The Sunday Memory Drawer - A Great Summer Job and Then Some...

I recently had another terrific reunion with my grade school friends, Cheryl and Diane.  We had connected a while back on Facebook and this has now morphed into a great, renewed friendship.  Plus a tasty get-together over lunch at least once a year.  Two weeks ago, we enjoyed the afternoon at Diane's Connecticut home and she served me sausage and peppers.

Now that's how you really get my attention, folks!

But, my stomach and I digress...

Our times together are filled with memories of our childhood and school days in Mount Vernon, New York.  Somehow, this year, the talk meandered to summer jobs and I was surprised that neither Cheryl and Diane remembered the playground on Ninth Avenue between Second and Third Street.  How could that be?   I mean, Diane lived with her family on Tenth Avenue between Third and Fourth Street.  Cheryl lived on Eighth Avenue between First and Second Street.  This playground was smack in the middle of this neighborhood rectangle.  

Yet, they had very vague memories.

Me?  For one terrific summer between high school and Fordham University, I worked there.  

Yes, I've told some of this here before.  But, not all....

Let me take you back to my summer at the Purdy Tot Lot.  And, as legendary radio broadcaster Paul Harvey used to say, here's "the rest of the story."

Now in those youthful days, the most coveted summer job for any teenager in Mount Vernon, New York during those days was with the city's Recreation Department. There were about two dozen playgrounds across the town and each needed at least two supervisors to manage the kids. Professional and organized babysitting. Monday through Friday. And you only had to work into the night hours and close the playground twice a week. Sweet.

To get this plum assignment, however, you had to start laying the groundwork while there was still snow on the ground. Together with my high school best friend Danny, we did just that. Got our applications. Provided our references. And then dealt with one more hurdle.

A Civil Service examination.

The test for the position of "Playground Supervisor" was a bitch and three quarters. You literally had to know the rules and requirements of every game ever invented. Luckily, there was a study guide to help you remember how high a volleyball net needed to be. How far apart wickets were to be on a croquet course. And exactly what a shuttlecock was.

Forget the fact that the city had virtually no supplies for any of the above. No volleyball net. No croquet mallets. No shuttlecocks. You still needed to know what the hell they were. And pass the friggin' test, so you could at least go on the list for any open positions.

I studied hard and, yes, a shuttlecock is the thing you hit in a badmitton game. Score! We both passed. Where are our playground keys please?

Not so fast, they said. After all, this is city government and certain strands of red tape must be cut. In this case, the definition of "red tape" is specifically "who do you know in City Hall that can get you this job?"

Now, the commissioner of the Mount Vernon Recreation Department in those days was some Mafioso (who wasn't) named John Branca. John's brother was famed Brooklyn Dodger pitcher Ralph Branca. And anybody who ever frequented a Mount Vernon saloon apparently knew Ralph Branca. This was my sixth degree of separation. I had a solid connection.

Dad. After all, he frequented Mount Vernon saloons and...

"Okay, I'll make the call."

And got a job.  

Of course, in basketball-crazed Mount Vernon, the players on the high school varsity squad scored three points with the really special positions.  As long as they had valid drivers' licenses, they were the ones who drove the department cars from playground to playground and checked on all our activities.  Supposedly, they were to guide and direct us, along with making sure we had all the requisite playground supplies.

PS, they really did nothing.

Me?

I still got a cushy assignment.  I would be a playground supervisor at a spot that was a mere six blocks from home. The Purdy Tot Lot (seen in its current incarnation above). Who Purdy was is still a mystery to me. But it was your basic playground with swings, slides, a play area, and some benches under a big awning.

On my first day, I donned my official Recreation Department t-shirt and headed out to make a difference in these kids' summer. For some reason, there were three supervisors assigned to the Purdy Tot Lot. Stephanie was an adorable college student and I immediately thought she would make a difference in my summer as well. I quickly found out she was married and unavailable and, of course, who wasn't in those days. Her husband was a bit of a hippie and often dropped her off in a broken-down Volkswagen that had decals all over it.  He'd greet me with that hipster handshake and called me "kid."

For a few quick moments, I wanted to kill him and have Stephanie all to myself.  I shook off the momentary homicidal tendency.  Plus I needed her on a more professional level.  After all, she and I were the only White people in the entire playground. 

And then there was Big Mabel Brown. Both adjectives in her name were correct. She was and she was. Mabel had been part of the Mount Vernon Recreation Department since balls were round. I was working alongside a veritable institution in the neighborhood as "Miss Mabel." And she had a very definite opinion on how to supervise a playground, which she quickly extolled to us when we tried to start a kickball game.

