My generation was raised in a world of clear rights and wrongs, where common sense still umpired what was true and what was false. We held fast to the simple truth that if it looks, walks, and quacks like a duck, it probably isn’t a giraffe. Our movie heroes were cowboys in “winner takes all” combat with merciless bad guys, and our soldiers and sailors were prepared to die for their country fighting evil enemies. Our churches had not yet developed amnesia about sin and damnation, and our politics had not succumbed to putting partisan power ahead of loyalty to America. Political correctness would have only been a bad joke back in those ingenuous times, and moral relativism an outrage.

No free lunches and anything of value bore a price tag were aphorisms everyone understood and lived by in the first half of the twentieth century.  That folks would mind their own business and be responsible for their own lives was not seen as unfair or discriminatory, but virtuous. Self-reliance had not yet become a concept we sneered at, and children were children, not little adults.  Being judgmental was not only a prerogative, but a responsibility for thinking people.

Government had not yet assumed the role of engineering every aspect of our lives. Families, not local welfare offices, were where we turned when life became desperate. Our laws protected crime victims more than criminals, and judges didn’t usurp the role of legislators. Sexuality was contained within the disciplines of Judeo-Christian traditions, and secular humanism was not popular enough to openly disparage Christianity. Legislation didn’t assume to tell us how to think, or what we should consume, and taxation wasn’t the hammer used by government to force upon us elitist dictates of how we should behave.

But all of that was yesterday, and although a persuasive case can be made that we were far from being a perfect society, I believe much of what we threw overboard from those simpler days, is being rediscovered today. A comeback of some of our traditions is a good sign. They were celebrated in Tom Brokaw’s book, and we saw it in the brave heroics of young men and women that transfigured America on Sept 11. It peeks out through the continuing popularity of “dubya”, and in the way many Americans reject the shameful legacy of the Clinton years. I hope these trends are not just passing fashions, and we continue on this path. this return to a value system return so our traditional backbone can be rehabilitated to deal with the dangers and terrors of the depraved New World staring us in the face.

Jack MasON

May 23, 2002

A TRIP BACK HOME

I begin this fantasy journey here in North Carolina, separated from Kearny, New Jersey, by a half-century in time and many other wonderful experiences that have filled my life since growing up on Rose Street in the 1940’s. Hopefully, my memory will be adequate and faithful to those happy days, although I must confess to beginning with a pair of rose tinted “specks” perched on the end of my old nose. I also admit to being proud of being a kid from Kearny with an unabashed bias for the common-sense culture that molded my life.

My trip back home revisits a time when only men worked on road construction crews and only women and female impersonators, wore earrings. Tatoos were seen on the arms of sailors, not the genital regions of young women. Self-reliant cowboys who were our movie heroes always kicked the bad-guys butt. “No free lunches” was an aphorism everyone understood and lived by. The Bishops of the Church had not yet developed amnesia about sin, and our politics had not yet succumbed to putting partisan advantage ahead of loyalty to country. Political Correctness would have only been a bad joke and moral relativism an insult to common sense. Good and evil were still the conflicting realities of human existence, not merely fuzzy intellectual abstractions.

The War was ravaging Europe and Asia, but our childhood escaped having to look its enormity in the face. Except for the small sacrifices required by the War effort, we were exempted from the hardships suffered by kids in the battle zones. Insulated from these horrors, our lives were very nearly normal but we took none of our good fortune for granted. We were truly grateful, and I think it served to make us the first generation of Americans to appreciate how small the world really is.

Rose Street is a tiny thread on the colossal spiderweb of alleys, streets, avenues, and highways that connects Hudson County, New Jersey to the outside world. It is a four block, half mile strand on the smaller mesh of roads of my hometown, Kearny, one of Hudson County’s many aluminum sided, working class communities. Neighborhoods where no nonsense, hard working Americans still celebrate First Communions, play the lottery, and proudly display the Stars & Stripes.

Lying west of Manhattan and the Hudson River, Hudson County stretches from Jersey City and Hoboken across mucky swamps, euphemistically known as The Meadows, to the sad failed city of Newark. Once upon a time, The Meadows was part of nature’s marshy wetlands, a vast nursery for littoral wildlife. But after many years of industrial dumping, it survives only as an offense to the eye and nose. Man sized punk weeds mock the pollution by prospering in this oily, rubbish filled ooze. Kearny stands on the hilly western edge of this unlovely scene, guarding the Passaic River entrances to Newark, and its upscale satellite villages. This is fly-over country for the pigeon that could wing it from Central Park in Manhattan to St. Cecelia’s belfry on Kearny Avenue in twenty minutes.

  As urban streets go, Rose Street is quite small. Its four blocks stretches east and west, at the south edge of town, lying between Kearny Avenue and Belgrove Drive. In days already forgotten when I was a boy, it was the site of the mansion of Civil War hero, General Philip Kearny. But the Kearny Castle, as it was known, was demolished long before I was born in the ghost of its shadow, at 12 Rose Street in 1933.

Even after almost 70 years, it surprises me how little the appearance of Rose Street has changed. Except for empty lots that are no longer empty, the vista looking down the Street from my old house looks much like it did when we gathered on its porches of a warm summer night, or played ring-a-leevio in its back-yard hiding places, sixty years ago. When we fished errant balls from acrid smelling street sewers with punctured soup cans on a string, or put galvanized pails filled with coal-ash out on the curb for collection. The well kept modest houses may obscure the migration of the Rose Street folks of my day, but it flatters the ethnically different newcomers who have carried on the middle class tradition of pride in self and property. Would this were the fate of all “changing” urban neighborhoods.

Back in 1945, when Johnny Weissmuller was starring in Tarzan and the Amazons. and the toy favorite, Slinky, was first sold at Bamberger’s department store, Rose Street was home to approximately 50 families. They lived in 35 multi family and single family homes, most of which were built in the early years of the 20^th century. Our house sat on the western edge of Rose Street, opposite the two family house lived in by Mr. & Mrs. Charles Sinon, and their tenants, the Hughes family that included my chum, Johnny, his older sister, and parents who came from Scotland. Mr. Sinon was a one-eyed man who drove a truck that delivered coal for our furnaces in the winter, and blocks of ice to cool our “ice boxes” in the summer.

In our 3 family house were Marcy and Joe Ward on the top floor, my family on the second floor, and the Heslips from Ireland’s Protestant Ulster County on the first floor. Betty and Papa Heslip, and their grown daughter Abigail, were like an extension of my own family, and I still hold their memory dear in my heart. Religious differences didn’t foul the love and affection that we shared with these good people. Further down the street lived the Walters family, Jimmy Hanna and his parents, the Taylors, my Aunt Annie and Uncle Hennie Fisher and my cousins George, Harry, and Dorothy. Other folks too numerous to mention filled out our neighborhood.

Next door, in a house the mirror image of ours lived my boyhood pal, Arnold Evans, with his dad and stepmother. His birth mother had died in her twenties when Arnold was very young. Like us, their house was home to two other families on the upstairs floors. He and I were K – 12^th grade classmates and communicants at St. Cecelia RC church. Our attendance at public schools obliged us to be instructed in the Faith at “Sunday” schools, where we had our share of fun, but did little to distinguish ourselves as religious scholars.

I first met Arnold at the hedge that separated the tiny yards in the back of our houses. We were just past the toddler stage, trying to communicate over the shrubbery, which was difficult enough for two little boys as young as we were. But understanding was made all the more difficult because Arnold baby-talked in Polish, the language of his ancestors that his parents spoke at home. Their theory was Arnold should learn Polish first, so he would grow up bi-lingual. Unfortunately it was a failed experiment because Arnold does not remember his Polish, and my jabbering English over the hedge may have been partially to blame.

