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.

Lunch at Don & Paul's

05 Lunch at Don & Paul's second edit 2/29 10 AM

I looked at my wrist. Force of habit. I don't wear a watch anymore. I looked at my phone. 11:40. Good. It will be noon by the time I get there. I got up, grabbed my hat and coat, and headed out the apartment door and down the hall. Strange name, Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments. I wonder who that was? I have to remember to google that.

There's Mrs. Schiocetti. Guarding the front door and watching who comes and goes.

“Good morning again, Mrs Schiocetti. Going to Don & Paul's for lunch,” I said. Might as well just get it out of the way.

Mrs. Schiocetti hit the handicapped button and the door swung open.

“Do you walk all that way, Mr. Gibson?” she asked.

“It's not that far,” I said. “Only a half a mile.”

Half a mile. Sheesh. That's not far. I used to walk a lot farther than that. Why, when I was a kid we'd think nothing of walking the mile from Swayze Acres to the village. I did it every day in the summer to take swim lessons. A bus would take us... somewhere. I don't remember where. South Troy? Then the bus would bring us back to the village and I'd walk a mile back home.

Waterford began the “Learn to Swim” program because kids drowned in the rivers or canals every summer. Drowned like clockwork, they did. Then the village finally got smart and put a pool at the Fourth Street playground. Kids still drowned in the rivers and canals sometimes.

I used to love to walk. The view is real nice from the top of the hill. And then the road descended down into the valley. The valley. Ha. I sang the lye soap song to myself. Somebody named Johnny Standley sang it. I only know that because my mom had the 45, and Johnny Standley's name was on the label. I used to love mom's old record player.

You remember Grandma's Lye soap,

Good for everything in the home -

And the secret was in the scrubbing -

It wouldn't suds, and couldn't foam!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

Little Herman and brother Thurman

Had an aversion to washing their ears

Grandma scrubbed them with the lye soap

Now they haven't heard a word in years!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

Mrs. O'Malley, down in the valley

Suffered from ulcers, I understand

Swallowed a cake of Grandma's Lye Soap-

Has the cleanest ulcers in the land!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

O Sing, O sing! O! Of Grandma's Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes!

And for your hands and for your face!"

Ha. I'll have to google that when I get home and see if I can find that record.

Several cars passed me as I shuffled my way down the sidewalk over the bridge over the railroad tracks. No antique cars. Just jelly beans. Why don't people fix some of these places in the sidewalk where frost heaves pushed up some of the concrete? I could trip and fall and break a hip. Then I might say something stupid and get Baker Acted again.

I got to O'Connor's rock wall next to the church hall. I stopped to rest. Stopped to rest. Ha. I never stopped to rest when I was a kid. What in the hell happened to me? A police car pulled up and stopped.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson,” the officer said as he put down the window. It was Officer Boyd.

“Hello, officer,” I said.

“Nice day,” said Officer Boyd.

“Yes sir. I decided to head to Don and Paul's for lunch.”

“Well, you have a good one,” he said. “And be careful crossing the streets.” And then he drove off.

Nice guy. Every police officer I've ever met has been nice to me. I don't know why some people have such a problem with the police. Just be polite and do what they say. No mouthing off. No attitude. That gets you in trouble with everyone, and police officers are no exception.

I thought back to the time when Bob Naisse and I walked to the village and bought a six pack at the ginney store. I still can't believe that no one ever told us the word “ginney” wasn't a nice word. It may as well have been “Lucy's Store” for all we cared. The old Italian ladies that ran it never even asked for an ID. We were about fifteen or sixteen, but we had money. While I paid for the beer, the other lady put it in a brown paper bag.

Since we were lugging the beer, we stopped at the church hall to hitch-hike up the hill. Several cars passed, and then Bob said “Shit. Here comes the cops!” We didn't stick our thumbs out. The cop car stopped.

“You fellas looking for a ride?” asked one policeman out the passenger side window. “Get in.”

Shit. Bob and I looked at each other. We got in the back. Bob got in first, then me. I placed the bag between us.

“Where are you guys headed?” asked the passenger seat officer.

“You can drop us off at the school,” said Bob.

There was no way in hell we'd have them drop us off at Swayze Acres. Then they'd know where we lived. The police cruiser passed Swayze Acres and past the cemetery and stopped at the school's driveway. The passenger side officer got out and opened the door for us. We got out. The officer looked at Bob and me, and the bag.

“You guys keep it quiet. OK?” he said. “No trouble.”

“No sir,” we both said at the same time.

The officer got in and the car pulled slowly away.

“Man, that was close,” I said. “I guess we fooled them.”

We turned and walked back down the road and to the cemetery. Once we walked in the driveway, we felt safe. What if one of our parents drove by? Or if the cops came by again? We walked to the back of the cemetery and sat on some grave stones under the huge horse chestnut tree. I took a beer out and handed it to Bob, and got one for myself.

“Do you really think we fooled the cops?” asked Bob.

“Yeah.”

“We better watch for headlights coming in the driveway anyway,” said Bob.

I don't remember now what we talked about. Kid stuff, I guess. I can't rightly say. I wonder what we did with the empties? I'm pretty sure we didn't just leave them laying around. That would give away our hanging out spot. We liked it there because it was private. No parents watching us. Ten or twelve of us would sometimes gather under that horse chestnut tree. We probably put the empties in the bag and tossed them in some bushes. I wonder if those cans are still in the bushes? Probably. I feel bad now, littering and all.

Thinking back now, I'll bet we didn't fool those cops at all.

I stood, found my feet, and continued on toward the village. I passed St. Mary's Elementary School. I wonder how old that building is? I turned off the sidewalk and approached the school. On the bottom of the right corner was one of those time capsule blocks built into the wall. It had a date on it. 1953. That dang building isn't as old as I am.

Down past St. Mary's church I went. Down the small hill and into the village proper. I crossed Broad Street at the light. No darn kids. Good. I got to Don and Paul's, pulled open the old wooden door, and walked in. I took my hat off and looked around. Kind of busy. But there was an empty stool. I hung up my hat and coat and left my cane leaning on the wall. I made my way to the stool and sat.

“Why hello, Mr. Gibson,” said Kayla, smiling brightly. “Menu?”

“Yes, please.”

I looked over the specials. I'll order the French onion soup. I love French onion soup. Just a cup though.

“Have you decided?” asked Kayla as she came back over.

She's a good waitress. Very attentive.

“I'll have a cup of the French onion soup. And... a roast beef sandwich on rye, lettuce and Russian dressing.”

“No Russian dressing honey. Is Thousand Island OK?”

“That's fine, thanks.”

“Fries, salad, or chips?” she asked.

“If you have potato salad, I'll have that,” I said.

“OK Hun,” said Kayla as she hurried off.

I looked at the mirror behind the counter. I could see most of the people sitting at it. I didn't see anyone I might recognize. I wonder what age you have to be when the waitresses started calling you “Hun”, “Honey”, and “Darlin'”? Whatever age that is, I am well over it.

