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Why I'll Never Forget Robert Livingston
By Harry Scapin, Torrington
Return with me now to those slowly fading memories of yesteryear—back to a time before August 19, 1955, when Diane visited the Northwest Corner of the state and forever changed the face of cities and towns along the Naugatuck River. Back to a time of my youth, when the bridge in the center of Torrington was made of wood with buildings on both sides. One side housed the bus depot, Donne's Taxi, Fulton Fish Market and Smith's Shoe Store, while on the bridge itself were the vegetable and fruit stands of LaMonica and Balsamo. One the other side was Mubrack's Ice Cream Parlor, where I loved going in and asking Si Mubrack what kind of pie he had, because I just loved how he pronounced "apple" and "pineapple" with his Syrian accent. Next door was the Jewish-owned (no problem then) Smith Bros. clothing store, where the up-and-coming Lotharios in town went to get proper dress tips from always natty salesman Frank Oddo, while hoping for the chance that they could catch a heart-throbbing glimpse of the blond twins, the beautiful Smith sisters, who worked in the back offices.
Let’s go back to a time when Torrington had four separate movie theaters, not the cubicle-like complexes that we have now, but four individual houses. There was the Alahambra, across from Coe Park, where I saw one of my all-time favorite movies, Lost Horizon, and where I also saw a live, onstage performance by Harry Blackstone Sr., who performed feats of magic that still baffle me to this day.
The Warner Theatre still stands in the center of town and is going through a series of renovations. I can still remember standing in a line that went around the United Cigar store on the corner to see the newly released movie Gone With the Wind, the all-time greatest movie ever made. Standing in line for the Warner was unusual for me, because it was always easier to sneak in through the side door that led into the alley.
Up the street in the North End, in a now empty lot facing Prospect Place, stood the State Theater. On Wednesday night, my mother and I would walk from Cameron Street up to the State. It was "dish night," where for 25 cents you got to see a double feature and receive a dish. Most transplanted families from Europe who were in our economic state developed their dish sets in this manner. A friend who worked with my mom at the laundry gave her my price of admission so I could get the plates for her. We saw many of the Jeanette MacDonald/ Nelson Eddie movies. Little did I know that years later, while going through special training at the Marine Depot in San Diego, I would get the chance to shake his hand at the Y. I still remember the night that two horror shows were on the bill, Boris Karloff's Frankenstein and Bella Lugosi's Dracula. Coming home, I hung onto my mother's hand tighter than usual, for I kept seeing that pale, evil face of Lugosi in every shadow and behind every tree. I still shudder when I think of that movie and his first appearance coming down the staircase with that pale glow surrounding his face.
And then there was the Palace on East Main Street, the favorite of all the kids—especially on Saturday, when they showed the shoot 'em up cowboy movies plus a comedy or a Charlie Chan mystery (or the first martial arts expert movie, Mr. Moto) and, of course, the weekly chapter of the ongoing serial! The shows were continuous and we'd spend the day and half the night there. We'd either pay to get in or buy a sleeve of Walnetto's nutty caramels or a roll of Necco's and sneak in. My favorites were Tim McCoy and the Three Mesquiteers. At the time I'm writing about, my older brother was taking me every Saturday with the money he earned working in the ice house and renting his bike to the paperboy.
The Lone Ranger serial was playing and we'd seen all fourteen chapters, and in the fifteenth chapter the Lone Ranger's identity would be revealed. You can imagine what waiting a week was like. It was probably the most torturous week of my childhood. That I may have gotten a little cranky towards the end is understandable, but why did I pick that particular Saturday to incur my mother's wrath? But I did, and she forbade me going to the movies with my brother, so he left without me. If there was a contest to see who spilled the most water in a short period of time, Niagara Falls or me, I would have won hands down. I was in misery. I was ready to welcome the Grim Reaper with open arms. Why not? My life was over. I wasn't going to see the last chapter. As I write this, I can still feel the pain.
But, mothers being what they are, my pain became her pain, and she relented rather than seeing her son in such agony. She gave me the money and I, babbling my thanks, ran down the stairs and down Cameron Street onto Turner Avenue and then onto New Litchfield Street. Why I was running, I'll never understand—they were continuous showings, weren't they? But I was too filled with exaltation to think straight. Racing down New Litchfield, I came to Summer Street and dodged behind a car that was waiting to get out to New Litchfield, running smack into the path of a mail truck that was turning in. It knocked me for a loop and the impact, somehow, caused my eyelid to split. I was taken to the hospital, by whom I can't remember, and stitched up. My father took me home—but I can't remember how, since we had no car. I was put to bed, and when my brother came home and heard what had happened, he came in the room and gave me a blow-by-blow account of the last chapter. I now knew who played the part of the Lone Ranger, but it was like someone describing the Willie Mays catch in the 1954 World Series to you. If you weren't there, you never felt the thrill of that moment. So it was with me.
Yes, I then knew who played the part of the Lone Ranger—Robert Livingston. But it wasn't the same as being there sitting in that seat at the Palace, watching—with thumping heart—the last chapter unfold before my very eyes. I'll always feel that I missed an important moment in my childhood: Hi Ho Silver—Awaaaaaay!
If there was a moral lesson that I learned from this experience, it's that being in a hurry or rush is, most times, an exercise in futility.
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