"These youngins don't want to play no games. It's too hot. They rather play cards."

Huh? But, what about all those rules and regulations I had to learn for the test?

"They like their 500 rummy."

There was no arguing Big Mabel Brown. 

And that's pretty much what those kids from the age of 7 to 13 did all summer. Play cards. You name it. They dealt it. And it wasn't long before they taught me to play them like a Mississippi riverboat gambler. I don't think I touched a ball the entire summer.

Of course, there was the idle activity every once in a while and I'd have to get something out of the supply cabinet.

"Mr. Len, I want crayons."

Ten minutes later...

"Mr. Len, I'm done with the crayons."

There was one hyperactive kid named Drexel who liked to climb the monkey bars in between poker hands. One afternoon, he came over to see with a rather innocent question.

"Mr. Len, my shoulder broke. Can you pop it in?"

Huh?

"Miss Mabel do it all the time."

There was a first aid primer we had all received, but there was no time to check the table of contents. I grabbed his arm and pushed it upward. I heard something click.

"Thank you, Mr. Len." Off went Drexel.

I arrived one day at 12 noon for the afternoon shift to find that Stephanie had called in sick.  Or perhaps hoped that she had kicked out her husband for somebody with a better set of wheels....and, oh, how quickly can I get my dad's Buick.  Meanwhile, on this solo day, I arrived to find an organized activity going on right before my eyes.

"Come on over, Mr. Len Playground Teacher, we need you."  

This direction came from 12-year-old Latreena, a girl I didn't want to tell that her first name reminded me of a bathroom in Italy.

Latreena had organized the playground kids into a line.  Hmmm.  How all those recreational rules I memorized for the test paid off?   Were these kids finally going to do something other than shuffle a deck of 52?

"We gonna be dancing.  You stand over there."

Er, I don't.....

I was hustled into the front line.  At which point Latreena powered up her record player which Big Mabel had plugged into the electricity of our supply closet.

Mr. Big Stuff
Who do you think you are?
Mr. Big Stuff
You're never gonna get my love

Now, because you wear all those fancy clothes (oh yeah)
And have a big, fine car, oh yes you do now,
Do you think I can afford to give you my love? (oh yeah)
You think you're higher than every star above

Mr. Big Stuff
Who do you think you are?
Mr. Big Stuff
You're never gonna get my love
 
"Come on, Mr. Len Playground Teacher.  I don't see you moving."

I did my best but my feet stayed totally in place.  The only dancing I was completely familiar with was on "The Lawrence Welk Show."  Meanwhile, Big Mabel had her own commentary.

"You got the moves of a white boy."

Um, maybe that's because I am a white boy.

There were a few attempts at choreography by Latreena.  But, as the summer wound down, you could tell the kids were dreading the approaching school year.  Things got a little quiet and subdued.  Or maybe the heat got the best of us.

In the waning weeks at the Purdy Tot Lot, I would go to work and aimlessly sit on a swing.  When our schedules would overlap, Stephanie would join me to talk.

And then she started to complain about her husband. 

Constantly.

He was never around.  He was always working.  Or, on the flip side, having trouble finding a job.  This became a daily ritual.  She'd talk.  I'd listen.

And fantasize.  You see, the movie "Summer of 42" was fresh in my mind.  And this was my older woman.  A real one.  She was talking to me about really adult problems.  And the most a girl had ever discussed with me in the past was geometry homework.

I dreamed about the hour Big Mabel would leave to take her lunch.  We would be alone.  There was that storage closet.  

A feeble car honk shook me awake.  It had to be that sound which could only come from a Volkswagen.  

"Hey, kid."

Another visit from the rock group Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Stephanie's Husband.

But, as far as she was concerned, I was not a kid.  Because she considered me old enough to hear her problems.  Perhaps one of the first people to ever do that.

It was the best summer of my life to that point.  And, as I look back, it may still rank in the top five of all time for Len.  Thinking about it again after my lunch with Diane and Cheryl, I revisited those months.  Unfortunately, none of those kids really had last names to me.  There is no way to find out what they're doing now.  Perhaps card dealing in Vegas.  Or dancing at the Apollo Theater.

But everybody's favorite private investigator, Google, helped me track down Stephanie.  Actually, I found her husband on Facebook.  Trust me, long hair and ponytails stop being attractive on a guy after a certain age.  He's well past it.  But, through his profile, I found her.  The picture on-line was her.  Older and maybe a little wiser, but who isn't?

And still married.  Perhaps in some small part to advice I shared as a fledgling adult.

But....if she only knew...

Dinner last night:  Grilled cheese with bacon at the Melt.