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Dear THS62 Classmates,
It should come as no surprise to anyone that fellow classmate and friend Vinnie Oakes (aka Vin, Vance, VO, Doc.....rarely Vincent) is the first to offer a personal story posting for our new Teaneck62.com website. Vinnie has been writing historical memoirs for several years for his kids and grandkids. I have posted below the Introduction to his collection of “stories”. I want to personally thank my Pal from K-12 and beyond for providing great fun, humor, and mischief for all of us....often at great personal expense...😘. I don’t pretend to have been above much of the same, but he did it with much more “je ne sais quoi” (flare)..earning him the title of Class Clown in our yearbook along with Patti McKenna.
Thanks Vance,
Rich
“Old Enough to Know Better”
Alternate Title: I Don’t Mind a Reasonable Amount of Trouble
By: Vinnie Oakes
Introduction:
You really had to be there. You really had to be a kid, living in the United States during the time that followed World War II, to realize, years later, that you had grown up in the golden glory of America. Long before the events of September 11, 2001, you just had a sense that life would never be as good as it was during the period from late 1945 to the end of 1963. From November 22, 1963 to September 10, 2001 the golden glory was slipping away. You could feel it, watch it, and hear it. Not that there weren’t a whole bunch of wonderful things for the country and myself that occurred during this period, but things just didn’t feel the same. A sense of foreboding, about the country’s future, its power, prestige, credibility, and economy, crept into my consciousness, like watching a Super Bowl game in which my team is way ahead through three quarters, and then feeling the horrible inevitability of impending disaster, as fourth quarter mistakes cause the momentum to shift and play-out into an inexcusable loss.
I write this memoir over a period of years, for the most part in “continuous present” tense, beginning in my late 50’s. I can’t tell you why I let so much time go on between writing parts of it. I write, skip a half a year, a whole year, write some more, skip a few weeks or months, etc. I guess I’d have to blame my A.D.D. A.D.D. gets blamed for all sorts of things, by all sorts of people - so why not this?
When I am a kid, there is no such thing as parents being told that their child has A.D.D. The term/diagnosis becomes stylish many years after “the damage has been done” to my life, and the retrospective diagnosis comes from my sister the psychologist, during a casual phone conversation in about 2005. She is telling me about some other kid in the family, and says, “Well you know, you were A.D.D.”
I was?
The truth is, prior to that pronouncement by Merilee, I never give it a minute’s thought. But then I begin to realize that my life is filled with patterns and symptoms of the condition, and in varying degrees it’s still with me. With some O.C.D. thrown in for no apparent reason.
This is not just my story, it’s also about the people around me - those who have impact on my life. So there are a lot of words devoted to their stories as well, because without those people in my life, I wouldn’t be me. Maybe too much detail for you, but not for me. I just want you to have the option of knowing these people, the ones who had such big personalities that were such a big part of my life.
I write this because I don’t want you - my kids and my grandkids; some extended family members and special friends to have questions: the kind of haunting relentless questions that so many people, including me, have about their parents or grandparents, or great grandparents. What kind of life do they have as young children, or teens, what makes them choose to go this way or that in life, or what are their dreams, their values, their beliefs, et cetera? I wonder those things about people who brought me into this world, who surrounded me as I grew up, or who die before I even “get here.” And I don’t want you to wonder. And because I really can’t leave any “gift of wealth” for you, I hope that you view this story as a special gift of love from me to you.
Hopefully, it’s also a gift of entertainment, albeit a “G” - rated one. There’s no way I can tell you everything! This will not be a tell-all story of sex, drugs, and rock & roll. Well, maybe a little rock & roll.
I want you to know about how great it is for my friends and me to grow up Teaneck, New Jersey (and partly in Upper Saddle River) during the post war years of the late 1940’s, the 50’s, and very early 60’s. I can’t remember any adults getting too worked-up over politics. “Our Boys” just finish kicking ass in Europe and the Pacific - preceded by the Great Depression - and I think most parents and grandparents are just happy to be alive, and have jobs; and to begin to build a war-free life for themselves. Just FYI – the value of $100 in 1950 converts to the equivalent of approximately $1,000 in 2017.
The Saturday Afternoon Kiddie Show at the Teaneck Theater costs a quarter, and we get to see about 4 cartoons, a newsreel, and usually either a double feature (2 movies) or a weekly serial, and a full length movie.
We play stickball on neighborhood streets; and stoopball, against the steps of Grace Lutheran Church across the street from our house. In the winter we skate on frozen ponds, or on inlets of the “Hacky” (the Hackensack River). Most kids join the Cub Scouts and Brownies; later many go on to Boy Scouts or Girl Scouts.
Outside, we play hopscotch, hide and seek, Simon says, redlight/green light, and ringolevio. We have snowball fights against the kids down the street, and we walk to elementary school (unaccompanied by parents); walk home for lunch, and walk back for the afternoon classes. We don’t have air conditioning, or laundry driers, or dishwashing machines, but if we are sick, the doctor comes to the house. Most of us have parents who grow up in one of NYC’s 5 boroughs, and wanting a better life for their young families, move out to Jersey after the war.
We build “soapbox” cars out of scrap wood and carpet remnants; get the wheels from old baby carriages we find sitting out on people’s curbs during semi-annual “rummage days.” We steer with a rope tied to the axel. Then we race each other down the big hill (Martense Ave.) alongside our houses. In the late 40’s and early 50’s the junk man still comes by about once a quarter in a horse-drawn wagon, bells clanging, signaling his presence, so housewives can run out to their curbs and give him their unwanted items. Until I am about 8, the iceman still delivers big slabs of ice by horse-drawn wagon to Al Saunders’ Meats a few blocks from our house. And there is sawdust all over the floor of Saunders’ shop.