“Here's your soup, darlin',” said Kayla as she set the cup in front of me. It looked good, with the cheese melted over the top and running down the sides of the cup. I finished it quickly. I must be hungrier than I thought. And right on cue, there was Kayla with my sandwich.

“Here you go, Mr. Gibson,” she said as she set it down and hurried off again. She's a busy young lady.

“Did she say Gibson?” asked the person to my right.

“That's me,” I said.

“Are you from Waterford?” he asked.

“I grew up here. Moved away, and just moved back,” I replied.

“I thought you looked familiar,” he said as he stuck his right hand out to me. “I'm Ed Dublin.”

“Ed! I'm sorry but I didn't recognize you. It's been years!” I said as I shook his hand. “How have you been?”

“Pretty good for an old guy,” said Ed. “Where are you living?”

“Van Schoonhoven Square,” I said. “You?”

“I bought the old Muenster House on First Street,” he answered. “Been there for thirty years now.”

“Muenster? I can't place the name,” I said.

“Yeah, the Muenster House. I bought it from Herman and Lily Muenster, he answered with a smile.

“HA! The Muenster TV show. You had me going there, Ed.”

“Well, it sorta looks like it, all creepy and stuff,” said Ed. “It needs painting now too. Next month I'm getting it done.”

“So you never really left Waterford?” I asked.

“No. Not for very long, anyway,” he continued. “Many of us from the class of '68 stayed.”

“Well, I've been around a bit. I've seen most of the country. Lived in a few. Lived on a boat for awhile, traveled down the east coast.”

“Really?” said Ed. “You'll have to tell me about it sometime. But right now I have to run. Hoot, good to see you.'

“You too Ed,” I replied. “See you around.”

Ed got up, walked to the wall with hooks, grabbed his hat and coat and was out the door.

Son of a gun. Ed Dublin. I haven't seen him since... what... 1971 I think. He's gotten old.

I finished my sandwich and looked in the mirror behind the counter. An old man was looking back at me. What in the hell happened? I put my napkin on my plate. Very shortly after, Kayla came over.

“All done, Mr. Gibson?”

“Yes mam.”

“How was everything?”

“It was good, as usual,” I answered as she put the check face down in front of me. I placed my debit card on it without looking at it. Kayla swooped by, picking up the check as she passed. She brought it back with my card and a pen on top. I picked up the check and turned it over. $9.34. I added $2 for a tip, picked up my card and stuffed it back in my wallet, and stood up. I started to lose my balance and grabbed the counter.

“Are you OK buddy?” asked the guy on the stool to the left of me as he reached and grabbed my left arm.

“I'm OK, thanks,” I said sheepishly. “I just lost my balance a little.” He let go of my arm. I shuffled over to the wall hooks, put on my jacket and grabbed my hat and cane. When I got to the door, I put on my cap.

“Thank you Mr. Gibson,” said Kayla in a loud voice. “Be careful.”

Geez. Be careful. I'll bet she doesn't say that to young guys, just old people.

As I stepped outside, I looked all around. No classic cars. Good. Maybe this “thing” happening has passed. I slowly made my way up Broad Street to the canal, sang “I've got a mule and her name is Sal..”, passed by the church, and feeling pretty good, walked all the way to Van Schoonhoven Square apartments without resting. Good lunch.

I walked up to the door. It opened.

“Thank you, Mrs. Schiocetti,” I said as I passed.

“How was your lunch? What did you have?” she asked.

“It was good. Roast beef,” and I made my way to the apartment.

Ride in a Police Car

04  Ride in a Police Car   First Edit 2/29  10 AM

I turned and shuffled my way back down Lea Avenue towards Middletown Road. Mr. Gooder was still mowing his lawn with that old reel lawn mower. It was a nice day. It had warmed up from the chill of the morning as the sun rose higher in the sky. It was a cloudless day. The sun warmed up this maroon CPO quickly. I was starting to sweat a bit so I unbuttoned it.

I got to Middletown Road and looked both ways. There was no sign of cars, so I started across the road. There is a small hill to my left that limited sight, and sure enough, a car came flying over it with me smack in the middle. The driver leaned on his horn and slammed on his brakes, stopping about fifteen feet away from me. He rolled his window down.

“What in the hell do you think you're doing, you old coot! You're gonna get killed or get somebody killed! Get the hell out of the road!” he screamed.

“Go pound salt!” I hollered back as I continued on across.

“I'm calling the cops!” he yelled.

“For what? Walking?” I hollered. But he couldn't hear me. He floored it and sped off up Middletown Road.

Damn kids are always in a hurry. Why don't they just leave five minutes earlier and take their time to get where they're going? Life would be less stressful for them. And for me. Geezus.

I heard a car approaching. I stuck my thumb out. The car sped on by. Did he actually speed up? Probably. Damn kids. I heard another coming my way. I stuck my thumb out. The car pulled over. Oh shit, it's a cop. He opened the door and got out and walked towards me slowly.

“Where you headed, old timer?” he asked kindly.

“Down to the village,” I answered.

“We had a call that you were in the middle of the road and almost got hit by a car.”

“Well, sir, I was crossing the road and this damn kid came flying over that hill over there. He had to be going eighty miles and hour. I was moving as fast as I could and...”

“What's your name, sir?” he asked politely.

“Dave Gibson,” I responded.

“Well Mr. Gibson, do you think you should be crossing main highways like this then?”

“Well, like the chicken, I needed to get to the other side,” I said. Then I smiled a little to let him know I was messing with him a little.

The officer looked at me and chuckled.

“Do you have any ID?” he asked.

“'Bout whut,” I said in the stupidest voice I could muster.

The officer's smile vanished.

“Sorry. I have an odd sense of humor,” I said as I pulled out my wallet. I fished out my identification card and handed it to him.

“This is a Florida ID,” said the officer.

“I just moved here,” I answered. “From Florida.”

He looked it over and handed it back.

“Hop in and I'll give you a ride,” he said.

“Am I being arrested?” I asked with some alarm in my voice.

“No sir. You did nothing wrong. But I don't need anyone getting hit on my shift.”

“Oh. Well, thank you officer,” I replied.

“Too much paperwork,” he said with a smile as he opened a back door to his cruiser.

“I have to ride in the back?” I asked.

“Regulations sir.”

I hopped in. Well, not exactly hopped. I sort of fell in. With that fence between the front and back seats, there isn't a whole lot of room left over. The officer shut my door and then walked around to the driver's side and got in.

“Nice car,” I said.

“Yeah, we got new Fords last year,” he replied. “The three old Fords were shot. Where too, Mr. Gibson?”

“What year is this car?” I asked.

“2017. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. Just curious. I live in Van Schoonhoven Square.”

“Sure, I'll drop you off. How long have you been living there?” the officer asked.

“A couple of months. I haven't been getting out much. First it was snow and icy sidewalks, and then it rained a lot,”

“How do you like it there?” he asked.

