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Where the Rubber Meets the Road

Published February 28, 2012 by monicastangledweb

Lately, I’ve been thinking about driving.

Because, I recently had the chance to attend an awesome Adventures by the Book event for best-selling author, Jennifer Niven, and her book, Velva Jean Learns to Fly, which is the story of Velva Jean Hart, a fiercely independent young woman from rural Appalachia. Well, it just so happens that this book was preceded by another written by Niven, titled, Velva Jean Learns to Drive. Which just goes to show you, that Velva Jean sure gets around.

Posing with my first car.

There was a time when I, too, had to learn how to drive. In fact, I cut my teeth clocking hours and hours of mad-dash driving through the streets of Washington, D.C., and New York City. The trick is to not look at the other lanes, whether you’re barreling down New Hampshire Avenue or heading to the Holland Tunnel. Otherwise you’ll likely start to panic when you realize that a three-lane road has been stretched to fit five lanes of traffic—cars, taxis, bicyclists, buses and trucks.

Driving on these roads taught me how not to let other cars merge into your lane, lest they slow you down. I’m sure anyone who’s driven in these cities knows what I’m talking about: it’s hardcore, aggressive, every-man-for-himself driving. So, as a result, I got a lot of practice under my belt. But it didn’t start that way.

In high school, I was lousy at driving. The worst. On the first day of my driver’s ed class, there were three of us in the car, along with our teacher, Mr. Simon. When it was my turn to get behind the wheel, Mr. Simon directed me to get onto the freeway. Talk about indoctrination. My blood pressure never rose so quickly.

This was my first time behind the wheel—ever! Needless to say, I didn’t know squat about merging, let alone merging in front of trucks, and when Mr. Simon asked me to get into the right lane, there was a humongous truck there, and so I ended up getting in front of it with inches to spare. And, when I slammed on the brakes, all because the driver of the truck blared its tootin’ horn at me, I nearly caused an accident.  I don’t think Mr. Simon had ever seen a driver more pathetic than me.

I ended up flunking the driving test three times, the first time because I got into the car on the driver’s side instead of the passenger side, as I was supposed to do. Anyway, you know what they say: Third time’s the charm, and so I figured driving just wasn’t in the cards for me, and I began to resign myself to living a car-free life.

All through college I relied on public transportation and the kindness of others, who’d offer to give me a ride once in a while. Then, I went to grad school and met Mandy, my roommate. That woman had the fortitude of a saint. (I’ve written about what a good egg she is in my post, Good Times with Country Boys.)

Mandy took this nervous wreck of a Nellie, and patiently turned me into a real honest to goodness, license-carrying driver—using her car, which was kind of risky, if you ask me. Mandy even drove me to the DMV on the day I had to take the test, and she cheered me on when I finally passed! (Mandy, if you’re reading this—thank you, so much. I still owe you one!)

Thanks to Mandy—and Marilyn, a wonderful friend I met in Seattle who taught me how to drive a manual—I am now quite adroit behind the wheel.  Only problem is, I tend to still drive as if I’m on the streets of D.C., and not on the laid-back roads of Southern California, where most drivers on the road act as if they have all the time in the world. As if everyday is Sunday morning, and they’re just going for a spin in the ol’ jalopy with Archie and the Gang.

Pausing at a STOP sign is not optional.

Unless, that is, you’re a pedestrian out for a walk with your, say, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, who goes by the name of, well…let’s just call him, Henry. Which is why, I’ve got to say:

To the fellow, driving a maroon SUV in my neighborhood this weekend:  Stopping at the STOP sign is NOT optional—especially when there’s a woman, with a bum knee, and her dog, trying to make it through the crosswalk in one piece, thank you very much!

Well, there you have it. Now, I can’t wait to read about Velva Jean’s adventures in driving and flying—and trust me, while I’ve conquered driving, flying for me, is out of the question!

So tell me, readers, what are your most memorable behind-the-wheel memories?

Empire State of Mine

Published January 27, 2012 by monicastangledweb

Not that anyone has asked, but I’ll say it anyway: I thank my lucky stars I grew up in New York.

I mean, when you think about it, when my parents left their country for the U.S.—just after World War II—they could have ended up anywhere. Today, I could be saying that I hail from Gainesville, Florida or, that I was born on a cattle ranch in Nacogdoches, Texas, assuming they have cattle in Nacogdoches. And, maybe if that had happened, I would be saying I like these places very much.

Ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center.

