The Neighborhood Network

A common American phenomenon disappeared in the 1990s. I blame it on cell phones. When I was a kid in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I’d hop on my bicycle on a Saturday or during the summer and ride off to my friend’s house for the day. The only admonishment I received from my mother was to be home by dinnertime. I did not differ from any of my friends. We all had an internal clock that ticked louder and louder as suppertime loomed. We listened for a distinct signal that meant it was time to go home.

It didn’t matter what I was doing or where I was; I could hear my dad’s booming voice from blocks away. My friends immediately understood they were next, and their mothers or fathers would signal them soon. Before there were 4G networks and text messages, there was the neighborhood network. Often, adult neighbors or other kids relayed the dispatch to me. “Michael, your father is calling you.” Sometimes, I’d be too involved in a game of baseball or watching television in a friend’s living room, and I would miss the call. If one of my siblings came looking for me, or if my father had to get in the car and drive through the neighborhood, I knew I was in trouble.

Doing this today with my children would be odd and unnecessary. They both have cell phones. My twelve-year-old son has a cell phone so he can text us from his friends’ homes or school if he needs a ride. Because she needs to visit friends often, my seventeen-year-old daughter has a car. My wife and I would be terrible parents if we deprived our kids of these devices. During my teenage years, I couldn’t imagine digging into my pocket to answer a call from my mother in the middle of a baseball game with my buddies. Today, my children expect me to text them.

Just once, I’d like to stand on my front porch and shout my son’s name at dinnertime. He’d be at his friend’s house down the block. I imagine him in the driveway, riding a skateboard with his pal, and he’d stop the moment he heard my voice. He’d look up. I would wave and be transported back to a time in my life when simplicity and necessity merged and created a charming and unique tradition. Moments later, I’d reach into my pocket and read a text message from my son asking, “Why are you yelling at me?”

A Ghost in the Dunes

On the second tier at the Nikon Theater at Jones Beach, I settled into my seat for the big concert. My wife and I had taken our kids to see My Chemical Romance and Blink-182 on the Tenth Anniversary Honda Civic Tour. Though it had been quite a while since I had attended a show at this arena, I had a long history at Jones Beach State Park.

My father was a World War II veteran who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard for twenty years. Upon his retirement, he got a job with the now-defunct Long Island State Park Commission. He spent his time traveling back and forth among Robert Moses State Park, Captree, and Jones Beach. During the summer, he’d take my brothers, sisters, and me to one of the fields at Robert Moses and leave us there while he went about his duties. I was the fifth of six children, and my older sister was well equipped to keep a careful eye on us younger ones while we splashed around in the waves.

It was comforting to see Dad stop by in one of the park vehicles to check on us. He’d have a worried expression on his face, wondering whether we were having a good time and whether there was any danger in leaving us alone. Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when we visited our summer paradise, a tradition was born.

I remember riding with Dad in a green, state-owned truck as he went about his routine. He seemed important wherever he went, and he loved what he did immensely. It was the environment—the ocean and the dunes—that made him inhale deeply and smile as he scanned the horizon. I always sensed that he felt lucky to be so close to nature and to visit such a beautiful place each day. Because he was not a wealthy man, his appreciation for the parks became part of his legacy to our family.

My wife and I make it a point to take our kids to the beach during the warm months. During winter, we eat bagels and drink coffee and juice while watching wild deer from inside our parked car at Robert Moses. When friends are in town, I take them on a tour of the area and share what I know about each location as I recall what my dad taught me. The iconic water towers, the lengthy bridges, and the bathhouses all fell under his purview. My father helped maintain these landmarks. His fingers touched steel beams and stone that tens of thousands of people see each day during the summer.

All that was part of my childhood is still present after my father’s passing. The striped umbrellas, boardwalks, concession stands, saltwater taffy, and amphitheater are as enduring as my precious early memories. As I sat in the fold-down seat at the Nikon Theater last Saturday with my family, I felt as though I were host to a stadium full of strangers. My life had taken root in this very place.

In the waters to my left, boaters awaited a musical performance. Overhead, clouds winked with the suggestion of rain, and to my right, beachgoers bid farewell to the sand and ocean for the evening. I sat back and imagined that, among the wavy crests of sand dunes and the inky shadows stretching wide, my father was smiling, at home in the park he loved so dearly.

By Michael J. Kannengieser

Photo by M.J. Kannengieser