The year was 1954

He turned off the TV.
"We're going for a walk," he said.
It was Saturday morning and I was watching cartoons.
Crusader Rabbit  had just raced across the screen
and someone called him "Glenn Cunningham."


I think that was the name of someone who ran real fast but the screen
faded to black and I didn't give it another thought.

"Where are we going, Dad?"
"For a walk. Let's go."

At the end of the driveway, we turned right and he held my hand but said not a word.
Four blocks later, we crossed 3rd Avenue with a backdrop of the Whitestone Bridge,
fronted by Whitestone Park. We sat on a bench. Still not a word but then
he pointed to something.

"What is that?"

I leaned over and rested my head against his arm, as if it were a rifle.
Looking through imaginary crosshairs, I followed the finger.

"It's a squirrel in front of a tree."
"Congratulations. What's he doing?"
"Is he putting nuts in the tree?"
"Is that a question or an answer?"
"He is putting nuts in tree."

"Damn it. You are a smart one. I think we'll keep you.
 We're not going to return you to the orphanage."

"Next question, Paul: what is that?"
"Another tree and another squirrel."
"What a genius! But close your eyes and tell me
  what that squirrel is doing?"

I closed my eyes and said what I said before.

"He is also putting nuts in the tree."
"Not only will we keep you but when I make
 lunch today, you  get extra potato salad."

We walked home without a spoken word
but a paternal hand holding mine spoke
louder than any combination of nouns
and verbs and direct objects.

*
My father only made lunch on Saturdays and it was always
hamburgers w/ fried onions–seasoned with a dash of sugar
and powdered walnut. The side dish of potato salad
was prepared by the master chef at the French Cafe.  

Sam Oliverio served it with dill pickles and
cream soda from a Hebrew National Deli.

My parents, my sister and I would then eat the same meal
served to people who dined at a restaurant adjacent to
the Rockefeller Center Skating Rink.

In 1954, with tip included, people who ate at
a Rockefeller Center restaurant willingly paid
ten dollars for the same privilege that cost me
ten minutes of dish drying time.

Linda washed the dishes but like our mother,
she also hugged and kissed
the Saturday-only chef.

I settled for a "low five" from the man
whose hand held mine earlier that day.

My father was the head bartender at
the French Cafe but he only worked
on weekdays.

Neither my sister nor I were from an orphanage
but it was eight year-old Linda's favorite joke
about her five year-old taciturn brother.

Occasionally, I would use that joke
to my advantage or Sam & Grace
used it to couch a compliment
for their son.

*
"Okay, Sammy, are you ready for pinochle?"
 asked Grace.

They only played on Saturday afternoons.

"In an hour, Gray. I gotta take Paul
 for a drive."

I didn't ask where.
 
*
Whitestone was a town with a history dating back to colonial days.
It was where many things happened for a first time.

The Whitestone Bridge, for example, was the first bridge
connecting Long Island to the mainland of the United States.

Technically, it was the "Bronx-Whitestone Bridge"
but nobody called it that.

In 1954, all the other cross-county bridges
on Long Island connected to
the island of Manhattan.

Also, in 1954,  all  banks in New York were closed
on weekends, except in Whitestone,
where they were open
on Saturdays.

My mother had referred to it as
a "short-lived social experiment."

 *
"What's that?" my father asked after we had driven
  to a nearby shopping center.

"A woman walking into a bank."
"Correct. What do you think she's doing?"
"Putting money in the bank."
"Excellent. We're out of here."

We drove home in silence, of course,
but my father was wrong about
the pinochle game.

There was only a fifteen-minute delay
when my mother started shuffling
the cards.

*
I don't remember who won the pinochle game
but, more than fifty years later, I can identify
the date of the squirrel money lesson
because of what happened next.
Linda said:

"Pauly boy, your hero is playing against my hero
  on television. The game starts at one o'clock."

The Brooklyn Dodgers were playing
in the Polo Grounds against Willie Mays–
my hero–and the New York baseball Giants.

Willie Mays hit a homerun that day.

Tomboy Linda's hero was Jackie Robinson.
He got on base twice–two singles in three at-bats.

Pee Wee Reese, Jackie's teammate, won the game
with a ninth inning homerun. 

It was May 29, 1954.
 
******************

In 2004, I retired from teaching on my fifty-fifth birthday
with a pension that is so small, they gave me–absolutely  free–
a magnifying glass so I can read the number on the check.

For the most part, life is peachy keen only because of "squirrel money."

My father dropped out of school in the eighth grade
but no professor with a Ph.d in Finance
could have taught me better.

In the presence of this photo.
I limited the above to
only one hyperlink.


Gentlewoman & gentlemen,
you may know start
your search engines.