The number of images of summers past, which I carry around in my head, is seemingly endless. I think there are so many because summer is such a lively time and more time is spent outdoors than in any other season.
When you are outdoors as a kid that is when things, good and bad, happen. This process is always what creates the abundance of memories. They can range from the feel of the morning dew on your bare feet, to the intensity of the midday sun, to the sight of the first fireflies of the early evening. As we grow older there are fewer opportunities to go barefoot, the midday sun we now avoid by staying close to air conditioners, and fireflies are not something we catch in glass jars anymore. Maybe we notice the fireflies from time to time, and recall the fun we used to have collecting them. Though the simple joy we used to feel when we caught our first is not something readily repeatable by middle age types. We can only hope to see a younger generation engage in the same sort of activities we did. Hopefully, we'll catch the same familiar glint of happiness in their eyes that we had after running through pure, dew covered grass in the morning, or when we found a shady spot in which to wait out an afternoon sun, or best of all in my mind seeing young children chasing fireflies in the evening dusk.
The squeals of delight from children when they catch one is easily discernible to me on summer evenings when I am out for a stroll. The memory of my own chases after these intermittent, blinking lights makes me believe that these new firefly pursuers are creating their own endless supply of summer memories.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Did You Play?
A tip of the cap to the Watching The Game blog for the inspiration for this post.
http://watchingthegame.typepad.com/my-blog/2010/07/did-you-play-1.html
The answer to the question is yes. Probably I participated in thousands of hardball, softball, wiffle ball and stick ball games, most never finished because of time or the desire to play on when the score became too one-sided. We played with whomever was available and sometimes due to our numbers half the outfield would be foul territory. You literally had to "call your field" when you stepped to the plate to bat. It wasn't as fun as being able to hit to all fields but it at least satisfied our desire to play the game, no matter the self-imposed limits.
When you were younger than the assembled crowd of ball players it was a right of passage to be asked to play. The invitation was usually extended so a full complement of players could be fielded on both sides. Sometimes this meant right field, but in my case I learned early to tell them I would pitch. Now this was a somewhat dangerous position given the strength and size of some of the players I was pitching the softball to and because of the short distance between pitcher and batter. You were either quick or lucky when you pitched in those games, and for the most part when I was young, I was both.
By the time I assumed the status of the older boys I still liked pitching, even though I could have chosen a spot in the outfield based on seniority. The infield was largely off limits because I am left-handed, though at one time or another I did play every position on the diamond, and once toward the end of my playing days, I played center field with a right-handed glove. This effort took some guile and an effortless looking throwing style. I did field one fly ball that day and a couple of grounders. It was just my usual good luck that nobody on the other team knew that my arm was far less than the cannon one would usually expect from a center fielder. Yes, I played and still enjoy reflecting back on those blissful days in the sun.
http://watchingthegame.typepad.com/my-blog/2010/07/did-you-play-1.html
The answer to the question is yes. Probably I participated in thousands of hardball, softball, wiffle ball and stick ball games, most never finished because of time or the desire to play on when the score became too one-sided. We played with whomever was available and sometimes due to our numbers half the outfield would be foul territory. You literally had to "call your field" when you stepped to the plate to bat. It wasn't as fun as being able to hit to all fields but it at least satisfied our desire to play the game, no matter the self-imposed limits.
When you were younger than the assembled crowd of ball players it was a right of passage to be asked to play. The invitation was usually extended so a full complement of players could be fielded on both sides. Sometimes this meant right field, but in my case I learned early to tell them I would pitch. Now this was a somewhat dangerous position given the strength and size of some of the players I was pitching the softball to and because of the short distance between pitcher and batter. You were either quick or lucky when you pitched in those games, and for the most part when I was young, I was both.
By the time I assumed the status of the older boys I still liked pitching, even though I could have chosen a spot in the outfield based on seniority. The infield was largely off limits because I am left-handed, though at one time or another I did play every position on the diamond, and once toward the end of my playing days, I played center field with a right-handed glove. This effort took some guile and an effortless looking throwing style. I did field one fly ball that day and a couple of grounders. It was just my usual good luck that nobody on the other team knew that my arm was far less than the cannon one would usually expect from a center fielder. Yes, I played and still enjoy reflecting back on those blissful days in the sun.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
RHS 1970 Reunion Update
The count down to the Oct 8-9 reunion is now 10 weeks away, and we have started to step it up. As we get closer, we will send more emails. Also keep checking what is new on the reunion web site (www.rhs70.myevent.com).
· Ticket pricing: $99. Tickets to the Main Event at the DoubleTree Hotel on Sat night Oct 9 are $99 (if purchased by Sept 30 via the web site, $119 at the door (cash only)). Price includes: Dinner, open bar (for 2 hours), DJ, photographer, Wes Jenkins’ memory book. Tickets go on sale via the reunion web site in mid-August. Tickets to the Fri night Oct 8 event at the Elks Club will payable at the door. Cash bar. Price is still TBD, but will be modest.
· Map of your classmates. Check out this link, pretty amazing. http://www.batchgeo.com/map/
· Need Volunteers for Reunion Committees. We are putting together the following committees to prepare for and conduct the reunion weekend. We need volunteers. Pls email Irene (gardendesign@bellsouth.net) if you are interested in participating on a committee.
