that's not my name

My in-laws owned and operated a hardware store in a rural farmer's market for over fifty years. I met my wife in February 1982 and by our second date, I was working in the store. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. The store was a far cry from the massive, big-box stores like Home Depot and Lowe's. This was a real live "mom-and-pop" operation catering to the specific, niche needs of farmers, carpenters, masons and other craftsmen of various dying breeds. My father-in-law would sell a part of a part just to accommodate his customer. He was regularly asked long, rambling questions by men in filthy overalls who would gesture with weather-worn hands in a effort to explain to my father-in-law what elusive item brought them to his store on that particular day. Most times, after a little bit of clarification, the quest was met and the customer was happy. It was the clarification process where things got.... interesting.

The customer base of my father-in-law's store was made up of hard working, minimally-educated, salt-of-the-earth folks. For the most part, they knew what they wanted, but couldn't always convey that to another person. They were also impatient and were easily frustrated when their roundabout descriptions were met with blank stares and more questions. The trouble was, these folks would sometimes call things by a different name. Sometimes, it was a name for an item or tool that they made up. It's kind of hard to figure out what someone wants if they have secret names for things — names that only they know. After a while, I began to field questions from our customers. Unfortunately, I have even less patience than most people. I began to hear people call common, everyday hardware items by names that were foreign to me. I thought, perhaps, since these guys were professionals and this is how they made their living, these could possibly be the actual names for these things. Nope. Not at all.

I'm not talking about stifling a giggle the first time someone asked for a nipple valve or a bastard file. I mean grown men with livelihoods making up nonsensical names for actual "tools-of the-trade" as though they were embarrassed to say the proper name of the item — like "poopy" and "pee pee."

For instance, one Saturday afternoon, a disheveled fellow with an unkempt beard and a torn flannel shirt asked me for a "Jesus clip." "A what?," I asked, with all the politeness I could muster. After all, I couldn't be the upstart son-in-law who came along to ruin my father-in-law's successful hardware business. The man frowned and repeated his ask — a "Jesus clip." He asked for a piece of paper and a pencil so he could illustrate what he needed. Obliging, I handed over a piece of scrap paper and a pencil. He proceeded to sketch out a rudimentary approximation of an "E-clip," a small metal doo-hickey used as a retaining clip on axles and machinery. I identified his drawing and produced a small box of assorted sizes of E-clips from behind the counter. He poked through them until he found the size he needed. As he was paying, I mentioned that I had never heard the term "Jesus clip" when referring to E-clips. He laughed and confessed that he calls them "Jesus clips," because when they pop off you are prompted to yell "JEEE-SUS" as you watch the arc it makes in the air.

I have had a guy ask for a "habber." Again, I made him repeat what he needed, trying to determine if he was seeking a tool with which he could drive a nail into a piece of wood. Or was he looking for a receptacle into which he could toss dirty clothes for future laundering. I decided it was the former, as I doubted that this guy 1. made a conscious effort to attempt to put his dirty clothes in one central location and 2. ever actually washed his clothes. So, by process of elimination, a tool for driving nails it was!

The store stocked several models of a fearsome device boasting two giant hooks, a set of gears and length of braided aluminum cable, technically called in the industry a "wire rope hand ratchet puller." Now those were some pretty complicated words for someone with a third grade education to pronounce, let alone remember. Colloquially, however, this apparatus was referred to as a "come-along." Not a weekend would go by where someone didn't ask for a come-along. At first, I thought the customer just wanted me to follow him. After a while and numerous requests for such an item, I understood the term "come-along" and pointed the customer in the right direction.

Of course there arose a bit of confusion when actual names were used, especially when those name were homophones. A customer asked me if we carried "garden hoes," a long-handled implement used by gardeners and farmers for tilling soil. I innocently asked if he was looking for "garden hose," a long rubber tube through which water will pass once it is connected to a spigot. (And by the way, I heard "spickit" way more often that the actual name.) I was met with puzzled looks by folks who had no skills in abstract thinking.

As every competent mason knows, that flat aluminum square with the handle protruding from the center of its underside is called a "hawk." This handy little tool holds an easily-accessible amount of  mortar or plaster. As any pop culture collector who lives in a sheltered rural area knows, the alter-ego of gamma-ray exposed Dr. Bruce Banner is also called the 'hawk" — more specifically "The Incredible Hawk." Yes sir! You read that right and — believe me — it is not worth the argument. It is better to nod in agreement and try to figure out if the customer wants to lay bricks or wants to re-enact the events that took place in Tales to Astonish Issue #102.

