“So what do you girls do up there by yourselves in yenem’s velt?” (“nowheresville” in English)
It was always difficult to explain the lure of Sun-Ray life to the uninitiated. The fact was, we kissed our hardworking husbands goodbye on Sunday night or early Monday morning and took a deep breath. Now, the 27 tiny cottages in this Catskill Bungalow Colony belonged only to us and to the kids in our charge. No matter where we lived in the city, or how large or lavish the houses we left behind, we “girls” couldn’t wait to hang out in our summer home away from home, lounging in a circle on brightly colored lawn chairs or the heavy green Adirondack ones. Once ensconced, we forgot our jobs and responsibilities for two months and did what we liked to do: drink coffee, gossip, and work on some craft project that reappeared magically each summer.
Although I am usually a voracious reader, I didn’t even spend much time devouring books during those long, lazy days. A few best-sellers were tossed carelessly on the hi-riser in the kitchen where I slept, waiting to keep me company on those long husbandless nights. My school books and teaching plans were kept hidden in a corner of the bedroom shared by my four children and one niece, ready to be opened again come the end of August. Mostly, we were happy to socialize and most times we grew so lethargic that it became a supreme effort for any of us to get up and give the kids lunch when we spied them straggling back from day camp at noon.
“They’re home already?” someone would grouse. “I don’t believe it. Didn’t they just leave to camp? Anyone have some extra pizza bagels?” And, reluctantly, we would stretch, yawn, and amble inside to pop some in the toaster oven.
The secret to why we never really found ourselves becoming bored with our simple routine at Sun-Ray might be explained by the frequent visits of the Trucks. The announcements on the loudspeaker in the main house heralding their arrival were enough to eject us without complaint from our chairs. And this time we moved quite quickly.
Twice weekly, we waited for the Knish Truck, and if we were really lucky the vendor would show up just in time for dinner so that we could buy an instant meal from his ancient station wagon, then virtuously add a vegetable and voilà…create a healthy supper. The Knish Man had his own amplified megaphone perched like a missile on the top of his car through which his voice would bellow through all of South Fallsburg.
“Mom’s Knishes are here. Mom’s Knishes. Buy them hot for now or cold for later. Potato knishes, kasha knishes…Mom’s Knishes…” The guy rumored to be mom’s very own son had a theatrical knack of drawing out those two words so that they were almost sung. Who could resist Mr. Mom?
Yet another all-time favorite truck, especially for the kids, came early every morning. Before day camp line up and before Charlie the head counselor could blow the whistle hanging on the lanyard around his neck, Madnick’s Bakery Truck would arrive. Mrs. Robson, the owner of our colony, didn’t really have to announce this particular truck’s arrival. It was as if the kids could smell the delicious pastries from down the road. But Grace Robson loved the chance to use the loudspeaker, so she would spring into action.
“Attention, attention ladies. The Bakery Truck is here. The Bakery Truck is here.” It was a given that she had to announce each new arrival twice, in case you missed it the first time.
“Come and get your onion boards, your bialys, and your cookies. Get them while they’re fresh from the oven. We have black and whites, delicious danish.” We’d give the kids a few dollars and they’d line up patiently, salivating for their daily fix and a little something extra for us moms. Every summer I put on at least 10 pounds thanks to Madnick’s Bakery, and it was worth every bite!
Yet all of these food vendors couldn’t hope to compete with the most popular stores on wheels, the ones we looked forward to the most by the car-deprived women suffering shopping withdrawal. Yes, we all adored the much anticipated peddlers who sold us clothing. They came in cars and vans and trucks of every color and make; each vehicle crammed with stacks of T-shirts, blouses, skirts—articles of clothing that we would normally never pick up in a store the rest of the year. Even the beige silk, embroidered dressy dress that I wore to my son’s bar mitzvah came from one of these “boutiques on wheels.” The Hasidic salesman earnestly assured me that the dress was a “one-of-a-kind” fashion statement. I soon discovered that what he actually meant was that at each simcha that I would attend the following year, at least one woman who fell for his shpiel would be wearing the very same kind of dress!!
Finally, never to be undone by the others, was Jack, our very last vendor of the week, our late Friday afternoon regular. Jack was quite a personality, a smooth talker, and a super-salesman, known around the Catskills as Jack the Shoe King. Jack could easily have played The Concord or Grossingers. With his smooth talk and jokes, he was quite the ham.
“I’m back ladies. Yes you heard it right, Jack is back…with the latest in shoe fashions. Rosh Hashanah is right around the corner. Don’t wait ‘til you get back to the city. Hurry, these bargains are going to sell out quick.”
It was hypnotic, really. We would drop everything and rush to sift through the colorful boxes stacked like pyramids on a blanket on the lawn. We must have been quite a sight modeling our high heels for each other on the spongy grass.
Elise, who wouldn’t leave the grounds without a sheitel, would come running from the pool in her bathing suit. Sarah, busily mopping the kitchen floor for her once-a-week Erev Shabbos cleanup, would stow the mop and leap out of the bungalow. Jane, fresh from the shower, came with a towel wrapped around her sopping hair,. As for me, I would make a dash for my checkbook, because by Friday I had spent all of my $50 weekly allowance on the other trucks and thankfully, Jack took checks.
I often wonder, what became of all of those purchases that we were so happy to make, all those years ago? Did we really wear all those cheap shoes, plastic handbags, colorful tops, and stretchy sweaters that we thought we just had to have? Most likely those acquisitions were just part of our entire wonderful, vacation experience. They were as carefree and innocent and flimsy as those halcyon summer days that promised to stretch endlessly before us, but have now receded into fleeting but fond memories of a time when we were young—young children, young teenagers, and young marrieds, hopeful that our good times would last forever.
Estelle Glass, a Teaneck resident, is a retired educator who is now happily writing her own essays.
By Estelle Glass
