1960s bronx – The Bronx We Knew

Ed and Millie never fought. I came to this conclusion about my neighbors on Westervelt Avenue as I swirled a piece of my waffle into a pool of maple syrup and watched, for the hundredth time, as Ed backed his dark blue Pontiac out of the garage and up his driveway onto the driveway behind his.

On school days my breakfast time coincided with Ed’s departure for work. From my place at the kitchen table, I’d watch as Ed then rolled the car forward and began the turn onto the access road that would exit onto Mace Avenue. There at the turn he would pause, smile in the direction of his kitchen window, and wave. I never saw him fail to do this.

He and Millie must never fight, because if they had just had an argument would he still wave and smile?

Ed and Millie, at this point, had passed middle age by a fair distance, but they were so active and energetic that no one considered them old. Ed, however, liked to say he was “as old as Methuselah.”

Millie, petite and slender, had alabaster skin that crinkled into networks of deep lines. Her silver-gray eyes matched her hair. Ed’s gray hair was all but gone at the top. A tall and sturdy man, he had laugh lines etched into his face and blue-gray eyes that smiled behind wire-framed glasses. His neat-as-a-pin appearance, even while wearing work clothes, gave him a dignified aspect.

Like other stay-at-home wives of the 1960s, Millie had a daily routine. One day a week, soon after the wave from the window, she would leave the house by the back door with her collapsible shopping cart for the short walk to Eastchester Road and the Associated Food Store. An hour later she would return, towing the cart crammed with brown grocery bags.

On other mornings I’d see her in the backyard hanging the wash on the freestanding clothesline. When I was very young and confined to my fenced-in backyard, she would sing out across our side-by-side driveways: “I love you, a bushel and a peck,” and I’d sing back, “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” This would be our standard greeting for years to come, and Millie would often add that she loved me before I was born.

Whatever Millie’s workload for the day, she would complete enough of it by early afternoon for a stretch of free time for herself. This she typically spent in the living room, specifically in the elbow of the sectional sofa where various projects and pastimes awaited her attention. Beside her sat her knitting bag stuffed with colorful yarn, knitting needles jutting out like TV antenna ears. Neatly arranged on the coffee table within easy reach lay the Daily News, a book of crossword puzzles, two sharpened pencils, the TV Guide, a box of tissues, and a box of assorted chocolates that never seemed to have more than a few pieces missing. It was a scene of organized clutter in an immaculate room.

An item we did not possess also had a place on the coffee table—the television remote control. This latest bit of technology—along with their color TV, an anniversary gift from their children and grandchildren—set Ed and Millie apart from their neighbors. When a glance at the clock showed it was time for As the World Turns, Millie would reach for the remote. Never one for idle hands, her fingers worked the knitting needles as she watched her program, the afghan-in-progress draping her knees and cascading to the floor.

The male member of the household set his mark upon this room as well. Spread across the fireplace mantel, nose to tail, stood Ed’s herd of brass horses. A set of antlers hung over the archway that separated the living room from the dining room. On the side table beside his armchair Ed kept his particular things, including another brass horse and a box of Kleenex Man Size tissues.

Later in the afternoon Millie plucked the laundry off the clothesline and then started dinner. She might also take on a baking project. Modern woman of the 1960s that she was, Millie embraced convenience. Taking advantage of cake mixes and refrigerated dough, she rarely baked from scratch. But whether it was a wedge of chocolate cake or a half-dozen cinnamon buns, she frequently shared those desserts with us.

Sometimes I’d get advance notice, if Millie happened to see me coming home from school. As if she couldn’t keep the surprise to herself any longer, she’d call out, “I’ll be ticking your bell later.”

I knew what that meant. And when 5:00 rolled around and our doorbell “ticked,” there stood Millie holding out a plate of something fresh from the oven, sheathed with plastic wrap stretched to shiny smoothness. When she placed her offering into my happy little hands, warmth penetrated the plate, spread across my palms, and projected comfort that went beyond the appeal to the sweet tooth. This unexpected gift spoke of a caring neighbor who wanted to share not just a treat, but the joy that accompanies life’s little surprises.

On summer evenings, as the aroma of after-dinner coffee seeped through their windows, Ed, with shirtsleeves rolled up, would come out to hose down his lawn. As soon as he shut off the water, coiled up the hose, and sat down on the stoop, the neighborhood kids would converge on him, sprawling at his feet or dangling near his head from the iron railings. His playful sense of humor sent us into gales of laughter, as he had a never-ending supply of jokes just right for the youngest among us. (“When I get up in the morning I wash my teeth and brush my face.”)

Saturday evenings were different. At 7:20 sharp, Ed, dressed in suit and tie, would back the Pontiac out of the driveway and make a solitary trip to Holy Rosary Church, where he served as an usher at the 7:30 Mass.

It troubled us when he was diagnosed with cancer of the larynx, and we endured his absence while he recovered from surgery that replaced his voice box with a mechanical one. After that, our evenings with him dwindled down. But he never failed to smile at us, and he never failed to wave.

