Author Archives: WS50

Boomers Rocked AM Radio in the ’60s

23 Tuesday Apr 2013

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Transistor Head. Collaged drawing by Julie Seyler

Transistor Head. Collaged drawing by Julie Seyler.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

The Baby Boomer generation has some terrible PR. Most people see us as the selfish “Me Generation” – idealists who sold out. This is in stark contrast to our parents, whom I am convinced are called the “Greatest Generation” just to annoy us. Damn you, Tom Brokaw!

But whenever I get into a discussion about how little Baby Boomers have contributed to society, I always point to two things that our generation provided the world – rock music and personal computers. Interestingly, the brand name “Apple” covers both of those.

Now I don’t think that our music is better than the music of our parents or children. (Well, OK I do think it’s better than most of the music my children listened to when they were teenagers.) But obviously “better” is a function of taste, and our music appeals to our tastes just as big band music appealed to our parents, and rap appealed to our children.

Back in the ‘60s, most New York-area Baby Boomers got their music from AM radio. Our parents were listening to Dean Martin on the hi-fi, while we listened to our music on lo-fi (or no-fi) transistor radios. WABC was the perennial top dog in this market with talented people like Dan Ingram and Ron Lundy behind the microphone.

I was reminded of this recently because back on July 3, 1981, I ran my reel-to-reel tape recorder while Dan Ingram celebrated his 20th anniversary on WABC. I put the tape away and forgot about it. A few weeks ago this musical time capsule resurfaced at my house. I carefully threaded the take-up reel and hit the Play button. I was instantly transported back to my youth. The music was there, and that iconic voice, who referred to his audience as “Kemosabe,” and in beach weather told you when to “roll your bod,” presided over “the Ingram mess.”

For much of our youth in New York, WABC was our music. And then on May 10, 1982 the music died, as WABC changed to an all-news station. I think that for many Baby Boomers, that day marked the end of our youth. Our music was gone from the mainstream.

Well, of course it wasn’t gone altogether. It had just migrated to FM. But it wasn’t the same after WABC. I never listened to Top 40 radio again. And certainly the music post-1982 was less “our music” than the music that had dominated the airwaves for the 20 years before that. So Baby Boomer music became oldies, and some of the former WABC disk jockeys migrated to the oldies station -WCBS-FM.

But now I know that whenever I want to be transported back to the heyday of AM radio I have that WABC time capsule on my tape deck. And there is a website called http://www.musicradio77.com/ that is full of recordings and information about this New York radio institution from our youth.

Clearly WABC was not the only radio station in New York that played rock music. It was simply the most popular. It provided that community of common experience that is so hard to find today in our fragmented media world. It was the chief outlet for Baby Boomer music in the New York area, and I will put the music that Baby Boomers produced up against the best of any other generation.

Walking Like a Tourist in Manhattan

22 Monday Apr 2013

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Observing the city from on high. Bowery Savings Bank.

Observing the city from on high. Bowery Savings Bank. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Sometimes I pretend that I am a tourist in Manhattan. I go for a walk with my camera looking for things that I would notice if I were on vacation in an unknown city. I might wander down Second Avenue or take the bus up to the George Washington Bridge or, if in the mood for a boat trip, hop on the ferry to Staten Island. It’s always great to see the Statue of Liberty.

Liberty in the distance.

Liberty in the distance.

One day, I walked south on the Bowery. At the corner of Houston Street, like almost every block in the city, construction was going on. To protect against falling debris, a tarp overhang, bolted down by a mesh wire wall, had been erected, thereby creating a covered pedestrian walkway. I was about to cross the street when I noticed that the obliqueness of the early morning, eastern light created shadows on the sidewalk. When the wind blew against the wire mesh, it looked like ripples on a lake …

Sidewalk mesh. Photo by Julie Seyler

… and the steel bars holding everything down reminded me of a Franz Kline painting:

Shadow lines on a sidewalk. Photo by Julie Seyler

I kept walking south, and came upon a grand old building supported by columns in a Greek Corinthian style, and decorated all over with ornate floral fretwork, which seems to be a ubiquitous characteristic of 19th century architecture.

The Bowery Savings Bank

The Bowery Savings Bank.

