Could everyone write one simple essay about something that once happened in Saltaire…that they saw or were a part of…and put it on one big website? Somebody should collect a lot of stories before we all forget. Otherwise it is like a line in “On The Beach” : The history of the war that now would never be written.” -(JO'H)

Thursday, February 1, 2024

"You Have to Talk to His Mother"







“You Have to Talk to His Mother”


“You have to talk to his mother. Explain to her that you have been having a problem with her son and it is making it hard for you to give your full attention to all your class.” 
That is what Uncle Pete told me. 

Uncle Pete  was the stern, gung-ho   Summer Camp director at Saltaire. The rest of the year, he was teacher, athletic director and football coach at Pleasantville High School in Westchester County. In World War 2 he was in charge of physical conditioning of US Army Airmen preparing them to get ready to go into air combat. Tough guy, he was.  But pretty much everybody loved him even though sometimes we thought that he ran  his day camp was run like he was still an Army drill master. 

Hearing him saying that I have to talk to this kid's mother, I was  thinking, but afraid to say it our loud: “Me? He wants me to talk to his mother? I'm fifteen years old." 

This was unbelievable. I had never said “no” to Uncle Pete before. Not years before when he had asked me to jump off the end of the dock into deep water for the first time; not when he asked me to play ball with much bigger boys; not when he asked me to lifeguard at the bay; not when he told me to “rescue” him in Junior Lifesaving.

All those things were tough, and I never said “no.” But he had never asked me to do anything like talking to a mother and telling her that her  eight year old kid was a brat. There was no way I could do that. She was old. Her husband was a Village Trustee. I was a 15 year old kid.

I was a counselor for Uncle Pete. I was doing great except for that one kid. This kid  always seemed to wander off, go into a funk, or just plain old disregard whatever we wanted him to do. He wasn’t a bad kid, just, well, difficult. At least difficult for me as a 15 year old counselor in my first summer on the job.

So I had gone to Uncle Pete and explained my difficulty, figuring that Uncle Pete would give the kid a scolding, or maybe have a talk with the parents. It never entered my mind that he would tell me to tell the kid’s mother. But that’s what Uncle Pete did. Then he let the subject drop, and I figured he would forget about the whole thing.

Next morning, Uncle Pete comes up to me at the beginning of class and he tells me: “I have arranged for a meeting today right after classes let out. She’ll be here and you can explain the problem to her.”

And Uncle Pete made it clear that this would be my meeting to conduct. He wouldn’t be there. “You just tell her what the problem is and I am sure she will listen,” he told me looking me directly in the eye. “You’ll do fine.” He looked convinced. I am terrified, but couldn’t say it.

So all morning I am contemplating quitting before the morning is out. There is no way I am going to be able to handle this.

Now all the kids were discharged and suddenly the whole field is empty. I go to the assigned meeting place, on the boardwalk directly in front of the Fire House, which was adjacent to the ball field on Broadway.

High noon. I am standing there. I see her walking down Broadway as appointed. She is walking with this little white poodle. I have never spoken to this lady in my life. No way I can come out of this alive.

She walks up. We introduce ourselves. We talk for a couple of minutes. “How do you like being a counselor?” “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Anything but the assigned topic. 

She breaches the subject: “Have you been having trouble with my son?”

I wanted to look her right in the eye, like Uncle Pete used to, but I just couldn’t deal with eye contact. I am looking down to avoid eye contact and I noticed she was wearing woven sandals with heels. They were white as if to match the color of the poodle. I was wondering if she was going to sic her poodle on me. Then I blurt out “He is a nice kid and all that, but he causes a lot of trouble because he never listens…”

I went on for a minute or two explaining the issues. She remained silent and eventually I am looking her right in the eyes.

“I understand,” she said, looking right in my eyes and nodding. “I know he can be difficult, and I and his dad will have a talk with him. I know he enjoys coming to classes this summer, and he thinks you are a very good counselor. We’ll talk to him. Let me know if you have any more trouble” she said as she walked off towards the market, poodle walking alongside her.

