Claudette, from Paris to East Hills

Claudette, from Paris to East Hills!
January 20, 2003
J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press

On January 20, fifty-one years ago in East Hills, New York, Josephine and Joseph Eugster had a baby at the Roslyn Hospital. It was the second child for the Eugster’s and it was the daughter they had hoped for. The baby arrived on time, without complications and thrilled the relatives living nearby in Greenvale and Westbury. Although both families had many children, the kids typically were born afar and the good news was celebrated at some distance. A new baby, born at home, was cause to celebrate!

The Eugster’s lived in an apartment, with their four year old son Joseph, a.k.a. Glenn, behind the East Hills Shopping Center off of Guinea Woods Road. Joseph, a.k.a. Joe, worked as a Grocery Clerk in the Bohack Food Store that was part of the shopping center, while Josephine, a.k.a. Jay, filled her time raising their son, working part-time, and caring for their home.

The Eugster’s abode was modest and included a living room, kitchen, one bedroom, bath and basement for storage--and a place where Joe made holiday Santa Claus displays for East Hillapolitans. Although it wasn’t a house, the apartment was the first separate residence of the Eugster’s that wasn’t a part of someone else’s house. Although space was limited the family found the residence accommodating and viewed the apartment as “one step away” from a real house.

The new baby’s arrival caused quite a stir in the Eugster home. Jay and Joe were excited about their daughter’s arrival and had been making plans for bringing the baby home in advance of Jay’s stay at Roslyn Hospital. With the help of Jay’s sisters the couple prepared a crib, dresser, blankets, toys, bottles, and other essential items needed to raise the new baby. Although Glenn wasn’t quite sure what was going on, he new changes were on their way.

Being an only child, and the “first-born”, Glenn had a good deal at the apartment. He slept in between Mom and Dad in the big bed, got plenty of attention from his parents and his four aunts, three uncles, two grandmothers and one grandfather. Life in East Hills was very good and Glenn had no reason to believe that growing older would be much different than it was when he started. Certainly a new sister living in a crib wouldn’t be any big deal, or would it?

Shortly after the birth of their daughter Jay and Joe brought the child home wrapped in soft white cotton and wool blankets. They advised Glenn and anyone else who would listen, that the baby’s name was Claudette. Joe passed out cigars to his co-workers and relatives, and drank shots of whiskey at Budney’s tavern while Jay gave attentive listeners highlights of what it was like to have a child at Roslyn Hospital.

Roslyn was a more historic community than East Hills and a very good place to be born. East Hills had a mixed history. In the 1800’s it was the home of a few wealthy families, including the Mackays who also owned Robin’s Island in the Great Peconic Bay—an island Jay and Joe would see later in their life after the family moved to Laurel. The Mackays wined and dined the best including the Prince of Wales and Charles Lindbergh after his solo flight to Paris—perhaps in search of Claudette Colbert. The Mackays lost their fortune and were bailed out by their spurned son-in-law Irving Berlin, but that’s another story.

Aunt Stella, Jay’s sister, came to the apartment, to watch over Glenn, when Jay and Joe went to the hospital. As they waited nervously for the new baby to arrive, Aunt Stella and Glenn watched television and ate bowls of popcorn. A day passed and the news came from Roslyn Hospital, courtesy of a phone call from Joe, that Jay had a baby girl without complications-except for hemorrhoids which were common with pregnant women. He indicated that they would be home soon and that Stella and Glenn should go easy on the popcorn and not watch too much television.

Not surprisingly, when Claudette arrived in East Hills, she was placed in crib in the bedroom. The crib was at the foot of the big bed and Glenn could see his sister from his spot between his parents. It was a good location in that it was close but not too close. The new baby had her own space and she seemed to fit in quite well.

Claudette made a great first impression. She was healthy, smiley, and had a baby-like, big round Eugster-Stazweski-head. She was obviously one of us and not someone else’s baby brought home by mistake. Claudette seemed to enjoy sleeping, gradually learned to roll-over onto her stomach, and seemed to like being there, often smiling and kicking her feet. Although she took lot’s of care and feeding, and drew attention away from Glenn, she seemed to be oh-so pleasant and reasonable in every way. She was cute, very photogenic and quickly made friends with our Kodak “Brownie” box camera. One might have thought the camera was alive and named “Goo-goo” after watching my sister and the plastic picture box.

The name that Jay and Joe chose broke with family traditions and reflected a tendency that first generation Americans had to strive to fit in to their new country. Where previously everyone in the family was named after their parents—either directly or nearly so, this child would have a new identity. The baby girl wouldn’t be named Josephine or Johanna, as her mother and grandmothers had been, she would be named after a movie star named Claudette Lily Colbert. Claudette, mouthed constantly by Jay and Joe, brought a regular smile to the baby’s face as well as those who stopped in to see her.

It took Glenn, who was actually named Joseph after his father, grandfathers, and uncles, as well as the others—he even had a dog named Jose’, to get used to someone that wasn’t named Joe-something. For many years, starting the day his sister arrived, Glenn pondered the name Claudette. Where did it come from? What did it mean? Whose name was it before they gave it to my sister? What, oh what, was going on? Before long, in 1957, pop-singer Roy Orbison even wrote a song made famous by the Everly Brothers called “Claudette”. This new baby was proving to be more of a big deal than Glenn imagined.

The explanation for the baby’s name was clear and easy to understand. Jay and Joe had this thing about famous and wealthy people. They wanted to be them! Although they were of modest means they enjoyed the glitter and the glamour of the movies, had worked for wealthy people and they aspired to do great things with their life. Jay believed that she could have married a big name baseball star and Joe believed that if he had gotten a break or two he could have been a successful artist. Logically, they believed, that great names could help their kids become great people. Glenn, although named Joseph, was also sub-named after Glenn Ford the actor and Claudette was named after Claudette Colbert. Movie-stars would make our kids better!

