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Tuesday, June 26, 2018

I saw sparkling lights...




When the World was Young

My father owned several bars in Brooklyn.  I was in one once that was very spare, just a bar and few tables. 

The major one was on Flatbush Avenue, and it was more of a club than just merely a bar.  It was quite large, the bar itself was a horseshoe shape.  There were booths to one side, and on the other was open floor and a bandstand, then further over more booths. In the back was a jukebox.  Over in a back corner was the tiny coat check room. 

Behind that was the kitchen, although no real food was ever served. I suppose it was used for storage.  The stove was a gigantic old, black iron monster that actually scared me.  My father made me a grilled cheese sandwich on it once, which was wonderful, but I never wanted that thing turned on again!

Both long walls with the booths were covered from halfway up and to the ceiling with continuous mirrors.  In the middle portion of the bar, where the shelves of liquor were, the top portion was also mirrored.  In the light of day it was dark, as the walls, what portions were exposed, were painted black.  But at night it was transformed and became a sparkling wonderland, like the twinkling of so many fireflies
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The basement had the pungent odor of beer kegs, which I used to “ride” and pretend they were horses.

I think I only went to the bar when I was preschool age, as I don’t remember going much afterwards.  Either my mother didn’t want to leave me with my older siblings or, the more likely scenario, they had strong objections.  So I was carted around.

That bar, while I sipped on a 7-Up, was where I heard Ray Charles for the first time.  It was daytime, with wan sunshine coming through the tiny windows, and as I sipped and watched dust particles dance and float in the pale shaft of sun, there was  that unforgettable voice.

At Christmastime my mother decorated this bar. She used scrunched up aluminum foil to spell out “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year” in giant cursive and taped them to the mirror walls. Pink puffy “trees” behind the bar. There was also paper garland, which my father tacked up to the rafters while he stood high up on a ladder.  I watched from below, mouth agape.  Then he dropped a tack.  It made a bee line right down my throat.  The next thing down my throat was my mother’s finger.  Suddenly I was rushed to a hospital or doctor.  I remember the ominous x-ray machine.  Nothing was done.  My mother had to examine my poop until the tack came out, which it did.  No damage done.  I was not old enough to understand what the fuss was about.

Sometimes my father’s regular coat check lady wasn’t there, so my mother would fill in.  I loved being there at night, that was when it was magical
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There is nothing that compares to live music.  It doesn’t matter how far technology has come, there is still nothing like it.  And the music was so wonderful.  I knew the songs, “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter,” “Young at Heart,” “Only You,” “Sincerely.”  The jukebox had Chuck Berry, Sinatra, Patti Page, Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis.
  
I would be plunked into the back corner most booth near the coat check room.  I would be given crayons and papers and a soda, and I would sit there quietly and happily.

I looked forward to seeing what everyone would wear, including my mother.  She was a fashionista in her time and had many beautiful dresses and shoes.  She was slim, so everything looked good on her.
Then there were the patrons. All the young men in suits and ties.  But the ladies!  White gloves, heels and belted dresses that flared out, some with petticoats.  Floral prints, solids, modern designs.  Everyone with hair “just so.”  They danced, they talked, they had a couple of drinks.  It was like a party. 
 
I probably fell asleep at some point on these evenings.  The booths had ample space for a 5 year old to stretch out and drift off.  I never, for one moment, felt unsafe.

It feels like a dream now.  Although I know that things were not wonderful for a great many people, the fact is, economically, more people were comfortable then than now.  My mother didn’t have a job.  We had plenty of clothes, furniture, heat, food.  We used to go to the movies once a week.  FIVE of us.  We used to go out to eat.  Nothing fancy (well, sometimes) but nevertheless, dinner out was a fairly regular thing.  So much so that this five year old knew how to behave, mostly because I loved it.

I grew up thinking that was the way things were and would probably always be.  Of course, I understand that was foolish and naive.  Never did I dream that I would go on to work for 44 years.  Never did I dream that the value of the working dollar would go down rather than up.  Never did I dream that health insurance would be a major, fear inducing, finance busting decision on an annual basis.  Television was free.  Telephones and their use was nearly free.  There was a standard of living for “regular” people that was dignified and comfortable and it was the middle class norm.

Most restaurants now are chains.  They are noisy, filled with blaring canned music, multiple TVs that no one can hear, acoustically painful environments where casual conversation is impossible.  Dress up?  Why?  Everyone is in jeans and tee shirts.  The food, usually, is mediocre, much the same from place to place, yet overpriced.

Due to age and arthritis, I don’t wear dresses or even low heels anymore.  But I recently had an event to attend were “dressing” was required.  I chose loose black slacks, a black and white blouse, and a soft, loose black jacket. I wore the sparkly earrings my daughter bought for me.  While there, I noticed that many other older women were making similar choices.  Still, it felt good to “dress up” and be among others who had done the same.  It felt, somehow, deeply respectful and appropriate.
 Later, my husband and I went to a quiet little bar.  The music was low, there was one television, on low, behind the bar.  We, along with the others there, were in a tiny booth and conversations were occurring.  It made me recall those nights of my long ago childhood. 

I know now that my childhood belief was all illusion and lies.  My family shattered to pieces not too long afterward.  Everything I thought was real and true was not.  It took me longer to come to the realization that everything I was fed to believe about my country was also fairy tale and lie, the supremacy of everything American, all of its goodness and light.  All lies.  I understand that now. 
Still in all, there was some truth, and that was the quality of life.  It was better then.  The “happy days.”  We all had enough.  Some had more, some had less, but we all had enough, and that was good. 

The extreme economic disparity that now exists is destroying our society.  It is not that there aren’t solutions, there just isn’t anyone interested in initiating those solutions.  No one should lose everything because they get sick.  People should not need multiple jobs to survive.  We have made small strides in inclusion and tolerance only to be thwarted once again into an atmosphere of divisiveness, fear, brutality and unnatural hatred.  It seems to me there should be some joy to this life, not just never ending work and worry.  And certainly not daily fear.  I know it can be done, I know people can do better because I remember when they did.  I remember it and it was magical, it sparkled, like so many fireflies.

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