Eggs, sausage and a slice of nostalgia

Lately I’ve been breakfasting with Broderick Crawford.

Until a few weeks ago I dined with Raymond Burr, but since FeTV removed “Perry Mason” from its morning schedule, I’ve been watching Brod in “Highway Patrol,” a series I remember from my childhood, when I was too young to understand it.

But now I enjoy riding along with Brod as he plays the stalwart Dan Mathews.

“Highway Patrol” was one of a number of low-budget shows produced by a company called “ZIV.” As a kid I thought the letters in “ZIV” might stand for something, like maybe “Zestfully Inexpensive Video.” Or that it was some kind of odd roman numeral.

Wrong on both counts: “ZIV” was actually Fred Ziv, who owned the company.

Aside from “Highway Patrol,” Ziv was responsible for “Bat Masterson,” “Tombstone Territory,” “Lockup” and, perhaps most famously, “Sea Hunt,” in which the bad guys seemed to cut off Lloyd Bridges’ air tank so often that the budget for duct tape alone must have given Mr. Ziv the bends.

“Highway Patrol” had all the telltale signs of a Ziv program, including lots of location shootings (with the exception of Dan’s closet-size-and-a-half office) and the same music cues week after week. (“Hey, they’re playing the ‘Going to commercial’ music! I’m gonna make a sandwich!”)

To me the locations are a large part of the program’s charm. If Dan Mathews parks in front of a diner, a church or a supermarket, you can be damn sure it really is a diner, a church or a supermarket. I keep wondering whether those buildings, or even the roads, still exist. And while you might argue that “1950s ambience” is an oxymoron, I enjoy those settings. They’re a lot more interesting than the same old sites you see in the series from Universal. (“Hey, didn’t that guy just come out of Beaver Cleaver’s house?”)

Although the budgets for the Ziv shows seemed to make Roger Corman look like Cecil B. DeMille, Mr. Ziv apparently didn’t want to cut corners (or at least too many corners) when it came to the quality of the scripts. Although none of them were likely Emmy winners, they were decent and sometimes surprisingly different.

In one “Highway Patrol” episode, Dan is convinced that an ex-con has absconded with a lot of loot. The guy’s pastor disagrees, and he turns out to be right. In another, a “human bomb” who is driving a car while keeping his hand on a trigger attached to the steering wheel picks up a young hitchhiker. He asks the kid if he likes science, and after deciding to let him go calls after him to “Study hard!” Both scripts were attributed to “Robert Wesley,” a pseudonym for an ex-cop who would do really well for himself in the years to come: Gene Roddenberry.

And then there’s Brod. Because of Dan, he has often been the butt of bad impressions. True, Brod had his demons, chiefly booze; I’ve read that the “Patrol” folks liked to get most of his stuff “in the can” in the morning because after that he might well be indulging in his favorite pastime. But the guy did win an Oscar for playing Willie Stark in “All the King’s Men.” And he did create the role of Lennie in “Of Mice and Men” on Broadway.

And I have it on good authority that he was a gent. Years ago he played the coach in a summer production of “That Championship Season” up the street from me. (No, I didn’t see it. Yes, I’m still kicking myself.) My sister Mary Murphy was an apprentice there, and someone introduced her to Brod because Brod had an aunt in Syracuse named Mabel Murphy. Turns out we’re not related to Brod, but he was polite to my sister.

So I guess there’s nothing left to say except maybe: TEN-FOUR!

(C’mon, you knew that was coming….)

And Now, a Special Guest

My sister Mary always wanted to be an actor.

She studied drama in college.

She also served as an apprentice for a couple of years at the local summer stock theater, which featured appearances by visiting celebrities. She did similar work one summer in the Pocono Mountains.

At one point she moved to New York City in hopes of finding stage work.

In the meantime she worked in the public-information department at Columbia University.

She didn’t find any stage work, but after she moved to Albany she used her theatrical skills to become a professional storyteller, telling folk tales in schools and, in recent years, telling stories about things that have happened to her.

Some months ago, the PBS World Channel program “Stories from the Stage” invited her to come on the show and tell one of her stories, which concerns something that happened while she was working at Columbia.

Her episode was telecast last month. If you’re interested (and I hope you are), here’s a link to it. Mary is the first of three storytellers.

I think the program came out well. If you agree (and I hope you will), here’s a link to other stories she has written. (I especially recommend “Summer Stock,” which is about, well, I already told you, didn’t I?)

Please Don't Play Games With My Eyes

“It’s fun to play games with vision, but don’t play games with your eyes!”

— old public service commercial

One day, while I’m in the fourth grade, I am told that I need glasses.

