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How many of us were caught up in that awkward 6-month period between Paterson’s January graduating class and leaving for college in the fall?
In my case, I had been “skipped” a half year at Paterson Public School 21 during the fifties. Looking back, it was a bad decision by my parents, probably prompted by my mother’s desire to brag about me. Even worse, it led to my graduation from School 21 in January, 1957, and Eastside in January, 1961.
While at EHS, I became “best friends” with an Italian kid, Harry Barbaris. Harry was studious and gravitated to the Jewish kids more than Italians. His mother called me her “Jewish son” and would make me a separate dish if I was eating there and didn’t like the Italian meal she prepared. (We took Harry to the Nevele for a weekend where he asked for a glass of milk during a meat meal and learned about ‘The Mountains’).
By the time we graduated, the group Harry and I were closest with included Howie Bromberg, Len Weintrob, Bob Nussman, Gerry Hoffspeigel, Stan Shane and a few others. We were all in limbo trying to get to September without doing too many stupid things. We played cards a lot, went to parties, lost money at Yonkers and Roosevelt Raceways, bowled a lot, golfed a little, ate at The Bonfire and, of course, since the drinking age in New York was 18 instead of 21, drove to New York City to drink. One night we tried to save money by parking on a dark city street and on the way back we were mugged by about 10-12 kids. At least they left us with enough money to get through the Lincoln Tunnel and get home safely.
Being the only child—a son, yet—of older parents (they were both in their forties when I was born), I was spoiled quantum leaps beyond “rotten.” As I approached my 17th birthday and graduation, my father told me he would buy me new car, anything I wanted (except a Corvette, which of course was the one I wanted). I’ve told people over the years that I was deprived as a child because my parents wouldn’t buy me a Corvette and I had to settle for a 1961 Pontiac Bonneville convertible, but I rarely get sympathy on that score. I flunked my driving test on the day Kennedy was inaugurated, and passed the following week.
Harry had decided he was going to be a doctor, and his parents gave him a new Chevy Impala convertible. As typical 17-yearolds with new convertibles, we had the tops down the first time the temperature hit about 35 degrees. And when we found some wide open roads, of course we needed to race like idiots to see which car was faster. Lucky we didn’t kill ourselves!
Harry and I finally got jobs as stock boys at Sterns on Route 4. We made $1.25 an hour, and the take home pay for 40 hours came to $36.72 weekly. The managers at the store hated us. Most of them were driving old vehicles and every morning when parking in the employees’ area they had to see the $1.25 an hour stock boys arrive in one or the other brand new convertibles.
Finally it was time to start the next phase of our lives. I headed off to Syracuse and Harry left for Georgetown, with our other friends moving ahead to their own educations and professional lives. Howie had a successful Garment District business, Bob became an accountant, Gerry is retired in Las Vegas, Stan’s in Boston and all of us who have made it this far seem to be doing well. (I have ended up about 180 degrees from how I grew up. I live in a tiny rural village in upstate New York (Vernon, about halfway between Syracuse and Utica). There are exactly two traffic lights in the entire town, and I think of it as “Mayberry RFD with snow.” But there is a harness racetrack here, and for the last twelve years I have owned horses that race at Vernon Downs as my primary post-retirement hobby.
Harry did not make it this far. He had become Chief of Surgery at one of the largest hospitals on Long Island. He made it to our 40th reunion in 2001, but five years later he was too ill to come to the 45th. Most of us spoke to him on the phone that night knowing we would not see him again, and he died shortly after.
When I graduated from Syracuse in 1965—with Vietnam becoming very serious very quickly—I had to make decisions. I could have gone to Syracuse Law School (where I would have been a classmate of Joe Biden), but I joined the National Guard instead so I could start my career in advertising earlier. Howie Bromberg told me to join his combat engineers unit at Teaneck Armory, but I walked into the wrong room and six days after graduating I was a member of the N.J. Guard—in the infantry.
I couldn’t get a job in New York until I completed my six months active duty, so I was back in Paterson, taking a variety of jobs—selling suits at Robert Hall, being the mail boy in the advertising department at Two Guys from Harrison, and I worked for Alexander’s for exactly one hour before quitting because they wouldn’t let me smoke in the stockroom like Sterns had done. Eventually it was off to Fort Dix and then Ft. McClellan, Alabama. We were all concerned about being activated for Vietnam, but our only “combat” was the Newark riots, and I remember riding back to Teaneck on the top of an armored personnel carrier, with drivers on the Garden State Parkway waving and cheering us, and many people in Teaneck waving flags as we returned to the armory.
We were lucky. We “boomers” born in North Jersey (and particularly Paterson in my opinion) were born in the “sweet spot” of both our city and our nation. It was safe to take a bus at night and walk home to Eighth avenue in the dark from either Eleventh avenue or Tenth, depending on the first bus to reach City Hall. I dated a girl in East Paterson before I had a car and there was no danger walking from there back home, almost an hour’s walk.
And we were blessed with a great education at Eastside led by teachers such as Moe Liss, Al Weiss, and Ralph Rudnick. Of course I’m aware of all that’s happened since—I actually lived in California when “Lean on Me” came out and I drew a lot of strange looks when I sang the Alma Mater during the movie.
In Paterson, we had a great “Y’ to go to, with trips to New York for movies, Yankees games, and other activities. I recall having a political debate there with Lenny Drexler. He took Kennedy’s side ahead of the 1960 election and I had Nixon. No surprise—he won. (I actually re-connected with Lenny and Geri about 25 years later—we both had moved to the same town in Indiana, of all places).
We had security, opportunity and a tranquil nation to grow up in back then. I fear that all of our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will not be able to enjoy their formative years the way we did.
Joe Marcoe
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