I felt relief, and a sense of accomplishment, but mostly I felt luck that she was a very nice lady, after all. 
 But I still felt mad as hell at Uncle Pete for putting me through this. What if she hadn’t been so nice? What if she argued with me or threatened to get me fired? Her husband was a village trustee. Uncle Pete had no right to hang me out to dry, to act like he was a principal and I was some experienced teacher dealing with another unruly student. I was only fifteen, for goodness sake.

Just as I am thinking this, I turn to go back into the ball field. Right around the corner of the fire house, maybe 15 feet away, was Uncle Pete. It turns out that he had been within ear shot, but standing where neither of us could see him. But now he walked away, as if he didn’t want me to realize that he had been there.

So then I realized that he was there if I needed him. And that made me realize that he was right. I didn’t need him. I did fine, just like he said.

Then I started walking across the field to go home for lunch. Uncle Pete is puttering around, making believe he is picking up litter or old baseball gloves, or something, and he acts like he notices me for the first time. He says:
“Oh Jimmy, did the mom show up? How was the meeting?” as if he didn’t know.

“It went pretty well,” I said, “She was very nice and she will talk to him.”
“I knew you would do fine” Uncle Pete said, as if there was nothing to it. He added “go and have lunch. You’ve had a long morning.”

We walked off the field together.

The kid was not a problem after that meeting. Just quirky.

So whenever I run into a situation where I think I am about to get into something over my head, or dealing with difficult people, I think of when I was a fifteen year old kid getting ready to tell a  powerful mom that her kid was a brat. And I remember what Uncle Pete told me: “You’ll do fine.” That’s a lesson he taught me that I always remember in a tight spot.


Jim O’Hare

Remembering the March Storm: Peter Baum and Victoria Baum Bjorklund on the 1962 Ash Wednesday Storm

PICTURES OF THE HISTORIC MARCH 1962 STORM AFTERMATH BY PETER A. BAUM.
Ed Note:
Forget about the Hurricane of 1938. Forget about Sandy. Forget about the vicious winter storms of 1927, 1929, and 1931:

The March Storm of 1962 is arguably the most significant storm to hit Fire Island in the Last 100 Years.

Reason Being: for the first fifty years of Saltaire history, it was always thought that someday a road would run the length of Fire Island. It was a dream of Robert Moses since 1922 to run a non-stop road from Coney Island to Montauk. Moses used repeated  storms over the years to bolster his argument that  a paved road on top of a built-up island  would stabilize it. Each time a big storm hit,  calls to pave the Island were renewed,  but plans never got off the drawing board due to  lack of funding, and opposition.  But proposals always kept popping up from time to time,  from storm to storm. 

The 1962 March Storm was was damaging to the whole length of the island, and once again Moses (and others) renewed their arguments. Tentative plans  for a road were quickly drawn up. In the summer of 1962,  and in the following year massive protests and  well organized political pressure in opposition  held up the road's  implementation. Robert Moses, his power in decline, saw his plan stopped. When a  National Seashore was established, it virtually guaranteed that Fire Island will never be paved end to end.


So it was the March Storm that finally brought the whole issue to a definitive resolution.


                            JO'H

Here are some pictures from the March 1962 Storm:
All pictures by Peter Baum.






All pictures by Peter Baum.


orologists called it a "Perfect Storm." It battered the East Coast for three days and five high tides from March 3-6, 1962. It reshaped the Outer Banks and altered shorelines up and down the East Coast.
This week marks the Fifty-sixth  Anniversary of the March 1962 storm. Meteorologists called it a "perfect storm." For Fire Island it was one of the most destructive storms of the Twentieth Century.

The Ash Wednesday Storm of 1962 occurred on March 6–8, 1962 along the mid-Atlantic coast of the United States. It was considered by the U.S. Geological Survey to be one of the most destructive storms ever to affect the Mid-Atlantic States. One of the ten worst storms in the United States in the 20th century, it lingered through five high tides over a three day period, killing 40 people, injuring over 1,000 and causing hundreds of millions in property damage in six states.
--Wikipedia


I  remember going out there to assess the damage on March 10, 1962. (I remember the date because I brought along a transistor radio to listen to the very first ever broadcast of a New York Mets spring training game-- you could look it up).
Wreckage was all over the beach. West of Saltaire, the flotsam and jetsam from all points
east washed up above the dune line and made it look like you could walk from Kismet to the lighthouse stepping only on debris without putting a foot in the sand.