Or maybe, if their plane had been going at warp speed and shot right over the states, today I might be calling myself a Canadian. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. They have a beautiful national anthem, after all.

So, given the odds, it’s a wonder my folks made it to New York at all.  By the city that never sleeps. The Big Apple. Where Mad Men dreams come true. Home to Woody Allen, Lady Liberty, an empire state of mind, and, as it turns out–me!

Which means, I grew up shopping at the Macy’s flagship store in Manhattan—the very same one that inspired Miracle on 34th Street. I went to school at P.S. 154 and, later, to P.S. 117. We didn’t bother giving schools names; after all, New Yorkers don’t have time for such trivialities.

When I was a mere infant, my mother and her friend, who also had a baby, would push our baby carriages to the supermarket and park us out in front, while they went inside and did their grocery shopping. All the while, we, babies, would be innocently lulled to sleep by the cacophony of traffic on Main Street. Who had time for finding babysitters? The streets were our sitters!

Growing up in New York, meant class field trips to the United Nations, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Hayden Planetarium. Does it get any better than that?

A view from atop of the Empire State Building.

Every time there was a new film playing at Radio City Music Hall, my family was there, listening to the organist play while we took our seats (boring!), and seeing a movie (the Doris Day films were the best!). And, when the film was over, it was exciting to see the fabulous, New York City Rockettes, tapping and kicking away, in all their glory.

Growing up in New York meant waking up at the crack of dawn to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, live and in person. We saw it in all kinds of inclement weather, with pummeling, freezing rain being the worst. Best of all, growing up in New York meant I got to see many Broadway musicals, like The Sound of Music with Mary Martin, and My Fair Lady, with Julie Andrews. I also got to see Here’s Love, a musical version of Miracle on 34th Street that flopped, despite my seven-year-old self, predicting to my school chum, that it would be a big hit.

I LOVE the annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade!

Growing up in New York meant that, as a teen, I got to see up-and-coming journalist, Geraldo Rivera, and his One-to-One benefit concert at Madison Square Garden. The line-up included John Lennon, Stevie Wonder, Roberta Flack, and best of all, who can forget, Sha-Na-Na.

Growing up in New York means that I say “on line,” and not “in line” when I’m standing on a line and waiting my turn.

Being a kid in New York was so much fun that I’m hard pressed to find any drawbacks.

For, had I not grown up in NY, I would never have met Rod Serling in Central Park, back when he was still producing The Twilight Zone TV series.

Central Park in summer.

I wouldn’t have been able to read the local newspaper to keep up on that nefarious serial killer, David Berkowitz, aka, Son of Sam. And how would I have ever found a $20 bill at the Flushing subway station if I wasn’t in Queens at the time? Or mastered my cool, aloof, don’t-bother-me stare, while assertively striding through the streets of Manhattan?

Perhaps, too, I would never have eaten gads of steaks at Tad’s Steak House, only to learn they weren’t serving steaks at all. Horse meat was the meat du jour. Talk about indigestion.

And, I probably would never have experienced the hot, sweaty platforms at the subway station in summertime, or the crushing sensation that you feel when you wedge the subway doors open as they’re closing, because, if you don’t, who knows when the next train will come along?

Or the mobs of people everywhere, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in cramped restaurants, and dining so close you could almost kiss the stranger next to you on the cheek, but, why on earth would you?

I was raised in New York, which gives me carte blanche to call myself a New Yorker, or Nu YAWKER, depending on your accent.

New York and proud of it.

How about you? What makes your hometown special to you?

The Uptown Express

Published October 28, 2011 by monicastangledweb

When I was a kid growing up in Queens, we spent many weekends trekking into the city, and for us, there was only one way to get there:  the New York City subway system. We’d take the E or the F train to mid-town Manhattan. Once there, we became creatures of habit.

First, we’d go to Radio City Music Hall, where we’d take in the latest Doris Day flick, followed by a spectacular show, featuring the world-famous New York City Rockettes. Then, lunch at our favorite automat, the Horn & Hardart, where individual servings of Salisbury steak, macaroni and cheese, and warm apple pie were neatly displayed behind glass cubicles. You’d insert a few nickels in the coin-operated slot next to the food item of your choice. The door would unlock, and–voilà!–a fresh, tasty dish, piping hot from the oven, was yours for the taking.

"His Master's Voice" was RCA's trademark, depicting this real dog, Nipper, listening to his owner's voice on a phonograph.