“It's fine. Not what I'm used too, but it is fine for just me.”

The officer pulled into the road to Van Schoonhoven and stopped around the back where the main entrance is. I reached for the door handle. There wasn't one. The officer had gotten out of his car and opened my door.

“Thank you,” I said. “That was very kind of you to give me a ride.”

“Not a problem sir. Now you stay out of trouble and stay off the roads, OK?” he said.

“You bet. Say... can I have your name?” I asked.

“It's Officer Boyd. Why do you ask?”

“So if I get in trouble, I can ask for you,” I said with a smile and a wink.

The officer laughed.

“You have yourself a good day, Mr. Gibson,” he said with a laugh.

As he pulled away, I gave him a wave. I shuffled up to the front door. As I walked in, there was Mrs. Schiocetti, the senior center's busy body. She had to know everything.

“Why hello Mr. Gibson,” she said as she hit the handicapped button that opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Schiocetti,” I answered. Here it comes.

“Why were you riding in the back of the police car?” she asked bluntly.

“I was picked up for mischief,” I answered.

“Mischief?” she asked.

“Yep. I was ringing doorbells and running away,” I said with a smirk.

Mrs. Schiocetti scowled.

I walked down the hall to my door, unlocked it, and walked in and shut the door behind me.

I hung up the CPO. Hold on. This is my jacket. I felt and there was my hat. I walked into the living room and sat down. What just happened? It had to be a reaction to some drug I'm taking. I need to call my doctor and tell him what happened. No. What if he has me Baker Acted? No, he can't. New York State doesn't have a Baker Act. I wonder if they have something similar? Probably. And they probably tax it too.

This little apartment is sure a come down from places I've lived before. This isn't as big as the first apartment my first wife and I had. Swallow your pride. Pride goeth before a fall. I wonder what that even means? I don't know but it doesn't sound good.

I picked up my laptop and booted it. Up came all the tabs on my browser that I had open from before. Outlook, Yahoo Mail, two for Facebook, one for CNN, one for Amazon, another for InstaCart. I opened a new tab and typed “pride goeth before a fall” in the address bar.

“The highway of the upright leads away from evil; he who guards his way protects his life. Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. It is better to be lowly in spirit among the humble than to divide the spoil with the proud.”

Huh. From the Bible, I guess. One of those proverbs. I started to read the Bible once.

I think I'll go to Don & Paul's for lunch.

Young Love

03 Young Love first edit 2/29 9:30 AM

The old Oldsmobile lumbered along 6^th Street. As we crossed over the railroad bridge, I heard the distinct rattle of boards. The bridge had a wooden plank deck at one time. It brought back memories of when I was a kid, terrified of the loud clattering the boards made. It was replaced sometime in the late 50s with a regular, paved bridge.

I looked to the left where my apartment at Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments is. It wasn't there. Are my eyes deceiving me? Playing tricks with my mind? Don't say anything. Just keep quiet.

“My name is Richard,” said the driver. “You can call me Richie. Everyone does.”

“Nice to meet you, Richie. My name is Dave,” I answered.

“Are you sure you're OK?” asked Richie. “You look white as a ghost.”

“I must be tired, that's all,” I answered.

“Well, I ain't no doctor, but you look stressed out.”

“Maybe a little,” I replied quietly. Change the subject. “This Oldsmobile looks pretty nice.”

“Yeah. I have to take care of it. Money is tight and I gotta make it last. My unemployment check is shit for the birds. I have a job application in at Behr-Manning. If I get that job, I can trade this heap in. It's starting to rust in the rocker panels. My father and uncle work there, so I have an in.”

We got to the top of the hill and proceeded past St. Joseph's Cemetery and then Prospect Hill, which was a development like Swayze Acres but a little older. Then Saints Peter and Paul cemetery, then St. Mary's cemetery. Man, Waterford has a lot of cemeteries. A lot of people die around here.

We passed the house the “crazy kid” lived in. I never knew his name, or why they called him the crazy kid, but we were supposed to stay away from him. Don't even let him see you, because he can run as fast as a horse, my friend Russ said, and he'll catch you, pull down your pants, and make you pee.

Richie slowed.

“Here's the Acres. I have time, I'll take you to your house so you don't have to walk,” said Richie.

“No, that's OK Richie. I'd like to walk. It's good for me. Thank you for the ride,” I answered.

“Hey, no problem man,” said Richie. Before I got this Olds, I had to hitch everywhere myself.”

I opened the heavy door. It opened with a squeak. Needs oil. I got my cane, then slowly got myself up. I turned to shut the door. Richie was adjusting a transistor radio hanging off his rear view mirror.

“Thanks again, Richie,” I said.

“Any time, man,” said Richie. He saw me looking at his radio. “It's a Jap radio. Company called Sony. A TR-63. The TR stands for transistor because it's a transistor radio. No tubes. Nifty, eh?”

“Yeah... it's swell,” I answered. Swell?

As I turned to walk into the development, I heard Tab Hunter singing “Young Love” on Richie's Sony TR-63. Man, I haven't heard that song in decades. Swell? Where in the heck did “swell” come from?

This isn't real. I don't understand what is happening. It's surreal. Is this a side effect of the drugs I was given at Springbrook? Am I still in Springbrook? This seems like a bad dream. One that you can't make any sense out of. I'll have to get on my laptop and google Sony TR-63 to see if that's a real thing. Probably not.

Now what do I do? I saw a bunch of kids down by the McAleevie's old house. The MacAleevie's never had kids. We didn't think about that much as kids, other than to feel a bit bad for them. I guess with all the neighborhood kids, there was no need. We loved to go trick-or-treating there because they handed out candied apples. No one did that in Swayze Acres because you'd go broke with the hundreds of trick-or-treaters. The streets were clogged with kids on Halloween. We didn't need a parade.

I walked slowly down Lea Avenue, helped by my cane Everything looked just like it did when I lived here. Nothing had changed. Mr. Gooder was mowing his lawn with an old fashioned reel mower. He must have the day off. Or maybe his work shift let out early. The kids are outside playing. It's good to see that some kids aren't inside all day playing those stupid video games. They must be home from school. Or is it the weekend? A holiday? Darn. I wish I could remember what day it was. My watch used to have the time and day on it, but I haven't worn a watch since I got my cell phone.

Cell phone!. I reached in my right front pocket for it. It wasn't there. I must have dropped it at Don & Paul's. Shit. I paid $65 for that phone at the Verizon Store.

I shuffled past the Lawrie's house. No sign of Celeste. Hell, why would there be a Celeste? She'd be pushing seventy now, like me. It's funny how the mind works. It seems like the mind doesn't like change.

I got closer to the kids. There were maybe a half a dozen of them, all girls, talking and giggling. Each was sitting on a bicycle. Each was wearing a dress. I guess that's why girl's bike are made the way they are. Some had ribbons in their hair, some barrettes. They looked to be very young. Not even ten, I'd guess. When I was a little snot, I could guess a kid's age. I can't do that anymore.