We got the below story and pictures from Victoria Baum Bjorklund. The great photos were taken by her dad, the late Peter A. Baum. Thanks, counselor Bjorklund, for your priceless contributions.
Don’t forget this storm. It was a big one.
--JO’H

Victoria Bjorklund writes:

My father, Peter Ackerman Baum (1922-1995), was a trustee of the Village of Saltaire for a number of years in the 1960s. He elected to take leadership of the "public safety" areas. For example, in that capacity, he hired Saltaire's first full time policeman, Officer Joe Kelly. He also had all the old fire hoses unrolled one Saturday so that he could inspect them. He was horrified to see that mice had chewed holes in most of the hoses, so he started a fundraising campaign to modernize the fire protection equipment. Remember that in those days, the Village's fire equipment consisted of hose carts that village volunteers would grab from the sheds and pull to the site of the fire. Similarly, he believed that storm preparedness and aftermath were part of his trustee responsibilities.

Anyhow, my family always sweated every big nor'easter for fear that our cottage, Sea Spray, at 309 Pacific Walk would wash away. After Hank and I married in1972, we were dispatched with my Mother to empty the house of memorabilia before big storms. We would carry precious things and store them at either or both of the Lathams' attic or our cousins' Hub Bub. But in the 1960s it was harder to get over to Saltaire in the off-season so we just took our chances in the storms. This storm was different. It battered the beach day after day for days through a series of high tides. My parents were very worried about whether our house would still be there, and if it was, if it had been so undercut that it would be subject to condemnation. Or did it once again squeak by?
So we bundled up and trekked over to check. The damage was extensive as these
Pictures show. West Walk, Broadway, and Pacific walk stairways all washed away. But miraculously, our house was still standing on its little posts. While we no longer had any dunes, much less the big dunes that used to block our ocean view, we did still have our little house.

Best regards, Victoria

Victoria Bjorklund writes:

My father, Peter Ackerman Baum (1922-1995), was a trustee of the Village of Saltaire for a number of years in the 1960s. He elected to take leadership of the "public safety" areas. For example, in that capacity, he hired Saltaire's first full time policeman, Officer Joe Kelly. He also had all the old fire hoses unrolled one Saturday so that he could inspect them. He was horrified to see that mice had chewed holes in most of the hoses,so he started a fundraising campaign to modernize the fire protection equipment. Remember that in those days, the Village's fire equipment consisted of hose carts that village volunteers would grab from
the sheds and pull to the site of the fire. Similarly, he believed that storm preparedness and aftermath were part of his trustee responsibilities.


Anyhow, my family always sweated every big nor'easter for fear that our cottage, Sea Spray, at 309 Pacific Walk would wash away. After Hank and I married in1972, we were dispatched with my Mother to empty the house of memorabilia before big storms. We would carry precious things and store them at either or both of the Lathams' attic or our cousins' Hub Bub. But in the 1960s t was harder to get over to Saltaire in the off-season so we just took our chances in the storms.


This storm was different. It battered the beach day after day through a series of




high tides. My parents were very worried about whether our house would still be there, and if it was, whether it had been so undercut that it would be subject to condemnation. Or did it once again squeak by?

So we bundled up and trekked over to check. The damage was extensive as these pictures show. The West Walk, Broadway, and Pacific walk stairways were all washed away. But miraculously, our house was still standing on its little posts. While we no longer had any dunes, much less he big dunes that used to block our ocean view, we did still have our little house.

Best regards, Victoria



j













All pictures except otherwise noted by Peter A. Baum.
Copyright 2012 Baum Family.

