The Field Boys of Flushing
May 29, 2015
In the winter, ice hockey games on the frozen swamp water
were rough. The weeds from the landfill under the ice blocked the puck. The
rules were simple – just play but no blood.
It was the undeveloped area of Kissena Park in Flushing,
Queens, New York City.
To the Field Boys of Flushing, as ‘Bobby’ and ‘Genie’(me)
were known in the P.S. 163 school yard, and to the neighbors: Mrs. Hansen, on
the east, Mrs. Sutherland, on the west, Mrs. Morrow, whose dog Duchess Bobby
walked a few days a week (for money – no altruism here) , Mrs. Ford, (no, not
the President’s wife), Mrs. Twilliger, the end corner house with the big side
lot, hedged and fenced to keep us out), Mrs. Renda and Mrs. Kral across the
street, Mrs. Brewster, and Mrs. Romanoff (PTA President as long as I went to
P.S. 163), Mrs. Ianone, all across the
street from the front of the school, and others to whom Mrs. Field (Mom) (all
the adults were Mr. and Mrs. – no first names) would acknowledge walking past or
met in Associated Food Stores or Harding
Food Center – where Bobby and Genie worked for years stacking shelves, sorting
bottles – beer and soda – in the basement, and what we loved most of all
because of the tips : delivering groceries on those funny looking front
small-wheeled/big basket bikes seen in ‘old’ movies on TCM today, to the blocks of neighborhood streets, and to
the ‘projects’ – Pomonok – low income housing (good tippers), and
‘Electchester’ – the electrical union co-op apartment complex (not such good
tippers). (These hundreds of apartment, thousands of people ‘projects’ were not welcomed to the
neighborhood because they replaced
Pomonok Golf Course – not that any of the neighbors played golf, but sleigh
riding in the winter, and ‘making out’ land all year were lost. Well, maybe
only the kids in the neighborhood were opposed; who knew what the adults
thought – kids were not involved in adult conversations.
In the summer, if the wind was from the north, which,
thankfully, it was not too often, the stinky stench of the land-filled swamp,
would have Bobby and Genie sent to replenish the supply of ‘punks’, some type
of plant (which actually grows today at times of the year in our Florida condo
home retention pond) which was used by burning while sitting on the ‘stoop’ –
the front steps of every house (no air-conditioning) in the summer to keep the
mosquitos from biting while waiting for Gus, the Bungalow Bar Ice Cream man.
The Field boys also used the wooded area of the park to spy
on Janet B, and what-ever guy was lucky enough to go to the park with her, and
the ‘hobos’ who camped out by the drinkable water creek that flowed through the
park, and for fire-fighting training by Bobby and Genie and Jamsie R from
across the street who tagged along at time. I’m forbidden by Bob (and who knows
what he could do to me today if I told) to accurately describe the training
which utilized matches, swift movement, and, sometimes, city fire trucks to
come with red lights flashing and sirens heard for miles, resulting in our
running very fast training.
The Field Boys played stickball, basket-ball, soft-ball,
hand-ball – well, only Genie (me), because I could wipe out every kid in the
neighborhood, especially Bobby, who learned eventually not to challenge me.
Camp William Carey on Long Island in Jamesport, on Long
Island Sound’s south, stony shore, home for 2 weeks in July, and then again in
August for $9 each time, taught The
Field Boys what life was like on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, because all
the other kids, except us and Bobby Kral, from across the street, were ‘tough’ kids from that area (think East
Side Kids/Bowery Boys from the old movies) where Dad came from, and wanted us
to taste that life, run by the Boys Club of New York from the building on Ave A
and 10th street opposite Tompkins Square Park. (In “Miracle on 34th
Street” the original with Natalie Wood, John Payne, Maureen O’Hara, Gene Lockhart,
and Edmund Gwenn as Kris Kringle tells us that Daniel D Tompkins (for whom the
park was named) was John Quincy Adams’ vice president, “and I’ll bet your Mr. Sawyer
(the psychologist examining Santa) doesn’t know that”)
Syl and Milton were the main staff: Syl was tougher than any of the kids, and any
number of bruised butts and arms were souvenirs for rule-breaking. Milton was,
among other jobs, the lifeguard, both at the Manhattan Club-House pool, and
Camp Carey’s Long Island Sound beach, and ‘lake’ (which I just looked up, was
really Hallock’s Pond).
Syl liked the Field Boys – we obeyed all rules – our Mom did
not raise dumb kids.
Milt did not like us – me, because I nearly drowned three
times – at the pool, the beach, and the lake.
And he didn’t like Bobby, as he was the reason I had to be
rescued: he had dragged and/or pushed me
into deep water on all three occasions – and Milt had to dive in, with his
fancy watch on (it was waterproof – but he told us each time, we owed him a new
watch).
The Field Boys went swimming SUNDAYs (much to Mom’s
disapproval (but we went to school or worked every day other than Sunday) at
the Aqueduct outdoors pool in Corona, the scene of the 1939 and 1964 World’s
Fair water events, and learned how to ‘get along’ with the Italian gangs (the
Corona Dukes, The Corona Dukes Midgets, The Corona Dukes Seniors – they were
well organized) that ran the neighborhood around the pool (and sometimes inside
the pool area itself until the cops banged a few heads).
These were some of the lessons of life for the Field Boys of
Flushing.
My brother Bob
would’ve been 79 today if that fickle finger of fate had not slammed him in
November 2010 and put an end to his adventure.
I know. I’m told among other rationalities: on another
mission, with our parents, needed somewhere else…we’re all familiar with the
re-assurances. Whatever personal faith one has is employed.
For me, he’s gone.
I don’t know where.
I do know he would
tell me about his current existence if he could – either as a warning, as Jacob
Marley did for Ebenezer Scrooge in Dicken’s Christmas Carol, or, a
re-affirmation of “Life is it’s own significance” as is my Gene’s World theme.
He hasn’t.
Maybe too busy, as in Wilder’s “Our Town”
Or ……….
Happy Birthday Bob…I miss you…the gone part of The Field
Boys of Flushing.
…..
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