Our friendship was both collaborative and competitive, as was typical of young boys growing up in our times. On one hand we were buddies sharing dreams and aspirations about our future and on the other hand we were competitors for the approval of other kids, competitors in the classroom, and competitor’s on the ball field. We even shared our first girl kissing at a “spin-the-bottle” party on Johnson Avenue, and I’ll bet this recollection will surprise Grandpa Arnie living out there in St. Louis! Another rite of passage took place during our late teens when Arnold and I furtively swigged our first taste of booze (anisette), giddily yukking it up in the darkness of the Swankey’s front porch, like rogues in an Italian opera.

The Evans were not the only Rose Street family that spoke another language. At the Dahlquist flat, you might have heard Mr. Dahlquist scolding his son Karl in Swedish, or Mr. Nicolian talking on the phone in Armenian. Tony Blanco’s dad, a native of Spain, got his news from El Diario, and Marie DiRenzo made excuses for her mediocre report card to her mom in Sicilian accented Italian. Russian was the language of comfort for the Novack’s, and Mrs. McClymont’s Scottish burr was so thick, it might well have qualified as a foreign tongue. Rose Street kitchens today echo with the chatter of its newest residents, the Portuguese.

In a time that predated organized Little Leagues with rules, uniforms, schedules, and lots of adult meddling, we supplied our own fun and games. Fathers were not “buddies” to their kids, and mothers were homemakers, too busy to be frenzied “soccer moms”. Our games were of our choosing, improvised by our own rules, and determined by simple practicalities like what kind of ball was available. If it was a baseball, then that was what we played. Or, if it was a football (usually rolled up newspaper, bound with electrician’s tape) we played football. Maybe it was stickball, where all we needed was a rubber ball & broomstick handle. Or we might just go to the lawn at Washington school, and “rassle” The point is, our amusements were kids-only affairs. “Shinny” games as the Canadians call it, and I truly believe we were the better for it.

We also engaged in other boyish rituals invented by kids for kids. Like blurting out the word “Hunkies” when you wanted to claim a bite of a pal’s candy or cupcake. Or shouting “First to see the lights go on”, when you spotted the illumination of the street lights before anyone else. Invoking “Hunkies” may have got you a piece of a candy bar, but I don’t recall what the reward was for being the first one to spot the turn-on of street lamps? And, of course, we all had to deal with the “chip on the shoulder” challenge. In this scenario one boy places a wood chip on his shoulder, or whatever small item might be handy, daring another to knock it off. Since adolescent machismo demanded the challenged kid to “knock it off”, the stage was set for the inevitable donnybrook that followed. I’m a little red-faced when I recall how many times I got myself involved in “chip-on-the-shoulder” brawling, and embarrassed to admit that I enjoyed it.

We had no sense of being a “gang” in today’s meaning of the word, but we did have a group identity. We saw ourselves as the “Roses”. Membership was very informal and included both neighborhood kids and kids that lived on other nearby streets. Like Bobby Rhoady from Grant Ave, Billy Gee from Alexander Ave, Billy Moore, Cliff Chippendale and Charlie Meechan from Highland Ave, Jimmy Connally from Paterson Street, and Jimmy Finn and Bill Kinney from Kearny Avenue.

Bill Kinney was doubtless the most loyal of the non-residents and even today he shares a passionate affection for the “Street”. Bill stands out as a kid who had few natural gifts as an athlete, but who worked very hard at becoming good by putting in lots of practice time and effort. I remember him dribbling his basketball, shooting endless shots at the hoop mounted on the telephone pole. Or he and Jimmy Finn batting and pitching stickball played against a strike zone chalked on a concrete wall at Washington Field.

On the other side of Kearny Ave, very near where Rose Street ended, began Duke Street. It ran to the eastern edge of town, and was only slightly longer than Rose Street. It was the home of our archrivals, the Dukes. We played them in every team sport we had equipment or facilities for. They were good guys and always gave us a good game. They also gave us a reason for being, since a team with no one to play against was kind of dopey. So our two team “league”, had ongoing competitions that look primitive compared to the highly organized world of today’s kids. Our struggles on the ball field were well matched, but we never resorted to being hooligans. If they beat us, then good for them, and vice versa. With only one competitor, we had no choice but to stay friends! Later, when we all went to Kearny High School, we often were teammates on some very successful teams.

During the summer months the town of Kearny sponsored recreational activities at the Washington School playground and ball field adjacent to Rose Street. On sunny days “Rip” Collins supervised sandlot games and foot races for the amusement of neighborhood kids. On rainy days we played dominoes, chess and checkers under a tin roofed shed.

“Rip” was a Falstaff sized young man in his twenties who coached us with the zeal of a drill sergeant, addressing us only by our last names; something only an authority figure was entitled to do. He was reputed to have had major league potential as an athlete, until a tragic prep-school football accident required the amputation of his right leg. So he stiffly hobbled about on his wooden leg barking instructions on how we should throw the curve ball, bunt, or steal a base by studying the pitcher’s motion.

The fifties witnessed the cultural sea change brought about by the automobile. Before then the two-car family, superhighways, and the affluence to enjoy these luxuries simply didn’t exist. On Rose Street I can remember only one family, the Evans, who owned two cars and neighbors who considered themselves lucky to own one car. Public transportation was the get-about option for the others. In our 3 family house, my Dad was the only car owner. Our tenants got to work, or wherever else they wanted to go by bus or commuter trains. The Public Service #38 and #39 buses could deliver you anywhere between Newark and North Arlington. The #102 traveled between Newark and Rutherford, and the #36 carried people to Newark from Kearny. Once in Newark, people could connect to public transportation going almost everywhere.

Life without an automobile limits getting about; however life without seductive chain stores and the roads to take you there makes not getting about more tolerable. And life with stores, churches, schools, barbers, dentists, repair shops, and restaurants within walking distance makes cars even less necessary to human happiness. So it was in the forties.

The woman driver was another factor in our less traveled generation. Few women had licenses, so transportation depended upon dear old dad, who was not as agreeable to being a chauffeur for kids as in 2002. Mother couldn’t be a “soccer mom” because even if there was a family car available to her, she probably didn’t know how to drive it.

With butchers, grocers, bakeries, and other mom & pop stores close by; Rose Street kids were built in delivery boys. Youngsters returning home lugging paper bags with groceries in their arms, and change in their pockets that they better not lose, were part of the landscape. I can remember how common it was to invite a buddy to come out and play, only to learn… “I can’t, cause I gotta go to the store. Wanna come?” And often I did go along for lack of something better to do. On one of these “bread & milk” missions I tagged along with Robert Walters, and returning from Les’s grocery store he filled me in on the physiology behind the “birds & bees” metaphor. It shocked the daylights out of me to learn that MY parents did THAT! So, filled with rage I took it out on the messenger and socked him! Poor Robert learned that knowing the facts of life wasn’t always safe, and I learned that the truth can sometimes be very distressing.

In 1943 I had a serious run in with an automobile while roller-skating. The accident occurred when I skated down the Ianucci twins’ hidden driveway, on Paterson Street, directly into the path of a car that had no opportunity to stop. My carelessness resulted in multiple fractures of my left leg that could have caused permanent lameness. Fortunately the leg healed to normal function and I have had no lingering after effects. This story had a happy ending, but I mention it now to make another point.

In the current world, I’m sure this kind of accident would have had a different consequence for the operator of the car. The driver would almost certainly be sued for all he is worth. But my parents had a different take on what was right and what was wrong. They concluded the driver had no chance to avoid hitting me, and my own recklessness was responsible for my injury. My folks also took into account that the poor fellow who hit me loaded me into his car and delivered me to the hospital. He had a family of his own, he was deeply distressed, and he had no insurance protection if he had to go to court. So, following their instincts rather than the advice of lawyers, they let the matter drop. This example of doing the right thing has remained with me, as one of my proudest recollections of how plain people can also be noble people. Can you imagine such magnanimity in 2002?