As the northeast Bronx continued to develop, the small shops near the northeast corner of Mace Avenue and Eastchester Road gave way to a supermarket originally established by the Kruger family. Taken over by a succession of chains over the years, its various names included Pioneer, C-Town, Met Food, and Associated.

Most of the neighborhood kids were handed a short shopping list and sent there pretty much every day after school, sometimes twice a day during summer vacation. As a result, we all developed an intimate familiarity with every crevice of the store’s cramped, narrow aisles. We came to know the workers pretty well, too.

The deli department, managed and run solely by Louie, occupied the area to the immediate right of the entrance.

Soft and round, with a soft round head, ruddy cheeks, and warm brown hair that wrapped the back of his head—ear to ear—like a fur collar, Louie was middle-aged and spoke with the accent of many of our Jewish neighbors. Affable and ever smiling, always eager to be of service, he made you feel as if he’d been waiting all day just for you. He welcomed all who approached his deli counter with a hearty greeting: “What can I get for you today?” Then he’d scuttle away to fill the order.

With characteristic enthusiasm, Louie answered a curious kid who had inquired about an orange slab displayed on a platter inside the refrigerated deli case. He explained that it was called lox and that it tasted great with cream cheese on a bagel.

“Would you like to taste it, darling?”

She certainly did not, and declined politely.

Taken aback, he persisted. “You should always try something new. Here, have a little taste.”

With that, Louie lopped off a slice the size and shape of a cat’s tongue, and held it out.

The child took the cold, slippery piece and held it tentatively. “What, I should eat it for you? Taste it already.” Louie’s face lit up with the anticipation of seeing a joyful reaction to a delicious first treat. As she put it into her mouth, Louie’s expression of delight instantly changed to one of concern.

“You don’t like it. That’s all right, darling. It’s a taste you grow into. Here,” he said, handing her a piece of deli wrap. “Spit it out.”

Louie was so genial, and so much like a friend, that this same child soon broached him with another question that had been dancing around in her mind forever.

“What are those?” she finally asked, pointing to a stack of small rectangular blocks on his countertop. With their brown and white wrappers, they looked like candy bars. But why the depiction of a mysterious man in a turban and moustache on the label? And what did HALVAH mean?

“You don’t know what halvah is?” Louie seemed disappointed. “It’s like candy. You want a taste?”

She was astonished to think he would open up the merchandise just for her. “No…no thank you, Louie. I don’t want to try it.” She tried to sound firm, but a meek refusal was all her shyness would allow.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Louie said, gleefully unwrapping a bar and slicing through the chocolate coating to reveal the off-white insides of the confection. With a beaming smile he handed her the piece, explaining that it was made of ground sesame seeds sweetened with honey. Then he watched closely for her reaction.

His expression changed in an instant.

“You don’t like it.”

She didn’t want to hurt Louie’s feelings again. But there was no use pretending. “It’s…okay.” she gasped out. “Not bad.” She didn’t like it and he knew it.

Back in the days of Louie, there was also Richie, who stocked the shelves. From the vantage point of two ten-year-old girls, Richie was 20ish and tall, with dark longish hair, dark eyebrows, and a quiet demeanor. His head was always down, his attention always on his task, his hair falling across his eyes as if to hide from the world—or to shield the world from what those eyes might reveal.

With great discretion the girls observed Richie from afar, learning first-hand what those clichés of song and story meant about someone who was “tall, dark, and handsome,” and “the strong, silent type.” One day when the girls worked up the nerve to ask Louie about him, Louie’s smiling face turn somber. Whatever sad story Louie related is lost now, but it touched them and made them look at Richie with new eyes.

On their frequent trips to Associated the girls walked up Mace Avenue, passing the side of the store where an overhead door was often open to accept deliveries. At those times they would have to wind their way between the truck ramps and the off-loaded crates. Sometimes Richie would be out there in his gray smock, helping to unload. But most often the girls would find him near the dairy case stacking quarts of milk or Dannon’s yogurt—plain, strawberry, and dutch apple. Seeing reliable Richie was uplifting, despite his sad silence. There was a feeling of security in finding him always there, until the day he wasn’t.

In this neighborhood of mostly first- and second-generation German, Irish, and Italian immigrants, the homemakers of the neighborhood—always the women back then—did the big shopping once a week. Most of them didn’t drive. The rare woman who did drive did not have access to the family car on weekdays because her husband drove it to work. (Later, as more women and the teenagers of the family started driving, two-car households became more common.) The no-car women either towed their brown bags of groceries home in wheeled, upright carts or they requested delivery at checkout. For home delivery, items were boxed, not bagged. Within minutes of getting home, the groceries would arrive. Sometimes the groceries made it to their front doors before they did.

When we were old enough to get working papers, many of us applied to Associated for a summer or after-school job. By that time the classmates we had gone from kindergarten through grade 8 with had scattered to the various high schools around the Bronx. The store then became a place for meeting up with old friends as well as for making new ones.