Claudette Colbert’s past was exciting and immediately cloaked my sister in a new, exciting and mysterious light. Claudette Colbert was really Claudette Lily Chauchion who was born in Paris, France in 1905. She came to the US when she was three and made her film debut in silent films in 1927. She wore a “Betty Boop” hairdo, scarves, and behaved with style and haughty sensuality. Glenn could only imagine with excitement and intimidation that this child in the crib would one day become a big face on the movie screen and a star in California.

Perhaps it was a coincidence but Claudette Colbert’s resume, in retrospect, seems to have had hints of the Claudette Eugster’s past and future. Claudette of Paris had her first big acting success in a movie called “The Sign of the Cross” which seems to be linked to Jay’s hope that her daughter would someday become a nun. Unfortunately for Jay’s vision of Sister Mary Claudette, this film featured Claudette Colbert in a now famous nude milk bath scene that placed the movie on the Catholic Church’s restricted movie list.

Claudette Colbert also starred in Cleopatra as well as a series of screwball comedies such as “It Happened One Night” (dedicated to Mattituck Bowling Lanes in Mattituck, New York) and Boomtown (dedicated to Birmingham, Alabama).

All totaled Claudette of Paris made 65 films, including “The Egg and I” (dedicated to the LI Ducks), “Since You Went Away” (dedicated to her husband and other sport announcers everywhere), and “Three Came Home” (dedicated to her daughter Elise Gold). Her roles included teaming with Clarke Gable and Fred Mac Murray, acting as the mother of Shirley Temple, co-staring with Ann Margaret in the “Two Mrs. Greenville’s”( dedicated to the women of Mongalousa Lane), “Sleep, My Love” (dedicated to her daughter Elise), and cast opposite of Troy Donahue(dedicated to Steve Nostrum). Little did most of the family realize what a standard Jay and Joe had set for the child they brought home from Roslyn hospital.

As the first year of Claudette’s time in Casa del East Hills unfolded everyone found her to be cute, quick to smile, easy-going, somewhat gullible, and always loveable. Much to Glenn’s surprise, Claudette’s ability to attract attention created a distraction for him and his childhood pal Alan Darnell of the “Darnell’s Hardware Store” family to form the notorious “East Hills Gang”. The pre-teen gang would later terrorize merchants, arrange for child marriages, scare shoppers, and harass the “Dolly Madison” ice cream lady. Over time Claudette would learn that Glenn’s behavior would make her seem even more reasonable in her parent’s eyes. It would also cause her to believe that Glenn’s name was really “Jesus Christ Glenn”, a name that Jay and Joe frequently used.

Alan and Glenn’s behavior offered Claudette the “comparative cover” that she would use and need later in life to create her own identity in the family. Next to Glenn and Alan Claudette looked even better behaved than she was. Unfortunately, this brotherly influence was not without a price for the younger child. Fake deaths on the living room floor, an arranged marriage to Yo-Lin the son of the East Hills Chinese Laundry, mandatory waffle-ball games, farm pond ice skating until 1:00 a.m., and implications in shopping center vandalism added frequent suspense, drama, exercise, and romance to the girl named after the famous actress.

Over more than one-half a century, Claudette of East Hills has lived a life in the tradition of her namesake. She has appeared in theater productions singing at the Cutchogue Theater and Mattituck’s Annual Minstrel Show. For many years she stood in the spotlight playing the outfield and hitting nearly .500 and catching anything hit in her direction for various town teams in the Mattituck and New Suffolk Summer Softball Leagues.

She has regularly been seen on camera at various auto-racing and ice hockey sporting events hurling accolades and insults with great passion and articulation. She regularly represents her family’s interests in matters of domestic, scholastic, environmental, behavioral and civic importance.

More recently she has taught at Summer Bible School and has signed a long-term agreement to sing as part of the “Out East Karaoke Lounge Act”. Even today, close friends swear, she will take a nude milk bath when the situation is appropriate!

The new kid in the crib fit in beautifully and has made her mark with a worldly and sophisticated yet down to earth style. Recently, on a Christmas visit to the White House in Washington, DC, Claudette of East Hills perhaps said it best, “I know what’s best for me, and after all I have been in the Claudette business longer than anybody”. The kid in the crib was a much, much bigger deal than Glenn, or any other of the family members realized. Over time she’s made us all forget good-old “what’s-her-name” from Paris.

Aunt Stella’s Gift

Aunt Stella’s Gift
December 4, 2006
J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press

When I was young I was walking at night with my Aunt Stella along what is now called Elm Street in Greenvale, New York. It was very dark and the sky was clear that night and I remember my Aunt saying, “Look Glenn, there is the Big Dipper”. We stopped along the road and my Aunt helped me look for and see the amazing formations of stars that night. I was struck not only by what she showed me but also by what she knew. The sky and my Aunt, I thought, were very impressive.

One evening last year I was watching a television show called Inside the Actor’s Studio. It featured Long Island, New York-born actor and dancer Christopher Walken. Walken mentioned how successful or distinctive actors develop an objective correlative which he described as something that you associate with a person that evokes a particular emotion in an audience. As I listened to the interview I thought about the special things that reminded me about people I know and love.

My aunt Sophia—Zu-Zu, passed away in 1997. I think of her often for the many things she did with her life and I still pray for her each Sunday. However, whenever I see a penny on the ground or a four leaf clover in the grass I always think of Aunt Zu. She believed, as I do, that a lost penny or a discovered four-leaf clover is good luck to the person that finds them.

Aunt Zu’s sister, my Aunt Stella, lives in the family home in Greenvale, New York. I have known her longer than anyone else in my life and as a result my list of her objective correlatives is much longer than anyone else’s.
Zu-Zu and Stella Stazweski were two of six children--Helen, Al, Mary, Josephine Jr., Joseph, Stella and Sophia, born to my grandparents Josephine and Anthony Stazweski. My grandparents emigrated from Poland to the US and met and married in New York. Josephine was about 15 at the time she arrived in the US and came to New York with her sister Olympia, or Cha-Cha as we called her.