Contrasted with today’s laid-back suburban lifestyle, I remember the working class adults of our old neighborhood as oddly formal. For example, parents almost always addressed other parents as “Mr.”, or “Mrs.” Using familiar first names was simply not done. Rose Street adults also did very little visiting, and rarely partied in each other’s homes. That kind of intimacy was reserved for relatives and family gatherings. Economics certainly explains much of this, but I think that more than the lack of money, this kind of social distance was observed because of a mind-your-own-business ethic that looks quaintly outdated today. If one wanted to attend a Cocktail party, you took in a movie.

Cell phones keep parents and children in touch today, but low-tech hollering had to get the job done when we were kids. Summoning youngsters usually meant sending a sibling out to tell us, “Mom said you gotta come home for dinner. Right now...” Or, mom, in her house dress and apron, might come to the fence bordering the ball-field and holler like a banshee… “Jaaackkkie….Commme hommme” Although most mothers had this talent, Mrs. Walters was the undisputed champ! She could bellow, “Robbbert...Robbbert...Dinnnerrrr” and be heard in the next county. We all dreaded her magna-decibel wail because Robert usually owned the ball, and it signaled the end of our game. An early lesson that all good things have to end.

Urging a friend to come out and play followed a similar technique. It meant going to a spot nearest the kitchen window and shouting “Heyyy Billllaaayy...” This was usually in the back yard where you had the best chance of being heard. Calling from the front was a waste of time since no one was ever there. And you never knocked on the door, or rang the doorbell... you always gave a holler.

Sunday mornings meant attending the 8:30 children’s mass at St. Cecelia’s. All but the last few pews in the church were reserved for the kids who attended the parochial school. Public school children were assigned these “back of the bus” seats. From where we sat we looked out over a sea of ears on fidgety shorthaired kids being kept on a tight leash by nuns. A granite-faced sister wearing the old style “penguin” habit anchored each aisle, and any commotion was quickly squelched by a discreet whack, or a stare that would freeze oil.

The priest began his sermon with a “Good morning children...” to which we would respond in chorus,”Good morning, Father..”, and from there he would go on to tell us how God would love us if we were good little boys and girls. But watch out, if we chose to be bad.

After mass we took Sunday school instruction in the ancient grammar school building behind the church. Under the stern tutelage of the nuns I rote learned my catechism, prayers, and understandings of ritual that have stuck with me all my life.

Mother’s Day mass was particularly poignant, because on this special Sunday in May, children would wear lapel carnations honoring their mothers. If mom was still alive you wore a red carnation, but if you were her orphan, you wore a white carnation. I can still recall the melancholy sight of the occasional boy or girl pinned with a white flower, walking down the church aisle to receive Communion. Like the ominous black wreath hung on the door of a home where someone had recently died, carnations were a morbid tradition that I’m glad we’ve put behind us. Not everything that came out of the good old days was good.

Following mass and Sunday school, I had to hurry home to take my bi-monthly accordion lesson from Mr.McGlade. An immigrant from Scotland, Mr. McGlade was indeed a character. He wore a derby and black coat all year round, and had a dour personality to match his dour clothes. His habit was to closet me in the “front” room, fog the room with smoke from Camel cigarettes, and tutor my reluctant fingers to play a halting rendition of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” on a rented accordion. This went on for a full hour, twice each month... He was an inexpensive teacher, even for those days, charging my parents fifty cents for his services. Part of this was explained by the fact that Mr. McGlade only knew how to play the “piano” side of my instrument, but hadn’t a clue about the left, or bass, side of the “squeeze box”. And so I began my musical career as a one-handed accordionist. Two sided skills would have to wait for Mr. Milano, my next music teacher. Although Mr. Milano proved to be my most competent instructor of accordion and piano, Mr. McGlade will always remain my most eccentric.

I should explain that girls don’t get much mention in this remembrance because by demographic coincidence our neighborhood comprised of mostly boys. I can remember only three girls who were contemporaries, Dorothy Fisher, Marie DiRenzo, and Betty Taylor. The others were either too young, or too old to share in our sports and games.

At about the time I began 7^th grade, the capitalist bug bit me, making me itchy to earn money. Not just what might be paid for doing chores, or running errands. That was kid stuff. I hankered for a real job that paid real money. So, I pleaded with my folks to let me get a box and shine shoes, like my enterprising cousin Johnny Hockey. Mom wouldn’t hear of it. She and Dad thought 12-year-old peddling shoeshines in taverns and on the street was demeaning to our family, and made it clear that this was out of the question. Although my parents were not opposed to a part time job, I would have to come up with a better idea; one that wouldn’t interfere with my schooling or accordion lessons. Louis Bodnar, our milkman solved my problem.

He agreed to hire me to collect weekly milk bills. So, on Saturday mornings I reported to his Terrace Dairy ice-house located across the street from his home/office on Devon Terrace, and off we went in his model T Ford coupe. Louie drove while I rode in the passenger seat of the old “tin lizzy”, or stood on the running board, hanging rakishly on to the doorframe. To cover our collection routes faster, Lou had the door of the Ford removed making it easier for me to jump in and out. With fresh young legs I would scoot through alleys, and up tenement stairs to knock on kitchen doors, and holler in a voice still stuck in the shrillness of adolescence, “Milkmaan”!

My job involved collecting $1.19 for one week’s delivery of milk; two quarts delivered to the doorstep every other day of milk, for 17cents a quart. I quickly got wise to the magic of words like “Ma’am” and “Sir” and how they lubricated generous tips. So, whenever an aproned haus-frau handed me a shiny quarter, I made sure I left her smiling with a big, “THANK YOU, Ma’am. See ya next week!” I’m sure my contrived boyish charm would have amazed my Mom, but I figured it was harmless if it made me 25c richer. One particular tip fondly remembered was a square of Mrs. McKinnon’s sugar dusted raisin filled pastry. This smiley plump lady owned the Scottish bakery on Kearny Avenue near the Regent theatre, and giving me one of her treats seemed to please her almost as much as I enjoyed eating it.

After all these years, I’m still touched by the generosity of ordinary people who have little, but give much. Stereotyping may be out of fashion, but in my experience the good-heartedness of common folks is beyond dispute. My nostalgic nose also delights in remembering delicious; old country cooking smells like Polish pierogis (dumplings) and Italian bracioles (stuffed pot roasts) floating from spotless kitchens as I awaited payment at the back door.

The collection routes through the ethnic neighborhoods of Kearny, Harrison, North Arlington, and “Down Neck” Newark usually took all day, including a stop at one of those Jersey diners with menus so extensive you could squander an entire lunch break just reading them. In bad weather we might be out until well after dark, necessitating a second diner stop for hot coffee and a buttered roll.

At the end of our circuit we returned to the Bodnar kitchen where Mrs. Doris “Tootie” Bodnar would square my collection money with expected receipts, using a primitive hand cranked adding machine. “Tootie” was a tough, no nonsense lady, and I can still see her two-fingered hand cranking that noisy old manual calculator. Her missing three fingers were amputated as a result of a factory accident that happened when she was a young woman. If the expected and actual receipts matched, all was fine. If I was “short” it came out of my pay, which was three dollars plus tips. When “Tootie” finished her audit and ripped the tape from the calculator to read the bottom line, I was muttering a Hail Mary under my breath that it would balance. And, happily, it usually did.

Returning home at the end of the day, I was one pooped puppy, smelling of sour milk and Louie’s Sweet Caporal cigarettes. Going direct to my father’s “secretary” desk in the front room, I dumped out my hard-earned booty, feverishly counting the bills and coins as I entered their value in a ledger with the relish of a pint-sized J.P. Morgan. As the earnings column grew, I felt proud of being well on my way to becoming rich.