Monday, October 23, 2023

Friday, September 15, 2023

THE LEGEND OF CAPTAIN BALDWIN AND CAPTAIN MURDOCH


Cosmo reports to Saltaire38.blogspot.com:


Back in the 1940’s and 1950’s, there were two “Baymen” left working the Great South Bay off of Western Fire Island. They were Capt. Baldwin and Capt. Murdoch. Both made their living from the bounty of the Bay, selling fish, clams and oysters to the summer residents. They would ply the waters with rowboats or small dories. I still remember seeing Capt. Baldwin pull up to the Saltaire dock in the early 1960’s when I was still a young boy.

Capt. Baldwin was paralyzed from the waist down, but he had incredible strength in his upper body. There was stiff competition between Capt. Baldwin and Capt. Murdoch for the limited business between Seaview and Kismet, which led to intense animosity between the two. At some point, an agreement was reached whereby Capt. Murdoch sold to the residents of Dunewood, Fire Island Summer Club, Ocean Beach and Seaview, and Capt. Baldwin would sell to Fair Harbor, Saltaire and Kismet. Their animosity reached the point where there was violence on the Bay. Then, one day, Capt. Murdoch disappeared and was seen no more. The rumor was that Capt. Murdoch had been murdered by Capt. Baldwin, thought he was never charged.

Capt. Baldwin lived on an old clam boat on Clam Pond, which was decrepit and half full of water. In the early days, he lived primarily on oysters, which he would shuck, and discard the empty shells over the sided. In later years, as the oysters died off, he switched to clams. As his boat was far from seaworthy, each year he would pull his clam boat further up on the pile of shells, which grew higher and higher each year.

How he survived living through the winters on an old clam boat, half full of water is beyond me. Apparently, he had a small stove on the boat for heat, and an old lounge chair perched in the portion of his boat that remained above water. I recall the story about one winter when Helen Krowlakowski, worried that Capt. Baldwin was starving to death out in the Cove, went out to see him with a baking pan full of pork chops, thinking that it would last him a week, but which Capt. Baldwin devoured on the spot.

I also recall being told how Capt. Baldwin used to work at the Kismet Inn opening clams. He was quite a cantankerous old salt, who hot along with no one. One night, someone else patronizing the Inn got on his wrong side, and despite being crippled, cleared the twenty or so feet across the bar and almost slit the man’s throat before he was stopped.

Robin Wright told me the stories how Capt. Baldwin would run off any of the local kids that got near his boat with a shotgun. One day, Robin, Bobby Aherne (Squirt) and Mike Fitzgerald determined to get a look at the inside of Capt. Baldwin’s boat. They waited until he left to go fishing. What he saw, and what happened to them is best told by Robin.

I vaguely remember that eventually, Capt. Baldwin got to the point where the authorities came and took him away and put him in a home.

Everything related herein up to this point was oral history, but in the mid 1980’s, Bill Goldsmith (aka Bilbo), who is an archeologist by trade, went out to clam cove with my brother Chris in search of the site of Capt. Baldwin’s old boat. Sure enough, the remains were still there. They dug into the pile of shells, finding clamshells on top, but oyster shells further down. There was little left of the boat, as the wood had all rotten away. The only thing that was left was Capt. Baldwin’s old head, which, being made of porcelain was still intact. They brought his head back, and put it on our back deck at 104 Marine Walk. I remember it being a beautiful summer day, and my parents and other local residents were enjoying the day drinking. That night, one of the worst storms I ever experienced at Saltaire struck. Robin Wright woke me in the middle of the night imploring me to help him with the Full House, which was moored off Neptune Walk at the time. The storm was so severe that the wind blew, dragging his mooring, and blowing the boat up against the bulkhead. I had a motor boat at the time, and we went out in the storm and, between his two engines and my outboard, eventually dragged the Full House back out to deeper waters. The next morning, we found that the wind had picked up all the Hobbie Cats on the bay front, blew them up thirty to forty feet, and dropped them back to earth upside down, breaking most of the masts. Clearly, Capt. Baldwin was very angry at his old haunts being disturbed, and worse, his head taken. Bilbo and my brother returned the head back to where they had found it in Clam Cove. Apparently, Capt. Baldwin was appeased, as Saltaire has never seen a storm like it since.



