Life was very different then. Nobody knew how "the other people" lived because there were no media to show the masses how the "other people" lived; no television, limited news service, radio was in its infancy, and the movie theaters were strongly censored. Those who controlled the news were very careful what to send out to the general public. Not to stand on any soapbox now but I'd say the wealthy class (very small middle class then) fed the poorer people a diet just to keep them minimally happy, to keep them "in their place" ... I could be wrong but that's my opinion; wonder if the same thing goes on today.

In general I have little respect for the reliability of the news media as presented by radio, television, or newspapers. I am especially skeptical (and cynical) about the press. I do not have direct, accurate information on many newsworthy events, but occasionally I do, especially in the �empire� of public education. When this happens and I read it in the paper, hear it on the radio, or see it on the TV, there is, invariably, some error in the report. Sometimes it is a technical detail, but often a major point is misrepresented. If I extrapolate my experience to the entire news media, then more than 95% of all news is wrong. It is reported by incompetent alarmists bent on selling news.

My thinking is now on education where I just used the �empire� word. Yes, the professional schoolteachers have created a guild system to which access can be achieved only via second-rate educational programs that bestow specific forms of specialized credentials. The ostensible purpose of the introduction of these systems of credentials was purportedly to raise the level of these professions, but in reality the modern requirements have simply functioned to exclude people of superior liberal education, in favor of people willing, or only able, to pursue notably inferior professionally-oriented programs of higher education. Times are changing rapidly in public education (maybe some private schools can do some housekeeping too) and let's hope the changes will be for the better (for the child's welfare).

Back to Canarsie, I remember the Medici's Christmas tree with colorful presents all around it (nothing for me as I remember now), and their fire works display off the front porch (that was the only time I was allowed on that porch; entrance to our apartment was in the rear). I also remember Tony shooting me accidentally in my groin with his bee-bee gun; I think it was an accident, I think. They engaged in some parade once a year, don't remember what they were celebrating (could have been May 1st they were celebrating, like a May Day parade) but I know I was in it, even while sitting in my baby carriage. Maybe they were celebrating my getting shot in the groin with Tony's bee-bee gun. Maybe?

To me, December was a special time for two reasons. One: the anticipated Christmas vacation from school, and two: the smell of pine. This aroma was particularly strong in the many places where the trees were sold. They would be stacked against a building on one side of the sidewalk and stacked along the curb on the other side, with a path leading between the two stacks. For those few yards taken up by the trees one was transported to another world. I once read that the strongest sense that humans have is the sense of smell; I think it's true.

The 4th of July in Canarsie was a stupendous event. I don't know if people knew what they were celebrating but they certainly made a lot of noise celebrating it, whatever it was. Medici allowed us (we were tenants) to sit on their front porch and watch the street show. Men would stand on each of the four corners and go through mats and mats of firecrackers, lighting them and tossing them into the middle of the intersection while all the residents stood around and watched. I think one person who lived on one of the corners was a cop and used to drive up with a truckful of fireworks, reputedly that he'd taken off kids. They had everything: firecrackers, cherry bombs, ash cans, M-80s, Roman candles, bottle rockets, pinwheels, whistling chasers (I didn't know what they were then and only with some researching now am I able to sound so smart), and much more. The older kids couldn't wait until the next morning, when they would scour the intersection for all the firecrackers that hadn't gone off, then empty all the "powder" into one big pile and light a "genie."

Across East 95th street lived the Holmes family. They were African Americans (or black, whatever is appropriate today) and I think the only ones living in Canarsie, maybe some of the original residents of Canarsie. I never played with the children there and many years later happened to "bump into" Charlie Holmes, one of the nicest guys one could meet. I wish I had gotten to know them better. I heard it said that we can learn a lot from a box of crayons. Each one is a different color - but they all live together in harmony in the same box.

The Holmes family lived next to the trolley tracks that went from the last station of the Canarsie BMT in a path between the houses along East 95th and East 96th Streets, virtually through their backyards. Holmes Lane (they actually had a lane named after them) went from one street, across the tracks, to the other street, and we'd play near those tracks putting pennies on them to see how flat they got.