After a year I tired of the job and wanted to quit. The glamour of being independently wealthy having worn off, I realized that I missed sleeping late on Saturdays, and being free to play ball with my buddies. But this impulse didn’t go down well with my parents and they made it clear that I owed it to Mr. Bodnar not to leave until he found a replacement for me.

So, reluctantly I stuck it out until I could talk “Skeeter” Leahy into succeeding me. Now Louie had his replacement, and my first job was behind me. Many other part time jobs followed this first exposure to hard work, but this was the one that put me on the path to manhood, and like a first kiss, that’s worth remembering.

And so I honorably retired, a little richer and a lot wiser. Six years later this decision to do the right thing paid off, because Lou hired me back during my college days. I drove his trucks and managed his commercial routes affording me a chance to cover a big chunk of my Fairleigh Dickinson College tuition.

Home delivery vendors were common sights on Rose Street. Not only bottle-rattling milkmen trotting dairy products to the doorstep, but bakery and produce deliverymen as well. They came in boxy gas-powered vans, except for Mr. Philburn rumbling down the street in his horse drawn Alderney Dairy wagon. These vendors were familiar personalities, well known to parents and neighborhood kids alike. Our bread man was Johnny, the friendly Dugan’s Bakery man in his official brown uniform dropping off fresh bread and cakes.

On weekends, a produce peddler’s truck loaded with vegetables and fruit tempted the ladies of Rose Street out to the curb to buy dinner veggies from baskets mounted on the sides of his vehicle, each basket marked as to price—which was frequently haggled over. The man from Lambrecht’s in the forties brought crocked butter and eggs for the folks that could afford them. But whatever their products, vendors always made time for a little gossip and chitchat with their customers. It was just part of doing business in those days.

Since these were the conservative times before Vatican II, Catholics still observed meatless Fridays. On that night, dinner fare was often take-out fish’n chips brought home in oil stained brown paper bags. The Scottish influence, don’t you know. Kearny was home to no fewer than six of these restaurants, from Thompson’s on the south end of town, up to the Argyle on Kearny Avenue. All of these grease fogged eateries were jammed on the last workday of the week, and to my knowledge are still popular attractions for people from all over north Jersey who love batter fried codfish and French fries.

Our generation was spared the horror of health catastrophes like the influenza epidemic that plagued America following WWI. That disaster killed millions, including Ellen Rogan, my Mother’s 20-year-old sister. But we were still vulnerable to childhood scourges like smallpox and Polio, and other diseases that have since been vanquished. Modern medical miracles delivered by skilled specialists were unavailable, so general practice family doctors that made house calls were our first line of defense against injury and illness. The medical guardian of the Mason family was Dr. Louis Shapiro. I clearly remember him as a refined gentleman, with a comforting bedside manner and who bore a slight resemblance to the movie actor, Edward G. Robinson.

But I don’t recall my first encounter with Dr. Shapiro because it took place in my mother’s bedroom, when he brought me into this world on January 13, 1933. Dr. S. told my mom I was such a beautiful baby, that he looked forward to seeing me when I turned 21. Such flattery really impressed my parents, so during my growing up they made sure I went to the good doctor for all my health needs.

That included the removal of my tonsils on our metal topped kitchen table when I was seven years old. I recollect him covering my face with a wash cloth soaked in ether anesthetic and soothingly assuring me that everything would be all right. Although this sounds awfully primitive, it worked out just fine, and with the same good results he performed another kitchen table tonsillectomy two years later for my brother. Ice cream was a recuperation treat we both enjoyed. Whenever I broke a bone, or suffered any of childhood’s maladies, Dr. Shapiro was always able to “make it better”. My family’s trust in this dignified, soft-spoken man was almost as deferential as our respect for our priest, and our healthy survival affirms that confidence.

I haven’t made much mention of my brother Francis or my sister Catherine because they were both younger, and had their own circle of friends. Francis was 22 months younger, and Catherine was born seven years after me. Sadly, they are both dead now, unable to tell their own nostalgic stories. But as these memories come to life on my monitor screen, I can feel their presence looking over my shoulder, smiling and chuckling at my tales of familiar friends and familiar places.

I remarked earlier that Mr. Evans owned two cars. One was a going-to-work-car, and the other a pale green Lincoln that was kept spotless in the garage during the week. On weekends, the Evans family would use the Lincoln for excursions to the upscale suburbs, public parks and other beauty spots of New Jersey. Afterwards, Arnold would tell me about the wonderful places and things he saw from the back seat of the car. After these tours, we met to gossip on his brick porch about Montclair, Mountainside, Glen Ridge and other posh towns in Essex and Union counties. When we got older, Arnold’s family went on longer trips, and I heard about the mountains of Colorado and other marvelous places far from where I had ever been.

These were my early glimpses of the world outside Rose Street. I wasn’t aware of it then, but those bull sessions nurtured an ambition to someday see and live in “Those Far Away Places” that Patti Page sang about on the jukebox at Carmine’s soda shop. Which was exactly what happened to Arnold and me, and many of our boyhood friends. I guess this is just the way it is. Just the way it should be.

The day the bell rang to signal the start of my first term in High School, in September 1946, marked the beginning of the end of this magical time in my life. Although I continued living on Rose Street for another eight years, studying and working my way through Kearny High and Fairleigh Dickinson College, the journey that would take me far from the innocence of childhood had already begun. From now on the circle of life would only widen. The future could no longer be contained within a half-mile stretch of asphalt bounded by Kearny Avenue and Belgrove Drive.

My fantasy trip back home is over, and now that I’ve returned to the real world with a bunch of happy memory souvenirs, I wish everyone could take a trip back to a Rose Street of their own.

Jack Mason, 6/22/02

It was April 1947, and Jackie Robinson bunted home the winning run against the Pittsburgh Pirates in his historic major league debut with the Brooklyn Dodgers.

The previous year Robinson was the first black ballplayer to take the field in "white only" professional baseball. Branch Rickey had decided it was the right thing to do, and it was the right time to do it...signing the historic contract that ultimately made Jackie Robinson, the famous #42 on the outstanding Brooklyn Dodger teams of the post war years.

The summer before Jackie wore a Dodger uniform my dad took me to Rupert Stadium in “Down-Neck” Newark, NJ, to see the future Hall of Famer play my heroes, the Newark Bears. The Bears were the Yankee farm team in the International League, and Robinson the rising star of the visiting Montreal Royals, the Dodgers farm club. Since I was an avid Yankee fan with a bedroom wall filled with their photographs, it followed that I also rooted for Yogi Berra, Charlie Keller,  and all the other Yankee wannabees that played for the Bears in those days.

I particularly remember Robinson’s spectacular base running, and the way the crowd came to life every time he approached the plate. Our grandstand seats were good enough to see the Newark players taunting him, but their catcalls, undoubtedly crude, were inaudible. Whatever his tormentors were spewing, he gave them no more notice than the regal lion gives the hyena. In his baggy gray visitor’s uniform, Jackie projected a slightly pigeon-toed athletic grace, and played baseball with an intensity I had never seen before. I have no memory of who won the game, but I’ll never forget how his hustle dominated the field of play on that sunny afternoon back in ‘46. He was truly an electrifying athlete, and even as a 13-year-old kid I sensed that.

Now after sixty years of being an on-again, off-again baseball fan I can look nostalgically back upon being thrilled by Mickey Mantle and Joe DiMaggio at Yankee Stadium.  Amazed by the perfect swing of the “Splendid Splinter” at Boston’s Fenway Park.  Cheering Luis Aparicio and Nelly Fox at the old Comiskey Park in Chicago. Rooting Harmon Killebrew and Tony Oliva at Minnesota’s Metropolitan Stadium to a pennant in 1965, only to see Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale handcuff the Twins sluggers in the World Series. Marveling at an ancient Satchel Paige pitching for the Kansas City Athletics to players half his age. Today I look forward to watching the Jones boys and the remarkable 2007 Atlanta Braves on TV.

