugstore, and finally, Napoli Pizza.

The candy store was easily the most popular store amongst the kids in our neighborhood. Whenever I went in, there were at least two or three of them checking out the candy section in front of the cash register. To the right of it was a long counter with stationary stools that were bolted to the floor that could swivel. Anyone could sit there if they had enough money to buy a hamburger, hot dog, or French fries. All I knew was that no one my age had that kind of cash. 

Behind the counter stood a tall, brown-haired man who would take your money after you made your choice. After pondering the situation for a while, I remembered something important. Sandy once mentioned that she’d gone to the drugstore for a birthday card and some mints.

“If they have mints,” I thought, “maybe they have candy. And maybe, just maybe, they have better candy prices.”

The plan was set. I’d pit one store against the other, and may the lower-cost candy bars win. I left home with two shiny nickels in my pocket, and a few minutes later, I walked up to the strip of stores. I passed quickly by all of them until I reached my destination, the drug store. I slowly walked in, and it was eerily quiet, like early Mass on Sunday morning.  

I looked around and saw nothing but boring junk. Lipstick, stationery, greeting cards, and something called “cosmetics.” I guessed that was for ladies, since there was a picture of one making a weird face at me, puckering her unnaturally dark red lips. Aspirin, cough drops, and band aids. Ugh. I was just about to give up and leave when I looked down a long aisle and thought I saw… Yes, it was CANDY!

I eagerly raced to the counter where my heart’s desires waited. I stood and scanned row after row of goodies. I slowly became demoralized. After looking at their selection, I realized it wasn’t nearly as wide as the candy store’s. Even worse, the prices were the same.

“What a waste of time,” I muttered to myself. 

Then I realized something else. There was no one behind the counter. There didn’t seem to be any signs of life anywhere. No workers. No customers. The store was abandoned. I waited a few seconds as a funny feeling came over me.

“Should I…” I thought to myself. 

My mind was racing a hundred miles an hour. Beads of sweat began to form across my forehead. I lunged forward, grabbed a pack of Juicy Fruit, and stuffed it into my pants pocket. I don’t know where this knee-jerk reaction came from, but it was like I had no control over what my body was doing. 

I turned quickly away from the unmanned counter and made a break for the exit. I was moving at a pace just short of a jog, the door growing larger as I got closer. My perfect crime was nearly complete when disaster struck! I immediately felt a strange sensation, one reverberating down my left leg. Just like the Fizzies incident, I was riddled with guilt. Except this time, I might get caught.

The evidence of my larceny stared me right in the face. The pack of gum rested motionless on the floor, having arrived there courtesy of a hole in my dungaree pocket. I was mortified. God had witnessed the entire felony and acted swiftly in His terrible wrath. I looked at the yellow pack on the floor, then turned and bolted for the door. I burst into the parking lot, refusing to look back to check for witnesses, besides, of course, The Almighty.

I sprinted home and sat quietly in the living room, acting as if nothing had happened. I was there for a while, but no one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. I certainly wasn’t going to say anything. 

For the next week, I waited for the police to show up on our doorstep, to take me away, and throw me in jail. Mercifully, they never did. I guess God figured I’d suffered enough. I didn’t return to the drug store for the next couple of years. For the rest of my life, I never again dared attempt such a crime. God had let me off with a warning. 

I didn’t want to find out what He might have in mind if I ever tried it again.

Fright Night with Vincent Price (9) – Summer vacation in Fair Lawn was heaven. Although I guess most kids outside of my hometown probably felt the same way. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere, other than the one day each year Dad had set aside. No, you didn’t go away on vacation with eleven kids. Still, the mere fact that I didn’t have to get up early to go to school made this time of year worthwhile all by itself.  

In the summertime, I woke up whenever I woke up. There was no one calling up to me to get ready for school, disturbing my well-earned sleep. Even though Mom wasn’t cooking me breakfast like on a school day, eating Grand Union’s version of Fruit Loops or Cocoa Puffs wasn’t a bad tradeoff for freedom.

Naturally, I had to make sure I did my chores before I was entitled to that freedom. Once they were done, however, the day was all mine. Part of that privilege included going up to the fields where a summer camp recreation trailer had opened for business. It wasn’t very big, maybe 10 or 12 feet long, and the brightly colored side panels opened up like a hot dog truck at a carnival. Except instead of hot dogs or popcorn, there were all sorts of games to play. 

Basketballs, footballs, and Frisbees were all there for the taking. Plus, all sorts of board games, many of which we didn’t have at home. Trouble, Chutes & Ladders, Candy Land, and Monopoly were all within arm’s reach. My favorite was Monopoly, but that wasn’t a good one-day game. A single contest could last several days if you actually wanted to finish it. 

