A few weeks ago, the unimaginable happened: our central air conditioning died. We're scheduled to be get a new unit on Thursday, but since our condenser went to Air Conditioning heaven, we've thrown open the windows and turned on our ceiling fans in an attempt to circulate the humid, lifeless air. While I like to pretend that the Crawfords have gone "green", in reality, I am counting down the days until we restore our central air, close our windows and wait in our air-tight sealed house for the next disaster to strike.
The past few weeks without central air have been traumatic, but, in some ways, it has also been a re-awakening of memories from my childhood. A step back in time to 2811 Exterior Street and our brutally hot summers in Apt. #9G.
Growing up in Marble Hill (a city housing project in the Bronx) was fairly uneventful - at least until the summer arrived. And then, our apt. turned into a stifling inferno. In an attempt to stay cool, the Marble Hill kids fled. Like an annual mass migration, we fled our apartments and spent as much time as possible outside during the summer days. And, it was during my summer months in outside exile that I witnessed a phenomena unique to city kids: The Yell, Toss or Hurl syndrome.
What sounds like a variation of Tourettes Syndrome was actually a practice employed by both city kids and parents alike. My own experience with this syndrome went something like this:
I would stand outside my building, look up at our living room window and with a high, piercing yell of "MOM", I would continue to shriek until she came to the window. When her head finally appeared at the window, she'd usually respond in her semi-annoyed tone "Whatta want?"
"Can you throw me down my ball?"
After a brief disappearance, my mother's face would then reappear in the living room window. And, with a windup and toss to rival any great Bronx Bomber, my mother would hurl my Spalding ball out the living room window. If I were lucky and my mother was on her game that day, the ball would sail flawlessly through the air, 9 stories down and land near where I was waiting below. But, if I caught her on one of her off-days, I'd end up chasing the ball, bounce after bounce, until it finally came to rest. And, if I caught her on one of her really off-days, I would retrieve the ball when my eyes had re-adjusted, I was no longer seeing stars and my head had stopped throbbing.
On any given day, the above scenario could be repeated several times as I usually requested many items: jump rope, ice cream money or a sweater.
As a child afflicted with the Yell, Toss or Hurl syndrome, I came to realize that most parents had a unique style of dealing with their kids' pleas. And, most parents' throwing style fit into a general category. My mother was a classic Hurler.
As a general rule, Hurlers were quick to retrieve their kids' requested item and promptly send it on its way out the window. Hurlers wasted no time or energy wrapping or securing the item. In one sense, it was a relief to see my mother, the Hurler, come to the window because I knew that my requested item would be airborne within a matter of seconds.
But, as a street-smart Marble Hill kid, I also came to realize that because they were impulsive, Hurlers were also unpredictable. I never knew if my mother's trajectory would be on target and if my item would make it into my waiting hands. Often, ice cream money scattered randomly throughout the air and jump ropes ended up a tangled mess in the bushes. And sometimes, as was the case with my favorite blue sweater, the item seemingly disappeared into thin air. I can only imagine the surprised look on Mary's face in Apt #5G, when my mother, the Hurler, appeared at her apt. door to re-claim my AWOL sweater and express remorse about Mary's open window and the sweater's ill-fated flight.
Unlike my mother who was a Hurler and whose items often went MIA, my father was a classic Tosser. On the occasions when my mother was either not home or engrossed in "As the World Turns", my father would appear at the living room window upon hearing my shriek of "MOM". And then, time stood still. Because, my father, the Tosser, did not set an item in motion unless it was securely wrapped, properly packaged to withstand the elements and accompanied with a flight plan.
And this all took time. A lot of time.
Despite my reoccurring, desperate pleas for him to just throw down the item, my father, the Tosser, only reappeared at the living room window after he had meticulously wrapped the item in newspaper and secured the wrapping with scotch tape. Once that was done, he would then placed the item in a larger, cushioned, air-tight sealed bag. To prevent any mid-air catastrophes, the bag was then secured with additional all-weather tape. And sometimes, if he was feeling overly ambitious, my father would print my name on the bag with a permanent, black marker to ensure that it could not be mistakenly claimed during its flight. Then - and only then - the item was ready to launch out of our living room window.
My father's throwing technique, which was a gentle toss, was deliberate and strategically planned. Depending on wind and weather conditions, my father would motion me to "move forward, a little to the left, one step back and two to the right". When he was satisfied that my position was dead-center like the bulls-eye on a target, he would cradle the air-tight bag in his hand and gently move his arm back and forth. And, while I waited anxiously for him to release his hold on the bag, he would often abort the launch unexpectedly.
Yet, when my father finally released the bag from his grip, it glided effortlessly through the air, 9 stories down and gently landed within inches of my feet. Even NASA could not have orchestrated a more impressive touchdown. And, because of his impeccable launch/landing record, my father, the Tosser, always managed to remain anonymous to Mary in Apt. #5G!
When I was around 11 years old, Marble Hill began to "change" and most of the families we were friendly with began moving to other places. Although it has been over 40 years since I lived in Apt. #9G, we occasionally pass "the projects" on our way to NYC. Whenever we do drive by, I pride myself on the fact that I can immediately spot my living room window. I don't even have to count up 9 windows or count down 5 windows from the top floor. The living room window is immortalized in my memory.
And while I haven't seen any items flying from the window as we pass by on the Major Deegan, I do wonder when that window was last used as a launch pad. And, I also wonder how many other MIA objects Mary found when she packed up and moved from Apt. #5G! LOL
Photo of Marble Hill