It was the Bowery Savings Bank Building, completed in 1895 by the firm of McKim, Mead and White. It had been designated a New York City landmark back in 1966. The architects had even taken into account the ground one stood on before entering the imposing doors of the bank. Red and white mosaic tile had been laid down in a checkered pattern. It framed a red vine with sprouting leaves. Given the speckled concrete floors that support modern commercial buildings, it seemed so exotic despite its somewhat battered condition.

Mosaic tile. Bowery Savings Bank.

Mosaic tile. Bowery Savings Bank.

At Canal Street, I turned around and headed back uptown. The tenement buildings remained a testament to the city that once was. Slowly, they will be torn down, and replaced with glass boxes. That is the history of New York. Each generation makes its mark, and with it a little more architectural history is stripped away. I snapped this photo in memory of all the long lost fire escapes.

Fire escape confusion

Fire escape confusion.

Deep Affection, and a Pillow to Prove It

19 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by in Art

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"The Cycle of Love". Pillow art by Julie Seyler

“The Cycle of Love.” Pillow art by Julie Seyler.

Sometimes, we may think the cycle of love refers only to the cycle of our lovers and spouses. But, does it not also refer to the cycle that imbues the greatest friendships? The cycle of affection, happiness, joy and love we feel, over and over again, when we remember how lucky we are to have the people in our lives whom we call great friends?

So here’s to the five-month anniversary of the blog, and the cycle of love that underlies it. Thanks to everyone for following and reading.

As Winter’s Grip Loosens, Here Come the Birds

18 Thursday Apr 2013

Posted by in Confessional

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two Canada geese

Two Canada geese. Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

There is a brook beyond the backyards of some of my neighbors. Canada geese have been hanging out there for years. But each spring they get very restless, fly up more than usual, call to each other continuously, then circle and land not far from where they started. Some long-held instinct tells them they have to be going. But they and their forebears have been on the fields and office park lawns of suburbia for so long they wouldn’t know where to go if they had a GPS strapped to their bills. Meanwhile, their cousins, the migrant Canada geese, have been heading north to their breeding grounds for weeks in long, v-shaped skeins.

Like the local geese, at this time of year, I feel restless. But I know the cause. I’m waiting for the birds to come north. In particular, I am awaiting warblers. Despite their name they are not the sweetest of singers. Their “songs” tend to be more like buzzes or sounds like “weezy, weezy, weezy” and “sweet, sweet I’m so sweet.”

But after a long winter it is wonderful to be outside, looking up a tree that is leafing, and suddenly seeing a hint of movement that turns out to be a brightly colored, yellow and black bird. Then the fun starts – which bird is it? Is the pattern that of a magnolia warbler or ablack-throated green? Is it on the ground or at the very top of a tree or someplace in between? Warblers are an enjoyable test every spring for bird watchers. Their variety forces you to remember their coloring, habits and calls.

You arrive at a trail and hear nothing. A few steps later you are surrounded by calling birds. It is not uncommon to find seven or eight different types of warblers (not to mention other migrating birds) in one small area that has the benefit of seeds to eat and/or water to drink and bathe in. It can be overwhelming. During the winter I feel sluggish and slow, cold and achy no matter how high I keep the heat. (And with the cost, I don’t keep it that high.) But when the days get longer, and the winds finally start coming out of the south, winter is loosening its grip. I know the floodgates will open and the birds will come.

That is why I am restless. Just as I know the birds are pushing through many obstacles to get north to their breeding grounds, I know there will be several Saturday mornings when I will rise earlier than I’d like and drive to an area I favor in New Jersey’s Great Swamp that is hard to hike, but rewarding because it’s literally off the beaten (or boardwalked) track. There will be birds there, and if I am lucky, I’ll be able to know what I’m hearing, and will see the singers without straining my neck too badly from all the looking up. I can’t wait.

Traveling with Scissors (Remember When?)

16 Tuesday Apr 2013

Posted by in Concepts

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Scissors from Spain, bought in 1984

Scissors from Spain, bought in 1984.