Its been my good luck to visit many ballparks over the years, and cheer scores of baseball legends, but at a rickety minor league stadium back in 1946 it was a Georgia sharecropper’s son whose autograph I wanted most. And for my money his legacy goes far beyond his remarkable skills. It resides in the minds & hearts of  Americans inspired by the example of  the Lion in a Baggy Baseball Uniform who taught us all how to play a much bigger game than baseball.

Jack Mason

July 30, 2002

My dad died back in 1963, but Father’s Day evokes a memory of him and a family vacation that took place 57 summers ago when I was eleven years old. In those WWII days we lived in Kearny, a working class town hard by the city of Newark, and 10 miles west of the Big Apple. Our vacation destination was Seaside Heights, 80 miles south on the Jersey coast. So, with high spirits, my parents, brother, sister, and I piled into dad’s 1938 gray Ford and headed out for this 1940s paradise wedged between the crashing Atlantic Ocean and choppy Barnegat Bay.

Pumped with juvenile excitement, we finally arrived at the little bungalow we had rented for two weeks in the sun. My brother and I scrambled to claim sleeping space, while Mom lugged in the bedlinens, pots & pans, and food supplies. The old Ford had not yet cooled down when Pop sauntered over to the Gangplank Bar & Grill to make some new friends and quench his thirst.

With our gear unpacked, Mom gave us 25c to play the skee-ball games, feed pennies into the amusement machines, buy an apple on a stick or a ticket to a thrill ride.

I remember it like it was only yesterday, the crowded ocean beach and the sailboats tacking in the bay. The carousel calliope melodies merging with delicious smells from tantalizing food stands, saltwater taffy, and brackish seaweed. Neon signs and fast talking pitchmen luring us to all kinds of fun. Brassy music bellowing from the Chatterbox boardwalk bar as overexposed vacationers stroll by looking like boiled lobsters. And the infectious howling laughter echoing from the giant fat lady icon in front of the Fun House. Ha-ha, Ho-ho-Ha-ha!

After an action filled 14 days, we stuffed clamshells and souvenir pennies imprinted with the Lord’s Prayer into cigar boxes, and my father tanned from his fishing expeditions, said goodbye to his Gangplank pals. Mom had cleaned our rental house, and repacked the car. On roads that predated superhighways, dad piloted our stick shifting ‘38 back home to Kearny in grueling bumper to bumper traffic. He did so with calm resignation as we slept in the back seat dreaming of an unforgettable holiday. When the old Ford finally parked in our driveway, it was wake up time and back to the real world until next summer. You may be gone Dad, but your not forgotten. Thanks for the memories!

CPL PATRICK KANES BURIAL SITE

ST. MIHEIL AMERICAN CEMETARY

THIAUCOURT

FRANCE

FROM AMERICAN RED CROSS, BASE HOSPITAL NO. 63 (France)

Feb. 5, 1919

re. Patrick Kane, 551470 Cpl. Co. H. 38^th Infantry

From Annie Wheeler, Home Communication Service to Mom’s grandmother, Anna (Burns) Kane.

My dear Mrs. Kane,

You have already been informed by the Government of the death of your dear boy, from the result of a gunshot wound received in action, in this hospital on Feb 1.

This is just a line to express to you the deepest and tenderest sympathy of the Red Cross and of myself personally.

I know how deep and crushing your grief is, but it is a wonderful glory for a young man to have the blessed privilege of giving his life for his Country in her hour of greatest need.

You will see others grow old and feeble and suffer many pains but he will always be your boy, in the Land where there is no more pain and where youth is eternal.

He was so patient and uncomplaining and always cheerful. Every morning he would tell me he thought he was coming along alright.

Every one who knew him was very fond of him and it was a pleasure, and a privilege to do anything in the world for him. He was so looking forward to going home, but the condition of the wound became such that it was necessary to take the bullet out, and just at dawn on the morning of the first of Feb. he closed his eyes in this world and opened them in Heaven.

He was buried with military honors in grave 152 in the American Military Cemetery No. 31. His comrades marched beside the flag draped casket and the bugler sounded “Taps” at the end of the service.

The nurse gave me his Rosary, which I am sending you under separate cover.

With renewed expressions of sympathy,

Sincerely your friend, Annie Wheeler

Home Communications Service.

Howard DGA-11

INNOCENTS ALOFT

I arrived early into the operations shack at the tiny grass airstrip in Hanover, NJ. It was just a little after midnight on a balmy summer night in 1957, and as far as I could tell I was the only person at the field. McNulty had told me that the wind most favorable for take-off would be blowing after 2:00AM. So here I was waiting for him and two other guys who were to join us for a flight to Havana, Cuba in McNulty’s rakish 4 seater like the one in the above museum photograph. His maroon Howard was a direct descendant of Ben Howard’s famous 1930s champion racing plane, “Mr. Mulligan”, and an aeronautical antique even back in 1957.

With time to kill, I fed a dime into the Coke machine, plopped down in a ratty old lounge chair and smoked a cigarette. A radio whispered melancholy wee-hours-of-the-morning music as I drifted off to sleep.

A college buddy, who thought I might be of help to McNulty on this flight to Cuba because of my military flying experience, had introduced us. McNulty had never flown on a long trip cross-country, and I had no flying time in a Howard. But we were all in our early twenties and our appetite for a Cuban adventure trumped caution. Although we knew each other only slightly, we agreed to give it a go. I’ve forgotten McNulty’s first name, but I vividly recall that one of his eyes had a chronic teary moistness about it. I also remember him as a good guy, and as it turned out, a pretty good pilot as well.

At 1:30AM I awoke from my nap when our two passengers arrived. One of these “preppies” was a fellow named Pinkerton who had gone to school with the Cuban who was to be our host and guide in Havana. Pinkerton also was the only one in our group who could speak Spanish. The other passenger was a very tall, preppy type guy whose name has also faded from my memory. The three of us continued to cool our heels, since McNulty was still enjoying his date with his girlfriend. And as we learned later his girlfriend had more to do with the plan for a 2:00AM takeoff, than “favorable” winds.

When he came through the door at 2:15AM, McNulty was a happy dude, anxious to get under way. After a few minutes of small talk, we decided to get on with the show. Since this was to be a VFR trip where we relied on being able to see where we were going instead of flying “on instruments”, we had a minimum of red tape to worry about, like filing and holding to a flight plan. Under VFR rules we could pretty much go whenever and wherever we wanted to. But, to my surprise, McNulty had an incomplete assortment of sectionals (aerial maps), and a balky radio. Sometimes it worked fine and sometimes it didn’t, making our air-to-ground communications problematic. So we decided to visually track our way down the Atlantic Coast line from NJ to Miami relying on ordinary road maps for the missing sectionals. From Miami we planned to “dead reckon” the ninety miles over water to Cuba. 

OK, so our flight preparation wasn’t textbook perfect, and our equipment wasn’t completely up-to-snuff, but we figured what the hell--Lindbergh had made it across the Atlantic with even less. With more bravado than brains we proceeded to stuff our personal gear into the tiny luggage compartment, and wait for McNulty to make his last minute examination of the airplane before climbing aboard. That was when our first major problem popped up.

McNulty correctly assessed that the combination of gear and people loaded the airplane with more weight than could safely take-off from Hanover Field’s short runway. So after a brief debate, we decided that it would make more sense for him to solo the Howard to the longer paved runways of nearby Morristown airport, where we would all meet and begin our journey. As we watched in horror, McNulty used almost the entire grass runway before he got his old bird off the ground; his climb-out so shallow he barely cleared the telephone pole wires waiting to snare him on the other side of the field. Whew, what a beginning!

