Gia Sas...The goal of this blog is to share with the world the stories I share regularly with family and friends about my boyhood in Newark, New Jersey filtered through my status as the grandson of Greek immigrants. It will be an insight not only into an individual Greek-American experience, but also an intimate glimpse of the special status that the much maligned city of Newark holds in the hearts of those who knew her in her "golden age," the period from the 1920s through the 1960s. This was a time when Newark boasted five major department stores, a dozen downtown cinema palaces, two concert halls and many fine restaurants. She was a city of neighborhoods, each one distinct from the other, with tree-lined streets, well-maintained parks and a transit system that linked them all. There were first-rate hospitals, hotels, houses of worship of all denominations and a top-notch school system whose teachers were the highest paid in the state. Her location only twenty minutes from Manhattan, an hour from the famed Jersey Shore and a like distance from the recreational sites of her mountain lakes made Newark a very desirable place in which to live. Add to that an excellent manufacturing base and a strong service industry and the nostalgia former residences feel for the city becomes readily understandable. As for her citizens, Newark was highly diversified before the concept evolved into the politically-correct buzz-word it is today. There was a strong African-American presence, a lively Jewish community and, of course, a substantial immigrant population; this, in addition to the long-established British-German-Irish "natives." Their relationship was for the most part harmonious and mutually respectful; this was reflected by the fact that Newark's streets were safe from gangs, drive-by shootings, drug-dealing and most of the social ills that plague many of the once-great cities of our country. With that in mind, I invite you to be a part of my own memories and observations of the city where I took my first breath. (Please be aware that I shall not restrict myself to the above! Every topic of importance to me is fair game, since, as a friend of my daughter once told me very insightfully, "It all goes back to Newark.")  

Two months ago...

Two Months Today

by Nicholas Andrian on Thursday, March 18, 2010 at 12:18am

Father passed on Jan. 17, exactly two months ago. That Sunday, I drove down to my sister's to see him. He was lying quietly, breathing deeply but without difficulty. He had a good pulse in his neck and I told Debbie that I thought he still had at least a week or two to go. I kissed his forehead before leaving at around five p.m. My sister called later that night to say that he had passed at 11:20 p.m....I had told father in recent years that after he was gone, I would not be able to hear the song "Oh, My Papa" for a long time without getting choked up. That was a huge #1 song by singer Eddie Fisher (Carrie Fisher's dad from his marriage to Debbie Reynolds) when I was a boy and it always reminded me of him. Today, on the way home from school, I played it in my car: "Oh, my papa, to me he was so wonderful; oh, my papa, to me he was so good..." When It got to the part that says "...Gone are the days when he would take me on his knee and with a smile he'd change my tears to laughter..." I realized that I have not yet gotten over his passing. Funny, when I think of him, I don't see him as he was in his mature years; rather, I see him as he was in my boyhood...strong, handsome, confident, humorous, protective. I remember little incidents, words he spoke...When I was very little, he warned me never to turn on a light switch with wet hands and to this day, I never do...I also remember his triumphs as well as his disappoitments, his loud infectious laugh as well as his tears. My daughter often told me when she was just a little girl, "Daddy, I don't feel safe when you're not home" (in Greek, "Baba, then esthanoumai sigouri otan then eisai spiti"). Exactly the way I felt about my father when I was little

Father has crossed over.

Father has crossed over

by Nicholas Andrian on Monday, January 18, 2010 at 1:59am

As I drove down the Shore to visit my father on Sunday, for the last time as it turns out, my thoughts seemed to center on my early childhood memories of him rather than on more recent memories: The time we visited the Staten Island zoo (I was about four) and we were in the building where the big cats were housed. The roaring was frightening, as two lionesses were fighting while the guards were spraying them with power hoses to separate them; his rushing me to St. Michael's Hospital in Newark during an asthma attack at 2 a.m., stopping a passing car to take me there; driving to Olympic Amusement Park in Maplewood in his elegant Packard and going on all the rides with me, especially the bumping cars; his hysterical laughter when a friend of his took us to a nearby park to show off his remote-controlled airplane only to have it come crashing straight down during a loop-the-loop; his hand-painting his old green Plymouth red when I said to him, "Why isn't your car red, like a fire chief's?"
I have much more to write. My heart is heavy knowing that his time has come, but I am fulfilled inside for having had him at all the crucial times in my life.