My grandfather died at a young age leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves in Greenvale, NY. As the children grew some of them left home while the others stayed to help their mother maintain the family home.

Zu-Zu, Stella and Joey, the youngest of the six, stayed with their mother. Stella graduated high school and began a job she would keep most of her adult life at Doubleday Book Company in Garden City, NY. It was her “other job” given the responsibilities she took on at home.

When I see a book published by Doubleday I think of my Aunt Stella. For years she would rise from bed in the dark, dress stylishly for work, and walk down Elm Street past the dark yew bushes, pear trees, and stucco houses of the Polish and Italian people that lived along the street—once called Mongalousa Lane, to Guinea Woods Road-now called Glen Cove Road, to catch a ride with a co-worker.

Where my Aunt went when she left for work was always a mystery to me. Doubleday Books was in Garden City which from the name must have been a quite special place. It sounded big, green, corporate and sophisticated and I was impressed that she worked there.

Doubleday published and sold books and my aunt regularly brought them home. The books were always new, with colored shiny covers, large and heavy. They smelt fresh and were full of knowledge. Aunt Stella always seemed to pick out books that were on topics that were interesting and sophisticated. The topics always exposed me to something or someplace new and different and my interest in books got its start from her sharing this part of her work.

As I watch my wife Deborah, or daughter Laura, successfully juggle a variety of family and professional tasks I think of my Aunt Stella. Aunt Stella would return from work each evening at the same time, in a most predictable way, somehow never looking fatigued. She walked back along the street greeting neighbors along the way, with the same bounce in her step that she left with, returning to the house in time to cook and care for the family. While others needed to come home from work and “relax” before doing something else Aunt Stella never seemed to need a transition from one job to another. Her ability to move from one task to another was done so seamlessly that it masked the effort that she was making.

My Aunt Stella and Zu-Zu were another set of parents for my sister Claudette and me. They were always glad to see us, and were generous with their time and affection. Each phone call or personal welcome was always with a smile and very pleasant greeting. No matter how boring, distracted or obtuse we were as children my aunt’s always genuinely seemed to be interested in what we had to say, what we were doing, or what we hoped to do. My Aunt Stella, more than anyone else I’ve known, offered me unrestricted love from the first day we were together.

Stella and Zu were close and their behavior toward us was quite similar and often complimentary. I was one of the first children born to this generation of nieces and nephews and perhaps I got the jump on Pat, Richard, Claudette, Paul, Stephen and Oscar by being one of the new kids. Aunt Stell seemed to warm to me quickly and given that I was a shy, skinny child the fact that this friendly, attractive and caring lady showed interest in me was wonderful.

Aunt Stella’s interest in me created a seasonal rhythm to my childhood. She regularly sent me birthday, Halloween, Christmas and Easter cards and they would arrive with her distinctive and very legible handwriting. Each card was a welcome sight when it arrived and I looked forward to these greetings and the reminder that she was thinking of me even when I wasn’t with her.

At Christmas and my birthday my aunt would give me gifts. For Christmas I took the liberty of letting her know what gifts I most wanted. It seemed that I did believe there was a Santa Claus but I believed in Aunt Stella more than jolly-old Saint Nick.

Year after year I would write embarrassingly detailed letters to her identifying a particular toy. Lionel trains were of great interest to me then and I would routinely identify the particular car or engine—by color, model, and catalog number and page. If there had been “Mapquest” then no doubt I would have helped her find the store that sold the gifts of my desire. Amazingly she would listen to me and more often than not, when I was reasonable in my requests, she would give me the gifts I asked for.

The relationship with Stella and Zu was more than cards and gifts. Our time with my aunt’s was special and on many occasions it gave us new and lasting insights to life.

When I visit the North Shore of Long Island I visit places I went to as a child and think of my aunts. They took us places, both unique and average, and every trip was a positive adventure. We made regular trips up and down Elm St., to the beach, Engineers Golf Course, the Glen Cove Carvel, Walzach’s Delicatessen, Lord & Taylor, Korvette’s and the A & S department stores, Catholic churches, the Roslyn duck pond, and the cemetery where my grandfather and grandmother, are buried.

My aunts introduced us to people at the shops and stores, neighbors along Elm Street, Priests at church, people where Aunt Zu worked, and acquaintances at the beach. They introduced me to their close friends, such as John Bakowski, my Aunt Stell’s longtime love and companion—and one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. As we met people my aunt’s would introduce us with pride and poise which was a big deal for kids like us. These interactions taught my sister and me that we counted and how to handle greetings, and be polite and social.

Each trip and introduction broadened our little country heads, exposed us to a bigger world showing us places to walk and enjoy nature, buy food for the family, shop for clothes—and toys and records, and recreate They also opened our eyes to the important, helpful, pleasant, and loving people out and about in the world beyond our home.

In addition to showing us how to enjoy the pleasures and responsibilities of life my Aunt Stella demonstrated daily throughout the past, and present, what it means to be part of a family and care for the people that you love.

Over the years I watched my Aunt Stella help people in good times and bad. I watched her assist Uncle Joe when he needed help and understanding. I watched her provide support to my Mother, Aunt Helen and Aunt Mary on family matters and child raising issues. She shouldered the responsibility when Uncle Al struggled with a terminal illness. I watched her help my Grandmother recover from a broken hip, and lovingly care for her until she died. I watched her help Aunt Zu battle terminal lung cancer. More than anyone else she was, and still is, the constant in our lives, always accepting circumstances and each of us no matter what happens. She always makes time to care for family members that needed—or need, her help.