1. Decoration Committee – In charge of decorations for Main Event on Sat night. Has a sizeable budget. Need 4 people.
2. Welcoming Committee – Check people in at Elks Club on Fri, and Main Event on Sat. Produce welcome packets. Need 3 people.
3. Event Committee – Brian Corcoran heads this group. In charge of all logistics for Main Event. Brian could use 1 more person.
4. Calling Campaign – As you may know, we are calling all classmates in August to remind, encourage, re-connect, and improve our contact database. 8 of you have already volunteered. Thank you. (See “Calling Campaign” below for update.)
· Memory Book. We are taking a different tack with the incredible ‘Memory Book” that Wes Jenkins is creating. In order to capture reunion photos and updates from all classmates at the reunion, we have decided to not complete and deliver the Memory Book until after the reunion. At the Main Event on Sat night Oct 9, we will be gathering input from attendees. We will mail a Memory Book, on CD, to all who attend the reunion and provide us with update info. We will make it easy to do at the Main Event. The cost of the Memory Book is included in the $99 price of the Main Event. We will also sell Memory Book CD’s to classmates who are unable to attend the reunion. Details to foll ow. In the meantime, if you can, pls send Wes a bio, blurb, photos. wjenkins5@austin.rr.com. See details on the reunion web site (http://www.rhs70.myevent.com/
· Calling campaign – This campaign to call all our classmates is still on, but has slipped into August. Those of you who volunteered to make calls, thank you. We will be in touch in time to start making the calls the first week in Aug.
· Attendance. As of 7/20, 97 classmates have RSVP’d that they plan to attend (with spouses etc. total attendance tops 150!). Again, thanks. This helps us plan, and builds excitement. The response is greater than expected. If you have not RSVP’d, pls do.
· Missing Classmates - Thanks to you, we continue to make progress finding classmates: down to 75 missing (from over 150 when we started!). Pls keep the help coming til we find everybody.( http://www.rhs70.myevent.com/
· Transportation in an around Ridgewood – If the expense of renting a car is a major concern for you, our hope is that that many of you will team up with your friends/classmates who will have cars, and that classmates will step up to the need. We are arranging to have a taxi service on standby as needed, and hope to provide a reasonably priced van service to/from Newark Airport to the DoubleTree Hotel. We will let you know what we come up with.
That’s all for now. Keep in touch. Next update in mid-August.
RHS ’70 Reunion Committee:
Brian Corcoran
Irene Nagy
Rick Bowe
Website address: http://rhs70.myevent.com
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Carl Albano, RHS Top 100 Teacher of the 20th Century
Many thanks to Chris Stella, class of 1973, for this moving tribute to 20th Century RHS Teacher, Carl Albano. It is admittedly long for a blog, but worth the time to read.
As a gentle reminder, one of the goals of this blog is to offer praise for individuals who positively influenced people's lives in the 1960s and 70s in Ridgewood, NJ. Please feel free to forward me your ideas. I am trying to establish a site which acknowledges the contributions of the 100 Best Teachers in the Ridgewood Public School system over the last 100 years. It is a lofty ambition, but I am not above making the effort with the assistance of people who read this blog. Here is the first entry in what I hope is a continuing series of long overdue expressions of gratitude to the people who made us what we are today.
Well, just looking at him, he didn’t quite fit the picture of the high-impact RHS teacher, that is for sure. He had this near spherical head and face, stuck on an ovoid body. His brown hair was slicked straight back, held in position by some sort of lustrous substance, distinctly unfashionable among the young of Ridgewood in 1972.
He taught Health, and Driver Ed, but not Physical Ed. And, his presence wasn’t like any of the RHS pedagogue stars: He didn’t have the tweedy, genial sense of learned excellence suggested by a Harry Ahearn, or the muscular, rigorous intellectualism of a Milo Okkema. Both the subject matter, and teacher might have seemed a bit, well, shall we say, Less Academic.
To complete the picture, his brother was one of those show wrestlers, Lou Albano, later a huge WWF star as Captain Lou Albano. Our teacher did not make TOO big a deal of this, though he was often willing to make predictions on the results of his brother’s bouts. These predictions were accurate to a degree not suggested possible by statistical variability.
Since my time with him in the classroom and automobile, where he taught me Health and how to drive a car, I have come to see him as a true genius.
He made people who were not in the habit of thinking, think. “Okay, today, we’re going to talk about Drugs”. Certain facts would follow. Then, he would pick a student carefully, approach that student, and pull a small clear glass bottle with a black screw-top out of his valise. Inside the bottle was a few ounces of a clear, but obscurely and unusually colored liquid.
“Frank, “Mr. Albano would genially say to the student he had picked, “Please unscrew the cap, and swallow the liquid.”
“Oh, come on, it will be fine. I promise. “ Mr. Albano would say.
“No”, Frank would again say.
At this point Frank’s so-called buddies would begin to egg him on, urging him to drink the liquid, in a way that severely suggested that they were a lot more interested in the evolving spectacle, than in Frank’s well-being.
“Frank. This won’t hurt you. I promise. It’s Okay”, Albano would continue.
“I’m not drinkin’ that shit !!!“
(Laughter.)
Albano would smile and ask, “Why not?”
Desperate, Frank would say, “’Cause I don’t what kinda shit’s in there !!”
(More laughter.)
