1958 Dodge Coronet

06 1958 Dodge Coronet second edit 2/29  10:30 AM

I went to bed early. That half a mile walk without a rest break was too much for me, I guess. I was asleep by 8. Funny, I thought. When I was a little kid, real little, I might get put to bed by 8. Then as I got older, I could stay up until 9, and then eventually 10. During my adult life, I could go to bed any time I damn pleased. Now, in old age, it pleases me to go to bed at 8. I'm regressing.

“Going to breakfast, Mr. Gibson?” asked Mrs. Schiocetti as I approached the front door.

Is this all this old woman does all day?

“Yes ma'am,” I answered as I hurried out the open door. I don't want to seem rude, but I've got places to go and things to do. Who am I kidding. I have Don & Paul's to go to maybe, but I have nothing to do.

I crossed over the bridge over the railroad tracks. A train was actually coming. I stood about halfway across and watched it. Trains are still fun to watch. I wonder why? I continued on to O'Connor's stone wall. I was going to continue, but after going to bed so early the night before because I was so tired, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor and sat.

That's an odd phrase. Discretion was the better part of valor. I'll have to google that. I wonder how we got along before computers and google? Encyclopedias, I suppose. Or ask dad. He knew everything. I wondered how he got so smart? I could never be as smart as my dad.

I got up off the stone wall. I stood for a couple of seconds to “find my feet”, balancing with my cane. I love this cane. I bought it off Amazon. It's all wood with some fancy spirals near the top. As canes go, this is pretty nice. I sure as hell didn't want one of those ugly aluminum ones that screams OLD MAN to everyone. Maybe some folks might think I was just being stylish.

I shuffled a short ways to Division Street. I think I'll go this way, down the grade. It's steep, and sometimes walking downhill can be tricky. Just do it, Gibson. So I turned left and walked slowly down the hill. Once I got to the old bridge over the old canal and crossed the old street, I could see where the old school used to be. Hmmm... that's a lot of olds.

The old school got its name when the new school was built on Middletown Road. It was a fine old school. If I remember right, it was named the “Union Free School”. Now it is the school free school. It was torn down in the 60s when the new school was built. The Waterford Rescue Squad moved there. Swayze's barber shop is gone too where I used to go to “get my ears lowered”.

I later learned that Union Free had nothing to do with labor unions. Out of curiosity, I tried to look it up on the internet, not having the Encyclopedia Britannica handy. I couldn't find anything, so I looked up the “contact us” link on the school's web page and asked. The next day, on a holiday no less, I received a very nice email in reply, from the school superintendent, Mr. Fitzpatrick.

“Union Free is a designation created by the NYS Education Department many years ago. It was a way to organize the many “common schools” that were located in the towns and villages near each other and establish a high school where all the common schools could send their students. In this case the word union means “bringing together” and the word free means “public schools”

Well. See? You're never to old to learn something. NOW I know it all.

The old school had three floors, plus the basement. The basement held the shop and the only bathrooms. In class, if you had to use the bathroom, you would raise your hand. When called on by the teacher, you'd ask to “go to the basement”.

My first real job was a summer job working for the school I just graduated from. Besides cleaning up the mess we all made during the school year, like scraping gum off the bottom of the desks, and mopping and polishing floors, Denny Carnival and I had to clean the now empty lot where the old school was of deep, deep brush with hand sickles. It took the two of us two days. And I clearly remember it being oppressively hot. I can remember it being hot over fifty years ago, but I can't remember much about last week. Or even this week for that matter.

As I walked down the new (new to me) bike path, I hummed. I've got a mule and her name is Sal...

I came to the sign shop where Shulusky's used to be and took a left down the small hill. I got to Fourth Street and looked up at the light. I remembered the old traffic light It was your standard red-yellow-green, but at the bottom of it there was a “walk” light. The walk light was black with white letters that lit up. As a kid, I was told to wait for the walk light and then cross because cars had red in all directions. You couldn't even turn right on red back then, so it was pretty safe to cross, even for a little kid. I had a green light to cross Broad Street. I made it with no one blowing their horn at me. That's a first. Damn kids.

