It was about this time one afternoon while we were all laid out aloft on the rickety scaffolding (when George's mighty bulk heaved near - we all trembled - from the natural harmonics in the scaffolding ), that an out-of-town car stopped alongside the curb in front.

    "Hi, Mister!" hailed the driver in friendly manner. From the rear windows peeped several small children.

    "Howdy" rumbled the gravel - followed by a dexterious launch of tobacco quid into outer space.

    "Could you help us?" the driver enquired. "We're from out of town and want to see the sights - me and mom and the kids here. Our guidebook tells us that Haverstraw was once a brick-producing community. And that Aaron Burr once lived here...".

    "That's right," rumbled the gravel, "Why this very house here that me and my boys are busy restoring was where one of the biggest Brickmasters lived. (Admiring glances, Oohs! Ahhs! from within the car). "And say, " the gravel continued, "if you folks will just drive on up this road here - up to the top of that hill you see - why up there on the lefthand side is the very same telephone pole on which they hung Aaron Burr the day after he shot Alexander Hamilton!"

    "Is that a fact!" exclaimed the driver. "Well, gee whiz, thanks a lot, Mister. We'll just drive up there now and maybe take a picture of me and mom and the kids under that pole. That would be great! Bye!"

    We all stared at the mud-spattered Iowa plates as the old car drove on up the hill... After that, the afternoon didn't seem to drag so much. As for George - well, your true con practices always and at all times - to stay in shape as it were...

    How we labored on that old house! We worked all week in the offices in Greenwich and then it was just "expected" that sometime before dawn on Saturday all hands would be present at Haverstraw ready to assume their place in the labor pool. I often drove over with Chuck after work on Friday. He had an old rotted-wood body station wagon at the time. If we worked late (we almost always did), then it would be dark before we threaded our way up through the "back country" behind Greenwich and over the Bear Mountain Bridge (Tappen Zee was not yet a gleam in its designers' eyes). The approach to the old Bear Mountain Bridge from the south on this east side of the river, was such that at the very last minute, the road - which hugged the slope of the cliffs here (was it Anthony's Nose? I've forgotten!) suddenly turned sharp left and you literally leaped right out into space on the entrance to the bridge and were instantly crossing its narrow lanes high above the water. It was, of course, in those days, unlit at night.

    The wiring in Chuck's car left much to be desired. To maintain an integral circuit he had resorted to a pair of toenail clippers under the dash which clamped two loose wires together and kept the headlights on. He was fully satisfied with this arrangement - though it had one drawback: each time we made the left turn onto the bridge after dark, the toe clippers would lose their grip and fall off and as we sped out onto the high (very high!) unlit bridge span, and the lights would all go out! This was thrilling indeed, and happened every time we drove over!

    Chuck's automatic response was the same, too - and I had to constantly watch for it and be prepared to wrest the wheel from his grasp. For he would absent-mindedly start to pull over to the side preparatory to stopping and rummaging about on the floor for the clippers! Only problem was there was no "side" on that side! Only a sheer drop...

    Chuck's cars followed one another into oblivion with rapidity. Once, he picked me up to go to the picture show. It was that old movie palace just west of the top of the Avenue there in Greenwich. Was it the Pickwick, maybe? No matter... probably gone long ago. Anyhow, this car, had shall we say, seen better days. It was now most notably sans brakes and sans a gas tank.

    As to the latter, this was a long-standing drawback that we had "fixed" - after a fashion. We wired an old 5-gallon molasses tin to the axle in the back seat (there was no floor in back either). You had to sit with your legs up in the air, lest they scuff absently on the roadway under you and you would be suddenly jerked to your feet and having to run like hell to keep up with the front seat!

    A length of garden hose and funnel completed arrangements here. Many times, I remember Chuck pulling into a gas station (in those days the attendants waited on you!). He would roll down the back window just a smidge (all the windows were dark and sun-crazed so you couldn't see in). The attendants would come, and while cheerily inquiring forward toward the driver's side "How much you want?" they would pop open the gas tank cover. Surprise! Surprise! There was no fill spout: just air. At this point, Chuck would poke out the garden hose with the funnel in the end through the crack in the window. Thoroughly confused by now, some attendants mistook the funnel for a speaker of some kind and would step right up to it and speak into it:

    "What - what ... would you like sir?"

    "Put three gallons in" would come a voice from inside on the driver's side. In confusion, the attendant might then ask (into the funnel)

    "Put it in - where?"

    "Into the funnel" would come the muffled reply.

    And once, Chuck was coming home in another of his cars when he broke down in the Bronx. He stopped and put up the hood. Soon, a bystander came over and offered to take a look. Then another bystander came and did likewise. Soon, these two disagreed as to what the trouble might be. Others came and stuck their heads under the hood - and took sides with one or another of the original diagnosticians. As Chuck told it, he got pushed further and further to the outside of the huddle. Pretty soon he didn't even have a place under the hood.

    He strolled down to the corner. Fellow says,

    "That your car?"

    "Yep".

    "Wanna sell it?"

    "Yep".

    "How much you want for it?"

    "Thirty bucks".

    "Here ya are..." (hands Chuck thirty dollars).

    With scarce a backward glance, as they say, Chuck pocketed the thirty dollars and left. Sale final. Probably wasn't registered anyhow... Any further particulars as to Bill of Sale, Transfer of Deed, Title - the hobgoblins of little minds - why - "look in the glove compartment" (if the vehicle still had one...). Since when do Bronxites, however, concern themselves over such details anyhow?

    But we were going to the movies, right? Well, Chuck pulled into the lot (we had just filled the molasses tin when we set out). He headed for the back of the lot; it was on a slope. At the end of the lot, there was a very low retaining wall - then about a 20-foot drop on the other side. He hit the brakes to coast into a parking spot - but the pedal went to the floor.

    No brakes...

    The car hit the wall and rode right up over it and out into thin air for about a third of its length. We crawled out - and went to the movies (Feature due to start in just minutes...). Later - we each walked home.

    He never even went back for the car. The lucky new owner got a full gas tank (make that molasses tin) on that one...