Albano would take a step back, put the bottle back in the valise, and smile again.
“Frank. I’m your teacher. You know me. It is my job to see that you are safe here, and that no harm comes to you while you are in school. I’ll get in a lot of trouble if I don’t. After all, a good lawyer can make black seem like white, right?”
Albano would then continue, in a sensible and kind way:
“Frank, if you aren’t willing to take this stuff into your body when I say it is okay and your friends are here, why would you be willing to take other stuff given to you by other people who you DON’T know, and who don’t care about you AT ALL?”
Well, this seemed clever in real time, but there was a whole less obvious layer of teacherly smarts at work here, which only recently occurred to me. Albano had picked his mark well. There were florid risk-takers in the class who would have called Albano’s bluff instantaneously, and quaffed the mysterious liquid in a gulp.
But, although “Frank” tried to play the role of the uncooperative rebel, he was actually a nervous wannabe. He was someone on the periphery, someone who Albano knew would perform as desired and refuse to drink the Kool-Aid, and refuse in a squeamish way, either out of general anxiety, or latent good sense, hard to say which.
The first year of Health was taught in an all-male class of over fifty students, as high anxiety, high-potential-for-disruptive-behavior stuff was presented, topic after topic.
Albano controlled the class effortlessly:
“Hey you, yes, you in the back talking. Stand up. What’s ya name, I don’t know ya name, what is it?”
Duh, Uh,…Stella.
“Oh. Very nice. Stella. Italian, no? Italian, yes, Stella?”
Duh, Uh, yeah, Italian.
(Laughter)
“Oh, Stella, Italian, very nice, very very nice.
“Now, Stella: SHUT YA MOUTH, SHUT YA MOUTH, STELLA.”
“Now, sit down, Stella.”
(Laughter, Cascading.)
And the classroom discussion of the picture of the syphilitic genital chancre would go on:
“Now, like you can see it really looks like bad news, but funny thing is, it doesn’t hurt too bad at all. But if you see it, you got to go see the doctor, because if you don’t get this taken care of it can ruin the rest of your life. But, the medicine, it isn’t too bad, so if this happens, you have to go to the doctor.”
Again, brilliant, visceral, teacherly smarts. He could have yelled, screamed, tossed people out, or just given up, we had seen all of that, elsewhere. But, his technique was radically different. He seemed to be saying:
“Okay Mister Cut-Up, I know your type, maybe I was one myself, maybe I still am, a bit. I know you want attention, so I’m going to let you have some. I’m going to let you be half of my comedy act, for a few seconds. People will get a kick out of this, I guarantee it. But then you have to sit down and cooperate, because I have a lot of stuff important to your well-being that you need to know.”
Senior Year Health Class, time for the discussion of Abortion. Some neutrally presented facts were described, followed by a general class discussion on the topic, with Albano as moderator:
“Now, when we talk, you can say anything you want about abortion, but I’m not going to tell you what I believe, unless you ask, at the end.” In the discussion that followed, Albano skillfully brought out all the issues from the students themselves, his own views remaining opaque. And at the end of the class, someone did ask him what he thought on the topic. And Mr. Albano said, again with an affable smile, “Oh, well, I am a really strict Catholic, and so, I don’t believe in abortion under any circumstances. Now, I really love my wife, if her life was ever in danger, I don’t know; but, for me, abortion is not okay.”
I thought his ability to be respectful of everyone’s opinion was wonderful, as was the straightforward and persuasive statement of his own faith, as well as the acknowledgment of his own humanity, and potential for weakness.
I was lucky enough to have him for Driver Ed, Practical Portion, in a real Auto, behind the wheel.
“We start in the Graydon Parking lot, but don’t put me into the Ho-Ho-Kus Brook, please.“
During my final evaluation drive, I was in the driver’s seat, he in the passenger seat. The Driver Ed car was new, with an automatic transmission. The only modification was an auxiliary brake pedal on Albano’s side. I tooled tentatively about the Village of Ridgewood.
“The Driving, it looks pretty good, Stella. Pretty good. Who you got for your other classes?”
I told him I had Mr. Okkema for History. “Oh, he’s a very, very smart man, one of the best! You’re really lucky, Stella.” This was all true, but I wasn’t so sure that the academic stars at RHS would return such compliments to Albano.
The cut-up in his Health class when surrounded by other kids was shy and awkward with him, when one on one, just us in the Driver Ed car. I tried to steer the conversation to general topics. I told him that on weekends, I liked to go hiking and camping with friends. Did he ever do this sort of thing?
Again, the bemused but transparent warm tone. “Oh, no, never!! When I go away, I gotta be attended to, hand and foot!’ A bemused quarter turn of the head, another bemused smile, his rotund frame turned a bit, “Look at me Stella, hand and foot!”
“The Driving looks pretty good, Stella.”
I relaxed a bit. It was time to return to the RHS parking lot. At the T–intersection of Oak Street and Linwood Avenue, there was, and still is, a red flashing blinker, where the plan was for me to turn right, back towards the school.
I came to a full stop, as was proper before making the right turn at the T-intersection with the flashing red light. I looked right, all clear. I did not look left. I pushed the accelerator down with my foot.
The engine growled harshly, as if being subjected to some unusual load. The car did not move, even an inch. I heard Mr. Albano speak the single word “No”, in a factual, stressless and non-judgmental tone.
