Basements and Ginger Ale

My favorite New Years Eve was at the home of friends of the family; the Conelleys. I think they were closer to my Aunt Leonia than my mother, but they knew all my aunts and uncles. They were all part of this Queens Village, Good Shepard Lutheran Church, Drakes Bakeries mob. So many friendships and marriages spun out of Drakes and followed to the church and to this neighborhood that was nowhere’s near where they first met.

I remember at least four parties at their homes, two in Queens Village (Though in recollection it could have been Hollis, but not much difference.). The other two were at their home in Floral Park. They were a big living, hard drinking Irish-American family and I loved them. I only saw them two or three times a year, and always at adult parties. I was always the lone kid, being the only child of a single mother who really couldn’t afford a baby sitter. I knew what was expected of me: find a TV, watch movies or college football, listen to the adults tell stories, gorge myself on whatever food was available, and don’t cause any trouble. I was a professional. Being left to entertain myself and free-range graze at adult parties was my jam.

But it wasn’t like I had to be out of sight, out of mind. I was welcome to sit with the adults, enjoy their jokes, and drink my ginger-ale. I guess in that respect I was pretty low maintenance. It’s an only-child super power. 

They were always in the finished basement, spilling over to the first floor if someone needed a quiet spot or to raid the upstairs ice box. The basements were always finished in wood paneling, had kitchen facilities, a dining area, and a place to watch TV. They always had those things. The finished basement thing, well, for these middle class folks having a finished basement was a big deal. They all grew up in the same area in Brooklyn, and most of them were born and raised in brownstone or tenement basements. They had come far. They weren’t professionals, but they had the jobs that kept the country running; electricians, telephone linemen, bus drivers, aircraft mechanics. And all of the men…and I mean all of them, served in the war. That sort of lot.

There were 8 million people in New York City, but everything is local. I can’t count the number of times I would be walking up Jamaica Avenue, or riding my bike out to Cunningham Park, or delivering papers or taking the bus and I ran into one of these adult friends of my family. Whatever I was doing would get back to my mother eventually. But mostly what I got, was ice cream or a ride somewhere or a free bus fare. And a few times I got some pointed advice.

I am struggling to say how I feel about those people or those times. They are gone now. They are vivid in my mind; but how to describe people sitting around a cozy finished basement, wearing sports coats, ties, and nice dresses and drinking high balls. They weren’t dancing, there was no music, just talking, and laughing about old times that were way before I existed. Their mark was indelible. People that came from a poor background and made a better life. I always wanted to be like them.

My wife wonders what makes me go nuts with Christmas decorations, and trains and holiday traditions that I just HAVE to keep up. I just say I like it.

But I know where it comes from. Now, I’m going to go downstairs to our finished basement and get a glass of ginger ale before bed.

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