The 1940’s….my childhood

In 1943, wearing my Easter bonnet and navy spring coat, my mother brought me to a Sheepshead Bay photography studio. The shop owner displayed my picture in his window. An executive of New York’s Walter Thornton Modeling Agency lived in the area. He called my mother, proposing a modeling contract. During the next few years, until I lost my front teeth, I worked as a child model. I appeared in newspaper and magazine ads, clothing catalogs, point of purchase ads, and a roadside billboard. Most of the shoots were done at manufacturer’s showrooms, some at store locations. The Nucoa oleo-margarine billboard was shot on location, in Brooklyn, and I remember it clearly. I was with a blond boy, possibly four years old. We were photographed in a vacant lot, amidst tall weeds. I fed the boy a piece of bread spread with Nucoa oleomargarine. Months later, my mother and I saw the billboard from the window of a train we were riding in.  My face and body were huge, and I was amazed at the gigantic image.

Sandy Wexler and I were best friends from 1946-1951, when my family moved to another part of Sea Gate. Her mother, Lucille, brought us to Manhattan for Saturday outings.  Many times, she would drop us at Radio City Music Hall to see a film, meeting us under the marquee when the film ended.  Other times, we would skate at Rockefeller center’s ice rink, and Lucille disappeared for those hours, too.  Sandy loved to skate.  Wearing a skating skirt and beautiful, white skates, she was a lovely sight.  I rented ugly, black skates, and never developed the coordination necessary to balance on those blades.  My ankles caved in after a few minuets, and I pushed myself along until it was time to rest and enjoy a hot cocoa.I will always remember the incident that ended our Saturday outings forever.  Returning home in the early evening, Lucille was at the whell, and Sandy and I rode in the back seat. On the elevated Gowanus parkway, the car careened from side to side, scraping along the guard rails, sparks flying.  Sandy and I held each other, but didn’t say a word about Lucille’s driving, or the familiar, sour smell in the car. I remember being terrified, thinking we would crash at any moment.

When we arrived home, Lucille exited the car and promptly vomited all over the street. All the neighbors came to their windows to see the commotion, and she called them “Uppity Jews”, who ostracized her. Screaming obscenities, venting anger and frustration, she couldn’t stand up, was falling-down drunk. Bill ran out of the house and quietly led her to their apartment. I ran home, and watched the scene from my bedroom window, feeling embarrassed for my friend, Sandy.

Spending a lot of time in their apartment, I observed Lucille’s drinking first hand.  When we saw her with a glass and bottle, we left and played somewhere else. She was a very unhappy woman, and I felt sorry for her, but didn’t want to be in her presence, either. Near the end of the 1940’s, Lucille and Bill had a child, Mary, but their marriage was always “stormy”, as my mother used to say. I believe that many years later, Lucille divorced Bill, and he remained in the house until his death in the 1970’s. Mary lived there into adulthood, even after marrying, having a child, and divorcing. She inherited the apartment house when Bill died, and may be living there, still.

There were at least thirty children living within two blocks of my house. All ages mingled, for the most part. We played stick-ball, marbles, hopscotch, potsy, red light/green light, dollies, and “house”. On rainy days, we entertained the neighborhood with variety show performances staged in Susan Goldman’s big basement recreation room. In winter, there were team snowball fights, and the most memorable winter sport: we were pulled through the snowy streets hanging for dear life onto sleds tied to the bumper of the Sea Gate Bus.In good weather, children were always out of the house. When darkness fell, everyone went home for dinner. We rode our bikes everywhere, and I remember the day my shiny red, 28” Columbia bicycle was delivered by the UPS man.  Grandpa Rube assembled it, and I was liberated…wheels that took me everywhere. I rode all over Sea Gate, to my cousins in Coney Island, the length of Brooklyn’s Ocean Parkway and through Prospect Park, and the length of the boardwalk to Brighton Beach.  The world was a safe place in the 1940’s, and I ventured out into the world, alone. As long as I was home by dark.

In summer, our life was spent on the beach, every day.  Always an early riser, I left for the beach around 8 A.M. Most days, my mother and Dickie were still asleep when I left; they arrived later in the morning. Too early for the crowds, the beach was practically deserted. But, there was a bald, blue-eyed man, around 50 years old, sitting at the back of the beach, near our family’s usual spot. I said “hello”, and he asked my name. Two or three mornings each week, we would swim together for two hours. After our exercise and some conversation, he would use the locker room to change clothes, and leave. A driver and black limousine waited for him. He did not live in Sea Gate. His name was“Reilly”, and he and I conversed and swam together, became friends.

He gave me tickets to a Brooklyn Dodger game at Ebbets Field. My Mother, Father, and I, went to the game. The seats were in the second row, near home plate. It was very exciting, and even though I didn’t know anything about Baseball, I was a Dodger fan.

At the end of the summer, Reilly told me there would be 3 tickets to the Aquacade, a water ballet show performed in Queens, waiting at the box office under his name. When we arrived at the show, we were escorted to front row seats. My parents never met Reilly, and if we hadn’t taken advantage of his kindness, they might have thought him an imaginary friend.

Our summer relationship was an important part of my life for four years, beginning in 1949. But, in 1953, I waved hello to Reilly, and walked past him to the blanket where my new “teenage” friends were gathering. My life was moving on, I was growing up. I don’t remember him visiting Sea Gate after that. I recall that he once told me he was a NYC Commissioner, but I never knew for certain where his title applied. I know for certain that he was one hell of a swimmer, and so was I. That was our bond.