Ralph Waldo
Emerson (1803 - 1882)
Ninth
and Hamilton
As I told a friend recently, it is taking me so long to
complete the first part of Notes in November that I should change the title to
Notes in December. I am now 72 years old, so there is not much leisure left to
ponder the events that marked my last year in Pennsylvania. It is a critical
moment in my story and if my descendants in particular are to learn about how
they became Puerto Rican, it is essential to tackle it before it is too late.
Memory is a miserable miser. The more you beg for its
largesse the less it yields. Instead of a river flowing with images, it is a
rivulet darting behind rocks and only occasionally reflecting flickers from the
sun.
Here I was back in Bethlehem—ensconced in the attic of my
beloved sister Shirley’s house, a floor above the noisy rooms of her tow-headed
and scrappacious (I made it up: it means rambunctious) kids: Ricky, Chucky,
Tommy, Larry and Mark. Her only daughter, Jennifer, was to come along a little
later.
As so often has happened in my life, I was at the right
place at the right time. My brother-in-law Earl was the most kind-hearted and
even-tempered man I have every met. He was like a papa bear to his brood and he
adored my sister and easily tolerated me. My negative role model had been my
father; it was a delight to have a positive one. I may have been slightly
burned out by my Poet in New York period, but I was soon cured by the love,
energy and joy in that house.
Which allowed me to concentrate on my goal. Go to college.
Go to grad school. Become a professor. Take sabbaticals. Write books. Live in
Puerto Rico. The first step had to be college in Puerto Rico. To reach it, I
had three objectives: formally complete
high school, learn Spanish and figure out how to fund this project. In reality,
I had no plan, just a dream.
In this dream state I wandered into the library of Lehigh
University one afternoon, soon after returning to Bethlehem and taking up
residence in my sister’s attic. From the time I was a boy and an inspired
teacher took me and my classmates to a performance of Bizet’s opera Carmen, I
considered Lehigh utopia--especially contrasted to the dystopia of my parent’s
bookless home.
In the sunlight of my memory, Lehigh is a perpetual shady
glen, the lawns dappled with golden rays filtered through maple trees, the gray
stone buildings and pebbled trails peopled with handsome young students, the
lawns filled with well-dressed families seated on blankets listening to
Handel’s Messiah wafting from the college theater and flowing up South Mountain
and down to the Lehigh River.
Sorry, about that. I am a romantic at heart, I suppose, and
since the college is in south Bethlehem, the weather (and the setting) could
never have been that idyllic. But who is to account for the vagaries of memory?
That was the way my impressionistic young mind saw the place (I later realized
the absurdity of it. Lehigh was mostly known for jocks and engineering students
at the time and the music festivals and opera were most likely rarities.)
The library had open stacks and I enjoyed going up and down
the rows and letting books grab me and startle me--sometimes by their titles,
sometimes the authors, sometimes just the binding. It was an eclectic way of
educating myself, but it was one I had always enjoyed. It was in this way I
came across the catalog of the University of Puerto Rico and learned that the
tuition was incredibly low—$75 a semester (this was more than half a century
ago).
In one instant that serendipitous discovery converted the
impossible into the possible. Certainly there was a way I could make enough
money in a year or two to pay for tuition and a modest room and board! The
flight, I knew from experience, was $62 and I only needed a ticket one way.
I don’t remember how I heard about a special program of the
J. Walter Gapp Extension School of Moravian Prep in Bethlehem. It was designed
for qualified students who were determined to attend college but had not taken
(or passed) the required courses. I was on a roll! I applied, took the entrance
tests, was given a scholarship and was soon taking Spanish, science and,
because I wanted it, an advanced English course.
Much of my time there is forgotten, but I will never forget
my Spanish teacher, Mrs. K., who became a major figure in my life. Mrs. K. was
a small woman with bright eyes on a broad face, who walked with a slight limp
from a childhood illness and who was married to Peter K., a large, affable, German
man. The couple had two very bright and very blond little girls. They enjoyed
the kind of family life that I envied and admired.