Yes, a weekend working in my in-law's store was always a surreal adventure. It was a glimpse into a world that not many people get to see. A world that — incredibly — existed into the 21st Century. After 92 years, the farmer's market shut its doors for good. By that time, my in-laws had closed up shop ten years earlier.

I don't miss it for one minute.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

That picture at the top? Not my in-law's store.

I wanna be with you

Eric Carmen died this week. He was a singer, songwriter, musician and founding member of the power pop band The Raspberries. The band, formed in Cleveland in 1970 from the remnants of local bands The Choir and Cyrus Erie, enjoyed a wave of success from a string of albums and singles. They split up in 1975, with front man Carmen releasing his debut solo album in November of that year. Riding high on — not one but two hit singles (both based on melodies by Sergei Rachmaninoff) — Eric Carmen went on a promotional concert tour in early 1976 as the opening act for America. When it stopped at the Philadelphia Spectrum, I was there... for some inexplicable reason.

In April 1975, I attended my very first rock concert with several of my friends. I had no idea what to expect, but when it was over, I immediately began thinking about my next concert! I began scouring the entertainment pages of the newspaper looking for concerts coming to the Philadelphia area. Concert tickets could cost in excess of eight dollars. As a 15 year old, cash was not easy to come by, so I was pretty discerning about which band would be the recipient of my hard-earned money. Nearly a year to the day after my first concert, I decided to relinquish seven dollars and fifty cents for a floor section ticket at the Spectrum to see America and Eric Carmen. In hindsight — almost fifty years later — I'm still not sure why I chose this show as my second foray into experiencing live music.

I was — in no way — a fan of America. I didn't own any of their albums, or any of their 45s, for that matter. Sure, I was familiar with their songs. How could I not be? They were a fixture on the radio in the 1970s, with such ubiquitous and non-sensical songs as "Horse with No Name," "Sister Golden Hair" and "Ventura Highway." In 1976, however, I was listening to Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull, Queen and Elton John. America's easy going, acoustic guitar-y, breezy folk-rock stylings were not in the same category as the harder rocking flamboyant bands I was partial to. Why, then, did I fork over almost eight bucks to see them live? I honestly don't know.

With tickets in hand and the concert date still a few months off, I broke down and purchased History, a greatest hits compilation America released in late 1975. I already knew most of the songs on the album from hearing them — repeatedly — on the radio. I may have listened to the album all the way through once, before switching back to my old favorites. History sat — unplayed — at the very rear of my blossoming record collection. I could hear America's songs on the radio at any given moment. I didn't need to play them by choice. I'm still not sure why I bought the album in the first place.

The date of the show rolled around. I honestly don't remember too much about the show. I don't remember who I went with. I don't remember how I got there. I do remember that America's performance was boring, especially when compared to the theatrical antics of Alice Cooper, my only reference for concerts at this point. Alice and company danced and cavorted with eight-foot-tall tarantulas and a menacing Cyclops. America — Dewey Bunnell, Dan Peek, and Gerry Beckley — with their close harmonies and three acoustic guitar attack, barely moved a muscle during their show. They ran through hit after familiar hit with little to no between-song banter or audience acknowledgment or even movement. They never moved out of the front-and-center positions they took at the show's start. Their final song — "Sandman" — was about a raucous as they got... which was not at all.

Eric Carmen, as I recall, was pretty entertaining. In addition to his two monster radio hits — "All By Myself" and "Never Gonna Fall in Love Again" — Eric peppered his set with some pretty upbeat numbers from the Raspberries catalog, including the sly and bawdy "Go All The Way" and the power ballad "Let's Pretend." He also joked with the audience and moved about the stage with his bandmates. When Eric Carmen concluded his performance, the night took a palpable nosedive. (A quick check on the internet revealed that America didn't have another Top Ten hit until 1982.) I didn't buy a T-shirt that night and I didn't buy anymore America albums.

Eric Carmen's solo career slowed down after his first album. He had success writing songs for other artists. His inclusion of "Hungry Eyes" on the soundtrack of the film Dirty Dancing showed promise of a possible comeback. But when the film's popularity waned, so did Eric Carmen's. More recently, Eric Carmen showed himself to be a tin foil hat-wearing, QANon-following conspiracy theorist on social media.

But, boy, could he write a pop song.

And I'll never know what I was doing at that show.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ghost town

I was perusing my favorite website — findagrave.com — and I stumbled across something unusual... and a little upsetting. Actually, a lot upsetting.

The place I discovered — a small cemetery —  is just a few blocks from where I work. It sits just off of bustling Route 130, between a nondescript apartment building and a laundromat. Well, it's not actually a cemetery any more. It's a park. But technically, it's still a cemetery.