When I see Bermuda shorts or two-piece bathing suits I think of my Aunt Stella. My earliest recollections of her are ones that include stylish summer clothes, an attractive, healthy body, and a dark tan. She always turned heads when we visited the beach and her clothes and the way she carried herself communicated a confidence that I have always admired.

Even today, as the years have past, she never seems to change or grow old. Age never seems to affect her body, beauty, or mind and it is not unusual to find her occasionally sunning herself in the back yard of Elm Street in a two-piece.

As I think about my Aunt I’m often struck by how ironic life can be. Despite the love and care she has shown to others it seems as if life hasn’t always been as loving to Aunt Stella. Many of the family members she has loved and cared for have lost their health and passed away. Her brother Alex and her sisters Mary and Jay passed away before their time and her oldest sister Helen, as well as her husband George, and her brother Joe have been battling health problems for some time now.

As I watch and listen to my Aunt I think that the reality of life must sometimes be frightening for her as she sees so many of the people she cares about pass on. Each change in the family shrinks this part of the family circle and challenges her to continue to be more and more resilient. Perhaps knowing that she has made a difference in each of these people’s lives makes it easier for her to deal with the joys and sorrows—and the eventualities of life. Hopefully she takes some comfort in knowing that she has helped raise the next generation of family members.

As I watch her continue to live her life her way I’m both pained and pleased. It is painful to see her struggle with the problems around her. I can’t help but wonder why life can’t give Aunt Stella occasional time to pause and let her enjoy life without sickness and death.

Watching my Aunt also gives me pleasure for she has touched so many of us in so many ways. Certainly she is always there in a crisis but perhaps more importantly she has given all of us an unconditional love and taught us the importance of loving your family no matter what happens. Each year I see some of Aunt Stella in my sister Claudette, my daughter Laura, my cousins Pat and Richard, and even in myself.

Stella has given us many gifts. Some are bought and wrapped and some are those that have made us better people and family members. I think of her often these days as time moves quickly, and the miles are harder to travel each year. There is not a day that passes now when I see those special things that make me think of her with love and admiration. The night sky and my Aunt are still very impressive.

A Banana Barge

A Banana Barge
July 4, 2002
J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press

One day in 1958 the Stazweski Girls--Sophie and Stella, took Jay and Joe's kids--Claudie and Stash, for a ride. It was a hot night in July and a ride in the car was one of the surprises that always came with a trip to Elm Street--formerly called Mongaloosa Lane.

The girls told the kids they were going to Glen Cove for a "Banana Barge."  The children from a beautiful but quite remote rural-outpost named Laurel were bright, but not altogether cosmopolitan at this point in their lives.  Barges were boats and they thought they were going to the coast to see a boat used to transport bananas.

Riding in the back of Sophie's tri-brown-color-automatic-powerglide-1953 Chevy was always exciting and never predictable--Stash had fallen out of the back-seat of a moving car when he was younger and never trusted adults after that experience.  Sophie was a tentative driver who took the wheel because Stella wouldn't.  "You've got to be a little crazy to drive around here you know," said Stella, reflecting on those crazy-hazy-lazy-days of past summers.

The trip to Glen Cove was loaded with honks--the Stazweski girls were attractive and single, and many of the cars that weaved around the slow moving sisters didn't see the two country kids hunkered down in the back seat.  "Guys would see us and they'd wave, honk and blow us kisses," recounted Sophie in her unpublished notebook. "They tried to get our attention until they saw the kids in the back," she said.

The group arrived at a small commercial store with a glass front and white walls.  The parking lot in front of the store was bustling with activity.  With a lurch, a jerk, and a couple of curse-words, the group deftly slid into a parking spot, cut the engine and Sophie headed for the counter with a sense of purpose.  The country kids sat nervously wondering where the banana boat was and why we had stopped at this place called Carvel?

Sophie returned to the car with cylindrical containers, long red plastic spoons, and a fistful of napkins.  "This one's for you," she said as she passed out the containers to everyone, cool to the touch, and heavy with the weight of whatever was in them.  The country kids pried the tops of the containers off to find, vanilla ice cream, fruit, nuts, bananas, heavy sweet syrup, and who-knows what else in the mix.  "Dah, what is this?” said Stash.  "It's a banana barge, and it's delicious," replied Stella.

The evening was hot and the ice cream was so cold it made our temples hurt as we shoveled this amazing concoction down their excited little throats.  As Claudie and Stash dug into the cylinder it seemed to go on forever.  A banana barge--the name didn't make sense but once the lid came off it didn't matter, was a sweet, cold, smooth, creamy, crunchy, delicious mix of everything a kid could ever dream of on a hot night in July.  Inside the container made the visit to Carvel seem like a trip to someplace cool and tropical at the same time.

With vanilla ice cream lines around their mouths, chocolate syrup drips on their shirts, crumpled napkins everywhere, the group headed back to Elm Street, with an image of Glen Cove--oh wonderful Glen Cove, etched in their minds forever.

In the Morning Light

In the Morning Light
July 9, 2002
J. Glenn Eugster
Fontna Free Press





















In July of 1960 my father, Joseph, took me surf-fishing off the coast of Long Island just below Orient, NY.  I was twelve at the time I was awakened at a God-awful hour by my father and told "It's time to go."  Dazed and confused, I pulled on some clothes, drank some fresh squeezed orange juice-with pulp and seeds that was left by my mother, and climbed into a 1957, green, Chevy station wagon.

We made our way in the dark and dead of night, driving with little conversation nearly twenty-six miles to a remote and rural area near Orient, NY.  Along the way my father and I stopped for coffee.  Although I didn't drink coffee, my father handed me a cup and said, "Here, this is for you."

The coffee was with milk and sugar, very hot and definitely helped me stay awake.  The radio played a combination of news reports and music, none of which made the long drive memorable.  As the coffee kicked-in and the radio continued to intrude on the scene, we arrived near a dirt road next to a farm field.  My father carefully parked the car in a small pull-off near the tree line and said, "Let's go."

