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Simpler Times

by Dr. Frank R. Dufay

124 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1589; ISBN 1-4120-1211-2; US$15.50, C$18.00, EUR13.00, £9.00

A funny, moving chronicle of one man's vivid memories of growing up as a the son of Polish immigrants in Jersey City in the late 1930s - early 1940s.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts or Table of Contents      catalogue info

About the Book The eighth child of Polish immigrants, 'Sonny' learns survival skills in the slums of Jersey City, NJ during the thirties and early forties. His catholic upbringing affects his responses to the challenges of growing up.

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About the Author Frank R. Dufay, Ed. D., received his doctorate in Educational Administration from New York University in 1963. As an educator, he taught at every level, from kindergarten to elementary, middle school, high school, and college. As an administrator, he served as an elementary school principal, an assistant superintendent of schools K-12, and as the executive director of a 5-country regional education center in New York State. Throughout the country, he has lectured, on request, to school districts, service clubs, and colleges regarding the need for educational innovation. His book, Ungrading the Elementary School, was an educational best-seller requiring five printings. He co-authored the publication, How Children Learn published by the New York State Elementary Principals Association. Although he is pleased with his acheivements as an educator, Dr. Dufay is deeply aware of his beginnings: as the eighth child of immigrant parents - from Poland. Growing up in Jersey City, New Jersey, he enjoyed the penny candy store...playing stickball...helping his pop, at times, with the moving business...never forgetting the business card that read: DUFAY & SONS, LOCAL & LONG DISTANCE, ESTIMATES CHEERFULLY GIVEN, PIANO HOISTING A SPECIALTY...CALL BERGEN 4-8989. WE MOVE ANYWHERE. In this book you will read about the adventures of a much-loved youngster finding opportunities for happiness in the "slums". As he grew, he developed a near-obsession about being the first person to run the four-minute mile. And, yes, he loved writing. This chronicle represents his wanting to share "those simpler times". Enjoy, if you will.

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Sample Excerpts or Table of Contents

Contents

Preface - 1

Chapter One: Long Ago In A Faraway Land - 5

Chapter Two: Across The Sea - 14

Chapter Three: Child Number Eight - Happy Birthday! - 20

Chapter Four: The Many Forms Of Entertainment - 35

Chapter Five: St. Patrick's Roman Catholic School - 49

Chapter Six: Mom Is Twelve Feet Tall - 60

Chapter Seven: Older and Bolder - 68

Chapter Eight: Older...Wiser...Poorer - 79

Chapter Nine: Forks In The Road - 93

Chapter Ten: The Beginning of Tomorrow - 104

Epilogue - 119

Excerpt 1:

Preface

If we are to preserve our sanity, we need to escape the never-ending deluge of information that focuses on today's barrage of horrors. Our televisions, in concert with our daily papers and our glossy periodicals, joined now by the bowels of cyberspace, accentuated by the big-screen's unhold dedication to a blend of foul fantasy and intimidating realism, remind us to take note of the dutifully-reported and most carefully-described daily atrocities. These are committed by children as well as by people in high places. They are committed by nations in the name of ethnic cleansing and by street gangs of various persuasions which need to express themselves through mayhem and murder. Mothers drown their children. Fathers rape their daughters.

Add to all that the raping of the spirit by the many power-sick thugs that mingle in our midst, many in the guise of leaders.

Perhaps it is proper for me to reach back in thought to times that were more simple. In this, my Age of Reflection, such indulgence may even be considered therapeutic. Even as I would jump from the path of a speeding truck, I must, at times, turn my back on the terrors that beset all of us. With or without my studied attention, they exist.

Since I have chosen to find solace in this, my recreation of the past, I intend to infuse within the pages to follow those experiences and those reactions to experience that have been uniquely mine. I do no employ exaggeration or fictionalization, except, perhaps, as obvious literary devices intended merely to more forcefully make a point.

It cannot be denied that in days of old, there was brutality, vulgarity, impropriety, and crimes of every description. The simplicity and crudity of the offenses made those crimes no less offensive. Still, among those of us who were observers, there was a common understanding. Right and wrong was more black and white. There was far less legal maneuvering in defense of killers, rapists, thieves and perverts. Hungry lawyers were content with the practice of ambulance chasing.