BY JULIE SEYLER

I have a pair of scissors I bought in Toledo, Spain in 1984. Everyone knows the connection between Toledo and El Greco, but the city was also once famous for its swords. I could neither afford, nor did I want a sword, but I most definitely wanted a keepsake that would capture their essence.  Every tourist shop was filled with swords and knives, and cutlery characterized by the basic inlay of gold or silver known as damascene ware. The design was different from anything I saw back home, and after much thought, I decided a pair of scissors would be the perfect souvenir. Not only pretty and unique, but functional. They were packaged in a black velvet pouch.  The pouch is long since lost, but I always know where those scissors are because they define a moment in time.

I was 26.  I had met a friend in Lisbon.  My traveler’s checks, totally $1500, were stolen the day after I arrived.  So we started out with a morning at the American Express office, but quickly got back on track and headed out to the beach in Cascais, and up to the medieval village of Obidos, and back down, and across, to Spain.  En route to Marbella, I got a speeding ticket. It was ridiculous, not the ticket, but me driving since I didn’t know how to maneuver a shift.  Once I got into fourth gear, I stayed there because it was comfortable, and easier, than downshifting to third.  We paid the fine, and drove into Sevilla. From there, we circled Andalusia hitting Granada to see the Alhambra and the Cathedral in Cordoba. We drank sherry in Jerez de la Frontera, saw the aqueducts and a bullfight in Ronda, and moved north to Toledo, where I bought the scissors.  In Madrid, our last stop, I lost my camera, but had absolutely no problem boarding the plane with a pair of scissors in my bag.

So whenever I use those scissors I am reminded of the girl and the world of 30 years ago.  I was somewhat fearless and mighty trusting, because although my money was stolen, and I was stopped by a Portuguese policeman, the world seemed like a safe place. I think back and so many things were different.  I always went to the post office to buy stamps because the best way to communicate was through post cards.  Overseas phone calls were prohibitively expensive, and you had to find a place that had international telephone service.  I was able to afford a three- week trip not just because everything was cheaper, but because I could sleep in a lumpy bed in a hostel, and didn’t give a thought to group showers with a bunch of other kids. Even losing my camera was not devastating, because I used film.  The camera was gone, but not the 12 rolls of film documenting every adventure before Madrid.

Fade back to 2013.  Needless to say those scissors have became dull after 30 years of use.  One night, Steve was sharpening knives, so I asked if he could hone the scissors as well. Who knew a knife sharpener is the death knell of a scissor blade?  They no longer cut, and I am in the middle of researching scissor sharpeners, because I can never give them up.

The Saturday Blog: Love Eternal

13 Saturday Apr 2013

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Kissing gravestones, Trinity Church

Kissing gravestones, Trinity Church. Photo by Julie Seyler.

We see this photo of contingent gravestones as a metaphor for eternal love. They are leaning on each other, never to part.

Oh Baby! The Art of a Pink Push-Up, Padded with Plastic Ones

12 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by in Art

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Pink push-up bra. Julie Seyler.

My pink, push-up bra. Assembled by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

I walk crosstown to swim several times a week. I wear my bathing suit under my work clothes, and always remember to pack my underwear. Except when I forget. It happened a couple of summers ago, so before I got to my office I ducked into Strawberry’s, a discount women’s department store that carries everything from umbrellas to shoes; sweaters to lingerie (albeit the lingerie selection is limited). The choices run from leopard print to neon blue, all made with 100% non-natural fabrics. The best I could do was a hot pink, perfectly constructed, push-up bra in a material designed to evoke faux silk. It looked sort of like a bathing suit top, but it got me through the day. I came home, and retired it to the back room where I keep all my art supplies.

But the basic bones of the bra spoke to me. It amounted to sculpture, and given its vibrant color, I knew I had to do something with it.

So, I lined a wooden box with black velvet. I figured the pink sheen of the polyester would pop out when placed against the black. Over the years, I have purchased hundreds of spools of vintage silk thread. The colors are super pure, and the texture of the thread is lush. I selected a red and a blue to sew the bra into the black velvet box. I am enchanted by miniature plastic babies, so I sewed a few of them onto the bra. I loved it when it was finished, and decided that my friends Deb and John might also love it.

I am so flattered. It’s hanging in their guest bathroom downstairs for all to peruse when nature calls.

Close-up pink push-up bra.

Close-up.

