Twilight of the Trolley

I remember sitting at our little table on the second story porch overlooking Second Avenue sometime around dusk on a summer evening, having milk and cookies and watching the sparks fly from the overhead cable as the trollies went by. To me it seemed as magical as a Fourth of July fireworks display; even more beautiful, perhaps, because not only was it coming from a train rumbling and screeching past the house, but the train was actually stopping at the front door. We would jump up and peer over the porch rail to see passengers stepping out of the glowing coach and onto the curb. Magic of the highest order.

My only other memory of the Albany trolley is my fear of stepping on the rails when crossing the street, because I heard that you could be electrocuted if you did and, of course, die a horrible death, instantly, and be terribly disfigured, and nobody would attend your funeral, and you would pass from this earth unloved and unwanted, and... wonder where that idea came from?

Albany saw its first trolley in 1881, and the last one rolled down Second Avenue on Saturday, August 10, 1946. I was four years old. The automobile had become so popular that they were no longer profitable, and the United Traction company decided to replace them all with busses. You could still see the steel tracks on cobblestone streets all over town for many years, though, as in the photo above. One by one they were covered over with asphalt, and re-appeared only once, during the filming of William Kennedy's book, Ironweed, when they recreated the old trolley system on a section of Broadway. It helped to keep those back porch memories alive.

By the way, the trolley in the photo is passing through the heart of downtown Albany, the intersection of State and Pearl Streets, probably sometime in the 1930s, perhaps headed for Second Avenue. In the background on the right you can see John G. Myers department store, which was to play a major part in our lives, the story of which will be told in some future post, I'm sure.

The Softball of Death

How could I not I remember when, as a boy of 10 or so on one of those summer VFW clambakes Dad used to take the family to, I was playing softball with the men – I suppose they were trying to make a man of me - I hit the ball, ran hard for first and the strong peg from short hit me solidly on the left temple.

All the men said it was ok, no big deal, the way men in ballgames do after a few beers and heavy action in the hot sun, with steamed clams, corn on the cob and more beer in the offing, but none of them knew what I knew: that Jimmy P’s older brother, one of the godly older guys of those childhood days, had recently died in his sleep after being struck on the temple by a baseball thrown to first.

None of the men - though all had just returned from horrors of war unimaginable on the directly personal level - knew that, even as I stood there safe on first, the shadow of death was falling over me in the golden sunlight: I could see the grinning skull beneath the hood of darkness that this very night would come for me, that would take me into its bony embrace; none but I knew that this was my last day on earth, this moment - and this - and this - each the last of its kind, ticking away unstoppable...

The men went on playing in carefree survivor cameraderie as I stood there dying toward the night that would come as surely as all ends come. I had no words to say to their words, felt no joy in their joy, it was all over for me, my number was up; I beheld the mere veneer that being was, all this play and heedlessness of what was truly going on always in the depths of moments, a mere ten years of life passing before my eyes, a state of mind that went on until I realized once more that all the soda at the clambake was free!

My life has been gravy ever since.

The Lineup

The usual suspects:
Bob, Pat Villani, and Mick, probably during one of those real winters of the late 1940s, when the snow could very well be over your head when you rolled out in the morning, wearing so many layers that you couldn't afford to fall down.

As I recall, several very large people forced us to line up for this mug shot, interrupting the important work at hand: snowball velocity testing, planning sessions with the Snow Fort Commission, and lab experiments in the creation of yellow snow. By the way, Bob and I were cleared of all charges. The guy in the middle was detained for dressing funny.

The Empress of Penny Candy

We thought nothing special of her at the time, as is the way of little kids, who've not yet seen how few and far apart are the genuinely heartfelt kindnesses of the world. We boys would be playing in the park or catching lizards, frogs and snakes, chasing girls or getting into whichever of the many forms of mischief we could manage, when one of us would pause, jingle his pocket pennies and say "Let's go to Mary Myers'!"