Father is sinking - Part Three

Father - 3

by Nicholas Andrian on Sunday, January 10, 2010 at 1:27am

One time when our sister Debbie (who has taken care of Father so magnificently) was about ten or eleven, Rick and I learned that a boy in her class had used the F-word to her. She begged us not to tell Father. From that point on, every time Debbie refused to do us a favor ("Deb, get me a glass of juice" or "Deb, I want to watch my program"), all we had to do was say, "Oh, Da-a-a-d..." and Debbie would say, "OK, OK" and do whatever we wanted...Father often said "When the Lord made me, He threw away the mould." Amen

Father is sinking - Part Two

Father is sinking-2

by Nicholas Andrian on Sunday, January 10, 2010 at 1:20am

Yes, our father has always been such a force for his family. If anyone tried to bully us, we were afraid to tell him for fear that he would murder the person! When I was 17 and my brother Rick was eight, a new guy, who had moved into our neighborhood down the Shore, 19 and bigger than me, made some nasty remarks about me to Rick, who, of course, told me. I certainly didn't want to tangle with this guy, but I couldn't let the incident pass, for I didn't want to lose face in my younger brother's eyes. So, I said a prayer, packed Rick in my old Ford and drove to the guy's house. Rick sat watching from the car. I told the would-be bully that I was there to settle things with him. My plan was to turn around and hit him as hard as I could if he tried to step off his porch. Fortunately, my bravado must have put the guy off. When I got done talking, he said "OK, Andrian, you said your piece, now get out of here!" I was only too happy to comply! Not long after, this same pugnacious guy, Dick Jones, saw Rick again at our local candy store hangout and said, "I'll bet your brother thinks he's tough." Rick said he would tell our father this time at which point Jones foolishly threatened to "mop up the parking lot with your old man." Well, father flipped out, jumped into his new Nash Rambler, found Jones standing outside the candy store with a bunch of friends, jumped out of his car and said, "Well, here I am, start mopping." Jones took to his feet and father chased him all over the parking lot but couldn't catch him! A few days later, after his anger had subsided, father saw Jones by the candy store, tapped him on the back of his head with an open hand and said, "Do we understand each other, young fella?" Jones just nodded.

Father is sinking...

Father is sinking

by Nicholas Andrian on Sunday, January 10, 2010 at 12:48am

Well, father has rallied in the past after some setbacks, but my sister called me late tonight to say that he is sinking. When I saw him at Christmas, just over two weeks ago, I asked him if he recognized me and he whispered "You're my son." I was gratified. If he lasts until Feb. 10, he will be 86, but that is very unlikely, according to his doctor. Alexander George Andrian, my father, has had a good run; he pretty much did whatever he wanted and didn't look back very often, although he has always been very nostalgic, a trait he passed down to me. Like him, I was blessed with a very good memory; one of my very earliest was that of choking on a large gumball, my mother screaming hysterically, while my father tried in vain to stick his fingers down my throat. He saved my life by turning me upside down and smaking me on the back with his powerful hand. We lived in the Bronx then; I was two and a half, so it is indeed my earliest memory. I can still remember him carrying me around downtown Newark in his arms, taking me to see Abbot and Costello movies, buying me a pedal car that had "Chrysler" written on the back, driving around Newark in his elegant Packard...And those fabulous Christmases! I guess that's why I'm still like a kid at Christmas, playing Christmas music and wearing Christmas ties from Halloween on...He was such a tiger for his family, especially his kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. He often said that he wanted to live long enough so that my niece Theresa's son, Alex (named after him), now ten, would always remember him. That prayer has been answered for him.

Father rallies!

On July 1, my sister told me that father had taken a turn for the worse. He didn't recognize anyone, wasn't speaking nor was he eating much or drinking. I went to see him. When I walked into his room, he opened his eyes. I said to him, "Do you know who I am?" And in a loud voice, he answered, "You're my son!" much to my sister's surprise. I said to him, "I bet you've forgotten your Greek." He answered, "Ah, sto diavolo," the Greek equivalent of "Go to hell" (although not as strong as in English). We are all greatly heartened by this rally on his part and altho' the end is inevitable, we are all breathing a bit easier today. I saw a framed picture of him at age 27 or so, when he posed for "Ring" magazine, handsome and muscular (but not disgustingly so), and I recognized what a great life he has had, he of that "Greatest Generation," who were raised during the Depression, fought in World War 2 and came home to found families and careers and to lead this nation into the prosperity of the 1950s and '60s, a golden age for these United States..