The girls stopped talking. They were looking at me. Staring, actually.

“Hi mister,” said one. “Do I know you? I know everybody and I don't know you.”

“My name is Dave,” I said.

“I can't call you Dave,” she said. “That wouldn't be polite. What's your last name?”

“Gibson,” I said.

“Oh! You must be related to the Gibsons down the street. Are you their grandfather?”

“Um... no,“ I stammered.

“My name is Mary. Mary Bombard,” she said. “I live next door to the Gibsons. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Well, aren't you a polite little girl,” I smiled.

“My momma says we have to respect our elders. You're an old man, right?” Mary asked.

I laughed.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I answered with a smile.

Three young boys came riding up on their bicycles. They had cards clothes pinned to the wheels so it would make a clacking noise. It was supposed to sound like a motorcycle. It didn't, but we didn't care. It made noise. The challenge was to see who could get the most cards pinned to the wheels.

“Mary!” scolded one. “You know you're not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“Mind you own bees wax Tom!” retorted Mary. “He seems like a nice old man.”

“I'll tell ma!” yelled Tom as he pedaled off, followed by his friends, cards flapping.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Gibson,” said Mary. “That's my brother. He's bossy.”

“It's OK, Mary,” I said with a smile. “He's right. It's best not to talk to strangers.”

“Why?” said Mary as she frowned.

“Well... its just better to be safe than sorry.”

“Safe from what?” she asked.

I thought about this for a few seconds. Safe from predatory old men. Or predatory young men. But somehow, Mary's innocence stopped me from answering truthfully. You just don't talk to strangers today. Just look at all the weirdos wandering the streets. Then I smiled a little, visualizing crowds of men wandering the streets.

“Well, mister?” asked Mary.

“That's one to ask your parents, Mary.”

“Oh, OK. I'll ask my mom. I need to go home anyway,” said Mary.

“Wait. Before you go, can you tell me what day it is?” I asked. “I don't work anymore and I forget sometimes.”

“Sure,” said Mary. “It's Thursday.”

“Why aren't you in school?” I asked.

“Because it's Memorial Day, silly! We don't have school on Memorial Day.”

Of course! That explains all of the old cars in the village! There must be a parade. But it doesn't explain everything else. Flashbacks maybe? Induced by my meds? I don't like taking pills. They never sit right with me.

“Oh, right,” I answered. “Thank you.”

I heard the noon whistle blow down in the village. A signal to everyone that it was time to break for lunch. I imagine there's a stampede to the bars. Oh. No, that was in the old days. Funny though. That's the first time I've heard the noon whistle since I moved back to Waterford.

“OK Mr. Gibson! We have to go home for lunch!” yelled Mary as she pedaled off towards home.

So it's Memorial Day. It used to be called Decoration Day, I heard from my older relatives. I haven't heard it called that since I was a teenager. It used to be held on May 30^th, regardless of the day of the week. Then in the late '60s, I think, it was moved to the last Monday so everyone could have a three day weekend.

Is that what we've become? A nation of people who want three day weekends instead of honoring those who served? Where is the respect for tradition? Our service men and women paid a price to serve our country, and we were inconvenienced so it was made a three day weekend? Damn politicians.

I remember going up to St. Mary's cemetery late in the afternoon to swipe flags that were placed on the graves of soldiers. That makes me sad now. As kids, we couldn't relate to war and paying respect to those who served. I do now.

Our parents saw us bicycling around with small American flags taped to our handlebars, but never said anything. I wonder why they didn't make us take the flags back and put them on the graves? I wonder if placing flags is still done? Probably by the VFW, I'd guess.

Noon whistle. Lunch time. I guess I'll go back to the village for lunch. I can't walk that far. I guess I'll hitch.

Am I Crazy?

02 Am I Crazy second edit 2/29 9 AM

As I shuffled slowly along Broad Street, I was admiring the classic cars lined up in every parking place. There was some real junk here. Cars from the 40s complete with dents and rust. Maybe they're rat rod projects? But some were totally awesome and few had very expensive restorations and looked like brand new cars. My '56 Thunderbird was pretty nice and it won a lot of trophies, but it had its flaws common to older restorations. Cracked lacquer paint was common. A '57 Ford Fairlane sedan I was passing was flawless. But why would anyone restore something like that? It costs about as much to restore a plain Jane car as it does a real classic, like a Fairlane 500 convertible. What a waste of money. But it sure was beautiful. It looked like it just rolled off the showroom floor.

Well, there's no accounting for taste, my dad always said. He was a smart guy. The smartest guy I ever knew.

My thoughts turned to my dad. When he turned 70, he wasn't doing much. He was slowing down, just like I am now. He didn't travel much anymore. He couldn't even rent a car in his beloved Ireland because of his age. He couldn't play softball anymore either. He was sitting. If you sit, you rust.

I had been an antique and classic car buff for years. Since he was a great shade tree mechanic in his day, back when a guy could actually work on his car, I suggested that he buy an antique or classic automobile.

“Oh no,” he said. “I would never waste money on something like that.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Play on the floor with your stocks and bonds?”

The next thing I knew, he had this '56 Thunderbird. I didn't care much for the color. It was called Fiesta Red, but they should have named it Tomato Soup Red. But otherwise, it sure was beautiful. Except for the cracked paint, it looked like new.

“It's gorgeous, Dad,” I said.

“Do you remember my '56 Ford?” asked Dad.

“Sure. The blue and white Fairlane.”

“What I really wanted was a Thunderbird,” said Dad. “I bought the Fairlane instead. Do you know why?”

“I dunno Dad. Why?”

“Because the Thunderbird didn't have a back seat, and Ma and I had you,” he answered.

My Dad was such a kidder. But I remember the back seat of the Fairlane well. I couldn't see over it. It even had a bar to hang a blanket on in case it was cold back there.

This '57 Ford sure was pretty, even though it wasn't a Thunderbird. It was a plain four door sedan. It didn't even have whitewall tires. And it had hubcaps instead of full wheel covers. This is nothing I ever saw at any car show.

The driver was in the car. He saw me looking at his car with interest.

“Hi,” he said as he got out.

“Hi,” I answered. Now to say something nice about his car. What? “Uh... your Ford is like brand new.”

“I would hope so,” said the driver.

“'57?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said the driver. And then he walked away.

Well, that was that. I couldn't very well ask why he pissed away his money on restoring something like that. None of my business. My dad also said that there was no accounting for taste. A fool and his money. I shook my head. We had a saying in the car business. There's an ass for every seat.

I made my way slowly up the small hill towards the church. As I got close to the old IGA, it was... there! And open! I could have sworn it was a bakery now. The Dessert Tray, I think. How did I confuse that? Didn't the IGA go out of business years ago? What? I understood not to trust my memory anymore.

I stood in front of the store windows. The lights were on and people were inside. The one register had a small line. Outside, in front of the store was a concrete landing, which was level and served to hold the small shopping carts. That landing was needed because the IGA was on an incline. I looked at the front of the store, and there was IGA in big lit letters.