We pulled our hip-boots on and then removed the nearly ten-foot long surf rods from the back of the wagon.  Throwing old army bags, packed neatly with fishing gear, over our shoulders we quickly finished the coffee, locked the car and clumped-off down the farm road.

The farm road quickly disappeared into the trees and a canopy formed over our heads. It was dark, somewhat cooler than the open field, but yet a bit humid.  As we clumped-clumped-clumped along, our boots making a strange noise, we walked quickly in silence passing through a variety of micro climates.  Despite the darkness the forest was cool in places, warm in others.  We passed through a wet area that filled the space with a rich, almost sweet, almost sour smell, which was different from anything I ever smelled.

Before too long we came to the end of the road and the forest.  The beach and Long Island Sound was suddenly before us as the ground changed from soil to sand and the clumps turned to softer thumps. "This way," my father said, as we walked to our left along the shoreline that was filled with fist-sized cobblestones that moved when you stepped on them.

The waters of the Sound had a rolling quality to them.  The sea wasn't rough but it moved with power and grace, waves regularly washing far up on the shore, retreating with a long-whoosh through the cobblestones, before returning from the shore.  The tide was almost high and that meant "Good fishing," according to my father.  Obviously, I thought, Dad has done this before and he appears to be fairly good at it. "Quite impressive," I said to myself, somewhat surprised by the skill I was unaware of.

We stopped and my father helped me with my lure and offered some simple instructions. "Throw the plug out beyond the waves and reel it in slowly," he said as he walked off down the shore to cast from another spot. 

The beach was in darkness and now I was left alone, half excited and half wondering what I was doing there at that hour.  I started lobbing long-casts out toward the breakers, increasing the distance each time until he reached a rhythm that felt right for my strength and expectation of the instructions I had been given.

As we cast into the surf, we walked ever-so-slowly each time we threw our lure into the Sound.  Patiently we moved down the shoreline, casting out, reeling in, casting out, reeling in, again, and again.  Once we reached a certain point on the beach, known only to my father, we started back working the same rhythm and routine.

"I’ve got one," yelled my father, as he reeled in faster and with a joy that livened up the dark beach.  He had hooked a striped bass and was bringing it in.  It would be the first of several he would catch that night.  All of the fish were more than twenty pounds, beautifully textured, and alive with a fight.  They would be brought home, cleaned by my mother, and eaten by that part of the family that liked fish.

As the fishing continued daybreak was arriving just as the tide was at its highest point.  With the sky starting to lighten I hooked my first and only fish.  The end of the long pole jumped and I felt the fish take the plug and try to swim in the direction of Connecticut.  The pole that had been a tool of tedium had now become an extension of me and the fish.  It was in fact the connection between a struggling boy and striped bass.

As I reeled in the fish, it broke out of one of the waves that surged toward the shore, spit the hook, and vanished as quickly as it hit the plug.  "I had one!’ I said with as much pride as disappointment. ”Wow, I had a big stripper," I said in the direction of my father, but as much to myself as anyone.  Despite losing the fish, I felt electric throughout my body and realized what the point of getting up in the middle of the night to go fishing was.

The sun rose and it was time to get on with the rest of the day.  My father would have to be at the Southold Bohack-the food store where he worked by 8:00 a.m. and I had lawns to mow and other odd jobs for an assortment of neighbors.  We walked along the shore, through the woods, and back to the car.  All the way we talked of the fish we caught, the beach, the waves, the tide, the forest, and occasionally about the one that got away.

The drive back was alive with the events of that morning, more coffee for me, and a Rheingold beer, or two, for my father.  For my father it was another day of fishing, something he did before and would do many times after.  It was part of the reason he and my mother had decided to move to this remote and rural outpost.  For me it was the first, and only, opportunity to surf cast with my father.  It was a night like no other before or since, fish, or no-fish!

A Boat Named Bingo

A Boat Named Bingo
By J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press
Alexandria, Virginia

June 25, 2009




My parents, Jay and Joe Eugster, moved our family from outside of suburban Roslyn, New York(NY)in suburban Nassau County to a tiny hamlet, surrounded by wetlands and potato fields, called Laurel in rural Suffolk County. My parents both loved the water and the North Fork of Long Island was an ideal location for them since it borders the Great Peconic Bay, Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. My mother loved to swim, sunbath, clam, and beach-comb. My father also loved to comb the beach but his true passion was surf and boat fishing. The move to the “East End” offered the family a number of assets, including more affordable housing, more open space, but nothing motivated my parents more than increasing their access to water.

My father, before and after the move to Laurel, would often fish off my grandfather’s boat which he kept moored in a small marina off of the Great South Bay on the southern shore of LI. My grandfather, also named Joe, came to America from Switzerland, worked on dairy farms in northern New Jersey before settling in Westbury, New York. His boat was 19 feet long, wooden, with a small cabin enclosed on 3 sides, and an inboard engine. It was an excellent craft for 4-5 people to go fishing in for fluke, flounders, or porgy‘s and my grandfather, father, Uncle Joe, and their other friends and co-workers would spend many a Saturday or Sunday fishing.

The more my father fished on my grandfather’s boat the more he longed to someday own a boat of his own. When we arrived in Laurel my father quickly obtained a row boat for us to use. It was a second-hand wooden boat, old, very sturdy, heavy, and covered with multiple layers of paint. I spent the first summer we had the boat trying to scrape and caulk it so that one day we could launch it and row up and down Brush’s Creek and into the Great Peconic Bay, close to where we lived. Unfortunately the paint was hard to scrape off, the bottom of the boat required a great deal of caulking, and I was a skinny 8 year old with little skill and even less strength and perseverance.