Then, I looked left. There was a large panel truck speeding towards us, real close. Had Albano not had his foot on the auxiliary brake, our car would have entered the intersection. This truck would have impacted the driver side of the RHS Driver Ed Auto, which at that particular point in its history, happened to contain, me.
“The Driving. The Driving, it looks pretty good, Stella, but ya gotta look both left and right at the flashing red lights, Stella. Now, let’s get back to the school.”
Well, I’m not SURE he saved my life, but I AM sure he gets credit, yet again, for knowing his student. No doubt there were kids who after such an event needed to be chewed out, flunked out, or both, but he knew that I was not one of them. He knew that in my heart of hearts I wanted to please him, and he also knew that if he was nice to me after I had made such a terrible mistake, I would want to please him even more, and would therefore be more careful in the future.
All of this has come to pass, my subsequent behavior at T-intersections has been exemplary.
II.
About seven years later, I had another experience with him.
I was halfway through Med School, in New York City. It was August, and the re-radiated infrared heat from the City buildings had become intolerable. The plan was for me and my girlfriend to drive across the George Washington Bridge, and use my parents continued residence in Ridgewood to somehow get into Graydon Pool. The plan was completely successful, the only surprise being, seeing Mr. Albano bobbing stresslessly in the shallow waters of Graydon.
I introduced myself, and my friend, to him. Maybe he remembered me, maybe he didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter, the even-toned good nature would have been there, either way.
I told him eagerly how much I had enjoyed his influence, but I don’t remember reminding him of the RHS Driver Ed auto incident.
I also told him that I was making a career out of health care. There might have been a bit of less innocent, Darth Vaderish, Now-I-am-the-Master stuff in this part of the conversation, on my part.
More Stressless Graydon Bobbing on the part of my old RHS Health teacher Mr. Albano. The body that I had always thought of as chubby, was in fact quite muscular.
He showed great and obvious pleasure in the direction my professional life had taken. A period of extended, pleasant conversation followed.
Then he said something else that I won’t forget. He had that bemused, familiar, regretless tone.
“Stella, you know, I majored in Biology and also did very well, and I applied to Medical School too, and I could have gone.”
“But, our family, it was really big, and teaching was a way I could make pretty good money right away, to help out.”
“And my teaching, it looked pretty good, so that’s what I did.”
Well, hearing that, I felt the same way as I had felt after he had saved me from Something Really Bad in the Driver Ed auto. His words had the same strong but honest and sensible character that it had on that important day in the car, seven years prior. Once again, he was able to gracefully stake out his own moral position, making my own mistake clear in a firm but gentle way, a way that only made me like him and respect him, even more.
I am now an academic sort of person, and Carl Albano taught subjects thought of as non-academic, at least while I was a student at Ridgewood High School. But as you can see, I now think he was among the best teachers I’ve known, and a great deal of his teaching and deportment remains influential for me.
As a gentle reminder, one of the goals of this blog is to offer praise for individuals who positively influenced people's lives in the 1960s and 70s in Ridgewood, NJ. Please feel free to forward me your ideas. I am trying to establish a site which acknowledges the contributions of the 100 Best Teachers in the Ridgewood Public School system over the last 100 years. It is a lofty ambition, but I am not above making the effort with the assistance of people who read this blog. Here is the first entry in what I hope is a continuing series of long overdue expressions of gratitude to the people who made us what we are today.
Well, just looking at him, he didn’t quite fit the picture of the high-impact RHS teacher, that is for sure. He had this near spherical head and face, stuck on an ovoid body. His brown hair was slicked straight back, held in position by some sort of lustrous substance, distinctly unfashionable among the young of Ridgewood in 1972.
He taught Health, and Driver Ed, but not Physical Ed. And, his presence wasn’t like any of the RHS pedagogue stars: He didn’t have the tweedy, genial sense of learned excellence suggested by a Harry Ahearn, or the muscular, rigorous intellectualism of a Milo Okkema. Both the subject matter, and teacher might have seemed a bit, well, shall we say, Less Academic.
To complete the picture, his brother was one of those show wrestlers, Lou Albano, later a huge WWF star as Captain Lou Albano. Our teacher did not make TOO big a deal of this, though he was often willing to make predictions on the results of his brother’s bouts. These predictions were accurate to a degree not suggested possible by statistical variability.
Since my time with him in the classroom and automobile, where he taught me Health and how to drive a car, I have come to see him as a true genius.
He made people who were not in the habit of thinking, think. “Okay, today, we’re going to talk about Drugs”. Certain facts would follow. Then, he would pick a student carefully, approach that student, and pull a small clear glass bottle with a black screw-top out of his valise. Inside the bottle was a few ounces of a clear, but obscurely and unusually colored liquid.
“Frank, “Mr. Albano would genially say to the student he had picked, “Please unscrew the cap, and swallow the liquid.”
“Oh, come on, it will be fine. I promise. “ Mr. Albano would say.
“No”, Frank would again say.
At this point Frank’s so-called buddies would begin to egg him on, urging him to drink the liquid, in a way that severely suggested that they were a lot more interested in the evolving spectacle, than in Frank’s well-being.
“Frank. This won’t hurt you. I promise. It’s Okay”, Albano would continue.