Then I waited for the green light to cross Fourth Street. It seemed silly to stand there because there was no traffic to speak of, but I've always been one to obey the law. Well... now anyway.

I crossed the street towards whatever that building is called now. It will always be the National Commercial Bank as far as I'm concerned. But when they put in their parking lot, they tore down the liquor store and a little grocery store. Just past the old bank was an alley. I'm surprised they don't have a light or a crossing guard here. The was these damn kids drive today, it's probably needed.

I got to Don & Paul's, opened the old wooden door, and stepped inside. I hung my hat and jacket up on a hook.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson,” said Kayla. “Out a little late, I see.”

“Yes ma'am,” I answered. “I did a lot of walking yesterday. I even got a ride in the back seat of a police car.”

“Really?” asked Kayla. “What did you do to deserve that?”

“I was ringing doorbells and running away,” I answered with a twinkle in my eye. “But I'm not as fast as I used to be and I got caught.”

“Mr. Gibson, really?” she laughed.

“Naw. But I did get a ride down from Swayze Acres to the village by Officer Boyd,” I said. “I was hitch-hiking and he stopped.”

“Hitch-hiking? At your age?”

“What do you mean 'at my age',” I said with mock indignation. “There goes your dime tip.”

Kayla laughed. I looked around the place. I didn't see anyone I knew. Waterford is a small place. You'd think there would be someone I knew here. Well, after awhile, I'll probably get to know folks.

I glanced out the front window. Jelly bean cars were driving by. Maybe I was sick and delirious before? Well, I don't know what happened. Everything is back to normal. Just be quiet about it. And I'm not Baker Acted or anything. Good job, Gibson. There's hope for you yet.

My lunch arrived. Turkey sandwich on white with lettuce and mayo. Mac salad and a cup of coffee. It was good. I wonder how many turkey sandwiches I've eaten like this in my lifetime? Well, if I ate one a month, that's twelve a year. Say I've been eating out in diners for fifty years. That's six hundred turkey sandwiches! Holy crap. Now, if I saved that money instead of eating out, at five bucks a sandwich on average say, that's three thousand bucks! Heck, I have no problem skipping lunch. I should have done it. Three thousand bucks would come in handy now.

The best turkey sandwiches I ever had were at the old Stage Coach Inn in Wilton. You got thick homemade white bread, piled high with turkey, for a buck. A buck. That was back in 1969. I guess prices have gone up. You can hardly get a cup of coffee for a buck now. I finished my lunch and put my napkin on my plate.

Kayla brought my check.

“How was everything, Mr. Gibson?” she asked.

“Fine. You can call me Dave. Mr. Gibson was my father.”

Kayla smiled and went to wait on other customers. $10.65. Sigh. That's progress. I remember when my mom could buy groceries for a week for three of us for twenty-five bucks at the Central Market, and it even had automatic doors. I wonder how those work?

I put my debit card on the check and pushed it towards the edge of the counter. I wonder why they call it a check? Why not an invoice, or a bill?

Kayla picked it up. When she returned it, I added two bucks to the slip for a tip. I got up off the stool, found my feet, picked up my cane, and walked to the coat hooks. I put on my jacket, but I waited until I got to the door to put my hat on. I was always told to never wear your hat indoors. It isn't proper. Kids nowadays wear their hats indoors and think nothing of it, and most of the time the goofballs put them on backwards.

I stepped outside. All the cars were jelly beans. No cars were coming so I decided to walk on the wild side. I crossed the street where there is no traffic light. I jay-walked. Me. And I got away with it. I walked down the alley next to the town hall. Parked next to the building were the new Dodge police cars. I shuffled along, grateful that whatever happened to me was over. It had to be my meds. I don't do well with meds.

I turned left on Division Street and approached the corner that had the post office, kiddy-corner to the rescue squad where the old school used to be.