Jacob Johnson founded this small cemetery in East Camden, New Jersey in 1854. It was specifically and exclusively created for interments of middle-class African-Americans who were turned away for burials at other, larger cemeteries (re: whites only cemeteries). It is the final resting place for an estimated 300 remains, including over 100 who served in United States Colored Troops (USCT) regimens during the Civil War. Most of these soldiers joined the Union's efforts at Pennsylvania's Camp William Penn, established for African-Americans who wished to serve their country. New Jersey did not offer such a service, so those wanting to join the military had to cross the Delaware River. Under the leadership of all white officers, the troops from Camp William Penn were given mostly menial labor assignments — cooks, drivers and similar — rather than infantry. Those African-Americans from the Camden area who were killed in the war were interred at Johnson Cemetery. Along with Civil War veterans, Johnson Cemetery is the last reward for William Butts, Camden's first African-American police officer, as well as Peter Postel, the city's first African-American firefighter. It is also where convicted murderer Nicolas Lambert is buried. He was hanged for the 1893 murder of William Kairer, a Camden baker.

Over the years, Johnson Cemetery became neglected. The trees and grass were overgrown. Grave markers were damaged by either weather or acts of vandalism. It became a "needle park," the site of drug deals. Trash began mounting on and around graves. Between 1975 and 1980, under the administration of Mayor Angelo Errichetti (later convicted in the notorious ABSCAM bribery case), the city of Camden decided to convert Johnson Cemetery into a municipal park. Workers began to remove and relocate headstones. The stones were laid flat and embedded in the ground in a semi-circular pattern along the rear of the park. Headstones that were not part of the pattern were discarded, some used as breakwater along the Camden side of the Delaware River. The graves themselves were left undisturbed. The remains were not moved. So, while the headstones create a pleasing pattern, they no longer mark any graves. Benches were installed around a cement "welcome" area and a large sign was placed curbside on Federal Street, facing the laundromat. Eventually, the abandoned cemetery became an abandoned city park.

In 2015, volunteers from a nearby charter school took it upon themselves to clean up the park. Local filmmaker Kevin Walker produced a documentary entitled The Lonely Bones that traces the history and eventual fate of Johnson Cemetery. There was a rededication ceremony on Memorial Day 2015 with city officials turning out for a photo opportunity along with a good amount of pomp and circumstance. Local news reported on the rededication. But soon, the park reverted to a home for the homeless and a place to dump trash.

I visited Johnson Cemetery Memorial Park earlier this week, stopping by on my way to work. Neighborhood folks on their way to work passed Johnson Cemetery Memorial Park without a glance. In the dim light of the coming sunrise, I could make out the buried headstones poking through a few bare patches in the grass. While I didn't see any trash, I really didn't see much of anything. Granted, it was early in the morning. But, the place looked as though I was the first visitor in quite some time. As I strolled slowly across the grass, I took pictures and read the names on some of the headstones — Charles H. Brown, who died in July 1891; John W. Hamilton, whose headstone sports a carved anchor, died in 1854; Samuel Hankins, whose date of death has been wiped away by time and weather; Private Edward Custis, who served with K Company of the 2nd Regimen of the USCT. Edward died in March 1882. Some stones (or parts of stones) were so worn that just a few letters and numbers were visible.

I have always considered my little hobby of visiting cemeteries as a living (so to speak) history lesson. Johnson Cemetery is a forgotten chapter of that history.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another nail in my heart

When did this become the car blog?

One morning last week, I got into my car and pressed the ignition button. This is something I have been doing for years except for the "button pressing" part. It used to be a key, but since I entered the 21st century this past spring when I purchased a 2024 Subaru, I press a button to start my car.

On this particular morning, I spotted a light on my dashboard — a light with which I am very familiar. A few years ago, my family and I were in Southern California. On my insistence, my wife and I went out one afternoon for some celebrity grave hunting... as one does when Disneyland just doesn't cut it. We headed out to Melrose Abbey Memorial Park and Mortuary, just a few miles south of Walt's first theme park. As we pulled in to the parking lot, Mrs. P pointed to a light on the dashboard of our rental car. We determined that it was the "flat tire indicator" and a call was placed to a local AAA service station while I strolled among the graves.

More recently, my wife's car sported the same light. A little closer to home, she took the car to our somewhat suspect mechanic who made the repair... and then some. (You can read about that HERE.)

So, when I saw the same light on the dash of my eight-month-old car at a time when I should have been well on my way to work — I was less than pleased. Among the many things that I hate, I would rank "inconvenience" somewhere near the top of my list. I turned the car off, stomped back into my house, stomped up the stairs, stomped over to my wife's side of the bed to wake her up from a sound sleep.