Searching for Spring, and Finding a Phoebe

10 Wednesday Apr 2013

Posted by in Confessional

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spring buds

Spring buds. Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

On Thursday, March 21, 2013, the first full day of spring, I took a walk to get the morning paper, and detoured home through a local park. At one point, I crossed a brook. From the bridge, I saw a small gray bird fly to a branch and bop its tail.

I had seen my first Eastern Phoebe of the season.

The Phoebe is a member of the flycatcher family. There are three types of Phoebe: the Eastern, the Say‘s (its western equivalent), and the Black (found in the Southwest United States, Mexico, and along the California coast).

In New Jersey, the Eastern Phoebe is one of the earliest of spring migrant birds.

According to my various nature guides, Eastern Phoebes show up in my region somewhere around March 10-20. Marie Winn, author of “Red-Tails in Love,” posted in her blog on March 15, that the first Phoebe had been seen in New York’s Central Park that day.

So mine was more or less on time.

Yet, it did not feel like spring. The temperature at 8:30 that March morning was in the upper 20s, and it was cloudy with a breeze. I was wearing a thin scarf around my head and neck, a hat over that, and a warm parka with the hood up.

This Phoebe was hunting –  until I spooked it. It eats insects, and in the cold there were few to be seen – at least by me.

The year before, we’d had next to no snow, and the temperature was unusually warm in March. But this year we’ve had the winter that won’t end. The 50-degree days – normal temperature – had been few and far between, and the with weather casters predicting snow and warmth maybe by April, I was feeling distinctly depressed about the continuing cold. Until I saw the Phoebe. It hadn’t heard the warnings about climate change. Its internal clock said it was time to leave the winter grounds in the deep south of the United States and Mexico, and head north.

Phoebes are remarkably faithful to a good nesting spot. Once found, they will return every year. When John J. Audubon was living in Pennsylvania, he tied silver thread on the legs of young Phoebes he caught. The next spring he caught two that returned — they still had the thread. It was the first bird-banding experiment in America.

I, meanwhile, feel stuck here. It’s getting harder for me to get through a cold New Jersey winter. I feel achy and dried out by the furnace heat, and can’t just pick up and head south for the winter.

The Phoebe reminds me that there will be other migrating birds coming through my area in the next month or two on their way to northern breeding grounds. Some will travel no farther than New Jersey, and will provide a reason for me to get out of bed early on a Saturday morning.

By then – climate willing – it should be warmer.

My Buddy, His Birds, and Appreciation from the Sidelines

08 Monday Apr 2013

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Birdland

Birdland. Photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

I have a friend who is a birder.  When he first told me that he took excursions to Central Park every Saturday morning during spring migration season to catch what was coming up from down South, I was baffled.  But over the course of our 20-year friendship, I have come to appreciate the mystery of birdwatching.  So while I have never become a bird groupie, I thoroughly understand the pleasure that comes from a successful sighting; the thrill of spying the bird that seemed to get away. And the overall satisfaction of a day spent with warm-blooded creatures that have the power of flight.

And because I know the excitement of seeing something rare and unexpected, I no longer blink an eye if we are driving along, and come to a sudden stop because he spots something in the sky, on the road or in a tree. As a result, I have picked up minimal knowledge of being able to distinguish terns from gulls, and plovers from sandpipers. But basically, I’m a rube.

Nonetheless, if I’m going on vacation to someplace that is known for some exotic, colorful bird species, I most definitely pack my binoculars.  I know I have been very lucky to have seen lilac-breasted rollers, spoonbill cranes, secretary birds, and malachite kingfishers.

Lilacbreasted roller. Botswana

Lilac-breasted roller. Botswana.

So on a recent trip to Sherwood Island State Park in Connecticut, my friend brought the car to a sudden roadside stop to check out bufflehead ducks.  On the walk to the beach, he pointed out Canada geese and coots, and then off he went with his binoculars to see what else he could find.

seeking shore birds

Seeking shore birds.

He came back with a report that he had seen a few more buffleheads, some mergansers and long-tailed ducks. For a 30-minute stop in 30-degree weather, it was definitely gratifying.  Meanwhile, I had ended up walking along the beach checking out the shells. I guess nature calls differently to each of us.

me holding a shell

Me, holding a shell.