After six torturous weeks of scraping and caulking my father joined the effort and within a few days the boat was ready to paint. Shortly thereafter we launched the boat, without a name, at a right-away for the land bound residents of our unpaved street, and I spent many of my days rowing the creek and gradually venturing into the Bay. When I caught the tide it was a magical sensory glide along the channels that meandered through salt marsh and mud flats. Day after day that summer I was satisfied with the ability to row our boat. Having a boat seemed to be a dream I shared with my father.

Not surprisingly my father had greater nautical aspirations than our row boat. The image of his father’s power boat must have stayed with him as the summers passed. Although his interest in buying a power boat never wavered my families finances hardly allowed my father to acquire one. I’m sure my father kept is eyes open for a good second hand bargain but it would take some real money to buy a boat and lease a place to moor it.

Each summer the Town of Mattituck, the more sophisticated urban neighbor to Laurel, would hold the annual Fireman’s Bazaar in July. The bazaar was one of the seasonal treats of the North Fork which included the Memorial Day Parade and the Strawberry Festival. To a shy, unsophisticated child from a sleepy potato field hamlet these three events were the “Triple Crown” of summer excitement and entertainment. While I was usually able to march in the parade, and eat large quantities of strawberry shortcake at the festival, the bazaar was the event that was most exciting.

The Fireman’s Bazaar was intended to raise money for the town’s volunteer fire department. Tickets were sold for various rides like the merry-go-round and Ferris wheel, and the bazaar also introduced young and old to games of chance. Within the firehouse parking lot there were games of chance where you could pick a number on a wheel, throw a ball at a milk can, or toss coins into a floating plate all with the intent of winning some type of prize. This activity created a lure that was hard for most to resist and even harder for most to convert into a prize.

The big money prize of the bazaar was the Bingo game that was played continuously in an area that was set aside for people to sit at tables holding their cards and recording numbers that were called out by the barker. Bingo always seemed to me to be slow-paced and a game for the elders. To my surprise it turned out to be a game of skill, multi-tasking, and cut-throat speed. Seasoned bingo players would work numerous cards simultaneously with an intensity that would have made a professional athlete envious. As you worked you card with the illusion of success and the optimism of youth the real gamers would be calling out “bingo” before you had anything close to a winning row.

In the summer of 1960 my mother decided to play a few games of bingo at the bazaar. Although she never seemed like a gamer she obviously was quite skilled and probably more than a little bit lucky that night. After a few hours of playing my mother managed to win the big prize of the night which was $250.00. She was thrilled that she won and my father, sister Claudette, and I were all very proud of her as she accepted her cash prize.

My mother and father returned home that evening in a joyous mood. The prize was a blessing given that they typically struggled to stretch my father’s paycheck to make ends meet. As we drove home with them I couldn’t help wonder how my mother would use her winnings. I could imagine her treating herself to new clothes, a meal out, perhaps something for the house, or maybe just getting out in front of the monthly bills.

That night my father acted quickly. After we arrived home my parents disappeared into their bedroom and didn’t reappear until the next morning. My parents loved each other throughout their life but more often than not slept in different rooms and rarely were intimate in any obvious way. Although it was nice to see them acting as one it was unusual enough to seem confusing. Early that Sunday morning the confusion continued as my parents let my sister and I know that they were using my mother’s winnings to buy a boat.

Evidently my father had found a 19 foot, wooden power boat, with a cabin enclosed on three sides that just happened to be $250.00. It needed some work but it was, according to my father, a great buy. As good as the news was about the boat I was baffled. Never did I ever hear my mother say, “Joe… Glenn… Claudette… you know, what I really need is a boat“. Without a word of reluctance or resistance my mother was a willing partner in this nautical purchase and talked about how wonderful it would be to have our own boat. Her support of my father’s dream reminded me of how much she loved him and his ideas.

My father bought the boat and found a place to moor it in New Suffolk, NY. It needed work and he spent many days working on scraping it, caulking it, and fixing the engine. He enjoyed working on his boat and it kept him close to the water and other ships that used the area. He worked it with persistence, patience, and perseverance and it wasn’t but a month or two before it was ready to take out into the Great Peconic Bay.

Our first cruise brought a day filled with blue skies, light breezes, calm waters, excitement, and pride. Unfortunately it ended with clouds, strong winds, rough waters, engine trouble, and the embarrassment of a tow back to the mooring. That day promised to be a snapshot of what would follow. More often than not my father had to do work on the boat rather than enjoy using it. I often would accompany him to New Suffolk to spend time with him as he caulked leaks and repaired the engine. Over time I found the routine to be enjoyable and eventually the dream of actually using the boat was realized when my father and the family took the boat out once again.

The second launch was as exciting as the first and far more successful. The plan was to cruise from New Suffolk to a beach not far from the inlet to the mouth of Brush’s Creek. The weather was good and the water calm as we cruised along the coastline to our destination. When we arrived we dropped anchor just off the shore and with great pride wadded to shore for a picnic lunch in view of our boat. The rest of the day was spent talking about places we would go with the boat and how great it was to finally have one of our own.

That evening my father and I took the boat further from shore, on water as flat as glass, and securely anchored it. We wadded back to shore and walked, with a little bit of nautical swagger, the short distance to our home feeling a type of kinship with the sea.

The next morning the weather had changed, the wind shifted, and the Great Peconic had a serious chop to it. Waves were rolling under the family boat and because it was anchored it rhythmically bounced up and down hour, after hour, after hour. As I approached the boat it was obvious that the up and down bouncing had jarred some of the boards loose and the boat was taking on water. Although it wasn’t much water it was clear that caulking would be in our future again.

We hoped the weather would change but that week, while my father worked, the boat continued to bounce until the leaks were more and more frequent. By the weeks end my father took the boat back to New Suffolk and it was lifted out of the water so the hull could be repaired. The repairs, either due to cost, limited time, or the time of year, took away the rest of the summer for us. Shortly after the cruise my father had the boat on a trailer and placed in our backyard.