The post office. Ha. Many years ago, my buddy Gary and I went out one Saturday night. I could drive at night because I had my license and passed driver's ed. I was seventeen and Gary sixteen. We went to the College Inn in Saratoga, a night club that catered to college students. We listened to some music for a bit and then left. It was too crowded and too loud.

We were driving down Route 9 towards home and were approaching a strip club. Now they call them “gentleman's clubs”, I guess.

“Do you want to stop here, Gary?” I asked, pointing.

“Sure,” said Gary.

I pulled around back. The place had no windows. The only way in or out was the back door. We walked in past the bouncer, who didn't ask for ID. The place was packed. We walked up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bud each. We were served, no questions asked.

There was a dance floor with chairs surrounding it on three sides. The fourth side must be where the dancers came out, I figured. Gary and I walked to the far side and sat down and waited for the show. We'd never been to a strip club before. This should be fun. I wonder what the dancers do? Was it like Burlesque? I've seen that in old movies on TV.

“Uh oh. I'm dead,” said Gary.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Well, the only reason I got out of the house tonight is because my father had to work late at the post office with my uncle.”

“Yeah?”

“There they are,” he said pointed to the opposite side of the stage. “I am so dead.”

I looked and two men were glaring at Gary. They got up from their seats and came around to our side.

“I am soooo dead,” whimpered Gary.

Gary's father and uncle walked up behind us. They didn't look happy. Gary's father bent over and said in a low voice...

“Gary. I won't tell your mother if you won't.”

They each pulled up a chair and we watched the show together. Gary's father and his uncle bought us a few beers that night. We watched scantily clad women bumping and grinding for a couple of hours. It seemed like an odd thing to do. Gary's father told him it was getting late. I thanked them for the beer before leaving.

Ha. It was all innocent fun back then. Now a lot of people say that sort of dancing denigrates women. Maybe it does. I don't know. But I know we all had a good time.

I had made it to the top of the Division Street hill. I took a right and passed the church hall. I need to rest. That hill really tires me out. So I sat on O'Connor's stone wall. This is a good place to stop, I thought. It's about half way home to Van Schoonhoven Square. That's a mouthful. Why didn't they just name it Henry Hudson Square, or Waterford Villas or something. Van Schoonhoven. I almost didn't move here because of the name. Every time I give that address on the phone, I have to spell it.

It was still a really nice day. What will I do with the rest of the day? I guess I could grab my camera and go shooting. I really enjoy photography. I really wanted to be an oil painter, but I quickly learned I don't have any talent. But photos I can manage.

A car pulled up and stopped. It was a '58 or '59 Dodge. The driver leaned across the seat and rolled down the passenger's window.

“Are you OK mister?” he said.

It was Richie. I got up, got my feet, and walked to the car. I leaned in and looked in the window.

“Hi Richie,” I said. “Um... a different car.”

“Yep. I got the job at Behr-Manning. I traded in my Olds for this. Brand new. '58 Dodge Coronet. Do you like it?”

Not again. Here we go.

“Yeah. It's nice.”

“Do you want a ride up the hill again?”

“Sure,” I answered. :Thank you.”

I pulled the door open and got in, propping my cane between my legs. Richey pulled away from the curb and drove up the hill.

“You traded in your Oldsmobile for this that fast?” I asked.

“That fast? Naw. It took me a few days before I got the job, and then I spent about a week car shopping.”

“Really. It seems like it was a lot shorter time than that.”

We arrived at Swayze Acres and Richie stopped the car and I got out. These old cars are a lot easier to get in and out of than the ones they stick us with today.

“Can I drive you to your house? I have plenty of time,” said Richie.

“Naw, I'm good. Thanks for the lift, kid,” I said.

“Any time, Mister,” said Richie as he pulled away.

I started down Lea Avenue. I guess Mr. Gooder finished mowing his lawn. It looked nice. Those old reel mowers were tough to push, but they sure did a nice job. There weren't too many cars around. I guess everyone is at work. But isn't it Memorial Day? Heck, I don't even know what year it was.

The cars that were there were all from the 1950s. I looked at my sleeve of my jacket. It was maroon.