This recounting of earlier times begins with the final years before the onset of our 20th Century (actually, before my time) and lasts until I am beckoned, in 1943, to help save the world from Mephistopheles, otherwise known as Hitler. I choose to describe my parents' time of courtship and marriage, well before my arrival. Who they were are prime factors of who I am.

I pray earnestly that no reader believes that my description of my parents in their native land is meant to insinuate those folks were "bumpkins". Indeed, they farmed the land. Nor did they have the advantages of the monied gentry. Instead, their minds were dedicated to the preservation of a set of ideals.

Those ideals were reinforced and respected by their church. Within the ranks of the European peasants were the many who worshipped God, who found comfort in the love within family, who respected and helped their neighbors, and who found in labor a means to create good things...and more, to cleanse their spirits.

How terrible for them that in their land of birth those in power sought only to suck in more power, and to enrich those already rich. They had no "trickle-down" economic plan.

It is no wonder that the people of Europe - the many - found the promises of economic and personal freedom such a mind-boggling notion. And when it was confirmed by those who experienced such advantage in the "new world", it is not surprising that the millions of freedom-seekers made, even fought their way to our America. My parents' story is a true one. Of course, there are so many, many stories that parallel theirs.

Still, the many flaws in our democracy have caused great pain for many. The blending of cultures is no easy task. It may never be achieved in full. Certainly not in my lifetime...nor yours. For the most part, we are still hyphenated Americans, e.g. Polish-Americans, Italian-Americans, Afro-Americans, whatever. (Should we not pray that Native Americans do not rise up against all those hyphenated intruders in the name of ethnic cleansing? There's an awful large number of eligible scalps.)

Although we understand the notion of separation of church and state, I am made to wonder about the possibility of the resurrection of the Crusades. The craving of the many religious groups to demonstrate that theirs really is the only God-inspired and God-supported religion provokes too many an ugly scene - including killing. How paradoxical can it be? "Religious" people kill in the name of a God that has clearly declared "Thou Shalt Not Kill!"

Our diversity has caused much anguish. Yet the same diversity makes our America one of the most splendid achievements of man. The high-mindedness of our founding fathers continues to provide hope and inspiration and guidance to its citizenry.

As I make effort to describe some of the moments of my young life, I would choose to be seen as the son of immigrant parents, the variety that traveled to America via steerage. With tongue in cheek I tell that I learned how poor I once was by attending Sociology 101 in Teachers College. Perhaps I suspected it even beforehand, but the college course confirmed those suspicions.

During the days of so-called poverty, I did indeed have rich experiences. I had reason to believe that I was part of a family. And as I competed in high school, or on the playgrounds of the streets, I knew that I would be measured by my real achievements...mostly. Economics had nothing to do with it. Nor did the heritage thing, either. Because I breathed the air of comparative freedom, I had a chance to exercise my gifts and my gumption, to reach for whatever dreams my mind might conjure.

Perhaps our America was almost embarassingly ingenuous during the days of my youth. The law against the consumption of alcoholic beverages - whatever amendment that was - was just plain silly. The "cure" turned out to be much worse than the "disease". How about presidential aspirant Hoover promising a "chicken in every pot?"

And when big business treated the lowly workers with contempt, the unions came to the rescue...for a while. Then came "sweetheart deals" wherein the unions conspired with big business owners. Union leaders profited handsomely. Business was happy. And the worker got a chance to work harder and longer...for less. (Right now I'm humming "Sixteen Tons...etc.")

The truth is that democracy makes citizens into decision-makers. The profiteers are delighted when the decision-makers allow themselves to be misinformed and mislead.

During the years that I have chosen to highlight in this book, it is possible that the negatives of that society equal in number the negatives of today. (As I contemplate that thought, I have serious doubts about it). I am trying to concede that there were serious problems. Children did fight...but the result was more likely to be a blackened eye - as opposed to a bullet or a knife in the back. Movies did show "good guys" and "bad guys"...but the accent was not on showing bodies being ripped apart. The "dirtiest" of our movies showed Hedy La Marr with her backside exposed very briefly in a long shot. Oh, dear! You can bet it was a much talked about movie. There were burglars and rapists...but not in their pre-teens or early teens. At no time did I hear about children divorcing their parents. When school-age girls got pregnant, it was a hush-hush thing. Taxpayers were not asked to reward the unwed mothers by providing a host of services, including cash payments. Perhaps we must conclude that we, of those earlier times, were plainly and simply narrow-minded. Right? I think not.