When the boat first docked in our backyard my father and I continued to enthusiastically work on scraping, painting, caulking and tinkering with the engine. Over time our visits to the boat became less frequent until they stopped and the boat was placed on the never-ending list of unfinished projects that my father seemed to create. It rested for more than 25 years, in view of potato fields and winter farm ponds, before rot, time and neglect drew the nautical life from the boat leaving it an aged, grounded monument to lost optimism and pride.

After my parents died my sister and I took time to clean out our home and yard. As part of the effort we dismantled the garage and removed the unnamed boat. I took a long-handled axe to the rotting hulk of the boat and each blow gave me both joy and sorrow as I reduced it to a pile of wood and an engine block. As I smashed the last of it I shouted “Bingo” and thought of my mother’s love for my father’s dreams and her luck at the Mattituck Fireman’s Bazaar.

What Do You Say to a Squirrel?

What Do You Say to a Squirrel?
By J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press
November 9, 2009


As a young child I was fortunate to always receive wonderful birthday and Christmas gifts from parents and family members who loved me. One year I received a scale model that allowed me to assemble a life size plastic replica of a squirrel complete with life-like eyeballs, realistic whiskers, and a fur-like spray-on substance to cover the plastic body with. For kid who liked sports, cowboys and Indians, and army stuff, this struck me as one of those loving but off-beat educational gifts that I would appreciate as I got older.

I assembled the squirrel and placed it in my room on a bookshelf overlooking my bed where it stood silently for quite a few years. Little did I know that this was my introduction to these strange yet endearing animals who seem dedicated to regular interactions with humans.

My wife Deborah and I live next to a 43 acre city park in Alexandria, VA. Fort Ward Historical Park was major reason why we purchased the home we live in and it affords us nature and history on a daily basis. Although the leaves will change with the seasons and park visitation will vary over the year, the one constant that we have are squirrels. Each day they are running along our fences, climbing trees, digging in the lawn, the flower beds, and our potted plants. They move about as if they are working on a deadline and have no time for anything but the task at hand.

The only time I’ve seen these squirrels stop is when we wander into an area that they don’t think we should be in. It is then that they will position themselves on a tree limb or trellis and let loose an irritable chattering noise in our direction. They speak to us with an impatience that seems unreasonable given that we pay a substantial mortgage on our home and surrounding property. Then again, perhaps they lived on our property before it was developed and feel as if their interest in the land predates our claim.

When I was a young man attending college one summer I made periodic visits to my parents home in Laurel, NY. If I visited on a Saturday I would spend the night roaming local bars and nightspots before returning to the house. If it was very late when I pulled into their yard, and I had to much to drink, I would often grab my sleeping bag which I always kept in the back of my car and wander into the back yard to sleep under the stars and one of the big oaks growing on the property. At night the sky was clear, bright with stars and as peaceful as any place I can recall.

When the sun rose Sunday morning the peaceful quality of my outdoor bedroom was almost always broken by a squirrel who would climb a branch over me, look down, and chatter in an aggressive and belligerent tone. Suffering from sleep deprivation, too much alcohol and not enough coffee these encounters would always result in harsh words between us.

I’ve also seen the squirrels stand on the deck outside the window to our enclosed sunroom. They seem to know that glass separates them from our two Birmin cats, Mr. Percy and Ms. Pearl. The squirrels stand in silence no more than 18” from the window where Percy and Pearl stare and let loose with a soft guttural noise that must suggest what they might do if the door were to open.

One evening I called my Aunt Stella who lives in Greenvale, NY. I call her regularly to see how she is and to exchange information about each other and other family members. The calls are almost always enjoyable and they keep this important connection to our family which is shrinking in many ways while growing in others.

This evening’s call led Aunt Stella to share a story about how she and her long-time companion John spent the afternoon repairing a hole in the eave along the roof line to her house. Evidently over time they began to hear noises in the walls of the house and suspected that a squirrel or other wild animal had taken residence in the house through the hole.

Aunt Stella and John were both in their late 70’s when this story was told and my aunt went into great detail telling me about how she and John made this repair. She said that they got the ladder out of the garage; carried it to the side of the house where the hole was; brought a piece of wood, a hammer and nails to the ladder; held the ladder and climbed it to cover the hole with the board; and nail it to the eave. Her story continued with she and John carrying the ladder and the hammer back to the garage feeling as if this was a job well done.

Much to their surprise, as they lugged the ladder down the driveway toward the garage, they noticed a very excited and irritated squirrel looking at them from inside the basement window. Upon reflection Aunt Stella and John soon realized that as they fixed the hole to the eave they had boarded-up the squirrels entrance and exit, while the squirrel was inside. With its escape route blocked the squirrel quickly worked its way through the walls until it found a way into the house and the basement.

Inside the house the squirrel entered a heightened state of confusion and panic running from floor to floor, room to room, window to window. Aunt Stella and John entered the house and embraced the confusion and panic as they tried to find a way to get the squirrel to leave the house. They opened doors and windows, shouted spirited slogans of encouragement, and waved their arms.

Eventually the squirrel left the house and Aunt Stella and John closed the doors and windows before returning to the driveway to put the ladder and hammer away.

Much to my surprise this Sunday morning as I read the Metro-Section of the prestigious Washington Post I came across a report called ANIMAL WATCH which read:

ALEXANDRIA, West Bellefonte and Commonwealth avenues, Oct. 23. Residents called the Animal Welfare League about a squirrel that was perched on top of a third-story window air-conditioner. The squirrel didn’t move despite residents’ repeated knocking on the window. An animal control officer opened the window, and the squirrel scampered away. The day before, the residents had repaired a hole in the eave, which had been occupied by a family of squirrels. The officer suspected that the squirrel did not realize that the space was no longer available.