Mary lived in a house just down the street on the opposite side from the flower lady. There were a lot of such ladies who lived alone after the war. Mary's was a regular house on the block, nothing special outside, no sign, nothing to hint of the cornucopia that awaited inside in the form of all the penny candy varieties that could be yours if you just walked down the empty concrete driveway and opened the wooden door on the side of the house at the back, went in and climbed the 2 or 3 steps to the inner door that was always open and waiting. That was the door to Mary Myers' pantry, a kids' version of heaven in the neighborhood.

Mary was the very image of her role in presiding over the sweet delights of all the neighborhood kids. A pleasant woman with granny glasses and graying hair, she was the greatest exemplar of patience I've ever seen: she was our Empress of Penny Candy. As befit that title, Mary was up to date on all the latest in sweet treats and tricks from around the civilized world, from bubble gum cigars and red wax lips (and mustaches) to jaw breakers with a coriander seed at the center that you'd reach after a few pleasantly exhausting hours.

We'd stand there for long times, eager eyes roving over the many dozens of tasty items laid out for display in that tiny room, on shelves that rose to a heaven only Mary could reach. We took our time, jingling our pennies in anticipation, pondering the meaning of our growing universe as expressed in the form of (all honorifics must be capitalized) Candy Buttons (on paper strips), BB Bats, Kits, Mary Janes, Marshmallow Peanuts, Mexican Hats, Root Beer Barrels, Maple Cremes, Popcorn Squares, Chocolate Babies, Sour Balls, Red and Black Licorice sticks, Peppermint Sticks and Whirls, Red Hot Dollars, Bolsters, Orange Wax Whistles, Candy Cigarettes, Fireballs, Spearmint Leaves, Tootsie rolls, Orange Slices, Nonpareils, Nik-L-Nips, Bazooka Bubble Gum (and that arch-competitor Dubble-Bubble), Licorice Pipes and the many other penny candies that are enshrined up there in the Penny Candy Hall of Fame.

When one of us had at last made his mind up about an item, Mary would place the careful choice into that kid's little paper bag among the many other little paper bags she held in one hand - one bag for each of us - while keeping track of all the 1-cent, 1-, 2-, 3- or 4-for-1-cent and 2-cent items in each bag, and answering fastfire questions about prices and new stuff.

Sometimes there were 6 or 7 or even more of us crowded into that small space (not counting Mary), noisy with shared delight and the exchange of valuable information on the flavor, texture, duration, function, general value etc. of various items - all the high-tech candy parameters - each of us with anywhere from 2 to 12 cents to spend (what a rich day was a 12-cent day!) so we'd take longer than bankers to decide, till at last we'd choose, then often unchoose - then rechoose - without a thought for Mary standing there waiting.

Or we'd ask Mary questions, maybe for a glass of water and then all go into Mary's kitchen, Mary as patient and smiling as any of the highest saints, for saint she was and full of grace, brought many sweet blessings upon us. She was our special mother in that neighborhood.

She'd stand for what must've been hours each day as our raucous hordes descended upon her home and interrupted whatever she was doing at the moment; she'd hover there among us with that Mary smile upon her face, all the more remarkable as I look back from all the world I've seen since.

That was in the late forties and early fifties. Many years later, long after we'd moved away and after I'd graduated from college, one of my new buddies happened to have also grown up in that neighborhood - though for some reason we'd never met when we were kids - and one day when our reminiscences turned to the old neighborhood, we both lit up at the name of Mary Myers and set off to visit those streets of long ago. On our walk, we strolled up the old familiar driveway, opened the old door—and Mary Myers was still there! Of course she remembered us. We bought some penny candy and talked about old times.

As all the paths of my subsequent life have led in other directions, I haven't been back to the old neighborhood in the 35 years since that day. So from all this time away, thank you, Mary, from us all, for your candy store and for all those lovingly found and presented choices, but far moreso for all those even sweeter and longerlasting memories of kindness.

The delight of your little store is with me even now.