Of course, there was checkers, a nine-year-old’s version of chess. It might not seem like a strategic game to the uninitiated, but an experienced player like myself knew otherwise. Why else would they create a tournament for us camp goers? As with all games, whether it was baseball, football, or a simple board game, I always wanted to win. Growing up in a large family like ours, everything was a competition. So, I was well-prepared for this event.

The only thing I didn’t understand was the age brackets they came up with. The youngest one ranged from 5 to 8 years old, while the oldest was 13 and up. I fell in the middle 9- to 12-year-old group. Since John was 12, I was glad he didn’t come to camp. He was great at checkers, and I could never beat him. It didn’t seem fair that a nine-year-old should play a 12, as they’d have three more years of checker-playing experience under their belt. Only there was nothing I could do about it, other than not play. That was definitely not going to happen.

The tournament started, and I won my first two games pretty easily. I was surprised by my opponent’s lousy play. They didn’t seem to understand the simple moves of checkers around the board, or the importance of getting “kinged.” My third game was against a ten-year-old, who did put up a bit of a fight. Still, it took me only ten minutes to send him home with tears in his eyes. My last challenger was a 12-year-old red-headed girl with a smug look on her freckled face. 

Since she had a three-year advantage, no one gave me much of a chance. I took this personally. Each move seemed to take an hour, as we both carefully weighed every decision. I could see her originally cocky face grow more and more worried, as the game was pushing close to 15 minutes. We each had only a few pieces left when I was finally trapped. I grudgingly gave up. 

The funny thing was, she seemed more relieved than excited to beat me. As she was handed the coveted plastic gold trophy. I felt mostly disappointed. Yet strangely, the other kids almost treated me like I was the winner. I guessed because they weren’t expecting me to put up such a fight. Even though I’d lost, it actually became the highlight of my summer camp.

The rest of that hot New Jersey summer was for swimming in the pool, playing wiffle ball in the backyard, biking to the fields, and playing lots of tag. Sunday night was the time for charcoal-grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, along with many, many gulps of sugary Kool-Aid. But every once in a while, Mom gave us a special Friday night treat: A trip to the Paramus Drive-In movie theater. 

Not to say that regular Friday nights were terrible. They could be okay, as long as fish sticks weren’t involved. Even on those nights, Mom would try to make up for the sorrowful seafood. She would either bring us to Carvel for cones or give us her own invention: ice cream on waffles. 

Foodtown ice cream was ideal for this since it came in cardboard boxes. Mom would take it out of the carton and slice rectangular slabs of the Neapolitan dessert with a sharp knife. Once the waffles had been toasted, she’d lay the perfectly sized ice cream between two pieces and create a homemade ice cream sandwich. 

But the drive-in was the real treat, for a few reasons. 

First, it would only happen two or three times all summer long. Second, the price of the movie was per car-load, not per person. Mom could cram five or six of us seat-beltless kids into the station wagon, and the cost wouldn’t change. This was a real bargain for any family, but especially ours. Third, I was watching a movie on a gigantic outdoor screen. It was a truly fantastic experience that became even more so when I first met The Abominable Doctor Phibes.

The detestable doctor (as if there was any other kind), was played by an actor named Vincent Price. Late in his career, he became known mostly for portraying evil characters in scary movies. This one was no different. I sat watching the goings on in my pajamas, while eating homemade popcorn and Grand Union cookies. Cherry Kool-Aid washed it all down.

I couldn’t really follow the plot very well, but something happened to make the not-so-good doctor pretty unhappy, and he was out for revenge! The scene that made the biggest impact on me was the one in a hospital room. Dr. Phibes was not only good with medical equipment, but power equipment as well. He took out a drill and put a hole through the ceiling from the room above. 

He then lowered a long plastic tube until it hovered about an inch from the head of his unconscious patient. What looked like pancake syrup dripped through the tube and onto his victim’s face. How he didn’t wake up from that goo was amazing enough. What was even more incredible was the army of ravenous roaches that landed on his head and promptly ate his face off!

Dr. Phibes continued to perform other heinous acts, and my stomach began to feel a bit queasy. I’m not sure if it was his fault or mine, since he wasn’t the one stuffing my face with junk food. When the movie was over, Margie, Terry, and Mary were asleep in the back of the car. They dreamt snugly with the pillows and blankets Mom had packed earlier. Not John and me. We were ready for another show. One that didn’t come, at least not that night.