For years I go to a local guy, Mr. Sacco, whom I can always count on — until he retires. Gradually most of the local opticians fade from view as the chain stores pretty much take over.

I go to one of them for a few years. It’s OK, but one day, two years ago, I decide to go elsewhere because I can’t seem to negotiate the store’s phone menu when I call for an appointment.

Someone I know recommends another place — a local store run by two guys.

One of them is there when I arrive without an appointment. He greets me cordially. As we discuss my prescription, it occurs to me that this place is like Mr. Sacco’s — I feel I’m being treated like a valued customer and not like grist for some corporate lens-grinding mill.

I tell him how nice it is that I have now found a local place that I can depend on for my eyewear.

A few days later, when I come to pick up my glasses, the guy’s partner takes care of me. He’s also pleasant, and as we chat he mentions his years of experience, including time spent working for one of the chains. Oh the stories I could tell you, he says.

I leave the store as a satisfied customer.

A couple of weeks later I’m riding a bus when it passes the opticians’ building.

I look out the window. I notice a sign.

The business has gone out of business. Thanks for your patronage, etc.

One year later I take a deep breath and go back to the chain store with my latest prescription. In addition to the basic lenses, for years I’ve been getting progressive bifocals.

They take me without an appointment, and a few days later someone hands me a case containing my new glasses. This seems odd; usually opticians have you try them on.

Fast-forward to a week and a half ago. I have my annual exam, but the doctor tells me that the glasses I’ve been wearing don’t have progressive bifocals. He assures me his prescription called for them.

He suggests that I go back to the store and tell them. Maybe I’ll get a refund or discount.

I go to the store and make my case. The guy asks me if I have last year’s prescription. I tell him the doctor said they should have it on file. I wind up having to tell him this twice.

He finds the prescription on his tablet. He points to something and seems to say that there’s a specification for progressive bifocals, but apparently (assuming I’m understanding him correctly) I was supposed to specifically ask for them.

I’ve never had to do that, I say. It’s always been this way, he says. Besides which, I had a hundred days to complain about my glasses and I didn’t, so no refund.

I also mention how the glasses were handed to me in a case, with no one offering to let me try them on.

“You always had that option,” he says. Somehow I’m in the last reel of “The Wizard of Oz,” where Glinda tells Dorothy she could have gone home any time she wanted to do so. (Even as a kid seeing the movie for the first time, I wanted to punch Glinda. Didn’t you?)

So I schedule an appointment with another local place, which I had avoided because I heard it’s pricey. But at least it’s not a chain.

Turns out it’s run by a guy who seems to do the things Mr. Sacco used to do, and even more. He takes measurements, glances at my face from several angles and charges a price I think I can afford. (I do have a couple of tax refunds coming.)

He has been in business for 25 years, and he says he’s not going anywhere soon. He says he’ll call me in a couple of weeks.

We’ll see.

Two Women Named Barbara: Part Two

I don’t remember where I first heard of Barbara Lakey (better known as “Babs”) or Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine (better known as “FMAM”), which she founded and published.

I do remember that I had written a mystery story and I was looking for a place to send it.

You have to be careful when you’re marketing your work. Not every publisher is honest; there’s a reason there’s a website called Writer Beware.

But as I read about Futures, I saw a name I recognized: Henry Slesar, who was one of FMAM’s advisers, had written stories for Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; had adapted some of those stories for Hitchcock’s TV show; and had served as the head writer for a daytime soap, “The Edge of Night,” for many years. And on the side he ran his own ad agency.

So I figured I could trust Babs Lakey, even if she could have chosen a better name for her magazine. She meant “futures” in the sense of investments, like gold futures; she felt she was investing in new writers. Unfortunately, after I began selling stuff to Futures, some people I know thought I was a science fiction writer. Oh well.

Not long after I found out about Futures, Mr. Slesar died and Babs launched a short story contest in his memory. I entered it, won third place, and had the option of submitting it to the magazine, which I did.

The fiction editor surprised me by rejecting it, so I wrote to Babs.

“Why don’t you email a copy of this story, would you?” she wrote back. “I always enjoy seeing what we turn down.” So I did.

I also submitted another story, based on my experiences as a newspaper copy editor. By this time there was a new fiction editor, “an old newshen” who said she really liked the story, which was about 8,000 words, but could I cut it to 5,000 to 6,000?

Gulp. Then again, I had sometimes slashed the hell out of reporters’ stories, and those who live by the delete key must die by the delete key. And of course the shortened story was much better.