“I’m not drinkin’ that shit !!!“
(Laughter.)
Albano would smile and ask, “Why not?”
Desperate, Frank would say, “’Cause I don’t what kinda shit’s in there !!”
(More laughter.)
Albano would take a step back, put the bottle back in the valise, and smile again.
“Frank. I’m your teacher. You know me. It is my job to see that you are safe here, and that no harm comes to you while you are in school. I’ll get in a lot of trouble if I don’t. After all, a good lawyer can make black seem like white, right?”
Albano would then continue, in a sensible and kind way:
“Frank, if you aren’t willing to take this stuff into your body when I say it is okay and your friends are here, why would you be willing to take other stuff given to you by other people who you DON’T know, and who don’t care about you AT ALL?”
Well, this seemed clever in real time, but there was a whole less obvious layer of teacherly smarts at work here, which only recently occurred to me. Albano had picked his mark well. There were florid risk-takers in the class who would have called Albano’s bluff instantaneously, and quaffed the mysterious liquid in a gulp.
But, although “Frank” tried to play the role of the uncooperative rebel, he was actually a nervous wannabe. He was someone on the periphery, someone who Albano knew would perform as desired and refuse to drink the Kool-Aid, and refuse in a squeamish way, either out of general anxiety, or latent good sense, hard to say which.
The first year of Health was taught in an all-male class of over fifty students, as high anxiety, high-potential-for-disruptive-behavior stuff was presented, topic after topic.
Albano controlled the class effortlessly:
“Hey you, yes, you in the back talking. Stand up. What’s ya name, I don’t know ya name, what is it?”
Duh, Uh,…Stella.
“Oh. Very nice. Stella. Italian, no? Italian, yes, Stella?”
Duh, Uh, yeah, Italian.
(Laughter)
“Oh, Stella, Italian, very nice, very very nice.
“Now, Stella: SHUT YA MOUTH, SHUT YA MOUTH, STELLA.”
“Now, sit down, Stella.”
(Laughter, Cascading.)
And the classroom discussion of the picture of the syphilitic genital chancre would go on:
“Now, like you can see it really looks like bad news, but funny thing is, it doesn’t hurt too bad at all. But if you see it, you got to go see the doctor, because if you don’t get this taken care of it can ruin the rest of your life. But, the medicine, it isn’t too bad, so if this happens, you have to go to the doctor.”
Again, brilliant, visceral, teacherly smarts. He could have yelled, screamed, tossed people out, or just given up, we had seen all of that, elsewhere. But, his technique was radically different. He seemed to be saying:
“Okay Mister Cut-Up, I know your type, maybe I was one myself, maybe I still am, a bit. I know you want attention, so I’m going to let you have some. I’m going to let you be half of my comedy act, for a few seconds. People will get a kick out of this, I guarantee it. But then you have to sit down and cooperate, because I have a lot of stuff important to your well-being that you need to know.”
Senior Year Health Class, time for the discussion of Abortion. Some neutrally presented facts were described, followed by a general class discussion on the topic, with Albano as moderator:
“Now, when we talk, you can say anything you want about abortion, but I’m not going to tell you what I believe, unless you ask, at the end.” In the discussion that followed, Albano skillfully brought out all the issues from the students themselves, his own views remaining opaque. And at the end of the class, someone did ask him what he thought on the topic. And Mr. Albano said, again with an affable smile, “Oh, well, I am a really strict Catholic, and so, I don’t believe in abortion under any circumstances. Now, I really love my wife, if her life was ever in danger, I don’t know; but, for me, abortion is not okay.”
I thought his ability to be respectful of everyone’s opinion was wonderful, as was the straightforward and persuasive statement of his own faith, as well as the acknowledgment of his own humanity, and potential for weakness.
I was lucky enough to have him for Driver Ed, Practical Portion, in a real Auto, behind the wheel.
“We start in the Graydon Parking lot, but don’t put me into the Ho-Ho-Kus Brook, please.“
During my final evaluation drive, I was in the driver’s seat, he in the passenger seat. The Driver Ed car was new, with an automatic transmission. The only modification was an auxiliary brake pedal on Albano’s side. I tooled tentatively about the Village of Ridgewood.
“The Driving, it looks pretty good, Stella. Pretty good. Who you got for your other classes?”
I told him I had Mr. Okkema for History. “Oh, he’s a very, very smart man, one of the best! You’re really lucky, Stella.” This was all true, but I wasn’t so sure that the academic stars at RHS would return such compliments to Albano.
The cut-up in his Health class when surrounded by other kids was shy and awkward with him, when one on one, just us in the Driver Ed car. I tried to steer the conversation to general topics. I told him that on weekends, I liked to go hiking and camping with friends. Did he ever do this sort of thing?
Again, the bemused but transparent warm tone. “Oh, no, never!! When I go away, I gotta be attended to, hand and foot!’ A bemused quarter turn of the head, another bemused smile, his rotund frame turned a bit, “Look at me Stella, hand and foot!”
“The Driving looks pretty good, Stella.”
I relaxed a bit. It was time to return to the RHS parking lot. At the T–intersection of Oak Street and Linwood Avenue, there was, and still is, a red flashing blinker, where the plan was for me to turn right, back towards the school.
I came to a full stop, as was proper before making the right turn at the T-intersection with the flashing red light. I looked right, all clear. I did not look left. I pushed the accelerator down with my foot.