Personally, I do not want to push some sort of button that will do away with today's truly breath-taking miracle-approaching products of science (I take that back. Can we possibly undo our knowledge of all weapons of mass destruction?).

I have come to depend on this word processor. Also, it is true that the potential good of TV and the much-loved computer can actually be used for the betterment of mankind.

And yes, I do pray for one more miracle: Leaders who are not self-serving. Please.

Excerpt 2:

Chapter Seven:
Older and Bolder

The Dufay home became a reality when I was close to completing the fifth grade. Stella was a high school student and was no longer walking me to St. Pat's. Actually she hadn't been doing that for almost two years.

I was going to miss walking past the Junction. Mom never got used to the idea that it really wasn't all that dangerous for me.

Perhaps I would miss Crazy Annie and her antics the most. She had a sack across her shoulders that carried copies of the Jersey Journal. Her appearance was bizarre. Witch-like long chin and teeth all askew within her ever-screeching mouth; her disjointed body covered with patched up rags. She was quite noticeable.

She ran throughout the streets, calling "Paper, paper, getch yer paper...morning paper." It never never bothered her than she was cursed time and time again for running in front of, around, and sometimes even into the vehicles trying to make their way through the intersection.

On occasion, a would-be competitor would challenge her sovereignty of the Junction. The unlucky challenger would feel her wrath at the end of a stick she carried just for that occasion. Also, he would be treated to a barrage of epithets the likes of which might never again accost his ears. Crazy Annie was a real life entertainer. Interestingly, the policeman directing traffic never seemed to notice her. Maybe he didn't dare.

I was always fascinated by the slow-moving, hard-tired electric trucks that traversed the Junction. They rumbled noisily throughout major streets. On the sides and the backs of the vehicles was the sign, Consolidated Laundry. At the least, their slowness annoyed our drivers. Still, the fact that they used no gasoline and did not emit back smoke was in their favor. When I wondered out loud why we didn't also have electric cars, I was told that the enormously wealthy oil "barons" - whoever they were - wouldn't allow electric cars. Efficient electric cats would reduce America's dependence on oil. No way!

The Junction had one other special feature: Brunner's Ice Cream Parlor. What a great place! If I ever did anything special to please my sisters, or if, for some reason, they wanted to bribe me, they would take me there for a treat. The treat of treats was a Banana Split: two scoops of whatever flavor ice cream I wanted (chocolate), plenty of syrup, crushed pineapple mingled throughout, a banana (split in two), whipped cream - really rich, and a big fat maraschino cherry on top.

My server, watching me drool, would ask, "Is that okay?" My answer, "Yes, but could I have another cherry, please?" ...and I would be obliged.
That second cherry represented ultimate and absolute indulgence.

Yes, I could be bribed.

Excerpt 3

"Keep away from my truck!" and the voice was clearly angry...threatening. Often we were scared off. Play would stop.

It happened once when Pop was within earshot.

He erupted. "Hey, you. Take your damn truck off this lot. You don't own it. Get it off. The kids need to play on it."

As a matter of fact, Brandon did not own the lot. Pop made a good guess.

Before Brandon could mouth any kind of reply, Pop's nose was within inches of his nose. If he was trying to act like an enraged bull, Pop would have earned an Oscar.

Brandon turned away, hesitated only a moment, then got into his truck. One minute later, it was parked in front of his house. The lot was free.

All the kids of the neighborhood heard about the showdown. It now "belonged" to the kids. There was a place to play punchball, or marbles, or whatever it was that the kids wanted to do in a dirt lot.

One morning, on my way to school, I noticed that someone had decided to pay tribute to the family name. In very large white paint, the word DUFAYLAND was written on the side of the Horan house...which faced the empty lot. The Horans never objected. The paint job and the designation of the lot endured several years.

Living in our own house made everything better for each of the Dufays. We no longer had to be concerned with complaints from the Pyrenskis. The idea of ownership seemed to make us individually taller. Hey, we had a real, honest-to-goodness bathtub...not that dumb, big corrugated basin that we kept in the Westervelt Place kitchen. And Mom and Pop smiled more. We all did.

Chalk up another credit for SUPERMOM!

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Catalogue Information

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