OPINION: Bygone days on the boardwalk

The Long Beach Long Island Boardwalk in the 1950s was a crucible of ethnic and mechanical delights. Almost every summer Sunday, just when the sun was setting, we’d walk to the boardwalk. Up the ramp to the darkening Atlantic, and then a mile walk to Gruberg’s Playland, also known as “the rides.” I could see the lights glowing and the Ferris wheel turning in the distance. The air was cool, the ocean calm, and our family was together; it was wonderful. As a 6-year-old, I held Auntie Carmen’s and Uncle Maurice’s (Unk’s) hands, with Mom, walking the right flank by the ocean — all of us taking in the clean air and a welcomed stroll after a bountiful Sunday meal.

Despite my excitement, Auntie and Mom, ever bargain hunting, stopped to window shop. Then we’d pass “The Italian Fair,” a strange mix of hotel lobby, antique fair and Italian cafeteria. The smells and displays of freshly cooked Sicilian pizza were irresistible.

We finally got to Gruberg’s, a small jumble of aging machines that would spin, toss and shake you until you howled with delight. My favorite was “the Whip.” The Whip was a circular car on an oval track that sent you centrifugally flying across the seat, each time it hit a curve. Preteens couldn’t go on by themselves, so Unk took me. He’d put his arm around me and widen his big blue eyes in anticipation. We rocked and slid around the oval 10-12 times, me sliding into Unk as he slid into the wooden side of the cart. It was terrific, Unk was terrific, I was having the time of my life.

After a few more rides, we went to the shooting gallery. No electric guns, but real, .22 caliber shorts. The guns were attached to a chain, but they were amply flexible. Targets rang, glass broke, wood chipped and the 12 shots for 20 cents were expended with careful aim and determination. Unk and I would compete, and I always beat him, even as a 6-year-old, even though he was an infantryman in World War II. What a guy!

After the games, the stroll back home began. Soon we got to the Italian Fair. By this time, it was about 10 p.m. Auntie looked at me and said, “Hmmmmm, can you smell that pizza?” That’s all it took. In we went.

Auntie would talk with the guy at the counter and ask for the three best slices, fresh from the oven and still steaming. We held them in our napkins and went to a boardwalk bench and dug in. “Hmmmm, ahhhhh, wow, boy … this is really good pizza,” we all said as we wiped tomato sauce from our smiling mouths. Mom would take a bite or two but cautioned it would put on the pounds. Auntie smiled broadly and noted it was summertime, and this was an allowed indulgence. We walked a little further and got to the Italian ice stand. Lemon ice for Auntie and Mom, chocolate ice for Unk and me. As we strolled back home, I remember thinking how good life was. I was part of a great family and felt loved and protected. What a blessing.