THE FOSSIL SPEAKS: "WHAT COSMO SAYS IS TRUE"


ROBIN WRIGHT IS OUR SECOND SOURCE. HE WRITES:

Chris Hull, Bill Goldsmith and I went to Capt. Baldwin old foundation site,made up of clam shell and oyester shells, to do some excavating.The only thing we found was a piece of an old toilet. That night we had afierce tropical storm. Capt. Baldwins spirit still lives on. We returnedthe piece to where we found it.
--Robin.

OUT OF CALFORNIA THE RELIC, ROBIN WRIGHT POSTS HIS RECOLLECTIONS OF CAPTAINS BALDWIN AND MURDOCK:



Winter 1947-48 Captain Baldwin staked his claim on Clam Pond.That spring Captain Murdock, who lived on his houseboat on the South side on the Pond, disappeared, presumed drowned. Bill Cerveny and Herbie Paine reported hearing gunshots in that time frame - nothing ever came of it. No body = no crime. Captain Baldwin now had the fishing and clam trade in Saltaire and Fair Harbor. He was not allowed in Kismet.On weekends he used to work at Dick Grenameyers (Kismet Inn) shucking clams. He worked for whiskey, and one time he claimed that the bartender shorted his drinks. Words were exchanged and Captain Baldwin pulled a knife and tried to cut the mans throat. Persona non grata after that. He died sometime in the fifties. Helen and Eddie Krolikowski took him to the mainland and he died in the hospital shortly hereafter.

Robin.



Another set of recollections from Beaver/Frank Mina:


Captain Baldwin's residence, though in close proximity to the water in the Cove was basically built from scrap lumber - Frank & Richie McManus ventured down to Capt Baldwin's shack after he died and went inside - it was sort of Beverly Hillbillys' chic. Frank remembers Capt Baldwin selling clams/fish to his mother and that he was able to stand up(possibly disspelling the story that he was paralyzed from the waist down). Frank also stated that Baldwin could have been a world champion rower and confirmed the story I had heard that after the '38 Hurricane Capt. Baldwin was found way down east in his rowboat. Frank claims that there were a number of Capt Murdoch's - they were a large Bayshore family and it was very likely that one or two actually ran ferries in the early days. Gil Clark's mother, according to Frank, was a Murdoch - Gil's full name was Gilbert Murdoch Clark. Frank also said that there were, years ago two Capt. Baldwin's in Fair Harbor - he doesn't know if "our" Capt Baldwin was one of them. Again, all good yarns which make all of posts interesting.



(ed note: first posted Feb 15, 2008)1/11/09

Sunday, September 10, 2023

LABOR DAY, 2023

 By Liz Kelly


What a Labor Day today - sparkly ocean beyond bright light field of low tide white water churning unseen in a super sweep westward all deceptively beautiful but bouncy and breaking and whiplash necks on unsuspecting over confident over baked dehydrated no more sunscreen kids and dads and moms and white flag rescues from overtired bleached out guards grinning behind dark shades on last day fumes running from beach to beach with sand bags on shoulders and fresh air to pump life back to loved ones gasp and faint and perfectly beautiful in silhouette backlit as low sun squints our collective gaze and in common smile as all is well for one more ride from tide rhythmic with swell from afar off shore swirling storm somewhere south somewhere unseen but soon to be here in our salty air with seasoned friends set in sand once more.

Friday, March 17, 2023

The March Storm

We can't figure out why everybody forgets about this storm. They spent the whole spring and half of the summer in 1962 dredging new sand onto the oceanfront from the Cove. Big ugly dredge in the cove.

click on this image to enlarge.









Note: Well, the Baums sure remember. Everyone thought their house was going to be gone in that storm, but it held on.

 Here is a recollection from Victoria Baum Bjorklund:

Dear Jim—Thank you for your recollection of the March 1962 nor’easter. Visiting after that storm was pretty disturbing. Even so, we were amazed and thankful that our house was still standing, albeit with flotsam and jetsam around and under it.

