The New York Gang did things its way, stirring up a small community with loads of laughs

The New York Gang did things its way, stirring up a small community with loads of laughs

We used to gather at the gas station, and Lord I don’t know why we picked that to stand around, but we did. There were six of us, and on occasion Moocher would drive up and join in, although he always seemed to be in a hurry to get back to work, which we thought strange since the rest of us didn’t work and had no compulsion to do so.

Actually, that is not correct. We all worked summers at the food processing plant before heading back to school at Western. But during the off-season we six hung out, and not always at the gas station. Sometimes we just parked downtown and stood around and yapped   it up.

The reason I bring this up at all is I was waking up from a deep slumber the other morning and for some reason memories washed over me like a small wave at Hermosa Beach used to when Dick and I were beach bums back in 1960. Then, I suddenly realized there is just three of us left from the Gang.

Man, where did the years go?

Those were good times. This was the period from September of 1960 to late summer of 1962. The reason I know that is because that is when two key members of the Gang of Six (seven if Moocher is counted), Adolph and Frank, left for California and never returned.

Frank had graduated from Western and Adolph was in between Western and going back to technical school when they packed up and headed south to sunny La-La Land. But those two years were real good ones for me, and I assume for the others. Life was good. We were young. No worries. Nothing but smiles and jokes.

There was Ray, Pete, Moses, Frank, Adolph and me. And, of course, Moocher.

You have to go back to the beginning to understand this. It was 1954 when the fathers of our Gang of Six plus Moocher were transferred from Olean, N.Y. to same jobs with Mobil in Ferndale, WA. and the new refinery at Cherry Pt. Those were the best of times and the worse of times, especially for me. That marked the beginning of my Dark Years when I practically raised myself, although having a core group of guys in similar situations helped sprinkle some light on the darkness.

I laugh now when I think what those of us who arrived from Olean (and nearby Portville and Allegheny, N.Y.) did to that little town of Ferndale way back then. I was from Portville, but the rest of the Gang was from Olean. All of them were from the north end of Olean, which is where the Polish population lived. It was the lively section of Olean with its own distinct neighborhood beer joints that served as gathering places for the male population. There they drank and ate the food common to their heritage, and there was no end to ribbing they unleashed on each other. That was part of the deal being Polish in America, to have character and to be a character. And if they drank to excess once in a while, no big deal. That was expected, too.

Like father, like son. That was what made the Gang of Six so lively. There was always a war of words greased by the profane. Once in a while Frank would get upset and stalk off. But he always came back, and when he did it was with a vengeance wrapped in a storm of words that were so funny you couldn’t be mad at him.

As I laid in bed letting those memories wash over me, I can still see us standing around in the hallway at Ferndale High School. There is the usual back-and-forth and the laughter as the “native” students tried to get as far away as possible.

Because I was from the “small town” of Portville I did not have all the wily ways of my big city (Olean)  friends. They were used to doing things, saying things, using certain words that I had never even thought about. So if it was a new experience for the kids who were native to Ferndale, it was also to me. But I loved every second of it. It was fun, it was daring, it gave me something to grasp on to in my time of darkness.

As girls walked by in the hallway, there would be snide remarks made and fake moves made to rattle the unsuspecting, followed of course by the laughter I can still hear. We – the Gang – were harmless, more talk than action, but just the sheer audacity of it was enough to sooth some of the sharp edges I was acquiring to protect myself against the darkness.

Thinking back now I can’t imagine the town of Ferndale and Ferndale High School knew what were about to hit them upon the arrival of the kids from New York. We – well, maybe not me – brought a swagger to the town and to the school that had never been seen or experience before, or since.

We were a bunch of aliens who just landed from Mars. We brought an outrageous roar to a conservative setting that was not ready for anything like it.

As one might expect, we did not assimilate well. Us New Yorkers mostly hung together.. Hence, the gathering at the gas station, or on the street downtown. And I’m sure, that before we arrived no one had thought about breaking into the school on weekends to play basketball in the old gym. That was we. I was the mastermind of that, unlocking a lockeroom window before leaving for the weekend to assure a point of entry.

We had, by the way, some lively pick-up games in there. Moses was about five-foot-six, but, man, could he rebound, and get off shots underneath like nobody I have seen since. And Ray was about six-feet tall, but had these long fingers that allowed him to hold the ball in one hand and dunk it.

Me, I grew to about six-foot-five and could never dunk. I could hit the back rim once in a while. And it upset me that Ray could dunk and I couldn’t. It made it worse when he would dunk and I would miss and then he would let out this loud laugh.

Slowly the Gang would dissipate. First it was Frank and Adolph. Frank became a vice principal at Inglewood High School near the LA Forum. Sadly, though, Frank died about 15 years after they departed Ferndale for the sun of LA.

Adolph, who remained my best friend, found his soul mate a year after arriving in LA and they married in short order. He and Joanne were the perfect couple. I have not seen anything like them in my extensive travels. She came out of the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee and he came out of the Alleghenies of New York and not a more perfect match could be found.

On Dec. 14, 2011, Adolph called Joanne at the store she as shopping at and told her she should get home in a hurry because he was having a heart attack. She immediately called 911 and raced home.

Too late.

Emergency medical technicians worked on Adolph for 45 minutes and miraculously got his heart beating again. But by then he was brain dead. Two days later, Joanne and their three grown kids gathered in Adolph’s hospital bed where he was on life support and plugged in the video he had made for them to view upon his death.

Adolph went down the family one-by-one. I don’t know what he said, but you can imagine it was all good and done with extreme love. What he said to Joanne also remains personal, but when you have the perfect marriage – or as perfect as we can get – and you are as close as they were, lovingly so, I can’t image how difficult it must have been for him to make the video, and how difficult it was for Joanne to watch it.

When the video ended, the family pulled the plug on life support and moments later Adolph was gone.

Just a few months ago I called Joanne again to see how she was doing and she had to gather herself to talk. The toughest part, she says, is at night when they would sit together in their living room and she would read a book and Adolph would watch a sporting event. Nights, she added, are real tough.

I miss Adolph as well. He was a real character with real good family values who was as good a friend as one could wish for. I miss our phone conversations, I miss the laughter, and I miss hearing the stories about him pruning the fruit trees on their property.

Ray died in 1971 seven years after graduating from Western with his educational degree and six years after marrying his sweetheart. I found his gravesite some years ago in the cemetery outside of Ferndale. I sat down beside it and cleaned overgrown grass around it and forgave him for laughing at my feeble attempt to dunk the ball.

Tears rolled down my cheek as I thought how short his life was. I walked away with a heavy heart.

The story of Pete would be a mystery novel. The last time I saw him was 1968. I did talk to him by phone and wrote him one letter about 20 years later when I found him at James Madison University. He became estranged from his family and virtually disappeared. His family never did see him after 1968, or hear from him. I tracked him to Delaware in recent years, but I now believe he is deceased.

So that just leaves Moses, who lives in the Kansas City area. He did not return my phone call, so I assume he wants to be left alone. Moocher lives in Bellingham and continues to umpire baseball and softball games. I think he no longer does basketball games, although he did until a few years ago.

So that is it for the Gang that could and would do about anything to make you laugh, and force you to have a little fun. I don’t think Ferndale has ever seen anything like it, nor will they ever again.

I miss them all.

Be well pal.

Have a great day.

You are loved.