When we finally got organized and took-off from Morristown, it was still dark. It would be an hour before sunrise would provide a clear view of where land and sea meet. Until then our plan was to head east for the coast and then fly south. Confused by what we thought were the dim lights of Northern NJ peeking up through the scattered clouds below us, we overshot the coast because we mistook ocean white caps for city lights. The rising sun revealed that we were already well out to sea! During all of this our two passengers were sound asleep in the cramped backseats, while up front McNulty and I were piloting the Howard. Now our only option was to reverse heading to due west, and fly our way back to terra firma. This correction probably took only minutes, but because we had no idea of how far off course we actually were, it seemed like hours. It was then that an unexpected crisis woke up our sleeping beauties and scared the be-jeezuz out of all of us.

Heading back to the beach with nothing but water below us, the engine on the Howard started to cough and sputter. A quick check of the instrument panel revealed that we were running out of fuel. From 5000 feet, we started losing altitude and began descending towards the inky Atlantic for what looked like an involuntary swim. But to coolheaded McNulty’s credit, he quickly remembered to switch to the secondary fuel tank since we had obviously exhausted the gas in the primary tank. I immediately gave the fuel transfer “wobble pump” a frantic wobble, accompanied by our passenger’s mumbled supplications to every Saint in Heaven. At 1000 feet, all of us stopped holding our breath as the Howard’s thirsty engine guzzled the new supply of fuel and roared back to life. Climbing back to altitude we were soon comforted by the sight of land. But at this point we had no idea if the landfall in front of us was Maine, Florida, or any of the states in between. Shades of Wrong way Corrigan!

Since its considered bush-league aviation not to know where you are, all hands were told to keep a sharp lookout for landmarks that might help identify our location. We consulted the maps that we did have, to discover that we were flying over Rehoboth Beach, Delaware just east of Washington. This meant that after nearly three hours in the air we had progressed a mere 200 miles towards our ultimate destination. At this rate we could expect to make it to Miami faster in an automobile. But instead of calling it quits, we decided to straighten up and fly right, and confident that the worst was behind us we vectored for our original first leg destination, Rocky Mount, NC. Two hours later we flew over a barn hangar that had ROCKY MOUNT painted on its roof.

After refueling the airplane and schmoozing with the locals, we set out for Jacksonville, Florida. It was early Saturday afternoon, and our plan was to get a little snooze and some R&R in Jacksonville before leaving early Sunday morning for Miami and Havana. But along the way some pretty ominous thunderclouds popped up right along our flight route. As these clouds became more threatening, I worried that we might have to go to ground since we certainly couldn’t fly through that kind of turbulence in a Howard. Soon the increasingly rough weather made it clear we had no choice. So we started looking around for an accessible emergency landing field, which in this case turned out to be Shaw Air Force Base in Sumter, SC. With no civilian airport handy, it was just our luck to have to impose ourselves upon Uncle Sam. As we started our descent, I had my fingers crossed that he would be in a good mood.

Touching down at Shaw, with runways so big we could have landed on them sideways, the base operations officer was already waiting for us in a jeep. As we taxied to a stop, he stepped out of the jeep, removed his cap, scratched his head in wonderment and yelled—“Where the hell did y’all come from? Outer Space?” After reminding us that we were on U.S. Government property and would have to fill out a ton of forms explaining our emergency landing, he led us to his office. Actually, he proved to be a pretty good guy who helped us with the paperwork, and hinted that we were lucky it was a weekend when base “regs” are a little more relaxed than normal. After three cups of coffee, he provided us an Air Force weather profile that showed a clearing sky, so we thanked him and headed once more for Jacksonville.

Upon arriving safely at Jacksonville, we scoffed down some pizza and beer, bunked in at a cheap motel, and slept till early Sunday morning when we pushed off for Miami.

Flying down the Florida Coast in bright sunshine was delightful and uneventful until we came to the Cape Canaveral Air Identification Zone (ADIZ) which on all the official map literature was prohibited to unauthorized aircraft. That meant us! But before we realized it, we were flying right over the most sensitive NASA facility in the world. For this kind of trespass black helicopters could have shot us down, but Lady Luck smiled and we sailed right over Canaveral without a hitch. Since our radio wasn’t receiving, we probably missed out on hearing some pretty irate Air Force transmissions, and in blissful ignorance just continued lumbering our way on down towards Miami.

It was late afternoon, Sunday, when we parked on the ramp at Miami International. It seemed quiet, and there was plenty of room, so we made a beeline for the airport lounge and a nice cold brew. While yukking it up at the bar, a loudspeaker announcement barked for the immediate return of the owner of the little red plane blocking the service ramp area. And don’t you know when we got there it was now crowded with jetliners that made our Howard look like a toy under their gigantic wings. There we also encountered a highly agitated airport guy whose red face and blue language made it clear that we had to get out of there, pronto. When we told him we were headed for Havana, he said, “Serves you right. The Cubans don’t allow landings after sundown”. We pointed out that it was already 6:30PM, and we would never make it. “That’s your problem, Sonny, but you ain’t staying here. So you better get going”. Which is exactly what we did, hoping that the Cubans would be understanding of our tardy arrival. 

Good weather, clear visibility, and a reliable compass made our 45-minute flight to Havana a success. Below was Jose Marti airport and the glittering lights of Habana. Batista wasn’t shooting us out of the sky after all! After a slightly bumpy landing, the engine noise in the cabin of the Howard was drowned out by the victory shouts and “high-fives” of four happy Gringos. Cuba, here we come!

But it wasn’t going to be quite that easy. Waiting for us at the reception area, a mustachioed customs guy jabbered something in Spanish about us owing him fifty dollars for a “landing fee”. McNulty knew this was a petty Latin style extortion, so he instructed Pinkerton to negotiate a deal. The Cuban in his seedy looking military duds and our frat-boy Pinkerton in lime green shorts, dickered for a few minutes and finally settled on ten bucks which the customs hustler then greedily stuffed into his wallet. Bienvenidos Cuba!

The odyssey in the Howard from Hanover to Havana was now over, and an exciting holiday in a strange and sometimes frightening country was about to begin. Our guide, Paco, made it possible for us to see and do things that ordinary tourists could never hope to do, especially during those days of extraordinary social and economic upheaval. And against this dramatic historic backdrop, I survived a thrilling adventure that lives on as a treasured memory of an old codger. It just doesn’t get any better than that!

Jack Mason, Feb 3, 2003

EPILOGUE: After returning from Cuba, I lost contact with the three young men with whom I shared my adventure. But twenty-four years later, my wife and I took a “no-frills” flight from NY to San Juan when I noticed a bulkhead placard that identified “Capt. McNulty” as the pilot of the airliner. After we arrived in Puerto Rico and were exiting the plane, I knocked on the open cockpit door, and from his pilot’s seat a smiling, “teary” eyed Captain turned to respond to my hello. It was him.

     A DAY IN THE LIFE OF ROBERTO

On his way home in traffic so congested that it moves along at less than 10mph, he stops at McDonald’s and splurges on a Big Mac, French fries, and a large Coke. The bill is P100.

You can do the arithmetic.

Yet Roberto considers himself lucky because according to the World Bank, 46% of all Filipinos live on less than U.S. $2.00 a day. He is thankful that he is unmarried and can live at home with his parents who give him a free bowl of rice every morning; rice that would be two thirds cheaper in Thailand. He sees himself as lucky because he has no wife and no children to send to school. He is grateful that his good health spares him the expense of costly medicines, which in the Philippines costs three times more than in India.

He sees his life through this dubious rosy prism because he knows many Filipinos are not so lucky. He tolerates his miserable reality because he knows that most companies thumb their noses at minimum wage laws and give their workers even less. Roberto doesn’t complain because 5 million Filipinos have no job at all, and another 6 million have no regular source of income. If that same scale of unemployment and underemployment plagued the U.S. there would be 45 million Americans in this tragic condition. 

