Summertide’s Lasting Riches 1940s
By Jean Caligiuri McKenna
“For everything there is a season; a time to plant and a time to harvest.”
Every year at Labor Day growing up, Mama, Papa, and I would bittersweetly bid farewell to our departing summer tenants to whom my father rented our Beach 84th Street house to during the 1940s. During the months of July and August, we would rent out the first and second floors of our three-story home to several of the many numerous visiting Jewish families from Brooklyn. Like clockwork, each February these tenants would come to our house on a brightly frigid Sunday to negotiate, sign a contract, and leave a deposit. Come late June, we would prepare for our new residents by moving our belongings to the somewhat stifling third floor, where we would reside for the summer.
During these years, our block already exemplified the peninsula’s summer melting pot, with my home nestled between our neighbors the Reillys and Hertzens. Many cheerful days, Mr. Hertzen’s grown daughter Rose (with red lipstick and cheeks as rosy as her name) would playfully call to me from her porch in her best faux Italian accent, “Hello Gina Mia.” Fittingly, across the street from us, the imposing Temple Israel and St. Rose of Lima church colossally framed our block like stately bookends. These dignified structures served as perpetual symbols of the Judeo-Christian principles that united us as neighbors year-round. Very naturally, we thrived together without a second thought. Respect and kindness for each other prevailed among us, strengthening our ties as community residents. This applied especially as much to our seasonal boarders.
Of all the families who resided with us, the Eisiks were the most frequent visitors, renting our second floor during my adolescent summers. Since they and the first-floor tenants were of Orthodox faith, I intimately observed and learned about their daily customs and way of life. For me, cohabitating with them was pleasantly mellow, sometimes educational, and occasionally peppered with small perks.
Throughout the lazy hazy days of July and August, the searing summer morning heat often mingled with the sweet aroma of home baked cookies and pastries from downstairs. While the leisurely use of the gas stove sometimes irritated Papa, I was always generously offered to partake in the delectable treats, much to my delight! Yiddish dialects with phrases such as “gey essen” (go eat), “tante” (aunt), and “yenta” (gossiper) echoing daily through the walls also became a colorful part of my vocabulary.
Most impressionably, I not only became familiar with their religious traditions but played an integral role in them. On warm Friday evenings after sundown when their Sabbath began, I would watch our tenants join their fellow congregants of Temple Israel walking to Shabbat services. The men wore black suits and skullcaps (yarmulkes), while carrying black prayer books and wearing white garments over their shoulders while the women wore kerchiefs to cover their heads. In the still summer night, I could hear the cantor softly singing beautiful praises for the congregation from the open stained-glass windows across the street. On these Holy Fridays after sundown, they were not permitted to touch electricity, light the stove, carry money, shop, or use the telephone until sundown Saturday. Thus, our tenants implored my mother’s help. So, Mama designated me to do the “act of charity for God.” Before going, she’d remind me not to accept any money or gift for doing the good deed. She would say if you accept something for doing a good deed, it is no longer a good deed. And so, obediently on Friday early evening, I would go upstairs and put on the gas. Imagine Mama entrusting me at 7, 8 and 9 years old to strike a match from the matchbox and light the stove! I’m sure at first, I was nervous but eventually became adept at it. Putting on the light was a breeze, as a long string hung from the ceiling fixture. A quick pull and presto, on went the light!
In gratitude for my small service, the tenant would put a lollipop and a nickel on the table, imploring me to take it. I remembered what Mama said about not accepting anything. Repeatedly though, the tenant would urge me “Take, take Shayna Maidela (pretty girl).” Finally, I succumbed and took the lollipop and nickel. I had mixed feelings somewhat, riddled with guilt for disobeying Mama. I didn’t want to be impolite but at the same time I thought “the lollipop will taste so good” and “a nickel will buy me an ice cream from the Good Humor truck!” Eventually, my mother was aware that I was given the nickel and the lollipop in gratitude for the favor and allowed me to accept. As the neighbors enjoyed their Saturday Sabbath, eating and resting with family and friends, I would find the Good Humor man and indulge in my reward.
When the carefree leisure of Sunday rolled around, I’d sometimes go on a rainy day after Mass with the Eisik’s daughter, Marilyn, on the bus to The Strand movie theater on Central Ave in Far Rockaway. There, we would sit together, with no differing customs or languages between us, just two pals whiling away the dog days of summer with popcorn and bonbons.
When it was time to depart come Labor Day, a mixture of smiles, thrown kisses, and next year’s promises filled the air as our tenants packed their cars. And with each summer’s end, through welled up eyes, I’d watch them drive off slowly to another world in Brooklyn, hearing their fading goodbyes until they were gone. The overwhelming silence that initially gripped the house would always linger for a time, only to be faithfully rejuvenated the following year upon their return.
Looking back, I would be remiss not to honor the fruitful and lasting impact that these city-borough melding summers of the 1940s and ‘50s left on the Rockaways. Many other countless memoirs, like mine, could also affectionately recall vivid faces, smiles, and laughter fondly stilled in their own summer memories. From Irish Town’s Manhattan and Bronx visitants to our guests from Brooklyn, these warm binding ties of culture, goodwill, and community with our transient neighbors left us all richer. For me, those early years would lay a path at a very young age to identify that it is the similarities of our humanity that unite us, not the differences. It is a blessing to be able to have a good rapport with all people. As my mother always reminded me; “There is one God for all of us.”
Like the simple happiness of a lollipop and a nickel, so is the tender connection of the human spirit. I’m thankful for having harvested such bountiful riches as a young girl from the rewarding summer thick of Rockaway’s melting pot.