My parents were forever grateful that the Village of Saltaire attorney Frank Goggins had convinced my parents not to buy the lots on top of the dunes but behind them. The dunes had been so high that our cottage “Sea Spray” did not have an ocean view from the time it was built in 1948 until the March 1962 storm, at which time “Sea Spray” became more than “water view”.

Being an engineer, my father, Peter A. Baum, wanted to evaluate the damage up and down the beach. So our family with cameras trekked quite far to look at the damage and to take pictures. I believe that my mother, Virginia White Baum, still has those pictures, many of which my father had blown up to 8 x 10 size. However bad the damage in Saltaire, I remember that the damage in Point O’ Woods, Dunewood, Lonelyville, and Fair Harbor was much worse. I recall that my father took photographs of those beachscapes too, with the houses lying on the beach or just pipes and chimneys where the houses used to be. I will see if I can find those photos at my mother’s house to share with you. . She remembered the old Ocean Promenade before it washed away in the 1938 hurricane. She thought that the damage in the 1962 storm was the worst since 1938

My mother still has wonderful memories of many, many years at Saltaire. It had been my mother’s idea to build a house in Saltaire. She is a Sammis descendent whose relatives owned the old Kismet Hotel. had been coming to Saltaire since she was a baby. Her mother and grandmother used to take her to the well house on Broadway and bring well water up in the bucket to wash the sand off of her when she was three or four years old. We have some great pictures of those scenes circa 1930.
- Victoria Baum Bjorklund

Tuesday, August 23, 2022

Saltaire Memories: Labor Day

Tom Lyon was a smart city kid. He seemed to know about everything. In Saltaire, he would sit down in front of the Saltaire Sweet Shope or on the dock and read a whole stack of daily newspapers. Sometimes he would fight with his sister Laurie about who would get the sports sections first and who would get the news sections.

Tom would come up with critiques of and pithy quotes from that morning's observations by Arthur Krock, or John Drebinger’s report of what happened last night with the Yankees. When we were kids, Tom must have picked out a thousand newspaper articles for us to read and talk about.

And the Yankees ... Tom could tell you what the Sporting News was saying about the latest Yankees streak, or how many home runs Babe Ruth hit at the Stadium in 1927.

At any rate, it was Labor Day, September 7, 1964. The annual awards ceremony was over, and people were starting to roll their wagons packed and ready to go down Broadway to the dock. In those days, the season pretty much ended at Labor Day.

Tom is sitting there in front of the Sweet Shoppe, and he says "you should read this story.”

It was an essay about Labor Day from that morning’s Times. I read it, and I figure I have read it again almost every Labor Day since. No great shakes, that essay. Tom wasn’t sentimental that way. His sentimentality had more of a Holden Caulfield edge to it.

But I read it because I think of Tom sitting there reading that paper, that day at the end of that summer.
There would be more summers for Tom. But not many. Nor for Laurie. I still think of Tom sitting there.

Then I think of the millions of stories over that vast expanse of time that Tom never got to read, that he never got to talk about, laugh about
, make sarcastic remarks about. I still think of Tom...

---JO'H




So for what it's worth: here is the article Tom told me to read:

_______________________________________
TOPICS

End of Summer

It's gone it now, the whole thing. That's all there is, there isn't any more. It seemed just a moment ago when, on a Memorial Day Beach the summer stretched ahead to a rockets a flight beyond infinity. Obviously this was not so. The seashell held to the ear that day sang a gay lyric based on sunshine, sparkling water -- and all the time in the world. Hold that shell today and it weeps with sadness and is dour with foreboding. Good-bye to the beach, which to all intents and purposes today is turned back to the gulls. Farewell to the clams and the driftwood fires, to the castles and the fishermen and the legend of the singing sand. This holds that to walk over it when the tide is right will compress it in such a way as to sound like a song. The tide was right that day the summer started, the result having a lilt like something composed by Meredith Wilson for 76 trombones. Today the tide is all wrong. Today is Labor Day and the end of summer. Good-bye.


