8641. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #175

175. FLEXING MUSCLES

There really are so many

things I can start relating

here, and I almost intend

to but sometimes they

get so mixed up and

cluttered that I find

myself confused. Yet,

no matter, I plod on. I

can't exactly keep straight

 -   with 'correctness' and

right attitude  -  because

I've never had any of

that and am not about

to start now. I'll dive in

wherever the water's

taking me. It's sometimes

awkward, and other

times just odd.

-

In Woodbridge, where

Bitting's Brewery or

Brew-pub, or whatever

it's called, is (I've never

gone there), there's a long,

unknown history at that

spot. Woodbridge Theater

used to be there, where

the police Quick-Chek

is now, and a jeweler or

something right next to

it too. Bittings itself, with

the railroad siding that

once ran right along it

at ground level and

which had a siding/stop

at the Bittings loading dock,

back then, was a granary.

Across the street, where is

now a strip-mall of about

15 little stores, was Klein's

Farm and Garden. It was a

large, for its day, garden

center. (Two days ago,

when I wrote about the

girl with the withered

arm or leg, at Woodbridge

High School, reading the

NYTimes wedding notices,

that was their daughter I

wrote about). What is now

Bitting's was something

akin to 'Woodbridge Grain

and Feed'. I'm not sure of

the name but back in its day,

like any service yard we've all

forgotten about today (for

instance, at the railroad

crossing on Rahway Avenue  -

where I got beaned by

that train, and have

written of  - was Avenel

Coal and Oil. Just

what it sounds like. The

old white house there

stood for years, as did the

golf driving range, to which

they turned their property

over when farming died.

All gone now, and today's

swanky phone-kids

wouldn't have a damn

clue or an interest either).

There once was a thing

called 'utility'  -  real

stuff that served real

needs. If you weren't

set right with your coal

and oil guy, you and

your family would

freeze to death. The

coal yards were

important, the payment

plans and the needed

deliveries. Woodbridge

had its own, yes, too,

of course. Woodbridge

Coal and Oil, with its

storage towers off Van

Buren Street that used

to loom over what later

became Route 35 or St.

George Ave. Horse-cart

and wagon, later fuel-oil

trucks and 30-day terms.

If you lived in town you

couldn't just go cutting

and burning trees, or

even boards and stuff

from your own home.

Towns were set up to stop

those sorts of things with

codes and regulations and

inspections and officials.

In addition, obviously,

the very idea of town

and village business boards

and chambers of commerce

was to enforce and promote

the local businesses at hand.

It all worked in consort.

-

In 1966, this is the way things

were. Now, as I write, the way

over-extended City Hall and

the municipal authorities are

finished up, behind that

Quick-Chek, and across

from the rear of Bittings,

demolishing the three old

homes that had stood there.

For more parking lot space,

which parking lots, for the

train station nearby now

take up both sides of that

area, and all the space

behind Bittings, which

once was usable and

quite nice scrubby

wild-land  -  since the

days of the granary

closing up. I worked there,

in the old granary building,

when it was something

called New Jersey

Appellate Printing.

We moved in, took that

old space over, and

turned it all into

working areas for a

thriving legal print-shop

-  briefs, court transcripts,

appeals, paperworks for

legal filings, etc. The one

part of the granary there

was tall, towards the rear,

and there had once been
a mountain of grain  - oats,

maybe, or wheat-for-flour,

I don't know, but that it

came in directly off the

freight cars at the siding

and was milled or sold

unmilled by the canvas

sack. Sure was a different

world back then  -  people

would take this home to

their own bread ovens

and bake their own bread.

I was told that a lot of the

old homes had their own

little, outdoor, bread ovens,

and wives would bake two

good loaves at a time, two

being, supposedly, good for

a two-week period. To feed

the family. And then you'd

bake again, two more. I

don't know about any

preservatives or bread

going green and old, and

actually it's just not my

problem now.

-

Those houses that are

being torn down, right 

across from the old 

granary  -  when we 

worked there the second

house in had three girls 

that lived there, sisters, 

with their parents too. 

Each girl was maybe in 

something around their 

mid or early 20's. Three

of the cutest and most 

playful girls you'd ever 

see. One had a new car, 

newer anyway, and

was the most mobile. 

Those girls used to drive 

us crazy  -  four guys 

working there  - with their 

waves and smiles and 

bend-overs and small talk.

It was all innocent  -  on 

the surface anyway  -  but 

not so innocent when 

we'd talk about it ourselves. 

You know, 'guy-stuff.'

-

In the tall part of the granary,

where they used to store all

that grain, there was still some

around. About 200 pigeons 

lived in there, up at the rafters

all along the top. We never 

used it, except maybe to hang 

out, on break or something, on

cold days, or bring those girls

over into the loft (OK, just

joking). I used to work with

a guy, now dead, named

Gary Pry, and another really

good guy, from Milltown, 

named Bill Konowalow. He

was maybe three or four years

older than me. I lost touch,

wish I hadn't. Too late in

life now. Anyway, the owner

here, Ron Anzivino, he'd let 

some Portuguese or Puerto

Rican guys in, from Perth

Amboy, every so many months,

and they'd arrive with shotguns

and just shoot the living blazes

out of the pigeon loft rafters.

It was gross. They'd go home

with, each time, maybe 70-75

pigeons, dead. For food. They

said they always left some for

more propagation  -   more

babies and growth. A ready 

supply. I never enjoyed it, 

and the place would then

stink of grief.

-

One or two other items, and

then I'l let this rest for today.

Girls. Walking into New Jersey

 Appellate, you climb five or 

six stairs, like up from a small

lobby. That's where the receptionist,

bookkeeper, secretary sat. Recently

hired, a real sexy girl from Newark.

Marlene somebody. Maybe half

Spanish or Cuban or something, 

a little chubby, sexy clothes, 

mini-skirts and all that (back in

that day). What they used to call

'fast'  -  she knew her way, let's say,

around a joystick, and they'd not 

even been invented yet. She 

drove a spanking brand-new 

Ford Mustang. I'd use it every 

now and then, she'd let me, 

for speed-trip deliveries and

stuff to Newark or Trenton 

and Philadelphia. Legal 

docketing, filing paperwork, 

and all that. She used to 

rave about the car, that if 

I wanted to pass or speed, to

just floor it, slap the pedal 

to the floor, and it would 

power-downshift automatically

and rip-snort tear off. Cool.

The thing was, with crazy

Marlene  -  and she damn

well knew it, as did all us 

guys  -  was that, where she

was positioned, six or so steps

up, if you stood in specific areas

below you could see right up

her mini-skirted legs. Right to

the wild blue yonder. She never,

ever, made any effort to close

her legs either. No comment,

-

Before I leave, one more thing.

I had a friend, she's dead now,

God rest, and her name shall 

remained unspoken. She used

to tell me (I was a young man,

not used to any of this, and 

walking always on unknown 

territory and steps) that 

whenever she saw me she

began 'pooling.' I never 

knew what the hell she 

was talking about. (OK, 

I do now). Also, unknown 

to me, she'd start talking 

about her 'kugel' or 'klegal'

muscles, or something,

and how she was practicing 

with them and toning 

them up, just for me. Still

perplexed, I'd laugh  -  like

I knew? I ask you, what 

was I supposed to do?