DEADLIEST CATCH

If you grew up near the Hudson River (before River Road’s toxic riverfront properties were replaced by trendy malls, expensive restaurant chains, and upscale condos) or spent summers down the Jersey Shore, you probably know how to crab. Chances are, buried somewhere in your parent’s basement is a collection of rusting crab nets that haven’t seen the light of day since 1981. If you know what I’m talking about, then you know that the creator of the Discovery Channel’s “Deadliest Catch” had to have crabbed among us. He was probably the kid with the camera.

Although my remote control had scrolled by “Deadliest Catch” many times, it wasn’t until I was trapped inside by “Snow-mageddon” that I actually watched it. Luckily for me, it was a weekend marathon of re-run’s showcasing the real men of professional King Crab and Opi crabbing in Alaska. As I sat there and watched these fearless seamen brave the icy storms of the Bering Sea my thoughts travelled back to my days as a Hudson River crabber and I can’t help but marvel at the danger my fellow crabbers and I dodged.

We ancient Hudson crabbers of the last millennium may not know the experience of working on a boat while being pounded by 30 foot waves in below zero temperatures in the middle of an ice storm for six months braving squalls and tempests, but in some sense, our dangers were graver. First of all, if the Hudson was at low tide we had to walk shoeless (because we only got one pair of Converse or Pro-Keds a year and they had to last) across the marshes of toxic waste dumps to reach the decaying abandoned barges where we would cast our nets. We had to toe-dodge syringes, shards of broken beer bottles, the razor sharp pop tops of soda cans, and the decomposing flesh of rotting bodies. (Okay, so “rotting bodies” is part of the riverfront mythology, but did you ever smell the river at low tide?)

My father would come home from work to take us to the bait shop on Bigler Street in Fort Lee before depositing me, my brother, Eddie Faraday, Jimmy Younghans, Frank Moltisanti, and Don Nicoletti on some vacant riverfront property off River Road in Edgewater with nothing but our crab nets. Then he’d return to work leaving us unsupervised with nothing more than a warning—don’t get the lines crossed or tangled. There we’d join all the other kids whose father’s had dropped them off. For hours we’d boil in the sun in these days before sunscreen. We arrived at low tide, and by the time dad picked us up six hours later it was high tide, and we had to swim from the broken barge to his Rambler while carrying all the nets, and any crabs we were lucky enough to catch, above our heads. 

I remember swimming through the Hudson back to shore, my eyes blinded by the rays of the late afternoon sun trying to figure out which one out of the line-up of men, arms crossed, leaning against the uneven rows of parked Chevy’s, Falcons, Dart Swingers that lined the broken pavement of some former factory, was my father. Kids from Edgewater, Fort Lee, Cliffside Park, Fairview, North Bergen coming together for an afternoon of shared companionship. It was our very own lower East Side.

The other popular place to crab was off the side of Bunty’s dock near the base of the George Washington Bridge. That was the safe place to crab. Not only because Bunty was there to protect all us kids and teach us how to swim in the river, but while we were waiting for the crabs to bite he taught us how to bet on the horses, and heartily fed us thick slices of cheddar cheese and saltine crackers while he had his Rolling Rock Ale. No gourmet lunch ever tasted so good. The salt water, the feel of the wet twine burning the palms of your hand as you hauled the crab net into shore, and the toss of the heavy steel cage back into the River was enough to work up a sailor’s appetite.

When the flags atop Columbia Presbyterian Hospital descended at 5pm we knew it was time to head home. Little did we know, we crabsmen and women of the Hudson, that we already were home. 

FOURTH OF JULY, 1976: BRACE YOURSELF

No matter how many Fourth of July’s I celebrate, my mind is always drawn back to our nation’s Bicentennial. July 4, 1976. While Americans celebrated 200 years of freedom, my mouth was adapting to the installation of barbed-wire on my teeth. Yes, that adolescent rite-of-passage, braces. To add insult to injury, my orthodontist, Dr. George Diament, gave all of his silver-mouthed patients tee-shirts with the iconic 1970’s Smiley Face wearing braces. The braces-wearing Smiley Face shouted, “BRACES ARE BEAUTIFUL!” The unwritten subtext was, “But I’m Not!”

Only God knows why I was compelled to wear that shirt on July 4^th, 1976 as my family trekked down the one thousand crudely carved bluestone steps of the Palisades (hauling coolers of salami sandwiches, Lays Potato Chips, little neck Rolling Rock ale, a cylindrical blue plastic thermos of gin and tonics, and cans of ShopRite grape soda) to join the rest of old Fort Lee and Edgewater down at the base of the Hudson River at Bunty’s Dock to watch the regatta of ships afloat in “Operation Sail.”  Looking at photographs from that day, the shirt truly enhanced my je ne sais quoi? Geekiness. I mean, really, what was I thinking? “Braces are Beautiful” was an oxymoron to the moron (moi) wearing the shirt.

          Middle School is traumatic enough, so it makes no sense to slap your smile with braces at that precise moment when your inner-dork decides to become an outie. And it wasn’t just the braces that you had to contend with, but the goody bag of accessories that came with it. The rubberbands, the ball of wax, the hooked toothpick, the headgear. Hands down, the worst part for me was the “headgear.” Remember that pinkish-beige neck strap-on that was the height of fashion circa-anytime 1970’s? It connected an external vise-like semi-circular wire to your braces, the purpose of which was to use the sheer force of excruciating pain to shift your entire jaw into the next room.  