Lake and Mountain

Farewell to the lake and to the mountain just behind it. Under a late May sky the water was deep blue and the mountain a brilliant green, and the scene cried for a painter to record it. Today there is something bleak about the sky, and an occasional dab of red and brown disfigures the green, like careless spatterwork. No artist would care to touch it today, now at the end of summer. Good-bye. Farewell to the trout at the bottom of the stream and that bass the bottom of the lake and to the loon that makes its home near where stream and lake join together. Back in May the call the old fellow made could be recorded as a cheerful salute to the season, although this could stretch the imagination somewhat. Today, there can be no question about the call. It is rude, sardonic, and it spells out its message -- you're going back where you came from, and good riddance.

The Winding Road

Farewell to the dirt roads which lead to picturesque hamlets and pretty, cared-for farms. Back at the end of May, the spirit was adventurous and it took no more than a touch of the wheel to leave the superhighway world and find a better one. A whole new country opened. Roads were found which followed the natural course of roads -- beside the natural course of streams -- the best of them not even on the wavering thin blue lines on the road maps. On Memorial Day it seemed right to plan an entire summer away from the highways, but good-bye to that. Farewell to lanes going through buttercup meadows, and the brooks lined with weeping willows, the lanes on which twice a day the herds of cows have the right of way. Good-bye to the road stand with box-top counter, where sweet corn is still warm from the sun and practically given away by a proprietor or honestly glad and to see you. Farewell to the country store. Of recent years these have sprung up everywhere, vending atmosphere along with antiques, but they are imitative, not real. The real ones are on the back roads which, starting in late May, went everywhere. Tonight, going home, they will lead but to the superhighway at the end of summer. Good-bye.

Farewell to It All.

Goodbye to the weekend, which never is quite long enough, of course, but is the next best thing to the official vacation. Farewell to tennis and golf and the rocking chair on the hotel porch and the hammock beneath the tree. In late May it was possible to itemize all the worthwhile books which would be read in that hammock, but today the fact must be faced that "War and Peace" has suffered its usual postponement until another summer. Farewell to the little carnival, set out for a week in the town's dusty lot -- about the only relic left of the great circus tradition. Farewell to watermelon, held in the hand and not on plates, and grilled chicken drumsticks, served minus forks, and peanut butter sandwiches seasoned with just the right pinch of fine white sand. Farewell to the summer. Late last May it seemed likely that even the office time clock would cooperate, by slowing its hands or stopping them altogether. That was just an illusion, so recognized now. Instead of stopping on the sunny hours, the hands of all clocks everywhere moved forward like lightning, to reach today. Good-bye.


New York Times
Septemer 7, 1964

Monday, August 22, 2022

BIG LABOR DAY ISSUE



Click on images to enlarge
1920's
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1954

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1964:




-----------------------
Eugene Piper 1959


---------------------------




1920's medals were awarded by Yacht Club


------------------------------------------------------------------------




LABOR DAY, 1946-1949 IN SALTAIRE: KODACHROME IMAGES BY THE LATE RICHARD GREER

















Pictures by Richard Greer
Pictures courtesy Sid Greer

(JO'H Ed. Note) : The promise of Saltaire from its very inception, to nurture “Healthy Happy Saltaire Youngsters” http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/search?q=Bungaliers was as much evidence in the post- World War II era as it is today. Kids here, kids there, kids everywhere.
Saltaire was never a resort where you went to get away from the kids—it was a place you went to live with the kids. And you never got to know just the kids: you got to know whole families. Bill Stillgebauer told us that his parents were close friends with the Greers, and Bill became friends with the Greers' kids, and grandkids and nieces and nephews. The Greers were cousins of the Glascocks who became good friends of the Stillgebauers, and so on. Growing up Saltaire, you knew people in the context of their families.
1950’s Mayor John Ludlow once said:
There is a word in our own language that I think has not been given due importance. The word is "sociability," which I'll take the liberty of terming "vocal, hospitable, friendliness." Sociability is friendliness of by word as well as by deed: it is when you enjoy having people in for supper equally as having supper at their house; when during a walk around the block you meet and have a friendly greeting from eight or ten people.Such is the type of life that we have at Saltaire. We are a small incorporated village of one hundred and ten cottages, a part of the Town of Islip,
---Mayor John Ludlow, 1954.

http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/search?q=polio

We are proud to introduce Richard Greer’s Labor Day pictures from 1946, 1947 and 1948 that show that sociability in context of a Village tradition carried on each year from the earliest years of the Village: the annual Labor Day races at the ball field and on the bay. Parents went down to the field to watch the kids run. And they got to do some running themselves—or at least jumping in potato sacks. The next day was on to the bay for the swimming races in the boat basin.