We collect Baseball Cards, aka Bubblegum Cards, or “Flip Cards.” We don’t collect them with the thought of their value, so that we can sell them. There is no such market for that sort of thing. We collect them because that’s what boys in this era do. And we gamble with baseball and football bubblegum cards. There are three basic games that we play with each other, and they all result in either winning cards from, or losing cards to, your buddies. And when we’re big enough to ride full-sized bikes, we learn how to use a pair of clothes pins to attach a couple of the bubblegum cards to the rear frame of our rigs, so that they are agitated by the spokes, making a very badass sound like some sort of kid motorcycle. The epitome of being cool 8 year-olds.
We go to Lowell School for K-6th grade, where we have recess out in the schoolyard, which is also where we congregate in the morning before the bell rings, during recess, and after lunch, until once again, the dreaded bell rings.
When we get a bit older, we play touch football out in front of the house, on Helen Street, and of course, play catch with baseballs.
We live in a community of houses with one-car garages, nearby churches and temples, neighborhood schools, and walking distance shopping. Our main drag is called Cedar Lane, and we can walk down there and buy just about anything a household might need, but it’s available in separate stores (there’s no such thing as “one stop shopping, as in today’s Walmart Superstores). There are about three grocery stores, three banks, J&J Pharmacy and the Miller’s drug store, Mr. Stalder’s hardware (with its creaky wooden floorboards, and screechy screen door), Nick Napoli’s jewelry store, the Teaneck Theater, The Teaneck Camera Store, Veltri’s Travel Agency, Al Saunders’ Meats, the Royal Delicatessen, Lindy’s Delicatessen, two diners, Mike’s Bike Shop, three men’s barber shops, Panettari’s Shoe Repair, Woolworth’s Five and Ten, the famous Bischoff’s Ice Cream Parlor, Sylvia’s dress shop, Hy and Harry’s (a candy store” with a counter for fountain drinks, a selection of magazines, books and toys), Kahn’s Corner (another candy store; later, Morty & Selma’s, then Rocklin’s), Cowan’s Stationary and Greeting Card Store (where we can buy our fountain pens and ink), Davis Toy Store, Carl’s Market (produce), The Elms (a gin mill), Cedar Lane Flower Shop, a dry cleaners, and two of New Jersey’s best bakeries (Gratzel’s and Butterflake), and on and on. And if you are growing up in that town, you know every one of the proprietors, and they know you (except for the Elms: that wasn’t for kids).
AND . . . when we 1944 babies turn 10 or 11, we witness the birth of a thing they are calling Rock and Roll (the adults, for the most part don’t like it/don’t trust it). Then, almost at the same time, but slightly later than R&R’s rocket-like rise in popularity, there is a boom in folk music. And soon afterward, my generation begins to discover the black blues singers of the thirties, forties and fifties. Early R&R seems to be divided up into solo act singers (usually backed up by anonymous bands or back-up vocalists), and singing groups (retrospectively referred to as “DooWop”).
Not too many years later, we are also “there” for the most phenomenal thing to hit the music world in the century of our birth: a group called The Beatles, who opened the door for “the British Invasion.” After The Beatles make their appearance, we begin to see a shift: entire bands become “a thing,” with more than just the lead singer being the celebrity. In fact many of the band members are multi talented.
And then come the big social and cultural changes of the 60’s and 70’s, brought on by - or reacted to by (What comes first? The chicken or the egg?) – music/musicians, assassinations, wars, civil rights, entertainment, women’s lib, drugs, kidnappings, sports, casino gambling, etc.
I don’t think there could possibly be another group (we are “the war babies”) of kids in U.S. history that gets seated in the front car for such a wild roller coaster ride in its lifetime.
For the most part I am finally “old enough to know better,” know better than to do many of the things I do in my life. But I am and always have been a whore for laughs, and also an outspoken person. In my later years I detest “Political Correctness,” which begins to permeate western society, and which only causes more problems (especially for Americans) than it solves.
The following Seinfeld story explains why I am always getting into trouble (along with some DNA supplied by my favorite uncle, Mitt), why I am drawn to saying things that create many of my not-so-smart “adventures:”
Seinfeld episode called, “The Voice,” and in it Jerry has to decide between continuing to date an attractive blonde, or no longer being permitted in her life because she is quite annoyed with the ridiculous manner in which he has taken up saying the word, “Hello.” HELLLLLLLOOH!
Jerry goes out to the beach boardwalk to contemplate her ultimatum: “It’s either a life with me, or you can continue using your ridiculous ‘HELLLLLLLOOH!’, but you’ll be alone.” It’s all done quickly and wordlessly, with Jerry imagining scenes of the future, with and without the girl. Suddenly he jumps up from the boardwalk bench, and begins running, presumably toward his transportation back to the city from the beach. His mad dash ends with him knocking on her apartment door, and the viewer is led to believe that Jerry has made the sensible choice, and is there to commit to adult behavior.
Jerry rings the door bell. She opens the door, sees with some surprise that Jerry has come back to her.
“Jerry!” she exclaims with a big, welcoming smile. And Jerry lifts his right arm in an expansive gesture, and loudly says, “HELLLLLLLOOH!” With a look of disgust, she slams the door on him.
And that is the way I behave much of my life . . . with family members, teachers, classmates, and girlfriends, bosses, and yes, wives, because as is the case with Jerry, I always have to be true to the Smartass Code: the cost of a laugh – even if the only laughter is my own – is never too much.
I’m not sure at 67 years of age, when I write this forward, if I’ve totally outgrown the Smartass Code, and believe me, I’ve paid the price. And no, it isn’t worth the problems I create for myself. And if I could do life all over, I’d try to control myself. But I don’t think I could. Oh, it was fun all right, so much fun (for me). But much of it is not very smart.
VO
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