I was confused. Did I have a stroke? Am I hallucinating? I hallucinated once before because of medications I was taking, but this seemed so real. I just stood there like a cigar store Indian. Ha. I'll bet a kid today wouldn't know what a cigar store Indian was. Come to think of it, I'd never seen one myself. Only photos. I don't think the ginney store had an Indian.

I stood, staring in the windows.

“Look out mister!” someone yelled!

I looked to my left and a kid on a bicycle was flying down the sidewalk. As quick as I was able, I moved to the side.

“Get off the sidewalk with that bike, kid!” I hollered after him, shaking my cane. He didn't answer. Damn fool kid is gonna kill someone.

Bicycles aren't allowed on sidewalks. When I was a kid, when we rode our bikes to the village, we rode on the sidewalks. But that was different. Broad Street was a busy place then. We were safer on the sidewalk. I don't recall almost running anyone over. And one time, Bob Van and I rode our bikes to Cohoes. We rode in the street with traffic. I was following behind Bob. A lady had parked her car and flung open her driver's side door into the traffic lane just as Bob got there. Bob hit the door, sending him flying over his handlebars as he smashed into it. Bob laid in the street, but then got up and picked up his bike. No one was hurt, but I told them it was an accident and they had to tell the police. They did while I waited by the post office. In front, on the sidewalk, was an Uncle Sam poster. I Want You it said. Uncle Sam was a guy from Troy, next to Waterford. He looked mad. I wonder why?

I looked back in the IGA. It looked warmer inside, so I walked in. The first thing I saw was a big red tube tester on the right. It was a machine that you plugged your tube into and a gauge told you if the tube was good or not. There was a cabinet under the gauge that held replacement tubes.

I remember coming here with my dad to test tubes out of our TV if it was on the blink, which it seemed to do with regularity. My dad took great pride in fixing things himself. If the TV went on the fritz, he'd pull it away from the wall, open the back, yank out some tubes and run to the IGA to test them. The needle gauge on the front showed if the tube was good or not, or maybe weak. Why was this machine even still here? Certainly no one tests tubes anymore. There aren't any tubes. TVs are now all solid state flat screens. Maybe they kept it as a curiosity piece?

“Good morning,” someone said in a loud voice. I looked. It was the cashier. He looked a lot like the young guy that worked here when I was a kid. Tall, thin, brown hair. White shirt and cap. They still have to wear caps?

“Hi,” I replied.

“Can I help you find anything?” he asked.

“Naw. I just came in to get warm. I can't believe you still have this tube tester,” I answered.

“Sure do. Why wouldn't we?” the young guy asked.

“I dunno... never mind.”

After my accident, I tended not to talk as much.

I looked around a bit. There, on the left, were the comic books! Still there, same place! I used to buy most of my comics here. Instead of a dime, you could buy them with the top of the front cover torn off for a nickel. That's twice as many comics! That would be five for a quarter!

I was flipping through the rack. Casper the Friendly Ghost. Red Ryder. Lulu and Tubby. They still print these old comics?

“How much are the comics?” I hollered over to the kid.

“A nickel,” he answered.

A nickel? Still? I put the comics back. Next to them were a stack of Troy Record newspapers. I picked one up. An article said that four railroads in Troy were looking to replace crossing watchmen with flashing lights at six crossings, with electrically operated gates. I looked at the date on the paper. April 1957.

I looked at magazines. All April 1957. Life magazine. Twenty cents. Motor Life. Twenty-five cents. Motor Trend, featuring a 180 MPH Mercedes SLR. Twenty-five cents.

What's happening? Did I have a stroke? Hallucinations? Something I ate at Don & Paul's? Is the IGA now an antique store? I didn't know what to think. I turned and walked past the tube tester and out the door, onto the sidewalk. I headed right, up the hill. There was Shulusky's Diner. No sign shop around. It was Shulusky's.

Instead of walking up the hill to the church, I decided to take the bike path that ran along the old Champlain Canal. I had walked it before. It was nice, and no traffic. It was not bike path. It was black cinders. It was like the old tow path when I was a kid, long ago used by mules to pull canal boats.

After a block, I came to Division Street. Uh oh. This was a mistake. This part of the hill up to Sixth Street is very steep.

I took it slow. One step at a time. I was tired and I looked down at my feet as I hobbled along. Geez, don't fall here. I finally made it to the top, by the church hall. I walked past the hall and sat again on O'Connor's stone wall. Man, I'm tired. Too tired. Just relax, I told myself. Catch your breath.

What is going on here. I must be cracking up. Again. I had an episode a year ago that put me in the hospital. I woke up one morning and I was paralyzed from the chest down. I could not walk, or sit up. I rolled out of bed and onto the floor. I pulled myself across it to the phone. I pulled on the cord and knocked it down. I called 911.

“911 operator. What is your emergency?”

“I think I may have had a stroke,” I answered.

“Where are you?”

I gave the operator my address.

“What is your name?”

I gave it.

“Don't hang up. Help is on the way. Stay on the line with me until the ambulance gets there,” she said. “Is the front door unlocked?”

“No. But I can get it.” I pulled myself along the floor and reached up to the doorknob and cracked open the door. I belly crawled back to the phone. “It's open.”

“OK. Good. Just relax. Help is on the way.”

“OK, thank you.”

“Do you think you might hurt others or hurt yourself?” she asked.

“Well, I certainly wouldn't hurt anyone. But if I had a bottle of pills, I'd take them.”

I thought back to my friend Todd. He had developed a debilitating illness. Doctors could not determine the problem. Todd was in constant great pain, and he was withering away. Finally, a doctor told Todd they were sending him home. There was nothing they could do for him. The doctor handed Todd a bottle of pills.

“Take one of these every eight hours for pain,” said the doctor to Todd. “Do NOT take the whole bottle because you will die. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Todd.

“Are you sure? Because if you take the whole bottle, you'll die. You'll go to sleep and not wake up.”

“I understand,” said Todd. That night, Todd died.

There was no way in hell that I would be bedridden from a stroke. I meant it when I said that if I had a bottle of pills, I'd take them. I kept talking with the 911 operator. Everything after that is fuzzy. I don't remember the ambulance ride at all. I don't remember waking up in a hospital bed. I just... became aware that I was awake.

A doctor came in.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I feel OK. Just groggy.”

“That's the drugs,” he answered.

“What happened to me?” I asked. “Did I have a stroke?”

“No.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“We ran some tests. You didn't have a stroke, but we don't know yet what brought this on,” the doctor said. “Can you move?”

“I can wiggle my feet a little,” I replied.

The doctor got up and left the room without saying a word.

Over the next couple of weeks, I was finally able to sit up in bed. I could not get up though. And then a nurse came into my room.

“We're transferring you to another facility,” he said. “We need this bed.”

“OK. Where?”

“Springbrook,” he answered.