After our meal, we’d cross the street to the RCA building, where you could see a life-size version of the RCA dog, proudly listening to his “master’s voice.” How I loved that terrier and so wanted one of my own.

Sometimes, we’d stop by the Time-Life building, too, to view the photo exhibit in the lobby area.  During the holidays, we were sure to visit Rockefeller Center and gaze upon the breathtaking Christmas tree, all decked out in dazzling lights that reflected upon the skaters below. Then, there were times when we’d take the uptown express to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I loved our trips to the city. Whenever we went, no matter where we’d go, these were magical times, indeed.

Taking the subway was the only way to go. If you ask me, it was the fastest way to maneuver through the city. I was fascinated by the long, pitch-black tunnels that stretched from one end of the city to the other, crisscrossing it (see map), in a mad-dash attempt to keep New Yorkers, moving.  I took comfort in the whoosh of the express train as it sped through each station. The rattle and clatter as it swayed side to side, and the lights that would turn off at random moments, leaving passengers in utter darkness.  It was enough to stir the imagination of any wide-eyed child. It was more than enough to inspire me to write this poem about the subway of my youth.

Laughter From the Uptown Express

We boarded the Uptown Express,

Mother, Older Brother and me,

On a clear afternoon in November.

The train heaved from the station,

Mother sighed, closed her eyes,

Brother tugged at his red bow tie,

While I pressed my face against the window,

Scummy from a thousand rides before.

Darkness swallowed us as the subway

Plunged ahead, grinding a path through the

Blackness, mad maze,

Screeching like nine monsters prowling

  In the night,

Racing like hungry rats down a crooked track,

Fingers curled tightly around the seat’s edge.

The lights flickered off inside when the train,

Rocked and reeled down a curve,

Shaking furiously till Brother fell against me,

And the door between cars flew–

OPEN!

Brother grabbed my arm as a lone woman,

In the doorway’s shadow swayed on flaming stilettos,

Elegantly wearing the glint of an emerald snake on her brow,

While the train howled down through the tunnel.

Moving toward Brother and me,

Frenzy spinning about her head like

Moths caught in a spark,

One thin arm reach above us and we cringed

In anticipation and—OH the lights came on!

The woman saw me shiver and Brother squirm

In his scarlet bow tie,

Her painted lips shaped a wild, cunning laugh,

Like purple goblins dancing maniacally in the wind.

The train slowed,

Grinding to its knees while Mother stretched

From a deep, somber sleep,

Glancing at Older Brother and me,

Meekly sitting beside her,

She took my hand and adjusted Brother’s crimson tie,

 Swiftly leading us off the train,

The door shut tightly behind us,

And as we reached the stairs on the platform above,

I could still hear the laughter from the Uptown Express.

Good Times with Country Boys

Published February 3, 2011 by monicastangledweb

Is it me or does anyone else feel like getting up and line dancing every time they see the GE Ecomagination commercial on TV?  You know which one I’m talking about. In the ad, people from around the world form one very long line, from the GE factory to the corporate offices, to an airfield where a jet plane is clearly marked with the GE logo, across a city street, through the GE research labs, and finally into the farmlands. And they’re all line dancing, in perfect formation, to the tune of Alan Jackson’s hit, “Good Time.”

Everyone's dancing in the GE Ecomagination Line Dance Commercial.

Well the tune is so darn catchy, and the people in the commercial seem to be having such a good time not working, that it makes me want to put on my cowboy hat, kick up my boots, and join them.  Only I don’t know how to line dance, and I don’t think dancing salsa or putting on my tap shoes and tapping, would have the same effect.  Besides, I don’t own a cowboy hat or Western boots.

Just the same, that 30-second video brings out the country in me. Now, I’ll be the first to admit, there’s not much country in this Latina from Queens.  But just so you know, I had my brush with country once upon a time.  And I still like to listen to country music radio when the mood fits, or when I’m remembering a couple of country boys named Scott and Roy.

The year was 1978. At the time, I was living in Greenbelt, Maryland, with my roommate, Mandy, and we were both attending a nearby university.  I’d been looking for a part-time job to no avail, and then one day Mandy, who’s also from New York, came home and told me she had talked the owner of a brand new Arco mini-mart into hiring us both on the spot.

The mini-mart, just down the street from our apartment complex, was to have its grand opening in a day or so.  Apparently, Mandy had seen the “Now Hiring” sign in the window and had gone right in and got us the jobs.  Just like that. We were to be cashiers, something I’d never done before and somehow it didn’t seem to matter that the new boss and I had not yet met.