The engine growled harshly, as if being subjected to some unusual load. The car did not move, even an inch. I heard Mr. Albano speak the single word “No”, in a factual, stressless and non-judgmental tone.
Then, I looked left. There was a large panel truck speeding towards us, real close. Had Albano not had his foot on the auxiliary brake, our car would have entered the intersection. This truck would have impacted the driver side of the RHS Driver Ed Auto, which at that particular point in its history, happened to contain, me.
“The Driving. The Driving, it looks pretty good, Stella, but ya gotta look both left and right at the flashing red lights, Stella. Now, let’s get back to the school.”
Well, I’m not SURE he saved my life, but I AM sure he gets credit, yet again, for knowing his student. No doubt there were kids who after such an event needed to be chewed out, flunked out, or both, but he knew that I was not one of them. He knew that in my heart of hearts I wanted to please him, and he also knew that if he was nice to me after I had made such a terrible mistake, I would want to please him even more, and would therefore be more careful in the future.
All of this has come to pass, my subsequent behavior at T-intersections has been exemplary.
II.
About seven years later, I had another experience with him.
I was halfway through Med School, in New York City. It was August, and the re-radiated infrared heat from the City buildings had become intolerable. The plan was for me and my girlfriend to drive across the George Washington Bridge, and use my parents continued residence in Ridgewood to somehow get into Graydon Pool. The plan was completely successful, the only surprise being, seeing Mr. Albano bobbing stresslessly in the shallow waters of Graydon.
I introduced myself, and my friend, to him. Maybe he remembered me, maybe he didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter, the even-toned good nature would have been there, either way.
I told him eagerly how much I had enjoyed his influence, but I don’t remember reminding him of the RHS Driver Ed auto incident.
I also told him that I was making a career out of health care. There might have been a bit of less innocent, Darth Vaderish, Now-I-am-the-Master stuff in this part of the conversation, on my part.
More Stressless Graydon Bobbing on the part of my old RHS Health teacher Mr. Albano. The body that I had always thought of as chubby, was in fact quite muscular.
He showed great and obvious pleasure in the direction my professional life had taken. A period of extended, pleasant conversation followed.
Then he said something else that I won’t forget. He had that bemused, familiar, regretless tone.
“Stella, you know, I majored in Biology and also did very well, and I applied to Medical School too, and I could have gone.”
“But, our family, it was really big, and teaching was a way I could make pretty good money right away, to help out.”
“And my teaching, it looked pretty good, so that’s what I did.”
Well, hearing that, I felt the same way as I had felt after he had saved me from Something Really Bad in the Driver Ed auto. His words had the same strong but honest and sensible character that it had on that important day in the car, seven years prior. Once again, he was able to gracefully stake out his own moral position, making my own mistake clear in a firm but gentle way, a way that only made me like him and respect him, even more.
I am now an academic sort of person, and Carl Albano taught subjects thought of as non-academic, at least while I was a student at Ridgewood High School. But as you can see, I now think he was among the best teachers I’ve known, and a great deal of his teaching and deportment remains influential for me.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Ham Radios in Ridgewood (circa 1960-70)
This was sent by Chris Stella. class of 1973.
“Ham” Radio, in Ridgewood
“Now, listen my Children, and you shall hear
Of when Ne’er a Cell phone was raised to an ear
If you wanted
Your words to project
It was the land-line,
Or an epistle,
Upon which to carefully reflect.”
--C.S., with apologies to Longfellow
Actually, there was one other method that a few of us knew about. It was called
Amateur Radio. Those of us who were licensed to do this, could project their
voice and signal all over the country, and world. The transmitter equipment
needed to do so was often home built from a “Heathkit”. If you couldn’t afford
the relatively safe Heath Power Pack, then the parts needed to construct an
(extremely dangerous) 1000 volt supply that allowed the development of the 200
watt signal needed to keep your set competitive, could be liberated from an older,
nonfunctional obsolete television set.
This in turn could often be had for the asking from a TV Repair shop, such as
Terhune’s, located north of Ridgewood. Technical advice, general mentoring, and license proctoring was provided by my wonderful Electronics Teacher at RHS, Mr. John Keeley. He helped me
send away to the FCC to get the license forms, and he gently administered the
Government test, and within a few weeks I was duly licensed as Amateur Radio Station WN2.
There were many hundreds of these stations scattered through Ridgewood and
the surrounding towns. The most elaborate ones could be identified by these
huge Yagi “Beam” antennas, suspended over residential roofs, much to the
detriment of neighborly relations, local television reception, and the property
value of adjacent real estate parcels.
I had nothing like this. A Heathkit HW-101 transceiver in Kit Form, cost $259.
A Saturday of work at The Ridgewood Auto Wash yielded $20, with the “tips”
exactly counterbalancing the “Social Security”, an unanticipated deduction which
I was inaccurately told would be returned to me at the time of my Retirement.
Accoringly, exactly 14 weeks later I had my transceiver soldered and assembled,
and it worked very well after I designed and constructed the potentially death-
dealing 1000 volt supply mentioned above. My antenna was a simple wire
precisely tuned to 7.100 megahertz, it was slung between two oak trees outside
of my bedroom window. A smaller, 21.200 megahertz wire was suspended from
the eaves of our house.