We managed to get back to the drive-in a couple of more times that summer. We’d always play around the giant screen until it was almost dark, waiting for that week’s feature to begin. Although we saw other scary movies, none could match the exhilaration of the abominable doctor. After that summer, there was one thing I was certain of:

I would never sleep through a Vincent Price movie for the rest of my life.

Bitter Coffee (10) – Three things seemed kind of strange to me when I was a kid, and they all had to do with Mom and Dad. They never fought, they never swore, and they never got through breakfast without a cup of coffee. It wasn’t normal.

Fighting with my siblings was normal, whether with my fists or my mouth. It came with the territory, but was certainly not limited to my family. I saw the Steinberg kids yelling at each other all the time, while the DeLuca brothers weren’t against taking a few swings now and then. It wasn’t unusual for Andy and Nancy Baum to get into it with their parents as well. And they all had normal-sized families. The number of brawls and arguments that erupted in our house with eleven kids, well, that was normal times four. Yet I never saw Mom or Dad exchange an angry word.

Most of the fights in our family were of the verbal variety, but using curse words was strictly prohibited. Here again, our parents led by example, although Dad was not quite as puritanical as Mom. His profanity was limited to the occasional “Shit!” and “Dammit!” These were uttered only when he was angry. Of course, that seemed to be about half the time. Considering he’d spent four years in the Navy, it was incredible that I’d never heard him drop the Big One. 

This, however, was something my friends’ parents weren’t above muttering.  I think it was Mr. Steinberg who unintentionally exposed me to it one day. Still, that word was literally unheard of in our house. Until the day when my temper got the better of me, and my subconscious spewed the vile expletive right out in front of Mom. Her typical placid nature was instantly transformed into shock and horror. Her face contorted as if I’d stabbed her with a knife. 

We were both in the cellar at the time, her by the washing machine and me just out of arm's reach. I’d crossed the profanity line, and I knew I was in serious trouble. Instinctively, I made a break for the stairs, but I could feel Mom hot on my heels. Up the stairs I raced with her loafers slapping the floor close behind. I made a sharp left into the living room with the front door in my sights. Except Mom wouldn’t give up so easily. I burst through the screen door and onto the front porch with a clean getaway in view. Until… 

The finger of God reached down and touched my sneakers. It was just enough to have me stumble off the porch and land face-first on the front lawn. A few seconds later, Mom dragged me back into the house, clutching my right arm. Once in the bathroom, I sat on the toilet seat as my judge and jury sentenced me to a mouthful of Ivory Soap.  Based on my penalty, cursing was apparently a higher crime than fighting. And yet somehow, Mom and Dad seemed to do neither.

However, the third strange thing made me think otherwise. 

I originally didn’t like coffee, but did begin to develop a taste for it one Sunday morning after church. Mom and Dad would divide their mob into two groups, the little kids and the big kids. The younger group would have to get up even earlier than Dr. Rosenbaum’s rooster, in time to go to the 7:00 AM Mass with Dad. Everyone else went with Mom to the 9:00. 

The early group developed some interesting habits. One of which was Dad making a big pot of coffee after church and sharing it with all of us. Now, coffee needs two things to taste good and look right. Milk and sugar. After all, we weren’t savages. At least not when it came to coffee. Once prepared, things began to get even more interesting in how we’d enjoy our coffee.

We did it by dipping American cheese into the hot beverage. Who came up with this exotic idea, I can’t remember, but it was inspired. The key was to dip a thin strip of American cheese into the coffee just long enough for it to start to melt. Then, quickly pull it out and drop it into your open mouth. Wait just a few seconds too long and the cheese would disappear into your mug, never to be seen again.

Many years later, I saw Mom with her morning coffee, but noticed something strange. She was drinking it black. Somewhere along the way, Mom had become a savage. As kids, we thought it was gross to drink black coffee. It was then that I discovered Mom and Dad had disagreements after all. They just never had them in front of us. 

It happened one day when they’d sat down for breakfast. The tiff must’ve been serious, since neither one said a word to the other. Dad was silently sipping his coffee when Mom poured herself a cup. The milk and sugar were out of her reach and closer to Dad. Mom looked over but didn’t say a word. Then she did the unthinkable. She took a sip of her coffee. BLACK. 

Her resolve was so strong that she took another sip of the unsweetened sludge. Then another… and another. She finished the entire cup without a word, or milk, or sugar. She patiently went about her act of silent defiance. For years, when we wanted something badly, Mom would calmly say,

“Patience is a virtue.”

Now she was practicing what she’d always preached to us.

Maybe Mom and Dad weren’t that strange after all. They did curse and they did fight, though whatever differences they had that day were eventually worked out. Yet for the rest of her life, Mom would drink her coffee black.

And she drank it that way… to the bitter end.