The Summer of Steve

Nothing stays the same. But I will always have my Monterey memories of my cousins, the summers of Steve, Rich, and Rob.

My mother, who lived to 100, was one of eleven children, raised almost single-handedly by my Grandma Bessie, as her husband was either not around or not much help, and they eventually separated. After World War II, about half of her children moved from Brooklyn to the Los Angeles area and convinced Bessie to come along. The other children remained back east, including my mom. They raised their families on their respective coasts. I grew up in Hackensack, New Jersey, a suburb of New York City, about eight miles from the George Washington Bridge.

So I had a bunch of cousins in California whom I had never met. In the summer of 1963, when I was ten, my mother, sister, and I flew to Los Angeles to visit the West Coast relatives. We were there for six weeks, and my dad joined us about halfway through. That’s when I first met the Bezdekas, my Aunt Phyllis’s family—her husband, Tommy, and boys Steve, Ken, and Jeff. I also met the Tlumaks, my Aunt Florrie’s family—her husband, Irv, daughter Judy, and sons Rich and Rob.

Merced River (photo courtesy of Yosemite Mariposa County)

I was closest in age to Steve, Rich, and Rob, and we got along great—playing baseball, swimming, wrestling, and all that stuff. I also remember having my first taco. The highlight of the trip was Irv and Tommy leading us in their campers up Highway 1, the Coast Highway, to San Francisco, then across California to Yosemite National Park, where we floated down the Merced River on inflatable rafts and gazed up at El Capitan and Half Dome. Unforgettable!

The following summer, 1964, the Tlumaks returned the favor, visiting us.

Beginning when I was maybe seven or eight, our family vacationed in the Berkshires in western Massachusetts every summer. My father, who worked in Manhattan, portioned out his vacation days through the summer. He would take Friday off every week, sometimes Thursday and Friday. While my mother, sister, and I stayed in the Berkshires all summer, my dad would drive up from New York City, sometimes on Wednesday nights, on Thursday nights, to spend the long weekends with us.

We stayed in a cottage in Monterey, which had a population of 500 the rest of the year but 5,000 in the summer due to vacationers enjoying Lake Garfield.

The Tlumaks arrived in Monterey, and we had a great time. We were sad when their camper pulled out to leave us. But to our amazement and joy, about an hour later, Rich and Rob popped their heads up, looking at us through the windows of our cottage. Their camper had broken down, and they had to stay another day!

Greene Park in Monterey, Massachusetts

The following summer, 1965, the Bezdekas arrived. There was a Sunday late afternoon tradition in Monterey that the Tlumaks had missed out on because they hadn’t been with us on a Sunday. At 5 p.m. every summer Sunday, the locals (I was an honorary local, as I played on the Monterey Little League team) met at the town’s lone Little League field for an impromptu softball game that lasted till dusk. Kids and adults were welcome to play. I don’t remember if anyone kept score, as it didn’t matter. We just played and played till the sun went down.

We went to the game that Sunday with the Bezdekas in town. Steve was the oldest, a year or two older than I, while Ken and Jeff were still too young to participate. At one point in the game, I was stationed in left field and Steve was stationed in  right field. A bruiser, an adult named Ray Tryon, came to bat. I instinctively retreated way off in left field, standing in marshland.

Ray pounded a long fly ball coming straight my way, but I could see it would be over my head. I retreated as fast as I could, and, as I fell backward into the marsh, the ball plunked hard into my mitt and I held on. I was filthy, but Ray was out!

Years later, as a young man, I drove through Monterey one summer, intentionally arriving at the ball field with my baseball glove at 5 p.m., hoping the softball tradition had lasted. But at least that Sunday, no one was there.

As the title of Thomas Wolfe’s novel says, “you can’t go home again.” Nothing stays the same. But I will always have my Monterey memories of my cousins, the summers of Steve, Rich, and Rob.