These days Deborah and I regularly maintain our home to reduce the chances of noises in the walls or small furry faces with big teeth staring at us through the basement window. We also continue to wonder if the next call to Aunt Stella will include another rousing story about the squirrel family’s reentry into her home in Greenvale. Although we love our children and grandchildren we won’t ever buy them a scale model of a squirrel to complete and pose in their room. With nature nearby, we, and Alexandria, VA, have enough squirrels and we are sure that more are on their way.

EVERYBODY OFF THE ROAD

EVERYBODY OFF THE ROAD!!!

March 16, 2006

By J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press

My sister Claudette sent me an e-mail message the other day to let me know that her daughter Elise had passed her driving test and was now licensed to drive. She said she was really excited and mentioned that Eli, Elise’s father, was taking her to look at cars. My sister closed by saying “We all just aged about 20 years!”

My head is in retirement these days even if my body is still at work. I have time to ponder things so I did. Elise driving a car. Interesting thought. When I was her age I had an old two-door Chevy, painted flat black, stick-shift on the column, and a dead-cows-skull wired to the hood….blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Returning my thoughts to Claudette's message I imagined Elise dressing in a chauffeur's outfit and carting Mr. and Mrs. Gold around AL, GA, SC and NC. Driving Ms. Claudie through the south as the family goes to the beach. Nice touch folks.

I also imagined Elise riding around with the two girls she introduced us to one year at the beach. They dress in black and talk quietly about torturing animals and docile adults, looking to kidnap Saturday shoppers for teenage fun and games. Some one will need to show Elise where the car washes are and how to vacuum the trunk so she doesn't show up on the television show “Cops“.

I also imagined Elise riding around with the two girls she introduced us to one year at the beach. They dress in black and talk quietly about torturing animals and docile adults, looking to kidnap Saturday shoppers for teenage fun and games. Some one will need to show Elise where the car washes are and how to vacuum the trunk so she doesn't show up on the television show “Cops“.

I imagined Elise spending less time on the computer and more time on the interstate roaming about Nashville, TN on Sunday mornings. Why talk to friends in Pennsylvania when you can go see them in your car? Networking is more fun in person.

I imagined Elise driving fast because the NASCAR drivers do it. Eli can do the announcing as Elise does her own “Talladega 500“.

I imagined Elise eating more now that she has a car. There aren't many southern restaurants that don't have curb service and now it is easier than ever to go to Jack-in-the-Box.

The car will help her stay up late since she won’t have to walk as much. Energy conservation at it's best.

Her social life will get more interesting. She'll take driver education at school so she can get her night license sooner. She'll fall in love with her teacher and shock her mother's friends on the fundraising board. She'll get free lessons which will save money and it will mean another interesting person at the beach for 4th of July.

I imagined Elise in a big car, given her long legs. No VW Kharman Ghia for Elise. Give her a car with fenders and a big back seat and trunk. Her posture is important. The big trunk will enable her and the two girls that dress in black to keep things in the trunk.

I imagined what my Aunt Stella would say when the news reached Greenvale, NY. Is she old enough to drive? Does she know how to drive? I didn't drive when I was her age. Where will she go? Will she drive alone? Will other kids go with her? Are you sure this is a good idea? Why doesn't she drive to Greenvale see me?

I imagined Elise's summer job flourishing now that she can drive to pick up the vegetables that she'll be selling along the beach. Better yet, in the family tradition of sending the "Vegetable Kids" out to sell produce, she can drive around with fruit and vegetables on her hood and in her trunk selling them to neighbors. Too bad they don't publish late afternoon papers anymore she could have a paper route.

I imagined Claudette and Eli realizing that they have entered a new dimension of parent-hood. One they have completely thought through or understand. I can see more sleepless nights and meaningful glances across the kitchen table. I can see an entire family with “ZuZu Eyes” coming closer together as the "Teen-auto-Age" arrives in Golden World. How nice that they will have more time to talk to each other since they will be up all night going a little nuts.

I imagined seeing Claudette returning to her career as the Queen of Wiffle-Ball with the extra time she'll have now that she doesn't have to schlep Elise around day and night.

Sensing that my pondering might be getting me carried away I decided to contact my daughter Laura who often provides me with a more rationale view of the world. Evidently my message struck a cord with Laura and she replied, “I, for one, hope that Elise enjoys her newfound freedom. I fondly remember the first day that I was able to drive my friends around the booming metropolis of Woodbury, New Jersey in my '71 Kharman Ghia with the top down. Never mind that the floor in the back right side had a hole which leaves would fly up through and that it didn't go over 55 mph. (something my father neglected to mention when he helped me pick the car) OR that as a prank the high school track team (not even the football players) used to periodically move it perpendicular in a parallel spot while I was at hockey practice. This is what being a teenager is all about! Having said that, I won't be driving with her without a helmet and a rosary handy. THIS is the girl who fell down the stairs at our house three times on her last visit“.

Laura also used this opportunity to comment on my comments about Aunt Stella’s reaction to the news. “As for Stell - it doesn't matter how long or how well you drive". According to Laura “the non-driving aunt lets you have it“. My son-in-law Jaime learned this the hard way during their visit to Greenvale and an excursion to Roosevelt Field.

Laura note caused me to ponder her message and the clarity of her memories. Young people sometimes do get the past confused and this exchange seemed to be laden with murky information. I recalled that Laura "really wanted" the car we picked. Also, her Mom stood-up in the back seat which caused the rusty floorboards to crumble. There was a debate with Woodburyians as to whether it was a faulty floor or a chunky Mom that caused the floor-failure. It seems to me the logic of driving within the speed limit does make great sense. You really do see more scenery when you drive under 55 mph and teenagers need to slow down and savor their youth. Little do they realize that it's harder out here in adult-and.

As I was drawn back into the world around me I imagined myself glad that my daughter didn't just get her license and our cat can't drive anymore.