spoiled brat

So for reasons only known to my subconscious, lately I’ve been dreaming a bit about my grandparents’ apartment in Brooklyn, New York. It’s weird … my grandmother Helen is in a few of the dreams, and occasionally my grandfather John will amble through, but for the most part, it’s just a lot of random events and actions happening in that apartment.

In terms of physical space, it really wasn’t that special—a second floor apartment with a living room, dining room, kitchen, a bathroom and two bedrooms (one of which was a den with a TV). To say that Helen kept it immaculate is an understatement—she used to scrub the walls every week for criminey’s sake! The decor was very 50s—slightly gaudy couches with plastic slip covers in the living room, which we almost never went in—green patterned loop carpet throughout, lots of overly detailed furniture. They did have a TV in the kitchen, which was on during pretty much every meal except formal Sunday dinner and holidays. Plenty of tchotchkes, of course.

I guess why the place sticks out in my mind is because it’s the only place and time that I was ever truly spoiled in my life.

I can’t recall exactly how many times my grandparents had me stay with them during summer vacation—I want to say it was at least three or four times, each time for a week, sometimes more. (I know I was definitely there the night they caught the infamous “Son of Sam,” the “.44 caliber killer,” David Berkowitz, which was in August 1977, when I was 12.) They did it to give my parents a break, but it was truly an awesome deal for me.

Essentially, I would be the king of the apartment—fully air conditioned, by the way, which was a luxury my parents could not afford back in our Connecticut home. Their Ford Granada had it also, but that wasn’t as sweet a deal because they both were chain smokers and the a/c would blow the smoke into the backseat; I’d be turning green as I clawed at the opera windows in the back.

But a little permanent brain and lung damage from second-hand smoke was really was a small price to pay.

To this day, I still say that Helen was the greatest cook I’ve ever known. She made me eggs and Sizzlelean every morning, although she kept trying to push real bacon on me—hey, I was just a kid, I didn’t know any better! Even though she would’ve made anything for me, I always asked for a sandwich at lunch; being a smart ass, one time I asked for “pheasant under glass.” She gave me pb&j with a drinking glass turned upside down on it. They also had the best pickles (from real New York delis) and what I thought was the sweetest nectar: Key Food black cherry soda.

Seriously though, her dinners were amazing, every night. How my grandfather John was not 300 pounds, I’ll never know, although I’m guessing the chain smoking helped. She never skimped on real ingredients (like butter), and cooked everything from scratch and memory. I still miss her chicken francaise; my wife had Helen write down the recipe before she passed away, and although Sue tries—and has gotten close—it’s not quite the same. (I do really appreciate the effort though.)

So even though I had run of the place, the best part of it all was “THE drawer.” The second drawer down (under the knick knacks and sundry tools drawer), it was originally designed as a bread box of sorts with a retractable tin cover on it, which was good because it was stocked with perishable treasures: junk food!!!

Like I mentioned with the meals, Helen never skimped on food, and that was evident by what was in this drawer: full-sized Hershey bars, Yodels, Fudge Town cookies, Big Wheels—all the “real deal” junk food of the 1970s, no cheap knock-offs! And being an indulgent grandmother, she essentially let me raid that drawer almost any time I wanted, and being a teenaged boy whose mother usually bought knock-off brands—Hydrox, ugh!—I indulged myself quite a bit! How I ever fell asleep, being jacked up on sugar the whole week, I’ll never know.

I remember sitting in the den in the morning while Helen cleaned, picking apart Yodels (I ate the chocolate coating first, then the cake) watching lots of bad late 70s daytime TV—”I Love Lucy” and “Gilligan Island” reruns, old Abbott and Costello movies on WPIX-11 on Sunday mornings and tons of cheesy game shows!

Fortunately, I didn’t have to just sit there and watch guys with loud ties give away Whirlpool refrigerators. Helen and John always had multiple places to take me. I’d always see at least on Mets game, hit Coney Island and the New York Aquarium—they’d also bring my cousin Jim along a lot, since he was close to my age and we got along very well. They also took me to “Great Adventure” (now Six Flags), Asbury Park (for frozen custard and skee ball) and to visit their friends The Gridellis in Bayville, Long Island—”Uncle Johnny and Aunt Kay” were well-to-do and owned Continental Candy, and in addition to having friends who owned yachts, had even more chocolate around!

Sweet, right?

And if all that wasn’t enough, we also went to a bunch of movies—two stand out:

• John took me to see Fort Apache, The Bronx, and there was a scene where a topless woman ran across the screen—I remember him squirming in his seat and just muttering, “Madonnnnn ….”
• After some cajoling, Helen took me to the The Blue Brothers, and even though “It only got two stars in the paper,” she really enjoyed it. “That fat guy doing all the backflips—he was great! The music, too!”

Yeah, it was a week every year where I was pampered and showered with unadulterated attention, and didn’t have to do anything other than be myself. As I now spend my days working, chauffeuring kids and keeping numerous balls in the air, I guess it’s not too much of mystery why I dream of that old apartment.

Sizzlelean, anybody?