My parents told me we were moving to a "middle class housing project" in Queens. I guess they were right. The Arverne Houses, a series of 6-story red brick buildings, stood between the Atlantic Ocean and Jamaica Bay. The jets out of Idlewild Airport, later to be named JFK, flew overhead with great frequency. The noise didn't bother me. Actually it felt like freedom and power. Our family left crowded Manhattan for Far Rockaway and began a new life in these wide open spaces. The smell of sea air lingered all around.
On summer nights the kids would all gather around a grassy area, demarcated by chain link fences. Our building, 353 Beach 54th St., loomed nearby. My parent could summon me by shouting from the window of apartment 3E. The windows had steel frames. The utilitarian apartment buildings were built to last and they continue to last to the present day.
The kids, almost 90% Jewish, along with a few Catholic families and a sprinkling of African-American kids, found summer nights a good time for staging mock track meets. We had the animal strength of youth. We would circle that grassy patch, an asymmetrical oval, running and competing for stamina more than speed. Who could make the circle 10 times? 20 times? 30 times? We would walk the tops of the chain link fences like tightrope walkers, just to burn off energy and impress each other.
Ten years old and the pre-pubescent hormones had started to kick in. Who was out to impress? Myra, maybe Myrna or maybe Tina, all crushes from my sixth grade class. My best friends were three Jewish kids, Ira, the son of a bartender, and Larry, an Orthodox kid, and Joey, whose father had a tattoo signifying his survival of the concentration camps in Germany. The memory lingers, burned into my consciousness, a sold pillar of youth. Finally we would retreat back to our apartments. This was our America, red bricks, egalitarian, full of crazy kids games like Ringolevio and Johnny-On-The-Pony. One big kid named Eisenberg could not be brought down in Ringolevio-- maybe a future fullback for Far Rockaway High School?
We broke into teams for Johnny-On-The-Pony and the pony was a fire hydrant. The goal, pile as many teammates as possible on top of each other with the fire hydrant as a center of gravity to support all of us.
Feels like a Jack Kerouac vision before I knew about On The Road or had much of an inkling of west of the Mississippi. The innocence of youth, a Fifties America. I loved everything-- Mickey Mantle, the United Nations and the Disney TV show on Sunday nights. My frontier land stood just outside the apartment building.
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