"My car has a flat!," I grumbled, as I lightly — lightly! — shook her awake. I told her I'd have to take her car to work and I asked if she could call AAA to change the tire. I added that I could not tell which tire was flat, because, after a quick check, all the tires appeared the same to me.

Later in the day, Mrs. P called me with a progress report. She said instead of taking the car to our usual mechanic and be subjected to a probable fleecing, she drove to a small garage just about the corner from our house. This place has been in its location for as long as we have lived in our house, but we never gave them the opportunity to service our cars. But, today was the day! Mrs. P told me the guy at the garage was pleasant and helpful. He assessed the tires and determined that the recent snap of cold weather was causing the tires to lose pressure. He pumped the required amount of air into each of the tires and — sure enough! — the offending light on the dashboard went out. He waved off my wife's attempt to give him a few bucks for his trouble. Instead, Mrs. P returned to his shop with a Dunkin "Box o' Joe" and a dozen donuts. This gesture set her back more that just a "couple of bucks," but it appeared that the problem was solved. No more inconvenience and that was good enough for me. 

This was Friday, so I had the opportunity to take my car to the Subaru dealer for a "just to make sure" check. After driving my car around the block, the tire pressure light didn't come on. I decided to forgo a trip to the dealership.

On Monday, I got in my car to go to work and — goddamn! — if that light didn't come on again. I got out and looked carefully at all of my tires. I even pressed on them. Hard! They felt firm and steady. None looked the least bit flat. So, against my better judgement, I drove it to work. I defiantly drove the 15 miles, spanning a bridge into another state, to my job (as well as the 15 miles home). I did that all week. A couple of those days, it rained. The thought of getting struck somewhere between my house and Pennsauken, New Jersey crossed my mind more that a few times. The thought of how dumb and stubborn I was being also crossed my mind. But, nevertheless, I drove my car — with its low tire pressure light mocking me from the dashboard — for five consecutive days. On Day Six — Saturday — I woke up bright and early and took my car to the Subaru dealership... something I should have done five days earlier.

A friendly service technician asked me what was the nature of my visit. I explained all about the low tire pressure light and the encounter with our neighborhood mechanic. I reluctantly told her that I drove the car for five days before bringing it in. She had me initial a form and then directed me to the waiting area in the service department. I had no sooner poured myself a cup of complimentary coffee when the service technician approached me to say that a nail was discovered in the driver's side rear tire. I authorized a repair and — one hour and twenty-seven dollars later — my car was mine... sans "low tire pressure" alert,

No more inconvenience... and no more visits to neighborhood mechanics.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

searchin'

This story appeared on my illustration blog twelve years ago, complete with a drawing of my father. It's a funny story that wasn't too funny while it was actually happening.

I'm pretty sure my dad's intentions were good, but he had his own quirky method of making them known.

My father followed an old-time, though slightly skewed, set of ethics. He was a hard worker and blindly devoted to the company he worked for — no matter how little that company gave a shit about him. He tried to instill his work ethic into my brother and me and he somewhat succeeded, as we are both hard workers. However, the Pincus boys just never bought into the "blind loyalty" part, as we came to know after years of working for various employers, that most employers feel that their employees are expendable and easily replaced.

My father loved his family and his way of showing love was to keep constant tabs on their schedules and their whereabouts. As my brother and I came into our teens, that task proved increasingly difficult for my father. Where are you going? How long are you staying there? When will you be home? Who will you be with? these were all part of the regular barrage of questions my brother and I were riddled with when we made a motion toward the front door during our adolescent years. My older brother's teenage antics made a wreck of my father's sense of family order and when I reached "driver's license" age I was no better.

In the summer of 1980, when I was 19, I ran a sidewalk produce stand for my cousin at 16th and Spring Garden Street in downtown Philadelphia. My cousin awakened in the wee hours of the morning and would spend several hours purchasing stock for the stand at the massive Food Distribution Center in South Philadelphia. He'd load his van with crates of fresh fruit and vegetables and I'd meet him at the stand around 8 a.m. to help unload the van and set up for the day. I did this every weekday for the entire summer and, even though I would sometimes stay out fairly late on weekday evenings, I was never on that corner later that 8 a.m. the next day. No matter what. Never.