I know all this, because first she was my teacher and then
she was my friend. When the formal course was over and it became obvious to
everyone that I was really going to go to Puerto Rico to study, she took over
my instruction in Spanish, giving me private classes in her home. Not only did
she not charge me, she often fed me, recommended books for me to read, encouraged
me and at one point when I was studying in Puerto Rico helped me pay dental
expenses. She eventually recommended me to the school administration and I
spent a summer teaching Spanish in the very classroom where we first met. I
will always be indebted to her and I hope that I have been able to inspire my
students as she inspired me.
I wish I could say that the objective of earning money was
also quickly reached, but life--even a life as permeated with good fortune as
mine-- is not as neat. It was not for want of trying. At first I could only
manage a couple of minimum wage jobs (I think it was $1.00 an hour at the
time), but one of them brought major changes into my life.
The first, though, was a dud. Through a want ad I found a
job at a men’s clothing store in Allentown, about an hour’s bus ride from my
garret at my sister’s. My brother in law worked in Allentown and he would take
me in the morning and I would usually take the bus home in the evening--often
so engrossed in a book or my studies that I forgot to get off and had to be
picked up at the end of the line.
Traffic in the store was excruciatingly slow--one person
could have handled it, and there were three employees. After a few boring weeks
I moved on to a coffee shop off Ninth and Hamilton in the heart of the business
district. Noel’s Coffee Shop was a one-man operation and I became the owner’s
right hand man—a short order cook when we were busy and both the counterman and
cook when we were not. It was here that I met—at different times—two customers
who became great friends, Carl W. and Michael V.
Carl was from a local Pa. Dutch family and was raised in
their old farmhouse a few miles from town, but you would not know it if you had
met him. His family—I eventually met his parents and siblings—retained German
customs and accents, but Carl was a model of elocution and refinement—learned,
I believe, from his contacts as a buyer in New York for Hess’s of Allentown.
He worked for Hess Brothers, an upscale department store that
was located right on Ninth and Hamilton Streets, about a block away from the
coffee shop. At the time Hess’s was a
magnificent store, with huge display windows that were famous for their
Christmas decorations, a massive red neon sign outside, elegant chandeliers,
beautiful clothing, elegant customers, and frequent celebrity appearances by
the likes of Johnny Carson, Barbara Walters, Gina Lollobrigida and Rock Hudson.
It was a big deal and Carl and his mentor Gerry G. were an important part of
the team that kept it glamorous and stylish.
Carl was just branching out into his own interior design
business; Gerry and the mayor of Allentown were among his first customers.
During our conversations at Noel’s counter, Carl learned that I painted and,
after seeing some of my work, commissioned a painting for a game room that he
was designing for the mayor. I painted a large sylvan scene in oils, lots of
greens and yellows, influenced by Frank C. and his palate knife techniques (and
probably not a little by my impressionist idyll, Claude Monet). The mayor bought
it as soon as he saw it—my first sale and a nice improvement over my minimum
wage scale!
Carl later began a major redecoration of Gerry’s palatial
home (where Hess’s entertained its special guests) and I was hired away from
Noel’s to assist him with the project. But more on that later.
Michael was a short order cook at a large modern diner, also
nearby on Hamilton Street and came over on his break to get away from an
ongoing war he was waging with the waitresses. We started hanging out
together—and with Carl after they met—at Rube’s, a club around the corner,
where I learned that he was suffering through a difficult divorce. Michael obsessed
about traveling and when he heard about my plans to study in Puerto Rico, he
vowed that he would find a way to join me there, especially if he got custody
of his daughter and could take her.
I understand that Ninth and Hamilton is white collar now.
Hess’s was torn down in 1996 and a PP&L office building stands in its
place. Across Hamilton, Rube’s is gone, replaced by another new office building
in 2006. Noel’s Coffee Shop is likely history – it doesn’t appear on any
restaurant lists in Allentown. I don’t remember the name of the diner on Ninth
across from Hess’s where Michael worked, but it is unlikely to remain. But for
a short time, Ninth and Hamilton was the center of my universe.
I enjoyed my new life there, but it was taking a toll on my
studies. I was making a little extra money working for Carl, but I wanted a
steadier income and a job close to Moravian Prep in Bethlehem. Once again, luck
came my way when I answered an ad for a cook at The Maples, a popular
restaurant in Bethlehem. My sojourn around Ninth & Hamilton sadly came to
an end.