But after a few months went by with no word from the new fiction editor, I wrote to Babs. Turns out that the new editor had left and there was still another fiction editor. Because of a problem with the file system, he had only the original version and liked it but wished it were shorter. So I told Babs about the shorter version, she told me to send it, and he immediately accepted it.

And within a few hours I received word that the story from the contest had been accepted for the magazine. Babs even put my name on the cover of that issue.

Two sales in one night! (I also remember that this was the same night that Arnold Schwarzenegger was elected governor of California. I was at least as happy as he was.)

I wish I could say I sold many more stories to Futures, but it folded despite Babs’ tireless efforts. She lost a lot of money and, from what I’ve heard, her health. I’ve read that she is retired now, and I’m sorry to say that we’ve lost touch. I hope she is doing OK.

And I’ve always kept the note she sent me about my newspaper story, “An Eye for Detail,” which is probably my best mystery so far:

“Just did the layout for your story and wanted to tell you what a GREAT one!! FABulous job, Mark!!

babs”

Could anybody ever ask for a better editor?

Two Women Named Barbara: Part One

I owe a lot to two women named Barbara.

First there was Barbara Clarkson, a published poet who taught creative writing at my alma mater.

Her creative writing course was open only to juniors and seniors, but I used to see her around the campus before I ever took it. On the surface she seemed friendly and pleasantly eccentric.

When I finally got into her class — I think I was a senior — I found out she was indeed friendly and pleasantly eccentric. But when she handed my stories back I learned that she was also a friendly, pleasantly eccentric and damned hard-nosed editor. If she saw a word that she thought didn’t belong, or was redundant, she’d circle it.

She circled a lot of my words — so many that as I think of it now, I’m surprised I ever became an editor. I’m sure that she herself would have been a godsend to the copy desk at the paper where I eventually worked.

But she did like my work. When the college’s annual literary magazine came out, she saw to it that the issue began with one of my stories.

As my graduation approached, Ms. Clarkson wanted me to get the college’s commencement award for writing,

The head of the English department wanted somebody else to get it. The college had recently added a minor in communications, and the department head, apparently in an attempt to promote this new focus, wanted the award to go to the editor of the college paper.

I could see the department head’s point. I knew the editor. I had even worked for him on the paper; he was a good guy, and he had led the paper during a time of controversy on the campus, and the stories he wrote about the controversy were about as professional as you could get at a school that didn’t have a journalism department. Not surprisingly, he is now the president of a corporate communications company.

But Ms. Clarkson pushed for me, to the point where the department named two recipients: the editor and me. As much as I still appreciate this, I remember Ms. Clarkson more as the person who let me know, without ever explicitly saying it, that I was indeed a writer, that the career choice I had made in the late 1960s was not a stupid one.

I wish I could say I kept in touch with her through the years, but several months after my graduation I began a 30-year stint at the local paper, and that, among other things, kept me busy.

One New Year’s Day, she died. She hadn’t been sick; the way I heard it, she was here one moment, gone the next. Someone else who knew her told me it was the perfect way for her to go.

Before she died, I did have one more, quite unexpected encounter with her.

A colleague of mine had become an adjunct instructor at the college. One night at the paper, when he wasn’t there, the phone rang.

“Is Dan Valenti there?” I knew the voice immediately.

I explained that Dan wasn’t there, then hesitantly asked her if she was Ms. Clarkson.

“Yes! Who’s this?”

Filled with pride at being a successful (so far) alumnus, I told her.

“Mark! What are YOU doing there?”

I still laugh at this, while remembering how I sometimes asked myself various versions of the same question over those 30 years.

Next time: The Second Barbara.

Where I was when the lights went out

It’s a Tuesday evening in November, 58 years ago.

My family is home. My mother, as I recall, has cooked “soft steak,” consisting of meat in gravy and maybe some onions. Years later, I can still smell and taste it. My younger sister still knows how to make it. It’s especially nice if you place a piece of bread underneath the steak and gravy.

At some point after dinner, Father Smalley from St. Vincent’s, our parish, is coming over to talk to my mother about something. Although he’s never visited our house before, I don’t have the impression that anything is wrong.

At 5:22 p.m. our power goes out — lights, TV, everything.

Turns out we are among 30 million people, from Massachusetts to Pennsylvania, who are literally and figuratively in the dark.

Were we in the middle of dinner? Maybe, maybe not. I do recall candles being brought out and lighted. And someone turning on a transistor radio; one of the radio stations is still broadcasting, on “auxiliary power.” Not that this does much good; nobody at the station seems to know what happened either.

We stay calm, and after maybe two hours the power comes back.

And we’re still expecting Father Smalley.

