My Brooklyn

Sheldon (Shike) Steinman continues . . .

Gone are the days of playing ball with a “spaldeen,” a pink rubber ball that was used in many ways. With it we played punchball, stoopball, boxball, and hit the penny. We also pitched pennies toward a wall. The coin closest to the wall was the winner. During Passover, we substituted hazelnuts for the pennies.

Long gone are my days in school, when we all had fountain pens and filled them with Waterman's ink, and when we made paper covers for our text books. I even remember the war years of the 40s. There were air raid drills then. I remember the school issuing white plastic identification tags that we wore around our necks.

One of the most nostalgic memories that I have from those decades was the cars. In the mid 50s huge tail fins and an abundance of chrome trim was the style. I purchased a '57 Plymouth Fury (my first new car). During those years I witnessed the birth and death of the Edsel, the demise of the Packard, Studebaker, DeSoto, and Kaiser. The hardtop convertible was most popular with younger drivers. I have vivid memories of the guys piling into my '51 Pontiac and driving out to the Canarsie Pier, or to Howard Johnson's in Valley Stream for some ice cream, on the way to the Valley Stream Drive-in Theater. I also remember a small gas station located on the median strip on the Belt Parkway it was on the way to Coney Island. The car was the ideal place to make out with a girl. Many a night was spent parked at Plum Beach, with the windows steaming up. The gas stations back then were totally full service. Not only did the attendant pump the fuel, he checked the oil, tires, all vital fluids, and cleaned the windshield. Oh, Those were the days. A $2.00 gas purchase kept you rolling for a long time.

The Jewish holidays were very special to us, but not from a religious perspective. During those days hundreds of young people in the area and from surrounding neighborhoods would gather in their finest clothes and parade along Eastern Parkway, looking to meet people of the opposite sex. This was an annual ritual that occurred on Passover, and the high holy days. It was an event that I always looked forward to.
Speaking of holidays, on one particular Election Day when there was no school, the guys decided to rent a horse and wagon. (There were stables on Chester St.) I don't exactly remember who the participants were. On that very cold November day we rode through the streets of Brooklyn. It was a blast! I recall holding the reins and steering this poor animal down Flatbush Ave. The horse was very old, and we were praying that he would survive the day. Our destination was Prospect Park. We slowed traffic throughout our journey. It was a miracle that we weren't arrested. We drew a sizable crowd of spectators in front of Arky's candy store, prior to returning to the stable. I recall on that day, we were all attired in our club jackets.

Of all the people mentioned, let me not forget my last Brownsville girlfriend, Iris Lustig. Ironically, we met after she and her family moved to Oceanside, Long Island. Prior to leaving the neighborhood, she lived on Strauss St., a short distance away from Hymie's Bar, and about three blocks from my house. We never met when she lived in the area. I probably passed her on the street many times, not knowing that some day she would be my wife.

Growing up in Brownsville during those wonderful years will always be a cherished memory. It surly wasn't an affluent neighborhood. I can still visualize the row houses and the sycamore trees with their peeling bark. I still remember our one-bedroom apartment. My parents slept in the living room on a convertible couch. My house was the center of much activity. My friends frequently gathered there to play cards, and just hang out.

In 1955 I began to think about the draft. The job market provided little opportunity for someone with my skills. (I was a window trimmer.) I learned that the navy was drafting men. I then volunteered for the draft, with the hope of getting into the navy. I was lucky and I was inducted into the navy in November of '55, where I spent two interesting and exiting years. Except for Jack, who had bad eyes, the rest of the guys went into the various branches of the military.

I often think about Jack, Matty, Scotty, Lefty, Jay, Stosh and Arnie. What did life have in store for them? Where are they today? Maybe some day our paths will cross and we will meet again, perhaps for an egg cream. Until then, I can only wonder.

On a recent trip to New York, to attend a wedding, my wife and I drove through Brownsville. It was sad to see the deterioration of a place that meant so much to me. The sycamore trees were still there but many of the homes and shops were gone. Entire blocks were leveled and reduced to rubble. It was like viewing the remnants of a forgotten civilization.

Now all I am left with are my memories as a boy and my life in Brownsville where I became a man.

Epilog

These stories were written in 1994.

As the passing years turned into decades, many of the memories have faded. Remembering the friends and places of that time long ago inspired me to search for them. Now with this age of technology, and the use of the Internet, I miraculously found Jack, Stosh and Scotty. We have exchanged phone and calls and with the power of computers we can quickly correspond. Our lives have taken us along different paths, although there are still many similarities. Scotty lives about twenty miles from me in Boca Raton. Jack wound up in Orange, California. Stosh is located in Tucson, Arizona. At this time I am still searching for the rest of the fellows. I am anxiously looking forward to the day when we can all meet again.

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