I was fairly new to Florida and didn't know where that was. It didn't really matter to me anyway. After a bit, two men came in with a gurney. They transferred me from the bed. I couldn't do it myself. They both picked me up and moved me over. Once again, the ambulance ride was blurry. Did they give me more drugs? I had an IV and nurses were always shooting some kind of drugs into it.

The next thing I knew, I woke up in bed. I looked around the strange room. I had a roommate. He was looking at me.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“Hi. I guess so. I feel like I was hit by a truck. This is Springbrook?” I asked.

“Yep, sure is.”

A nurse came in and handed me pills. I asked what the pills were for. Depression and anxiety, she said. Depression?

“Why am I being treated for depression?” I asked.

“Didn't you say you wanted to kill yourself?”

“Well, I said that if I had a bottle of pills, I'd take them. I thought I might spend the rest of my life in bed.”

“That did it,” said the nurse. “You've been Baker Acted.”

“What is Baker Acted?” I asked.

“You will stay here in Springbrook until the doctor says you can go.”

“No, as soon as I can walk, I'm leaving,” I said firmly.

“No, you are not,” said the nurse. “You will stay here until the doctor says you can go. Not before. You cannot discharge yourself.”

“What? I never heard anything like that.”

“Sir, Springbrook is a mental hospital. You are a ward of the state. You will leave only if a doctor says you can.”

Everything after that is vague. They kept giving me pills. I only have flashes of lucidity, of being there. I recalled lining up several times a day to get my meds along with everyone else. If you didn't show up for your meds, the attendants would come to get you.

I remember the bars on the windows and doors. I remember being let outside once a day for an hour of sunshine. Outside was in a quad with only one door leading in, which was guarded. All of the windows and gates were barred. Funny, I remember eating with my fingers because they gave us no utensils.

I recall that one of the patients in the common room was the queen of the world. “I own the world and everything in it” she would announce to everyone. Other patients said nothing. Some were talking to imaginary people. One guy just paced, taking swings at invisible foes.

And then, one day, I realized I was not in Springbrook. I was now in a group home somewhere. Port Richey, I was told, with a few other guys with issues of some sort. Then the day arrived when the landlady came to me to tell me that I was no longer Baker Acted. I took a $180 cab ride to Tampa International Airport and flew to New York a few days later. And here I am. Where that is right now, I no longer know.

Am I crazy? That must be it. Am I still in the group home? But fer pete's sake, don't tell anyone. Don't even talk to anyone. You'll be right back in the loony bin, sure as hell.

A car pulled up to the curb. It was the same young man from earlier. He was in a different car though. A 55 Oldsmobile. It must be from the car show.

“You're still here,” he said. “Are you sure you're OK?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” I answered. “I went out to breakfast at Don & Paul's.”

“Where?” he asked.

“Shulusky's I meant,” I answered.

“You look tired. Are you sure you wouldn't like a lift?” he asked.

“No. I'm OK. Wait. Know what? Can you give me a ride to Swayze Acres?” I asked.

“Sure, glad to. Is that where you live?”

“Yeah,” I replied. In 1957, I muttered to myself.

Breakfast at Don & Paul's Coffee Shoppe

01 Breakfast at Don & Paul's Coffee Shoppe – third edit 2/29 11 AM

It was a chilly windswept Tuesday morning as I left Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments. I pulled my cap down a little tighter and rolled my jacket collar up to keep the cold breeze off my neck. My joints were stiff as they were every morning. I certainly needed my cane to balance thanks to that numbness in my feet that came on after my accident. I never even heard of neuropathy before until I got it a few years ago. I staggered like a drunk.

Waterford is full of drunks, people used to say, so I should fit right in and no one will notice. In the old days, every other business on Broad Street in the village was a bar, it seemed. They were favored by factory workers after their shifts before heading home. “Boilermakers”, which is a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser, was so named in their honor. I find it interesting how names sometimes evolve. Bartenders would line up boilermakers on the bar in anticipation of the workers coming in after their shifts. They did the same thing at noontime for the workers who “ate lunch” at the bars.

I made my way down to the end of the street from Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments and took a right towards the village. It really hasn't changed a lot since the days of my youth fifty-five-plus years ago. The houses were pretty much all unchanged. I smiled to myself a bit. I'm back home, I thought. As I shuffled down the sidewalk, balancing with my cane, my mind wandered. It seems to wander a lot lately. Probably that accident. I also can't concentrate or remember much of anything. Concussions can be serious, and I had two. Stupid tree.

I had been away from Waterford for decades. I moved around a bit, my first wife and I. Every twenty years or so we pulled up stakes. We always lived somewhat close to Waterford, but never seemed to make the time to visit. We were always busy. Life does that. Jahnn was a sailor. Since I married into it, I too became a sailor and we were always busy racing and cruising on our boat.

Sailing is not a matter of life and death. It is much more important than that. I smiled. After fifty years of focusing on boating, it doesn't seem important anymore. We were boating on a lake mostly, fer pete's sake. We couldn't go anywhere. Just in circles, basically. Maybe that's why many of my friends stayed in Waterford all these years. They were just going in circles.

After our divorce, I married another. Pamela and I moved to Stamford, Connecticut. There, we bought a trawler, and when I retired we spent time meandering down the east coast, traveling slowly. What's the rush? Whenever we stopped, we'd play “I could live here!”. We enjoyed visiting new places, especially in the south. Small towns with friendly people. Sort of like Waterford. I could live here. Or here. Or here.

But good times were not to last. We were spending money “like drunken sailors”. So we sold the boat and bought ten acres of land in the foothills of the Adirondacks with the intention of building an off-grid homestead. There would be room for Pamela's horse, our two goats, four dogs, three cats, and two chickens. But that accident involving my head and a falling tree , breaking my neck real good and scrambling my alleged brains put an end to that. I could no longer build anything. I couldn't lift more than five pounds. Pretty pathetic for a guy who used to build rock walls on the property, which had plenty of rocks. Doctors thought I might be bedridden, but being as stubborn as I am, and with the help of physical therapy, I got to the point where I could at least walk a bit. Which I enjoy doing. Keep moving or you rust.

Rocks. It reminded me of a joke I read as a kid. A fella stopped his car in the country. There was a farmer there, standing behind a stone wall resting a bit from working in his field. The fella said hello.

“Sure are a lot of rocks here,” the fella said, making small talk.

“Yup,” said the farmer.

“Where did they all come from?” he asked.

“Glacier brought 'em,” said the farmer.

“Huh. Where did the glacier go?” asked the fella, teasing a bit.

“Went back to get more rocks,” said the farmer.

HAHAHAHA! That joke is still funny. I still love those corny old kid jokes. More rocks. Ha.

I wonder why Pamela left me? No boat? Maybe she told me and I forgot.

Now I live in senior housing. It is a little one bedroom apartment, but after living on a boat, it is more than large enough for me. I don't need much, nowadays. I miss my dogs, Ruby and Chevy. They crossed that Rainbow Bridge. I hope there is one and they're waiting for me.

