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Chapter 7. The New York Depression Kid
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C h a p t e r 7 The New York Depression Kid Whenever Jack talked about how it had been with him in those Depression days, he laid the groundwork by telling tales of his life before the Depression as the son of a prosperous businessman. “Until the Depression came,” he would say, in his eyes-wide-open way, “I was spoiled rotten. We all were.” I assumed that the “we” referred to his New York friends, the ones in what his parents called their “crowd.” As I listened to Jack, I came to understand that he remembered his young pre-Depression life as a life filled with only good things, and that he had taken for granted that his adult life would be the same, that it would be pleasure filled and worry free like his father’s. Wasn’t his father a peerless businessman and a wise and caring mentor? And his mother? Wasn’t she a fierce protector and—as Jack would say with a laugh—an easy mark? When I pictured Jack’s early life, it was hard not to picture his possessions , which seemed to me breathtaking in number and quality. I saw a bedroom overflowing with everything a boy might want—a movie projector , a sleek electric train with all the appendages it could support, a twowheeled sidewalk bicycle, a violin, and bookcases full of books, including full sets of both the Book of Knowledge and the Encyclopedia Britannica. I had to agree that Jack was indeed spoiled rotten if that meant he had all the playthings and equipment he wanted, if he had a substantial allowance , if he was given lessons in everything he cared to take lessons in, and if he was sent to the best summer camp money could buy. When I would say this, Jack would answer, “Sure, we were spoiled, but you’d have to say we got our comeuppance.” And I would say yes, we were all spoiled, and we all got our comeuppance. 80 The New York Depression Kid I never saw myself, however, spoiled in the same way as Jack. Still, though my collection of toys and games were not so much “the latest” as were Jack’s, they even so could have filled a barn. I guess I was spoiled in a more simple Union City way, not the New York one of keeping up with your “crowd.” As for pleasantness and abundance, however, our lives matched: during those pre-Depression years, we knew nothing else. If you asked Jack what he had liked most about growing up as he did, he would not have said his sidewalk bike or his Lou Gehrig baseball glove or his shelves of books, he would have said it was no contest, that it was, hands-down, going to summer camp. Jack—and later his brother and sister —went annually to camp, one run by Jews and for Jews. It was called Camp Roosevelt and named for President Theodore Roosevelt, which the owners no doubt hoped would suggest that the camp was dedicated to the natural life. Despite its emphasis on living freely among the trees and under the sun and with any wildlife that might be around, living free with nature did not come free—nor even cheap—at Camp Roosevelt. Indeed, Camp Roosevelt was extremely pricey, and the owners might have said it was pricey for good reason, what with a one-to-five ratio of counselors to campers, expansive grounds, equipment the latest, food ample to the level of “too much already.” Jack’s father, according to Jack, didn’t balk, just sat down at the Chinese black lacquered desk in the living room and wrote out the hefty check. Jack’s father had heard that Camp Roosevelt was “the best,” and because “the best” was what he strove for, Camp Roosevelt was where his children would go. For Jack, going to camp meant a summer of pleasure and excitement. His father drove him up to Camp Roosevelt in the big black Buick, and Jack would say that as soon as he had opened the car door and jumped out, he never looked back. “Camp” was sports and books, and friends, and girls at the adjoining camp—all in all, a summer of bliss. Although Jack didn’t usually sound as if he had just come from reading all the books in the New York Public Library, he would say, “I thought I was living...