On the cutting edge of orthodontistry, Dr. Diament took the headgear to a new level. His headgear not only included the snazzy neck brace, but a plastic skull cap. Together, the neck brace and the skull cap cleaved themselves to the parenthetical wire protruding from your grossly deformed mouth. While the neck brace yanked your molars into the back of your skull, the mental-patient helmet wrenched your misaligned eyeteeth (and your eyebrows) down to your toes. To take one look at me was to think that one of my ancestors mated with a rabid Schnauzer.  

Added to this wretched scene were rubberbands. Those mini Campbell-soup-like rings-o’s housed in a small mustard-colored mailing envelope you kept in your pocket. Not only couldn’t you open your mouth, but how many of you got shot in the eye with one of them when your friend yawned? Talk about bringing weapons to school! I can still feel the breaking sting of the rubberband against my gums before it ricocheted directly into Mary Lutz’s face. She never complained because her rubberbands snapped me more than a few times.

The braces shredded the inside of my cheeks tingeing everything I ate with the taste of blood. Every time I smiled my cheeks got impaled on the wire! (I can still feel the scars.) The only relief came from covering the wires with wax which inevitably led to bartering with the person who sat in front of you in class for a piece of their wax because you either used yours all up or, more likely, left it home. Depending on your desperation, these transactions could be shadowy and costly. I think I promised my first-born to George Frangos. (By the way George, I’m ready to make good on that delivery!)

Now, my husband and his brother and sister never wore braces. (Ah, the aristocrats of Abbott Boulevard!) Not because their teeth were necessarily straight. I’m certain it’s because their mother loved her children too much to put them through that physical pain and psychological degradation. My husband possesses an uncannily undisturbed sense of confidence that I attribute to his not having had to suffer through the social suicide of braces and headgear. Me, and all my braced head-gear-wearing compatriots, are still trying to unearth the remains of our dignity buried by braces somewhere back in the ‘70’s. Alcohol helps.  

BIRTH OF A JOY-ZEE GIRL--PART ONE

I grew up on the Lower East Side.

          Of the Coytesville section of Fort Lee. Coytesville was like the gum on the bottom of Englewood Cliff’s shoe; the Hooterville to their Petticoat Junction. In its heyday, Coytesville’s saloons were like Korean nail salons—one on almost every sidewalk-less street corner. In 1965, I was brought home from Holy Name Hospital to a small house on a street with no name, just a number--5^th Street. To my right was Interstate Park; to my left was the road that led to Jim’s Candy Emporium where my life-long love affair with everything confectionary began.

My father was a union man, and in the ‘70’s union jobs were like Wonka’s golden ticket—the decade before Reagen sounded their death knell; the decade before debt was handed out like lollipops at the bank. Everyone’s dad was a union man—police, fire, postal, teacher, iron worker, teamster, laborer; and everyone seemed to make ends meet. Like most moms, my mom stayed at home; like most families, we had two used American cars parked in our tarred driveway (yes, tarred; pavers were men who paved streets and not decorative driveway bricks); a house with no mortgage; and a week down the Jersey Shore every summer. All accomplished on one paycheck.

          The door­way to my world opened onto Sixth Street Park. If I close my eyes I can still see the sharp prism of sunlight reflecting off the jalousie glass windows of our aluminum porch door distorting the colors of the brightly painted merry-go-round into kaleidoscopic blobs of yel­lows, reds, blues and greens.

Within the perimeter of the playground sat the shallow hole of the blue-painted kiddie pool lifeguarded each summer of my childhood by Fritz, the ageless ancient German immigrant who lived next door to the playground. I’m not sure how to describe Fritz except to say that he always looked constipated. All summer long Fritz would bullet German-infused commands at us kids from the perch of his sagging nylon-woven lawn chair atop the small grassy knoll above the pool. When he ejected you from the pool, you asked no questions—you goose-stepped to the bench and served out your sentence in silence.

Sitting faithfully beside Fritz was his brown and black German Shepherd who made Cujo look like Morris the Cat. The same commands Fritz shouted at his dog, he shouted at us. When he yelled, I never knew whether to sit, growl, or attack one of the Carney boys. I swear he had to have been a former Scoutmaster in the Hitler Youth. Somewhere there’s a book in me screaming to get out, “Fritz’s Guide to Childcare—Sitz! Platz! Halt die Klappe!” (Sit, Stay, Shut Your Mouth!)

When I was around five, the Kempf’s rented the old Sweeny house across the street. The Kempf’s were the Walton’s without a conscience; at least the boys were. They shaved cats with straight edged razor blades; hoisted them up trees in rusting crab nets; fed spoonfuls of dirt to unsuspecting neighborhood kids; even pushed a Volkswagon Bug down a ditch. My old man swore the Kempf’s were moved in as a way to force us to sell, but eventually they were the ones who left. Oddly, with them went the neighborhood.

The wrecking ball knew no rest back then. Turn-of-the-century houses were replaced by quadrangular brick McMansions; familiar names moved out; new architecture and cultures moved in. By the end of the decade the old neighborhood was well on its way to becoming unrecognizable, and so was I.

Everything changed the summer I turned 15. I bore within me a restlessness that I never felt before, and would never feel again in quite the same urgent way. All that mattered were my friends; being confined at home for any significant amount of time gave me a mental rash. When I wasn’t working, I was sitting on the cliffs of the Palisades imagining the life I would someday live on the sky-lined side of the Hudson.

On August 18^th, 1980, I wrote: “I can’t wait to be gone. Gone from this place; gone from this town where everyone knows everything about everyone. In this place nothing ever changes; people only die.”

To Be Continued…