Memories written by Michael Hansen, Sep 2007. (Slightly edited by Carin with additonal memories from Judy DeRiso)
When I was nine years old, in 1950, we lived at 877-59th street, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. One afternoon, in early summer, we kids were playing "hide-and-go-seek" along the street. 59th street was lined with ancient sycamore trees, (still there last time I visited,) and the last tree, in front of the Aumodt's house, was the "home". My six-year-old sister Judy was "it", and I was determined that I would get "home" before she could see me. I was hiding behind the parked cars on the other side of the street. (Not much traffic in those days.) When she was looking away, I dashed out between the cars... and everything went blank. I was hit by a car! Ironically driven by a drunk driver... by the name of Hansen! (Not at all unusual in that Norwegian neighborhood.) As I disappeared under the car (the driver didn't even know that he had hit me as I was crouched low as I ran) my sister screamed, and ran home yelling, "Michael's dead! Michael's dead!" as she ran into the house. My father, who was sitting in the kitchen in his bare feet and undershirt eating lunch, jumped up and ran outside. According to Judy’s memory, it seemed he leapt over the table making it out the door in two long strides! One can only imagine the fear that must have been in his heart, already having had his young sister, Inger Nora, killed by a truck during his childhood days in Brooklyn.
In the meantime a neighbor chased the car and pulled the driver out yelling, "Don't you know you just hit a kid?" Luckily, my sister was wrong. I was very much alive, but unconscious, with a broken collar bone. I spent the night in King's County Hospital, where they wrapped my torso from neck to naval, in a cast. Back home I recuperated while "holding court" from Mommy and Daddy's big double bed, propped up on pillows and swathed in bandages, surrounded by neighborhood kids. Judy, I understand, was very jealous of all the attention I was getting. At the time, she was quite peeved that I was getting the “royal treatment”. It was not so easy to understand the magnitude of the situation when you are only six years old.
An interesting sidebar to this is the story of the "undercover ice cream man."
That summer of '50 a new ice cream truck was seen on 59th street with the improbable name of "Snow White and the Seven Flavors." He was a very unusual ice cream vendor, he would give away ice cream! As we all crowded around him with our coins in our fists, if one kid would plaintively moan, "I don't have any money!" this guy would hand him an ice cream and say, "You can pay me tomorrow!" At this time I was recuperating from my trauma, enthroned on a lawn chair by the front of the apartment house. "Snow White" would stop at the curb and give me a free ice cream! All the adults wondered how he could make a profit giving away so much of his product. Sure enough, halfway through the summer, Snow White was seen no more, and everybody said, "See, I knew it, he must have gone bankrupt!" We didn't think any more of it until one day in September when this guy in a dark suit rang our doorbell and flashed badge that read "United States Treasury Department". It was our ice cream man! He had been an undercover agent doing surveillance with the ice cream truck as his cover. They were looking for counterfeiters hoping that they would use some of their bogus money to buy ice cream. They did! And the operation was terminated. He told us, "I had to find out how Michael was doing." My father called me to the door and said, "See for yourself, the cast is off and he's back to normal, no more free ice cream needed," he laughed. It certainly was an exciting summer, 1950!
When I was nine years old, in 1950, we lived at 877-59th street, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. One afternoon, in early summer, we kids were playing "hide-and-go-seek" along the street. 59th street was lined with ancient sycamore trees, (still there last time I visited,) and the last tree, in front of the Aumodt's house, was the "home". My six-year-old sister Judy was "it", and I was determined that I would get "home" before she could see me. I was hiding behind the parked cars on the other side of the street. (Not much traffic in those days.) When she was looking away, I dashed out between the cars... and everything went blank. I was hit by a car! Ironically driven by a drunk driver... by the name of Hansen! (Not at all unusual in that Norwegian neighborhood.) As I disappeared under the car (the driver didn't even know that he had hit me as I was crouched low as I ran) my sister screamed, and ran home yelling, "Michael's dead! Michael's dead!" as she ran into the house. My father, who was sitting in the kitchen in his bare feet and undershirt eating lunch, jumped up and ran outside. According to Judy’s memory, it seemed he leapt over the table making it out the door in two long strides! One can only imagine the fear that must have been in his heart, already having had his young sister, Inger Nora, killed by a truck during his childhood days in Brooklyn.
In the meantime a neighbor chased the car and pulled the driver out yelling, "Don't you know you just hit a kid?" Luckily, my sister was wrong. I was very much alive, but unconscious, with a broken collar bone. I spent the night in King's County Hospital, where they wrapped my torso from neck to naval, in a cast. Back home I recuperated while "holding court" from Mommy and Daddy's big double bed, propped up on pillows and swathed in bandages, surrounded by neighborhood kids. Judy, I understand, was very jealous of all the attention I was getting. At the time, she was quite peeved that I was getting the “royal treatment”. It was not so easy to understand the magnitude of the situation when you are only six years old.
An interesting sidebar to this is the story of the "undercover ice cream man."
That summer of '50 a new ice cream truck was seen on 59th street with the improbable name of "Snow White and the Seven Flavors." He was a very unusual ice cream vendor, he would give away ice cream! As we all crowded around him with our coins in our fists, if one kid would plaintively moan, "I don't have any money!" this guy would hand him an ice cream and say, "You can pay me tomorrow!" At this time I was recuperating from my trauma, enthroned on a lawn chair by the front of the apartment house. "Snow White" would stop at the curb and give me a free ice cream! All the adults wondered how he could make a profit giving away so much of his product. Sure enough, halfway through the summer, Snow White was seen no more, and everybody said, "See, I knew it, he must have gone bankrupt!" We didn't think any more of it until one day in September when this guy in a dark suit rang our doorbell and flashed badge that read "United States Treasury Department". It was our ice cream man! He had been an undercover agent doing surveillance with the ice cream truck as his cover. They were looking for counterfeiters hoping that they would use some of their bogus money to buy ice cream. They did! And the operation was terminated. He told us, "I had to find out how Michael was doing." My father called me to the door and said, "See for yourself, the cast is off and he's back to normal, no more free ice cream needed," he laughed. It certainly was an exciting summer, 1950!
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