I was born on Staten Island way back in 1938, and as what often happens when one passes through the Geezer Gates, I randomly remember disparate happenings in my life, and today for unknown reasons, I started to think about the great and mighty Staten Island ferry boats. Now, lots of my shenanigans on those behemoths, especially under the stars, can’t be relayed here because this is a family paper, but maybe a few can, so here goes:
The ferries began in the 1800s when a young forward-thinking entrepreneur named Cornelius Vanderbilt received $100 for his birthday –he was only 16—and either bought or built a small boat and for a fee, began to ferry people from Staten Island, where he was born, across the New York Harbor to Manhattan and back, and the ultimately lucrative ferry boat business began. Cornelius, jokingly called “The Commodore” went on to do fairly well for himself from then on.
One of the most famous of the ferries was called The Gold Star Mother, an homage paid to mothers who’d lost sons in wars in which Americans fought. I used to see small vertical flags, white in the center, wide red borders, the gold stars in the middle, hanging in people’s windows to tell the world of their sacrifice, and sadly, sometimes more than one star was on those small flags. Thus, a ferry was kindly named for those grieving mothers.
When I worked in NYC, and actually all my life, the fare for that ferry was a nickel. Today it’s free. I wonder if the ferry boats today have the great snack bars they eventually started. The hotdogs were like no others and the rest of the things offered were fabulous, even home baked cookies by a nice old lady in St. George, where the ferries docked on the island.
And the dockings were magical. Those ferryboat captains would steer those giant, bargy, wide mawed boats into the docks at Staten Island or Manhattan, and would sort of ricochet them into the huge, groaning, squeaking pilings until they “clicked” into place at the dockings. The gates and cables would then be removed by men so cars and people could spill out to their destinations. I loved watching that whole process from the deck above.
The ferries back when I was a kid, if I ever was one, had one section for smokers and it was just deadly in there. One could hardly see the benches to sit on through the thick smog of unfiltered cigarettes, and one could get a lung disease just walking through there. There was a section for just women too, and woe unto any male passenger who dared to set foot in that sacred space. There were enormous restrooms too and if we were lucky and the captain liked kids, we could stand at the bottom of a steel staircase that led up to the bridge, look up at him and wave, and he’d grin and lightly blast the horn for us. The guy never had to turn those ferries around as they chugged back and forth–he just went to the opposite side of the bridge, took hold of the other helm and drove the ferry back.
There were shoeshine men on board those ferries in those days and I often wonder if they’re still there. Same guys, year after year. Fedora hatted business men would peer out from behind their NY Times papers (one simply had to be seen with a NY Times) and would signal the shoe shine guy that he was hired, and business guy would prop his wing-tipped cordovans up onto the steel foot shaped support on the shoe shine box. In those days it was unforgivable to not have well maintained and well shined shoes. Worn down heels were forbidden. I kinda wish that habit had continued, but no.
Anyway, the guy with his box of shoeshine stuff would kneel in front of the business dude and would rub polish on his shoes and the smell was wonderful. I don’t think I got high from it but I can’t be sure. The polisher guy never got a speck of polish on the business men’s gartered up business socks. Watching the process was also wonderful. He’d rub the right colored polish onto the shoe, would brush and brush it, and then would snap rags and wipe the shoes down hard for a final glow. I could never stop watching. I’ll wager it set those ferry riders back two bits, and I hope they coughed up a tip.
I went back to SI many years later on an odyssey, and took a ferry ride, and one of the shoeshine men was still working there. I recognized him and was stunned. He was a bit stooped but wore the same ragged blue hat and carried the same shoeshine kit. He looked an awful lot like my Uncle Richie, but Uncle R. had lost a leg in WWII and the shoeshine guy had both of his.
So many memories. There is a Moravian Cemetery on the island, a beautiful old place, where many Vanderbilts RIP and lots of my dead family members now reside, although we were never chummy with the V’s. One of my relatives told me many years ago that he’d purchased enough graveyard room there for me, my dear husband “Mongo” and my family. I stared at him, lowered my head and mumbled a stupified thanks. But—Nope. No how. No way. Not happenin’. I’m not going back to Staten Island for any reason, especially that one. Not that I don’t have great memories of my childhood on that island pre the Verazzano bridge, but no, I came to Maine in 1974, and plan to stay here forever. And I mean forEVER! Although if some well-meaning relative wants to take my personal ashes on a final Staten Island Ferryboat voyage, I would not complain. I’d love to again hear the sounds, the great blasts of boat horns, the seagulls, the water slapping against the sides of the ferry, people chatting, seeing the great Statue of Liberty coming and going, (absolutely always a thrill), watching the island loom up and fade away and remembering that stupid joke the Dutch allegedly uttered when they first saw the island back in the whatevers, “Iz datt an island??”, horns honking at both docks, Noo Yawkuhs bellowing rudely at each other, and seeing those grand old ferries sliding back and forth forevermore. Thank you, Commodore Vanderbilt.
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