I remember my friends, Alvin and Lenny, living above me; one of them once threw a spike up in the air and it landed on my head; it hurt. They were my best friends for a long time and then we drifted apart. That often happens when people move away from each other. Alvin eventually became a chiropractic, and Lenny a salesman. Our mothers were best of friends all their lives, and their father, Irving, often was the one who watched us when the mothers went wherever they went. He smoked a pipe that had a delicious smell (I never picked up the habit of smoking, and very glad I didn't), and he was an avid reader. At least it appeared to me that way; I'd be trying to sleep on that cot, and he's be sitting near me in that living room reading. And he used to make very good "black and white" sodas; that's chocolate syrup, seltzer (carbonated water), and sweet cream (everything we're not supposed to have today).

That was also when I learned to roller-skate (those skates, each with four metal wheels, not in a row, and the skate key that made the skate clamp tightly to your shoes), and we skated to the middle of the block to the playground; didn't have to cross any street. That playground is still there on East 95th between Avenues K and L; to us, then, it was a *huge* area to play in; now it seems as small as a postage stamp ... everything is perspective. At that time all that was there were monkey bars, swings, seesaws; and a red brick building in rear center with bathrooms and cleaning & games storage. I'm sure it has changed by now. The playground attendant there was a kind man; he always brought games out for us to play. Some kids took advantage of him; kids can be very mean if they want to.

I remember my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. LeVine, in PS 115 (she gave me a small red dictionary for my birthday) and the very authoritarian principal, Mrs. McHenry, and especially the assistant principal, Miss McKenna; they both seemed very mean, especially the unmarried one (like her problem was my fault). Most of my teachers were Irish; that's the way the NYC school system was then. We all had to march into the assembly hall (that's right, we marched to march music) and with our white shirts and red ties and then sit there with our arms crossed (keeping idle hands out of trouble) while she gazed down upon us from that stage, her arms crossed also (in her case, supporting her bosom). Our arms were crossed to keep our hands out of trouble while her arms were crossed to support her bosom; there's a strange message there that I'll leave for you to figure out. No question about it; she scared me.

I didn't always do well in school; with all the moving around I'm not sure I learned anything in elementary school. I once got an 'F' on a question that asked my opinion. One spring morning I came into the schoolyard to line up, innocently asked some classmate a question, was pulled off the line, and my mother called to school. An interesting side-note here: the entire world was full of authoritarian figures ... Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Franco in Spain, our own Roosevelt (in his own way), and even the New York Philharmonic had its authoritarian conductor, Arturo Toscanini. Could it be that our current "open society" is a reaction to that era of "authoritarianism?" Those authorities certainly did a number on our 20th century. My opinion? We could use a little more authority again, only not by lunatics, G-d forbid.

On the same street as the school was a candy store, Fortmeyer's, where pennies would buy that fake ice-cream cone made of pure sugar, with the marshmallow top. It would buy candy to last a week, and if you bought "dots" (colored sugar candies pasted to a long strip of paper) you'd have enough for an entire afternoon session in school, especially if you rationed it. This must have been a blight to school discipline, a neighborhood nuisance, in that one of the teachers (a member of school personnel; I don't remember exactly, could even have been the ogre herself) would always enter the store at the beginning of each "session" yelling at us to get to school. What I remember most is the store itself, it was magic; it specialized in everything that a young kid would want in both small candies and small toys. If we had assembly that day, we knew McKenna wasn't going to be too happy with us; it was "Oy vey" for everyone.

But then kids who went to parochial schools suffered much at the hands of nuns, much worse than what went on in the public schools. Purportedly they were slapped, pinched, pulled by ears, sideburns and nose, made to sit in wastebaskets, desk drawers, paddled in front of the class, made to hold a baby rattle, and many more exquisitely sadistic punishments. So in retrospect, the case against my Irish teachers is dismissed: they did something good, here I am, living well, and typing away on my story. G-d bless those Irish teachers. On the other hand, those Irish teachers might have been products of the aforementioned nuns so it's hard to know what's really right here. Case is not dismissed and judgment is held in abeyance.