He is not alone, and like the billion wretches that live on this planet in poverty beyond our understanding, Roberto plods on. But for how long?

Jack Mason, Tryon, NC

February 10, 2003

 It has been almost nine years since I actually worked fulltime for a living. For a few years I dabbled part time, so I’ll benchmark the year 1996 as my official retirement from selling toys.That should be enough professional and emotional interval to attempt a critical assessment of my business-life; its 40^th anniversary occurring with my attendance at the 1996 Toy Show. So, after having invested such a large chunk of my life selling toys, I wonder if I’d do it all over again. As I begin I really can’t be sure what the answer to that question is, or where this introspection will take me. 

After discharge from the Marine Corps in the summer of 1956, I began to look for my place in the business world.  I knew my abilities and interests vectored away from number crunching, administration, or engineering and more towards jobs that rewarded creativity and people skills. Since I was more of a “talker” than a “techie”, I pointed my career compass in the direction of marketing—the fancy term for selling something—hoping that this would be my best strategy for making a “good living”.

This led me to a NYC placement agency called Thorndyke/Deland, a company specializing in placing sales executives.  My first discussion with T/D identified only one firm actively seeking a “sales executive”, in August 1956. My interest level in this job opportunity was not very high because the company was a toy manufacturer, and in those days I certainly didn’t see the toy business as worthy of my hi-falutin’ ambitions.  I was 23 years old, a veteran and college grad, aiming at working in industries much bigger and more glamorous than merely making and marketing amusements for kids! But, because they were the only prospective employer at that time, I agreed to interview with the toy maker, chalking it up as a learning experience.  The company turned out to be Lionel Trains, headquartered on 26^th Street in mid Manhattan.  I headed for this new fork in the road of my life, fully convinced I was not going to take it, but little did I know how wrong I was….

As I sat in the Lionel office lobby, waiting to be summoned for my interview, I was awed by the nearly life size model of a steam engine’s front end that appeared to be roaring right out of the wall. Like the huge toy train layout that dominated the gallery just beyond the lobby, these displays very dramatically underscored the theme of the Lionel business...making toy trains that were advertised as "a lifetime's investment in happiness". Tired of thumbing through magazines, I engaged the receptionist in conversation about this most famous of toy companies. My interest tweaked as she told me of the company’s colorful history. The Lionel name was premier in the toy industry, tracing back to the early 1900s when Joshua Lionel Cowen founded the company. From that modest beginning, Lionel’s skillful management of a popular cultural toy icon developed into a big business, and one of America’s best recognized brands.  Mid ‘50s sales volume was 25 million dollars, equivalent in 2000 terms to a 500 million-dollar enterprise! And all of this was accomplished with a sales group of only 14 field salesmen. Not a bad place to be for beginning a career...certainly as compared to the army of look-alike rivals I would have had compete with in a "big" company.

With more interest in this job than when I first arrived at Lionel’s office, I was finally called into Mr. Sam Belser’s office for my interview. He was the National Sales Manager, and very smartly tailored, like all the men and women I had witnessed taking care of business that day. No nonsense managers, scurrying about the office these were the sophisticated and well dressed embodiment of what I thought successful New Yorkers were supposed to look like; particularly impressive to a young guy just recently sprung loose from the world of military uniforms, and casual college attire. I also remember clearly how fashionable the men looked in their colored dress shirts, eschewing the dictum of only white shirts that was probably still the regimen in stuffier businesses. It was a time before trousers for women were acceptable, and of glamorous women in tight skirts, very high heels, lots of jewelry, layered make-up, and black tailored blouses and jackets. Fifty years later, I'm still amused how de rigueur is the color black for business attire in NYC, and most major cities around the world.

Mr. Belser’s demeanor was pleasant, if a bit detached, and he seemed vaguely uncomfortable with conventional interview banter, removing his rimless glasses frequently to wipe them with a handkerchief.  I learned later that that was indeed the case, since Lionel had not hired a new salesman in years, and Mr. B was almost as inexperienced at interviewing as I was at being interviewed.

But we did our best. He asked me clichéd questions for which I supplied clichéd answers. At one point, he surprised me by interrupting in mid-sentence my claim to being the world’s best candidate for this job, with an unexpected inquiry about smoking.  I told him that I did indeed smoke, to which he smiled for the first time, and implored me to give him a cigarette. He had quit the habit, you see, or rather he had quit buying cigarettes, and he now needed one badly.  In the 5 years I spent at Lionel, Mr. Belser never ceased to “borrow” cigarettes from me, occasionally balancing the scales when he would call me in to his office to repay me with a carton of Pall-Malls.

Sam Belser ended our discussion when he simply asked me if I wanted the job. I responded by telling him I was flattered, and would like to learn more about Lionel before answering. He seemed agreeable to that idea, and instructed me to wait in the lobby, for another interview with the company Vice President, Mr. Allen Ginsburg. Sam Belser’s physical appearance was professorial and mildly comical and bore a faint resemblance to Burt Lahr, the actor of Cowardly Lion fame in the Wizard of Oz. As National Sales Manager, Mr. Belser was both a professional, and a gentleman.  He remains in my memory, as one of my earliest and fondest contacts in the business world.

Mr. Ginsburg, from the first handshake conveyed his in-charge personality and New York urbanity. He looked like a paunchy, elegant owl in his stylish horn rimmed glasses, generous girth, and shiny black hair. His very broad smile had the effect of zipping his eyes so tightly shut that the silly speculation popped into my youthful head that maybe this rendered him sightless. An impeccable pinstripe suit, a pair of Church’s wing-tip shoes, and fifty dollar tie filled out the picture of a guy who could well have been one of the “regulars” at the bar of the 21 Club. When he spoke, his ideas came out precise and clear, and he seemed on familiar ground employing the power of language to get things accomplished. Before coming to Lionel, Allen Ginsburg had been a big shot at Macy’s in NYC, and his extraordinary talents were vital to Lionel in the rapidly changing world that was impacting their business in the late 1950s. More on that later. 

Mr. Ginsburg, presumably satisfied by Mr. Belser’s support for my candidacy, proceeded quickly to the bottom line. The job as a “sales executive” (really just a fancy title for a junior salesman for the New England Region) was mine, if I wanted it, and if we could agree on what I should be paid. I was fully prepared to defend with Dale Carnegie persuasiveness my claim to no less than 100 dollars per week, justifying it as the level of pay I recently enjoyed as a First Lieutenant, USMC…when Mr. Ginsburg cut me short.  He thrust his hand at me and declared, “Great. Then we have a deal!” I left his office full of anticipation about my new career, but somewhat chastened by the possibility that I had sold myself short in our salary negotiation.

That first year “on the road” exposed me to the challenge, excitement, and glamour that confirmed the wisdom of joining Lionel.  My worry over salary negotiations proved unnecessary, as Mr. G. personally rewarded me with three incremental pay raises that first year.  First class hotels, airline travel, expense accounts, company cars, and the money to live a high style bachelor’s life were heady new experiences for the kid from Kearny. The exhilaration of all this, plus the approval and encouragement of men that I respected, obscured the ominous warnings of a good business about to suffer from the changing landscape of American retailing. Ironically, 1956 proved to be the best year in Lionel’s history, but from there the toy train business was destined for derailment hidden just round the bend.

The next four years of my personal and business life were pivotal in many ways.  During those 48 months I met and married my wife, I was promoted and transferred to Lionel’s Chicago office, I acclimated to the Midwestern life, and came to realize that my company was facing a major challenge to it’s very existence. America’s fascination with railroading was waning as trains were being replaced by other modes of transportation.  The romance of steam locomotion had given way to non glamorous diesels, people used trains far less frequently for travel, and in the toy business kids were more excited by model auto racing, than model railroading. Lionel attempted to adjust to these changing trends, but each effort proved to be too little, and too late. In my heart I knew it was only a matter of time, so I reluctantly began to consider leaving this fine company, and it’s wonderful people.