I kept shuffling along with my cane and avoiding cracks in the old sidewalk.

There's the old St. Mary's convent. I wonder if churches still have convents? All of St. Mary's nuns lived there years ago. I'd see them walking to and from church in groups Funny. Nuns gave up their traditional black habits in favor of more traditional, but modest dress, with hemlines that went to mid-calf. A group of them were walking up the sidewalk to the convent one Sunday morning, returning from church. I was riding with my buddy Tom as his father drove us home from 11 o'clock mass. Mr. Bombard slowed as he approached them. He rolled down his window.

“Hey Sisters! All this time, I thought you just floated along!”

I was both horrified (since nuns were scary and not to be messed with) and laughing hysterically. Tom went to St. Mary's Elementary School so he was used to nuns, but he laughed pretty hard too.

I made it as far as St. Mary's Church Hall. I needed to rest, so I sat on O'Connor's stone wall for a bit. Went back to get more rocks. I chuckled to myself. Good joke.

I held my cane in front of me and rested my chin on the top of my hands. My mind wandered back to the time when Mr. B. took Tom and I to a smoker at the hall. They called it a smoker for a reason. All of the men (no women allowed) were smoking cigars. Tom and I didn't smoke, of course, being only about eight or nine years old, but we enjoyed watching the featured boxing match. At the end of the night, they gave away door prizes. I won an eight pack of spark plugs.

I wonder if the church still has smokers? Probably not. That is probably frowned upon now. Especially around kids. And especially in an ancient wooden building. Talk about a fire trap.

I remember the inside of the hall. Funny, because I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I can recall a place I'd only been in once, for that smoker, and that was about sixty years ago. The hall was also the school's gymnasium, with hoops for basketball at each end. One was over the stage, which I assume was for plays and such, and the other was attached to a balcony. There were very tall windows on the sides. The walls were off-white. I don't remember any bleachers.

A car pulled up alongside the curb in front of me. I lifted my head. I wondered what make it is? I used to be able to identify cars easily, but they all look the same now. Like jellybeans.

“Hey mister, are you OK?” a young guy hollered to me out the driver's window.

“I'm fine. Just taking a rest. I walked a few blocks and I'm winded, that's all,” I answered.

“Would you like a lift?”

“No thank you. I'm only going to the village. I need to walk.”

“OK mister. Take care,” and he drove off.

Ha. This is where we used to hitchhike from as kids. We'd stand by the church hall and thumb rides the mile back home to Swayze Acres. When we got to be teenagers, we stopped riding bikes and hitchhiked. Only goobers rode bikes. Hitching was more grown-up. Someone always stopped and picked us up. It never took more than five or ten minutes to hitch a ride. But I guess you can't do that anymore either. Too many damn perverts. We didn't have perverts in the old days.

I grabbed my cane and stood for a few seconds. With numbness in my feet, I can't feel the ground too good. I needed to get my balance before walking. I didn't want to fall again. I called it “finding my feet”. I was a bit unsteady, but OK. I shuffled off.

I crossed Division Street and as I passed the school, I could “hear” the laughter of the children as they were let out for recess. I wonder if schools still have recess? I'll have to ask someone.

I then came up to the largest, grandest structure in the entire village. St. Mary of the Assumption Church. Not only was it huge, but it was built from giant granite blocks, with fabulous stained glass windows.

Huh. I thought the church was larger than that. The granite blocks don't seem as large either. But still, it is impressive to see. Like a castle in a Medieval village. Maybe I should go to mass someday. I haven't done that since 1968. I wonder if they'd even let me in, since I married Jahnn, a Protestant, without getting permission from the parish priests. If you were going to marry outside of your Catholic faith, you needed permission or you'd be excommunicated. The priests really wanted your non-Catholic wife to convert to Catholicism, but you at had to at least promise to raise your children as Catholics. Maybe a heathen alarm would go off if I tried to go inside. I won't try. Not today. I'm hungry.

Whew. It was now downhill for the next couple of blocks. I crossed the old bridge over the old Champlain Canal. I always sing (quietly, since I can't sing)...

I've got a mule and her name is Sal

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

She's a good old worker and a good old pal

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

We've hauled some barges in our day

Filled with lumber, coal, and hay

And every inch of the way we know

From Albany to Buffalo

Low bridge, everybody down

Low bridge cause we're coming to a town

And you'll always know your neighbor

And you'll always know your pal

If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal

Get up there Sal, we've passed that lock,

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

And we'll make Rome before six o'clock

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

One more trip and back we'll go

Through the rain and sleet and snow

And every inch of the way we know

From Albany to Buffalo

Low bridge, everybody down

Low bridge for we're coming to a town

And you'll always know your neighbor

And you'll always know your pal

If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal.

I can remember singing that song in the third grade. I always thought the canal that ran by the school was the Erie, but it was actually the old Champlain, I later learned as an adult. As a kid, it didn't matter. What did we care? It was old. It wasn't used anymore. Progress.

I walked past where Shulusky's Diner was. Shulusky's had a jukebox, and every table had a small version where you could play songs for a nickel each. The building was still there, but now it's a sign shop. Next was where the old IGA was, a grocery store where my folks shopped. When it opened, it put many smaller grocers out of business. But then big supermarkets came along, the ones with the automatic opening doors, and the IGA had to close. There's now a bakery there.

Next I walked past the ginney store. We kids bought cigars there for when we went fishing. As kids, we had no idea what “ginney” meant. We didn't mean it in a bad way. It was just the ginney store. That's what everyone called it. We didn't know it wasn't nice. But we knew two old Italian sisters owned it, all dressed in black, and they would sell us cigars. If you could reach the counter with your quarter, you got your cigar.

I got to McGreivy's Restaurant. It used to be Camp's Grill in the old days. Camp's had four bowling alleys in there that provided jobs to school kids as pin setters. My father's Uncle Graham used to tend bar there. He was in World War II. The big one. I stopped in sometimes to say hi to Uncle Graham. I remember walking in and the smell of cigars hit me. Uncle Graham smoked cigars stuck in one of those plastic mouthpieces.

I crossed the street at the light. Back in the old days, there was a crossing guard there to get the school kids across. The guard also owned the liquor store kiddy-corner from Camp's. She dressed like a man for some reason. I didn't get across fast enough and the light changed. Someone honked at me. So I shuffled along slower. Damn kids, always in a hurry going someplace. What are you going to do now? Run me over? Go ahead, I need the money. We never honked like that. We just honked at our friends.

I took a left. The big ol' National Commercial Bank and Trust was moved out and it was now offices. Their parking lot replaced the liquor store. Then I passed the small building where my dentist was and that was offices. No dentist. Good. I hated going there. I didn't like the sound the drill made.

Finally, I arrived at Don & Paul's Coffee Shoppe. I pulled open the familiar old wooden door. It is familiar because it used to be Michon's store. Michon sold newspapers and magazines, but also had a good selection of comic books and penny candy. Walk into Michon's with a few quarters and you were set for the day.