Mandy and I ended up working separate shifts, so we never really saw each other at work. Through our jobs, we got to know the locals—and the mostly male regulars who came in every morning for their cup of coffee and pack of cigarettes, before heading to construction jobs or some other work that required them being outdoors and working with their hands.

Two, in particular, Scott and Roy, started hanging around the store whenever Mandy or I were working, just to chat and shoot the breeze.  With their sunburnt faces and ruddy features, they had a distinctive Southern charm. These good ol’ boys seemed to get a kick out of our New York accents and the fact that we’d never been to a country western bar.

So it wasn’t long before they started inviting us to these bars to give us a bit of that down-home experience.  We soon were knee deep in the heart of country—and a long way from midtown Manhattan—dancing the Two-step and listening to the likes of Charley Pride, Loretta Lynn and Willie Nelson.  This was Americana at its best, where Civil War re-enactments took place seemingly everyday and hushpuppies were served with just about every meal.  But while Roy and Scott lived in this world 24/7, Mandy and I were just passing through.  School would eventually end and we’d go back to our more urban lifestyles.

Sure enough, our adventures in country lasted close to a year. In May, after finals, Mandy graduated and moved back to New York. I stayed on another year but quit my job at the mini-mart for a different one I had found–on my own–at the local mall. We never did see Roy and Scott again. But I still see Mandy from time to time, whenever I get back to the city.

Yet, sometimes I find myself wondering, whatever happened to those country boys?  Maybe they’re part of that long line of line dancers in the GE commercial, still enjoying their country western ways.  I’d like to think that. If not, wherever they are, I sure do want to thank them for their Southern hospitality and for introducing a couple of Yankee gals to the best of country. Their country.

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Mr. New Year’s Eve

Published December 31, 2010 by monicastangledweb

Before there was “Dick Clark’s Rockin’Eve,” and before there was “New Year’s Eve with Carson Daly,” there was only one man who owned the annual celebration in Times Square:  Mr. Guy Lombardo.  Along with the Royal Canadians, Bandleader Guy Lombardo was known for his big band, swing style of music and for making New Year’s Eve a night to remember.

Bandleader Guy Lombardo, Mr. New Year's Eve

Beginning in 1929 on radio, and then transitioning to TV in the 1950’s all the way through 1976, the year prior to his death, Mr. Lombardo’s name was synonymous with the world-famous celebration in Times Square. What’s more, he and he alone is credited with popularizing the use of “Auld Lang Syne” at New Year’s celebrations in America.

Well, as far as my family was concerned, New Year’s Eve just wasn’t New Year’s Eve without watching Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians ring in the New Year on TV. How we looked forward to tuning in and watching him entertain us with his warm, homey smile and his baton at the ready. His music had a smooth style, easy on the ears, and he rang in the New Year with a panache and elegance that hasn’t quite been seen since, and is long gone from our cultural landscape.

I remember looking forward to watching Guy Lombardo on TV. When he came on live from the Roosevelt Hotel or later, from the Waldorf Astoria, it meant the New Year would be here soon. Like any kid, I loved being able to stay up. Even though we were in Queens, just a subway ride away from Times Square, we never got to see the ball drop in person. I suppose my family wasn’t interested in being pushed and shoved by the crowds the evening’s festivities would attract, or standing outside in the cold, frigid Manhattan air.  So, from the comfort of our home, wearing our flannel pajamas, we’d gather around the black and white television console like millions of Americans, to watch Mr. Lombardo conduct the Royal Canadians.

For Guy Lombardo was and always will be Mr. New Year’s Eve.  And somewhere, up in the sky, at this time of year, he must be holding his baton again and smiling. I bet anything, he’s thrilled to pieces to know that we’re still singing his signature song, “Auld Lang Syne.”  Let’s take a cup of kindness yet and let’s sing another chorus for Guy Lombardo and for all the memories he gave so many of us. And, let’s give a toast for the delight he brought to the greatest generation and to those of us who are their children. Those of us who remember.

Indeed, thinking of Guy Lombardo on this night of all nights, brings me back to our little brownstone in Flushing.  When we were young and greeting a new year was still exciting, and not necessarily a reminder of getting older and the sands of time slipping away sort of thing.

Happy New Year, Mr. Lombardo.  Happy New Year, Everyone!

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