STORY EIGHT

AT HOME WITH THE DEPARTED

OR

INNER SANCTUM WAS NEVER LIKE THIS

Jobs in those days were still hard to get, especially for new immigrants who didn't know the language and had prior skills for which there was no immediate demand. There was a family to be taken care of and father found that he could at least temporarily undertake his responsibility by becoming the caretaker at a Brooklyn cemetery. The rather impressive two story building located just inside the main entrance was built of large square stone blocks. The basement contained the morgue, while the first floor consisted of an office and a chapel, and the second floor was built as a regular apartment. That is where we lived. It was soon fun for us kids. We adjusted very quickly. We played hide and seek among the mausoleums, roller skated along the concrete aisles dividing the plots, climbed trees that were plentiful on the grounds and picnicked without any further thoughts on the neatly maintained lawns. The place was somewhat lonely and isolated, as cemeteries should be, and was at the long end of a trolley line that ran about every half hour. Next to that street and at a somewhat sunken level, ran a six lane inner city highway, and just across the highway, built up an a steeper embankment was a large water reservoir. On the other side was Forest Park, a bigger city park replete with picnic grounds, a golf course and bicycle and hiking trails. We often crossed the highway and walked around the reservoir, which incidentally was fenced off with a tall chain link fence. Many dating couples used the perimeter as their lover's lane and we always enjoyed watching them in as non-interfering a manner as we could. There was only one evening when we, as kids, were really frightened during our otherwise uneventful stay on the cemetery. It was a dark evening, without stars, and my parents were attending night school to learn English and hadn't as yet come home. As was customary for us kids, we listened to the radio, and always tuned in to Inner Sanctum, a somewhat scary mystery radio weekly series. At the beginning of the program and as part of its make up there was always the opening of a loud, and very squeaky door. Just as the door was squeaking its loudest we heard a long, loud, mournful sound, which seemed to pierce the dark night and we thought at first came from the basement morgue. We were petrified and thoroughly frightened. As it turned out, it was a couple of drunks who had inadvertently found their way into the cemetery and were having "fun" not realizing there were people actually living there. They soon left and we sighed a sigh of relief.

That summer vacation, I learned how to caddie at the local golf course. I lined up with a lot of other kids early morning, turned in my name, and hoped that the steward would call me to caddie. Sometimes I had to wait till way in the afternoon, because a lot of the boys were older and more in demand, but whenever my turn came I was always willing to do my best and assist the players in whatever way I could. In those days, most clubs were made of iron or wood and the bags of thick leather, so that it was quite a weight to carry for eighteen holes. The pay was mostly in tips and some folks were more generous than others, which helped a lot. By the end of the summer, I was a "regular", had learned a lot about the game and sported a deep tan. Somehow however, the sport left me less than enthusiastic and I never did become a golfer myself. The following summer I caddied at a larger golf course in the Queens, and had a full time summer job. I met a number of professional people and it was interesting talking with them while caddying for them.

My parents were ready to move on so we left our quiet sanctuary for an apartment on Sterling Street, more or less in the heart of Brooklyn. A few streets over was Eastern Parkway, a tree lined avenue with park benches where people took their evening stroll or sat watching life go by. There were a couple of fancy restaurants facing the Parkway and those off well enough would eat there and then take a walk. We did most of our eating at home, but we did go there once in a while for desert. Further down the Avenue and taking a connecting street one could go to Pitkin Avenue, a main shopping street with all kinds of stores, a large movie house restaurants and a cafeteria. It didn't take me long to find a job as a busboy in the cafeteria and I worked there part time and full time on the weekends. After some two years, I switched to a waiter's job and learned a lot about taking orders and what went on behind the scenes in a busy kitchen. Like other waiters, I got so that I could carry six glasses of water in both hands at one time, and do some of the other serving tricks that are the staple of a good waiter. The restaurant had its own bakery and on the weekends I would be asked to set up trays of pastry goodies and display them in the front window. Naturally I sampled each different type of pastry to make sure that I could honestly recommend them to my customers. My favorites were Napoleons and Chocolate covered Eclairs filled with whipped cream. I enjoyed that job and most people rewarded good service with a nice tip.

We had the top floor of a four story building as our apartment. It was a larger one with three bedrooms and had steam heat, hot water, a stove and refrigerator. We could see over a number of two story single home rooftops since the apartment building was on a corner lot. Unfortunately there was no elevator so it was a long trek up the stairs, and especially so when carrying groceries. One family of Irish descent lived on the first floor and they were also the custodians of the building. Usually there was no problem, but in the winter they would often sleep in late and forget to fire up the furnace, so that we shivered until they got up to do so.

It was time for me to go to Junior High and it was a new experience for me. It was an older school, brick and multistoried and was, for its time and day, a fore-runner of a deteriorating school system. Some of the teachers were very nice and tried to teach us to the best of their abilities, such as my science teacher who was always interesting. Other teachers tried but were often interrupted by discipline problems, not necessarily of gang war proportions, but severe enough to disrupt the class, as was the case in my Algebra class. Only in Gym was everyone well behaved because the teacher was physically strong and the boys liked gym. The student population was mixed with a heavy concentration of Italian and black students. They frequently got into fights. One time two black students jumped me, probably as a mistaken identity, and started to beat up on me. I got so infuriated that although they were much bigger, I wildly lashed out at them, so much so, that they took it on the lamb and ran off. I was never bothered by anyone after that. Things went from bad to worse at the school and before I finished, city police were patrolling the corridors. Luckily it was time for me to go to High School and I went to Franklin K. Lane. The school then, was only a few years old. It was a large school with some four thousand students in attendance. It was somewhat uniquely situated, with a part of it being in Brooklyn, a part in Jamaica and a part in the Queens. It was surrounded on three sides by cemeteries which kept down the noise level. The principal was a very nice elderly gentleman who seemed to side with the students quite a bit. I was elected as a school delegate at one time and we had a small grievance list the students wanted addressed by the principal. He was very gracious in talking with us, and promised to take care of some of the items on the list, such as less homework.

By this time World War II was in full bloom. Father had been retrained as a machinist and went off to the Kaiser shipyards in Vancouver, Washington to work. He arranged for me to join him during summer vacation and I took a bus that brought me there. It was interesting to go cross country by myself since it was a two day and three night drive with many stops in the larger cities on the way. I got there and was assigned work as a "chipper" on the baby flat tops that were being assembled. I enjoyed the job and participated with my father in a number of special events and programs that were a part of shipyard life. It was on one of these occasions that I first heard a man play a musical saw. We did have a chance to take some side trips and visited Portland, and Mount Hood. We had mess cards and ate in a large cafeteria. It was the first time I had tasted fresh salmon and it was delicious. It did rain a lot however, which seemed to make people a little moody sometimes. I was sad on having to leave when the summer was over, but it was back to high school. It was my third year, and I was approaching eighteen by the time the school year was over. I pressured my parents to allow me to join up. Finally they did.

Dear reader, now you see how very enjoyable it is to painlessly fall asleep browsing through these most boring stories. I feel grateful to you for allowing me to do such a good job and being successful at it. With this in mind, please turn to STORY NINE and once more you'll be totally relaxed, I'll assure it. Thank you.

©1990 Herbert Holzbauer

published @1996 edition S.p.N.LAUB

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