At the beginning of that summer, I went on my first vacation without my parents. I went to Florida with three of my friends. When I returned home, my cousin recruited me to hawk plums and lettuce and I was just getting into the daily routine that the job required. I had also just met a girl at a local record store and we made plans for a date. Late one afternoon, I came home tired from a full morning of weighing out cherries, bagging bananas and persuading passers-by to pick up some tasty spuds for their family's dinner. After a shower and a change of clothes, I was ready to take this new girl out to a restaurant and who-knows-what-else. I met my father on the front lawn as I was leaving the house and he was arriving home from work. Right on schedule, the questions began.

He opened with his old favorite — "Where are you going?"

"I have a date."

"When will you be home?"

"I don't know. Later, I guess."

"You know, you have work tomorrow.," he informed me, as though I would not have otherwise been aware of my employment.

"I know.," I answered as I opened the driver's door of my mom's car and slid behind the wheel. My father stood on the lawn, arms folded across his chest, and watched me drive off. It was apparent that he was not pleased with my limited answers to his inquiries.

I arrived at Jill's house and offered her the passenger's seat in my mom's tank-like Ford Galaxie. We chatted as we drove and at one point I glanced in her direction as she nonchalantly popped a Quaalude into her mouth. We pulled into the parking lot of the Inn Flight Steakhouse on Street Road and I helped Jill through the entrance doors as her self-medication affected her navigational ability on the short walk from my car. At dinner we talked and joked and exchanged other typical "first date" pleasantries. Before we knew it, we had spent several extended hours at that table, although I'm sure I was more aware of the time than she was. (Under the circumstances, I sure I was more aware of a lot of things than she was.) She invited me back to her house, explaining that her parents were away for a few days (hint, hint). We drove to her house and, once inside,  she motioned to the basement, telling me she join me in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, my father was manning his usual post at the front door. He stood and stared out through the screen with an omnipresent cigarette in one hand, checking his watch approximately every eight seconds.

"Where the hell is he?," he questioned my mother.

"He's on a date. He told you. You saw him when you came home from work.," she replied, as she had countless times before.

"He has to go to work early tomorrow morning. Doesn't he have a watch? Doesn't he know what time it is?" My father was convinced that if he personally didn't inform you of the current time, you couldn't possibly know. He fancied himself humanity's "Official Timekeeper". He would have made a great town crier.

My mother — that poor exasperated, sleep-deprived woman — tried to reason with my father. "He'll be home. He knows he has to work. He's responsible. You know  he's responsible."

Suddenly, he grabbed his coat and scanned the living room for his car keys. "What are you doing?," my mother asked, suspiciously.

"I'm gonna go look for him. Maybe he has a flat tire.," he said, trying to sound concerned, but my mom was not convinced.

"You don't even know where he is. You don't know where the girl lives. You don't even know her name! Where are you going to look?" My mother knew he was up to something. No one could get anything  past my mother. Especially my father.

"Then, I'll drive around and look for him." Ignoring her words, my dad got into his car, backed down the driveway and sped off to a planned destination. He had no intention off driving around. He knew exactly where he was going. Somewhere around the time that Jill was descending her parent's basement steps wearing little more than a blanket and a smile, my dad was bursting through the doors of a police station several blocks from our home.

"My son is missing.," my frantic father shouted at the policeman on duty, "I don't know where he is!"

The unfazed officer grabbed a pen and, with it poised above a notepad, asked my father, "When did you see him last?"

"About seven hours ago," my dad replied, "when he left for a date."

The policeman dropped the pen, cocked one eyebrow and stared blankly at my father. "He's probably still on the date, sir." He instructed my dad to go home, assuring him that I'd probably be home any minute. Annoyed and dejected, my father shuffled back to his car and drove home. A few minutes after he pulled into the driveway, I steered my mom's car along the curb in front of my house. As I walked up the front lawn, searching for my house key, the front door opened and the shape of my father was silhouetted by the living room lamp. My mother was lurking several feet behind him.

"What are you still doing up?," I asked.

"Where the hell were you?," my father yelled, "I just came from the police station looking for you."

With this information coming to light for the first time, my mother and I simultaneously emitted a loud, angry and incredulous 'WHAT?'

"You went WHERE?,"  I screamed, "You knew I was on a date! Are you INSANE?"  I glanced down at my watch (contrary to my father's beliefs, I did own one and I referred to it often). "I don't have time to talk about this. I have to wake up in a couple of hours to go to work." I echoed my father's ingrained work ethic and looked him square in the face. "And so do you.," I finished.

With that, I stomped upstairs, flopped down on my bed and drifted off to sleep to the muffled tones of my mother's reprimanding voice coming from my parent's bedroom below.

I know my father's main concern was my safety and well-being and his intentions were honorable, but he desperately needed to take a course in Parental Behavior. Lucky for him, I think my mom taught those classes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com