When the opportunity arose in late 1962, I made the move to the A.C. Gilbert Company, the maker of American Flyer electric trains, Gilbert chemistry sets, Gilbert microscopes, and Erector Set construction toys. Gilbert had similar changing market problems, but a new top management group in New Haven gave me to think they could & would redirect this company to a new & brighter future than I saw at Lionel.

I was transferred back east to cover the mid-Atlantic Region, so I moved my wife and two baby children, Ellen and Jack, from Illinois to Silver Spring, Maryland.  As I look back on this decision, I don’t believe I ever considered looking outside the toy industry once I decided to leave Lionel, so I guess my commitment to selling toys as a career was pretty much cemented by early 1963 when we moved to Maryland.

Signing on with Gilbert meant joining a company and people I knew and respected as competitors of Lionel. The Gilbert product line was more diversified, but also became victim to changing consumer trends. The appeal of learning basic chemistry and microscope science, or the satisfaction that derives from building something was being replaced by the rise of gimmicky character licensed toys, promoted at enormous expense with great frequency on television. The sixties were indeed watershed years in the toy business, when manufacturing began transferring to cheaper facilities in the Far East, plastics assumed dominance as a fabricating material, and TV advertising propelled huge consumption for new and novel toys as had never been seen before in this industry.

All of this impacted companies like Lionel and A.C. Gilbert, making their old marketing formulas obsolete.  Mattel, and others, had reinvented toy merchandising in the image of more sophisticated marketing techniques and the business was irrevocably changed. Success now demanded enormous up-front risk assumption, with huge rewards for picking and promoting the right products, and disaster for choosing “duds”. This “river boat” mentality was foreign to the experiences of old-line toy makers, and those that resisted paid the ultimate price. Thus was the sad fate of my first two employers, and for similar reasons, this was also to be the fate of four, out of my next five, toy companies!

Working for so many failed enterprises, raises the obvious question of why I remained in such a high fatality industry?  At the time it was easy to swim from one sinking ship to another, because the new company always held out the hope of making it in this very tough, unpredictable business. It was also a well paying, if risky business, and with my family obligations the money was a major attraction. Also, after acquiring experience that was valuable to prospective toy employers, I was reluctant to abandon that advantage to take my chances in a new industry. I suspect this kind of entrapment characterizes the way many people live out their professional lives. On balance, although I might have benefited from a career change, I think staying with toys was probably the right choice for me.

My time with A.C. Gilbert provided the opportunity for one of the most important and exciting contacts of my business career. It was during this period that I first encountered the people and company that revolutionized the toy business, Toys R Us.  In the early sixties, Mr. Charles Lazarus had introduced the novel concept of mass assortment toy retailing that later proved so successful throughout the world as TRU. In those days his four Washington DC area stores were known as Children’s Super Markets, employing store fixtures and merchandise display layouts that resembled the format used in food super markets. Toy retailing would never be the same.

The Lazarus idea was a radical departure from conventional toy merchandising, and his “hands on” involvement gave his business a flair that made it particularly exciting for supplier representatives. Charles and Sy Ziv challenged toy company reps to join them in finding new ways to present and promote our products, and he made young fellows like myself feel like participants in a grand reformation of our industry. Mr. Lazarus must have sensed my enthusiasm for his fledgling enterprise because he invited me to join his organization. I declined because I felt I was better suited to selling toys than buying toys. But his offer remains one of my proudest memories, and provides my old age with one of its most evocative “What If” speculations!

After Gilbert, I was lured to a newly organized company, Topper Toys, where Ronnie Saypol, a former Lionel executive was the second in command. The Topper assignment returned me to the Midwest, and in the spring snow of 1964 Mary Jane and I moved into our rented house in the suburbs if Minneapolis. Relocating to Minnesota proved to be an important and pleasant experience for our growing family, where our third child, Eric was born September 1964. The wonderful people and life-style we experienced in Minnesota are souvenirs of a marvelous period in the lives of the Masons.

Topper’s founder, and dynamic leader, was Henry Orenstein, a survivor of the Holocaust. Mr. Orenstein was tyrannical, persuasive, opinionated, possessed of great product instincts, and the kind of gambler necessary to the toy biz in the mid-sixties. Henry was probably the only genuine genius that I have ever personally encountered. But Topper Toys, as many other companies with charismatic founders flashed across the sky of our industry, flaming brightly, but briefly, before running out of steam and becoming a footnote in toy annals. My next association was to be with the biggest and best survivor of the Toy Wars, Mattel. 

Toy Show 1967 marked my first with Mattel.  The next four years with this growing giant toy maker was a great experience shared with great people, and exposed me to the most professional management group in my forty years selling toys. It also broadened my responsibilities to include selling to premier national retailers like K-Mart, Sears, etc. as well as managing a group of regional sales people. Those four years with Mattel were exciting and professionally fulfilling, if not immune from occasional sales setbacks. Mattel demanded long hours, and hard work, but it was fun. This remarkable company started in 1945 by Elliot & Ruth Handler in a Los Angeles garage, by 1967 was already an industry leader, propelled by a Marine Corps style of corporate esprit that has been a major component of their phenomenal success.

I chose, however, to leave this all behind in 1971 and accept a chance to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond, when I joined Minneapolis based toy maker, Lakeside Toys, as National Sales Manager. This decision was uniquely influenced by a combination of personal and professional considerations. On one hand I was attracted to the challenge of a bigger sales job that included nation-wide responsibility for sales and marketing, and the opportunity to remain in Minnesota where I felt my family had a life-style advantage. But taking this fork in the road had to balance against something I had no way of knowing in 1971, and that is how Mattel was destined to survive and prosper, while Lakeside would be out of the toy business in less than ten years. Remaining with Mattel might have insured an even more lucrative career for my family and me, but that speculation can never be tested.  So, I’ll be happy to settle for what is, and not what might have been.

When in 1975 Alex Hughes, an old toy associate and personal friend, invited me to leave Minnesota, and return to New Jersey as Sales Manager of his fledgling company, Janex Toys, once again I decided it was time for a change. Alex had a good little company, but after two years I made the  emotional, and potentially foolish decision to leave. For the first time in my career, I planned a leap without having a place to land prearranged.  But luck was with me because I soon found myself on an airplane for Hong Kong, the Sales Manager designate of LJN Toys.

LJN owner, Norman Lewis, introduced me to the Hong Kong  trade as the new Sales Manager of LJN, soon to probably leave for a bigger, better, job with someone else!  Actually, Norm was quite perceptive, because by January 1977 it was clear that nothing qualified as being “permanent” in the toy biz, and LJN in those days was still a small, struggling company with a problematic future.

But, as with many of life’s surprises, LJN was not to be an interim job, but one of my longest and most rewarding.  I spent eight years as a salaried vice president of sales, and two additional years as an independent commission sales representative to their largest account, K-Mart.  During that period I earned a very comfortable living, accumulating most of the money that became our retirement nest egg, and had my most spectacular year in 1981 when my salary and bonus checks were based upon 63 million dollars of LJN toys that I sold to K-Mart!  From a small, opportunistic imitator, LJN grew into a major player in the character licensed, TV promotional toy business, achieving sales volumes in excess of 200 million dollars in the mid-eighties. But like so many promotional “high-flying” toy companies, LJN would be out of business entirely in the next few years.

The last chapters of my toy career were not as lucrative, or satisfying as I had hoped. By 1985 my sales representative business was flagging, and I decided to act out an old ambition to start a manufacturing company. Armed with what I thought was a good idea, I joined forces with Nick Underhill of California, and Henry Wu of