Using this simple setup, I “worked” stations routinely all over America.
Whatever educational value I gained from doing this was at least partially
negated by the knowledge that the best time to communicate with Europe with
my little Heathkit was at about 10:00 a.m., Eastern Time. Thus, a “stomachache
health emergency” had to be declared, when openings to Europe were expected,
if I was to participate. My Gastrointestinal health during mr RHS years, was
actually a lot better than my parents knew.
The most wonderful thing of all about this hobby was, the knowledge that when
you pressed your Morse Code Key, your signal, through the obscure action-
at – a-distance of Electromagnetic waves, was inducing discernable electrical
information in every metallic object in the Eastern United States, and Beyond.
This was a wonderful mystery, that you could affect the world, in this way.
I still have the Heathkit HW-101 Transceiver that I built as a Sophomore at RHS,
and I still use it. But, it is hard to find a younger person on the air. A cell phone
call is also at least Semi-Amateur Radio, though few see fit to dwell on the
miraculous things that are occurring, when you put that tiny device to your ear.
“Ham” Radio, in Ridgewood
“Now, listen my Children, and you shall hear
Of when Ne’er a Cell phone was raised to an ear
If you wanted
Your words to project
It was the land-line,
Or an epistle,
Upon which to carefully reflect.”
--C.S., with apologies to Longfellow
Actually, there was one other method that a few of us knew about. It was called
Amateur Radio. Those of us who were licensed to do this, could project their
voice and signal all over the country, and world. The transmitter equipment
needed to do so was often home built from a “Heathkit”. If you couldn’t afford
the relatively safe Heath Power Pack, then the parts needed to construct an
(extremely dangerous) 1000 volt supply that allowed the development of the 200
watt signal needed to keep your set competitive, could be liberated from an older,
nonfunctional obsolete television set.
This in turn could often be had for the asking from a TV Repair shop, such as
Terhune’s, located north of Ridgewood. Technical advice, general mentoring, and license proctoring was provided by my wonderful Electronics Teacher at RHS, Mr. John Keeley. He helped me
send away to the FCC to get the license forms, and he gently administered the
Government test, and within a few weeks I was duly licensed as Amateur Radio Station WN2.
There were many hundreds of these stations scattered through Ridgewood and
the surrounding towns. The most elaborate ones could be identified by these
huge Yagi “Beam” antennas, suspended over residential roofs, much to the
detriment of neighborly relations, local television reception, and the property
value of adjacent real estate parcels.
I had nothing like this. A Heathkit HW-101 transceiver in Kit Form, cost $259.
A Saturday of work at The Ridgewood Auto Wash yielded $20, with the “tips”
exactly counterbalancing the “Social Security”, an unanticipated deduction which
I was inaccurately told would be returned to me at the time of my Retirement.
Accoringly, exactly 14 weeks later I had my transceiver soldered and assembled,
and it worked very well after I designed and constructed the potentially death-
dealing 1000 volt supply mentioned above. My antenna was a simple wire
precisely tuned to 7.100 megahertz, it was slung between two oak trees outside
of my bedroom window. A smaller, 21.200 megahertz wire was suspended from
the eaves of our house.
Using this simple setup, I “worked” stations routinely all over America.
Whatever educational value I gained from doing this was at least partially
negated by the knowledge that the best time to communicate with Europe with
my little Heathkit was at about 10:00 a.m., Eastern Time. Thus, a “stomachache
health emergency” had to be declared, when openings to Europe were expected,
if I was to participate. My Gastrointestinal health during mr RHS years, was
actually a lot better than my parents knew.
The most wonderful thing of all about this hobby was, the knowledge that when
you pressed your Morse Code Key, your signal, through the obscure action-
at – a-distance of Electromagnetic waves, was inducing discernable electrical
information in every metallic object in the Eastern United States, and Beyond.
This was a wonderful mystery, that you could affect the world, in this way.
I still have the Heathkit HW-101 Transceiver that I built as a Sophomore at RHS,
and I still use it. But, it is hard to find a younger person on the air. A cell phone
call is also at least Semi-Amateur Radio, though few see fit to dwell on the
miraculous things that are occurring, when you put that tiny device to your ear.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Summer Rains
I watched a summer rain today and recalled how these downpours used to fill up the outfield at Willard School during the dry months of summer. The outfield of the big baseball diamond had patches of grass and some areas where no grass would grow because of the foot traffic from school children. A summer rain would create shallow puddles as there was no drainage system, other than the parched grass and weeds. These puddles made playing the outfield a comic ballet at best and treacherous sometimes to say the least. I was a pitcher and could only empathize with my teammates who had to play in the muck and mire.
It's comforting to me now that because of The Internet and sites like FaceBook I am now in touch with most of the summer softball team I played with during the Summer of 1973. They are a joy to remember because for two years we were undefeated. They would all understand very clearly what I say about the old outfield at Willard. It was literally "creekmud" at times for the outfielders like my brother Don, who patrolled Center Field and was credited with the final out of our 2nd consecutive Championship season.