I remember Mr. Michon well. He had the patience of a saint as we kids would line up by his front window and select our penny candy which was displayed prominently to entice passing kids to stop in. He'd stand by the window that had the candy on display in small bowls, little brown paper bag in hand.

“I'll take two of those,” I'd say, pointing. “And three of those... no, two of those...”.

This was an important decision. It was our candy for the day.

While one of us was selecting candy, the others surveyed the comic book racks. As kids, we didn't have to make too many choices, but candy and comic books ranked at the top. Those were fun times. I wonder if they still make penny candy? It's probably dime candy now.

“Mr. Gibson? Are you OK,” asked Kayla, a waitress.

“Uh, oh. Fine. I'm fine,” I said as I snapped out of my daydream.

“Sit anywhere you like.”

I hung my jacket and cap up on a hook and took a seat at the counter, off to the right. The tables are on the left, but everyone sat at the counter. I stood my cane up, leaning it against the next stool. This used to be the area where tobacco was sold, I recalled. Now it had grills, cooks, and a lunch counter. Why can't things just stay as they were? It's progress, they'd say. Who reads newspapers anymore? Or comic books? Everything is done online. And tobacco? Hardly anyone smokes anymore. I quit myself in 1975 when my daughter was a year old, and I had just read an article about second hand smoke.

“It's always something,” Gilda Radner famously said. She died.

Died. Many of my friends and schoolmates have passed over the years. Some killed in war, some in accidents, some from disease... it's always something.

Back in the old days, as a kid, I don't remember giving death much thought. You have to die of something, my mom once told me. You might as well smoke. She died from a disease thought to be caused by smoking, it turned out.

Everyone smoked. All of the grownups. All of the big kids. So we smaller kids started smoking in our teens. You were supposed to be eighteen to buy cigarettes, but not at the ginney store. And you could even buy cigarettes out of vending machines back in the old days. A quarter a pack. Now I hear that some places charge ten dollars a pack. Imagine that.

Adults drank, at least on weekends and holidays when visiting friends and family. So we kids started buying beer from the ginney store in our teens as well. We couldn't wait to grow up and be eighteen and could sit in bars. Sometimes underage kids would make fake identification cards. They'd go to the photo booth at Woolworths where you'd get five photos for twenty-five cents and cut one out and glue to the ID drawn by a kid good at art. Then put a silver dollar under it and whack it with a wooden mallet to stamp it. If you didn't look close, it looked like a notary stamp. Where there's a will, there's a way.

We were in a big rush to be adults. Now I wonder why? You'd think we'd be happy being children. What's the rush? Life seemed so simple back then. It seemed like a carefree time to live. We didn't have a worry in the world except for Jimmy, the neighborhood bully. Just candy and comic books for the most part. Sometimes cigars.

I glanced out the big front window that used to display the penny candy. There was an antique car pulling up to the curb outside. A car show in the middle of the week? Early in the morning? It looked like a mid-fifties Chevy. A young guy got out. I chuckled. He was dressed for the part. I owned a 1956 Thunderbird that I would show and I'd sometimes dress the part too. He was good. He looked like he belonged in that car. He even had a flat-top DA. Where do you get one of those haircuts now? Where do you even get a barber now?

I turned as my breakfast arrived. I got the same thing every morning. Two eggs over easy, home fries, toast, and coffee. Cheap enough at $5. Plus walking to the village gave me a little exercise. I enjoyed the walk. I didn't go in inclement weather and had to fend for myself, which I don't do well. A bowl of granola was the best I could manage. Sure, I can fry eggs. I used to. But now that I'm alone, it doesn't seem worth the effort.

I looked around the coffee shop. I didn't see anyone I knew. Of course, the people that I knew were all fifty years older now, so I doubt I'd recognize them. Or they me. I know some of my friends never moved from Waterford and this was one of the few places to get breakfast in the village. Why they stayed, I have no idea. There was nothing for them here.

I ate my breakfast. Eggs and home fries probably aren't good for you. It will clog up your arteries. But you have to die of something. My mom died of pancreatic cancer. It wasn't a good way to go. Since I quit smoking, I'm entitled to clog stuff.

I took my paper napkin and placed it on the plate over the home fries I couldn't finish. I waved Kayla over for my check. Did she change clothes and do something with her hair?

“Here ya go, hun,” said Kayla, setting my check face down on the counter.

“Thank you Kayla,” I said.

“Who? My name is Mary.”

Mary? My memory is getting bad with the years, especially after my accidents and two concussions, but I could swear her name was Kayla. I must be losing it.

“Sorry,” I stammered. “My mistake. Old age and all, ya know.”

Kayla or Mary or whatever her name is smiled and turned to wait on other customers.

I looked at the green check that had “Thank You” printed in cursive across the top. Do they still teach cursive in school? I heard they don't. The total was $1.25. I waved the waitress back over.

“Mary, there's something wrong with my check.”

“Oh, I'm sorry hun. Here, let me see it.”

I handed it back to her.

“What's wrong with it?” she asked sweetly.

“Shouldn't that be five dollars?”

“For eggs, toast, home fries, and coffee?” she asked, somewhat taken aback.

“Yes... isn't that what I pay every morning?” I asked.

“Oh God no, honey. Are you thinking of dinner?”

“Uh... yeah, that must be it,” I said as I handed Mary my debit card.

“What's this?” asked Mary.

“My debit card.”

Mary made a face. I thought I always paid with my debit card. I dug into my pocket and fished out a dollar twenty-five in change, and left a dollar bill next to my plate.

As I shuffled towards the door, I looked back. Mary was holding my dollar bill and looking at it. It must be a big tip for such a little bill, I thought.

I retrieved my jacket and cap and put them on. I looked back as I went out the door. Mary was holding the dollar and staring at it.

“Hey Paul,” she said. “Look at this dollar. Its got colors. Is it Canadian?”

As I stepped outside, I felt the cold air hit my neck. I turned up the collar. Hey. This isn't my jacket. I must have grabbed the wrong one. I went back inside. The coat hooks were empty.

I guess I'll have to wear this piece of crap, I thought to myself. Someone must have taken mine by mistake. As I turned up the collar a bit more, I noticed that it was wool and not fleece. I looked at the sleeve. It was maroon, not tan like my jacket. It had buttons. How could I have made a mistake like this? This sort of reminds me of the CPOs we wore as kids. CPO stood for Chief Petty Officer. I still knew that, but that's as far as it went.

I tried to tug my cap down. As I felt for the brim... it wasn't there. My cap was gone. Damn! It must have blown off. I looked around and didn't see it.

But look at all of the classic cars! The little village downtown was full of them! Why? There can't be a car show on a weekday. Maybe it's Saturday or Sunday. Being retired, I lose track of what day it is sometimes. Not working, the day of the week doesn't matter anymore. Just like when we were kids on summer vacation. The only day that mattered was Saturday for the morning cartoons.