|
|
 |
|
PART NINETEEN ON THE ROAD AGAIN
|
THE ROAD TRIP CONCLUDES
A Jewish convention, lots
of relatives & Williamsburg
|
This column concludes a four-chapter account of the trip 15-year-old Gerald took with his 51-year-old dad by rail across the USA. |
By GERALD NACHMAN
of TheColumnists.com
After New York, it was all pretty much downhill, or down south anyway. The next leg of the trip took us to Washington and Virginia Beach, our final destination.
My father and I must have seen all the sights tourists see in New York, but all I can recall half a century later is watching the Dodgers play at Ebbets Field, eating at Sardi’s, seeing two Broadway shows and staying at my cousin Sadie’s big house on Great Neck and being driven into Manhattan each day in her chauffeured limo. The driver would drop us off at Sadie’s fur salon in the morning while we saw the sights before returning home with her by limo, not a bad way to see New York for the first time, spoiling me forever.
Our trip east must have been a major family event, because an obscure cousin and his wife drove down from Boston to meet us at a huge backyard lobster dinner Bob and Sadie threw in our honor. The lobster had been “flown in” from Maine, we were told--quite a big deal, it seemed, even though I was unable to choke down more than a few bites of this alleged New England delicacy, the first and last lobster I’ve ever eaten.
It was a big garden party, with Chinese lanterns, but all I recall is standing around in sweltering heat in a big backyard feeling bored and conspicuous as various anonymous relatives tried to engage me in conversation about what we’d seen. Dutifully, I mentioned the Empire State Building, the Staten Island Ferry and Radio City Music Hall, but all I could think about were those leaping, leggy, sizzling “Can-Can” girls I’d seen a few days before at the Shubert Theater.
In Washington, D.C., we went to Arlington Cemetery and I was riveted at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier by the changing of the guard, the most incredibly stirring thing I’d ever witnessed. I almost had to be pulled away, so we could visit the statue of the flag-raising on Mt. Surabachi, the second coolest thing I’d ever seen.
After these two moving displays, we gawked at the Lincoln Memorial and walked to the top of the Washington Monument, drenched in sweat. By then, I was an unabashed American patriot, albeit miserable from the oppressive weather of Washington in July.
The only other noteworthy event in the Capitol was forming a mild crush on a newfound cousin, Amanda, a perky redhead with a beguiling Southern accent; it was strange to hear Jews with Southern accents, let alone any named Amanda. I had no idea Washington was so full of Southerners, all of whom lived in brick houses. My one-way crush on Amanda lasted 48 hours, before we headed further south to Williamsburg, Va.
My dad was fascinated by Colonial Williamsburg, a much-hyped mid-Fifties phenomenon that I found a fairly dull history lesson (a much livelier theme park, Disneyland, was still a year away) despite the young female guides stuffed into their colonial blouses as they demonstrated spinning wheels, pewter forges and early boot-making techniques--no match for those saucy can-can girls I’d left behind in New York.
Finally, we pushed on to Virginia Beach, site of the Pi Tau Pi conclave that my dad was attending, a fraternity convention of Jewish businessmen. I never was sure just what the purpose of the organization was, except to hold annual conventions. My father was greeted by everyone (“Lenny! Lenny! Over here! Ed Ziegler--from Cleveland!”… “Len Nachman? It’s Henry Friedkin--Miami! Good to see ya again, Len. That your kid, Len? Fine looking young man”).
Some of the men had their wives or girlfriends along, all having the time of their lives. I was the only teenager present and spent most of the three days reading in my room or on the beach, trying to keep out from underfoot so my dad could mix with friends. I turned up at meal times, however alien I felt. I’d never been around partying grownups before, a raucous, fairly bizarre scene I was glad to escape from each night, retreating to our room to watch TV or read a new book I’d found about circus people.
With the three-day convention behind us, we hit the road again for the return train trip home, this time via the Southern route, a long stretch about which all I remember is stops at the Grand Canyon and Los Angeles, where we stayed with my Uncle Carlyle, Aunt Helen and son Ronnie, who later became a delinquent runaway. My uncle had just purchased a high-tech gizmo called “a tape recorder,” with a microphone I got to speak into. Retracing our steps from an earlier trip, I insisted we go back to the Farmer’s Market and revisit my favorite Los Angeles site, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, to stare at the famous hand and foot prints in cement, a sort of glitzy Hollywood version of Sardi’s.
And then, suddenly, we were home again, six weeks after we’d pulled out of downtown Oakland on the Vista Dome bound for Denver. Nice as it would be to say that my father and I grew to know each other during our long trip East, in fact I wasn’t much closer to him than the day we’d left.
I’d got to know him a little better just by observing him interacting with old friends, boyhood pals and far-flung members of the Nachman clan. We had got along pretty well--no arguments--and somehow found enough to talk about, but there were no heart-to-heart chats, no revelations or insights, no transcendent life lessons or tight male bonding as new-found pals--nothing nearly that dramatic. I think we both just felt relieved that we had survived each other.
If I got anything out of the odyssey, apart
from the trip itself and discovering a part of America, it’s
the knowledge that my father had made a major effort to share
an experience with me, to let me see the country, to show me
his roots and meet the family he’d grown up with; maybe
he even wanted to show me off a little, but that never occurred
to me then. I had seen not just a part of America but a part
of my father I’d never visited. I’d been a tourist
in his world, where I’d seen him as not just my dad but
as an American, a Midwestern Peoria boy, and as the guy he was
before me. It was a start.
©2007 by Gerald Nachman. The Nachman caricature is ©2000
by Jim Hummel. The illustration, enhanced for this presentation,
is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd.
E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This special extract from
a work in progress is published by special arrangement with the
author. All inquiries about this work should be directed to the
author by use of the Talkback feature below. This excerpt first
posted here July 2, 2007.
|
|
You can comment on this column online. Please address your message to either "The Editors" or Gerald Nachman. To send an email, click here and don't forget to mention Gerald's name: talkback@thecolumnists.com
|
|
|
Archives |
|
|