Statistics and headlines were not a part of our games in those days. If a couple dozen people showed up to watch we felt honored. I compare this to the current scene where RHS Football games are filmed and broadcast on Cable Television. Our games remain only in our memories, and thank goodness a mere summer rain can make me reflect upon those games, which were free of secondary complications like how handsome we would appear on TV. This is not to say our field would not have been telegenic, despite the patches of grass in the outfield. Before the home games at Willard, during our undefeated Championship reign (14-0) in 1972-73, we would lime the base paths, rake the infield, and plant the American flag in deep center field. This all took hours of effort which only made the victories that much more sweet. I have no regrets that no pictures exist of this time because I saw it all again today in my mind after the summer rain had stopped and the sun began to shine.
It's comforting to me now that because of The Internet and sites like FaceBook I am now in touch with most of the summer softball team I played with during the Summer of 1973. They are a joy to remember because for two years we were undefeated. They would all understand very clearly what I say about the old outfield at Willard. It was literally "creekmud" at times for the outfielders like my brother Don, who patrolled Center Field and was credited with the final out of our 2nd consecutive Championship season.
Statistics and headlines were not a part of our games in those days. If a couple dozen people showed up to watch we felt honored. I compare this to the current scene where RHS Football games are filmed and broadcast on Cable Television. Our games remain only in our memories, and thank goodness a mere summer rain can make me reflect upon those games, which were free of secondary complications like how handsome we would appear on TV. This is not to say our field would not have been telegenic, despite the patches of grass in the outfield. Before the home games at Willard, during our undefeated Championship reign (14-0) in 1972-73, we would lime the base paths, rake the infield, and plant the American flag in deep center field. This all took hours of effort which only made the victories that much more sweet. I have no regrets that no pictures exist of this time because I saw it all again today in my mind after the summer rain had stopped and the sun began to shine.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Dr. Armand Stella DDS
"Here is a picture of my Dad, Armand Stella, DDS, who you tell me was your orthodontist. For many years he was one of only two orthodontists in town, the other being Dr. Mario Ferraro. Quite a few Ridgewood kids sported his "appliances", as they were properly and ALWAYS called, in our house.
I took this photograph of him myself in our backyard, using an old YashicaMat roll film camera. He was about 75 years old here, and it captures his nature quite well, I think. He died in 2003, of an aggressive dementia, but was active and athletic and a good tennis player at Upper Ridgewood until only about two years prior to his passing."
Monday, July 05, 2010
Running Through Sprinklers
Before swimming pools became a ubiquitous part of the landscape, and on days we didn't go to Graydon Pool, we often cooled ourselves on a hot day by simply running through and around a portable lawn sprinkler. There were mostly two types in those days, before automated lawn irrigation systems sent the manual kinds to the back of the garage or the garbage can. There was the oscillating sprinkler that featured an oscillating spray bar which evenly douses a rectangular area.
There was also the spike which shot water in a circle.
In the case of both of these stalwarts of the irrigation industry the the initial intent was to get wet slowly by dodging the direct spray when it came your way. Eventually we would tire of this running around and simply let either a wave or a direct blast cool us off.
We also used to drink from the hose which was connected to the sprinklers, without a thought in the world as to the quality of the water. Lucky for us in Ridgewood this wasn't an issue but I would be hard pressed to want to do the same today. The bottled water industry has done its work too well and I either drink from plastic or from a filtered tap. I've also been scared away from water fountains, both inside and outside varieties. Its funny to think we used to line up as kids to drink at these fountains, and to no doubt share germs good and bad with one another.
Such pleasures as I am describing make me wonder at what point they lost their appeal and became work instead of a form of play. If I had to guess the moment, it probably occurred the first time I was asked to move one of the sprinklers in our yard by one of my parents. Play usually happens when no force exists to urge you to do something. Work is comprised of those activities you are being directed to do. Even the ones you once did gladly to cool your heals, and to hear yourself and your friends squeal in delight at the first drops of water as they grazed your sun baked bodies.
There was also the spike which shot water in a circle.
We also used to drink from the hose which was connected to the sprinklers, without a thought in the world as to the quality of the water. Lucky for us in Ridgewood this wasn't an issue but I would be hard pressed to want to do the same today. The bottled water industry has done its work too well and I either drink from plastic or from a filtered tap. I've also been scared away from water fountains, both inside and outside varieties. Its funny to think we used to line up as kids to drink at these fountains, and to no doubt share germs good and bad with one another.
Such pleasures as I am describing make me wonder at what point they lost their appeal and became work instead of a form of play. If I had to guess the moment, it probably occurred the first time I was asked to move one of the sprinklers in our yard by one of my parents. Play usually happens when no force exists to urge you to do something. Work is comprised of those activities you are being directed to do. Even the ones you once did gladly to cool your heals, and to hear yourself and your friends squeal in delight at the first drops of water as they grazed your sun baked bodies.
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Ridgewood's 4th of July Parade
Then there is the parade itself with a myriad of marching bands, floats, and cars filled with dignitaries. My favorite float is the one they create for the RHS graduating seniors, allowing them one last hurrah, in front of family and friends, before their summer activities and plans for the following autumn must commence in earnest.
Next comes a leisurely day spent in close proximity to BBQs and swimming pools while everyone awaits the fireworks at the end of the day. You would really have to work at it to not have a grand time, especially when the weather cooperates. You will also likely have as part of your day a serendipitous meeting or two with old friends, who showed up in Ridgewood for the same reason which you did: to celebrate the 4th of July!
Have a safe and happy 4th of July.
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