Father Smalley is an assistant pastor at St. Vincent’s. He’s a young, pleasantly down-to-earth guy whom everybody seems to like. My mother knows him because of his involvement with the parish’s Mothers’ Club, and they get along well. Father Smalley’s boss is Father Hearn, the pastor, a much older man who has an unpleasantly acerbic and not particularly funny sense of humor. A few years later, when the hippie movement takes hold, Father Hearn will refuse to give Communion to a boy who has long hair. (He’ll also give me grief for sporting long sideburns, which I have grown mainly to prove to the other guys that my chemical makeup really does include testosterone.)

Father Smalley is also into show biz. When it’s time to stage the parish’s variety show, he is the auteur. When “folk Masses” come into vogue, he introduces them to St. Vincent’s. I don’t know how Father Hearn reacts to this, but I’m sure I could guess.

Not long after Father Smalley arrives he talks to my mother. He has come to ask for her help. Every Tuesday the kids in our Catholic school get out early and kids from public school come over for religion classes that are taught by volunteers, all women. Thing is, some of these women are also mothers and need baby sitters, so Father Smalley is asking my mother, who is in the process of raising six kids, to let one or two of the women drop their children off at our house and baby-sit them while their mothers teach. My mother agrees to this.

But before Father Smalley talks to her, and in an apparent attempt to break the ice, he looks at me and immediately, apropos of nothing whatsoever, launches into a letter-perfect rendition of “You’ve Got Trouble, My Friends, in River City” from “The Music Man.” He’s no threat to Robert Preston, but he isn’t bad.

Father Smalley will eventually leave St. Vincent’s, leave the priesthood, move to San Diego, get married and become a fundraiser for nonprofits.

And I will always remember the night of the soft steak, the blackout and the transistor radio, with a show tune thrown in — no cover charge.

Just another night in the Murphy household.

Halloween night in the old neighborhood

It’s a typical Halloween night in the 1960s, a time when most of the folks in my neighborhood knew each other; when kids could roam from one backyard to another, even to the end of the block, without any fences blocking their way; when the worst thing a trick-or-treater’s parents had to worry about was the next dental bill — and not the cost of an ambulance ride necessitated by a purposely misplaced razor blade.

On this particular night I and my three younger siblings, accompanied by at least one of our parents, have stood on the thresholds of neighboring homes while people tossed goodies into our bags. If there’s an easier gig, I don’t know what it is.

But now we’re at the home of Annie and Pearl Kallikack, where Halloween is a bit different. (As you may have guessed, those aren’t their real names. I’m not afraid they’ll sue me — they’re well beyond that — but they could theoretically haunt me, so why take chances?)

Annie is at least on the cusp of middle age, and Pearl is her mother.

Annie is good-hearted, but tactfulness isn’t always her strong point. I was somehow able to read long before I entered kindergarten, and Annie, convinced that this ability was some kind of trick, was not above shoving a Newsweek in front of my pre-k puss and demanding that I read it out loud, which I easily did, though I probably didn’t understand the words.

Annie is also not overly fond of modern entertainment. Years later she will go to a Steve Martin movie called “Pennies from Heaven,” thinking that it’s the kind of innocent musical she grew up watching. When she finds out that the movie is the exact opposite of what she was expecting, she will angrily flee the theater.

My two aunts will find Annie’s moral scruples ironically amusing, saying that in her younger days, Annie had a reputation for being “fast.” Then again, my two aunts were nuns, so their idea of “fast” might be considered life in the slow lane today.

As for Pearl, she too is kind-hearted and definitely not shy; had she lived a few decades longer, she might have been a shoo-in to play Sophia on “The Golden Girls.” But when people talk about Pearl, they are more likely to mention her eyesight. I think I remember them using the phrase “blind as a bat” more than once, especially regarding their concern that she is still driving. The thought of Pearl Kallikack operating any motor vehicle scares the neighborhood mothers more than any nightmare Stephen King could dream up. If you don’t believe in miracles, please consider that, as far as I know, she never had an accident — or at least anything that made the news.

On Halloween, you can’t just stand on the Kallikacks’ threshold. You have to come into the house, where the dining room table is loaded with enough sweet treats to give an earthworm diabetes.

And there’s another rule: You can go around the table, grabbing all the treats you want, but only once — no second helpings.

As we promenade around the table, things are peaceful until Pearl erupts. “Hey!” she says to one of my siblings. “You can’t do that! You’ve already been around once!”

“No, Mama!” says Annie, rushing to put out what, for her, is probably the latest of umpteen fires. “He didn’t go around before! This is another boy!”

Pearl calms down, we eventually leave, and another Halloween at the Kallikacks’ is in the books.