Then to watch the kids as they gore themselves, hands behind their backs, with blueberry pie, a tradition that goes back at least to the 1920’s in Saltaire, http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/2008/08/labor-day-in-saltaire.html

Finally, of course, came the great Labor Day awards ceremony at the Yacht Club. The Village turned out for what was Saltaire's version of the Academy Awards. The season's awards for sailing, swimming and track were awarded in a packed Yacht Club, topped off by the big awards: the Sailing trophies and "The Cup," a trophy given each year for the best kid in each particular class.

Greer's images capture a Village in an era of confidence: a Village that in the previous ten years had fought off the utter destruction of the Hurricane of 1938 http://saltairian.com/pages/history/1938/ocean-met-bay.html
http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/search?q=beleagured
http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/search?q=Joseph+Lynch
and then had seen its parents go off and fight and win the Big War.
http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/search?q=nancy+latham

48 -star American flags delineated the running course for the races at the field; red white and blue streamers hung on the Broadway fence.
And kids everywhere, and parents everywhere too: this was, after all, the earliest bloom of the Baby Boom. So thanks, Sid Greer, for saving your dad Richard's Kodachromes from that heady time: This was All American Saltaire at mid Century.
ALL PICTURES BY RICHARD GREER

CLICK ANY PICTURE TO ENLARGE
THE LABOR DAY TRACK MEET, 1947



















Not many people remember, but there used to be a cinder track around the ball field, as seen on left. By the 1950's it was covered up, except for the northern end of the field between the right field foul line and the the fire house. The fire house was farther back than it is today. It was torture to walk on that part of the old track in bare feet: there were big, chunky cinders.
































Note: fire alarm gong on Broadway. In the early days, there were similar alarms in strategic locations throughout the village. They were manually operated: just hit 'em with a big hammer to summon help. There was no electricity or telephone service until the 1930's. See an earlier fire alarm here: http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/search?q=Fire+Alarms

Note here the clear view across tennis courts to houses on Marine Walk.























































Note in this picture: there used to be basketball backboards along the right field line, a double sided one shownher incenter filed, and another deep in center field.
The house in the background is on Pacific walk.







THE SWIMMING RACES AT THE BAY




The track meet was one day, the swimming meet the next.












These swimming pictures were taken in two different years, 1946 and 1948 .

Look closely: the old grey headed man in the scow on the right is the famous old bayman/hermit , Captain Baldwin. Kind of creepy to see him there. To follow his legend, click here: http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/search?q=Baldwin


















































THE PIE EATING CONTESTS:








There is a Saltaire promotional brochure from the 1920's that shows a line of kids along Bay Prom participating in a pie eating contest. http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/2008/08/labor-day-in-saltaire.html These 1948 by images by Robert Greer show the tradition was strong. See, for instance Hank Stillgebauer's images from 1957: http://saltaire38.blogspot.com/search?q=messiness The pie eating contests continued at lest through teh early 1960's. Why the stopped this this tradition is anyone's guess, but there is no reason why it cannot be reintroduced in 2010.









































THE CUP:

This was it. The ultimate; the Oscar; the top award for top kid in each goup. Real hardware that looked great on the mantle.

















THE REASON THEY DID ALL THIS:

We have lots more Greer photos from that era: beach scenes; sailing scenes, scenes with lots of people old timers may recall, and a series of pictures of a baseball game between Saltaire aind Pont of Woods at Point of Woods in 1950.

Trouble is, we have not received YOUR pictures yet.

send them to: