{"id":4912,"date":"2009-10-09T13:08:05","date_gmt":"2009-10-09T17:08:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.saratoga.com\/citizen-nancy\/2009\/10\/growing-up-in-saratoga.html"},"modified":"2017-11-08T13:03:47","modified_gmt":"2017-11-08T18:03:47","slug":"growing-up-in-saratoga","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.saratoga.com\/citizen-nancy\/2009\/10\/growing-up-in-saratoga\/","title":{"rendered":"Growing Up In Saratoga"},"content":{"rendered":"
Growing Up in <\/u><\/b>Saratoga<\/u><\/b><\/u><\/b><\/p>\n
By Nancy Muldoon<\/p>\n
<\/span>When <\/span>As <\/span>I grew up on White On the days it was As a kid, I hated The neighborhood <\/span>###<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Growing Up in Saratoga By Nancy Muldoon When I was growing up here in Saratoga I either rode my bike everywhere or I walked. During racing season I had a lemonade stand on the corner of Lincoln and Nelson…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":61,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4912","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\r\n
\nI was growing up here in Saratoga
\nI either rode my bike everywhere or I walked. During racing season I had a
\nlemonade stand on the corner of Lincoln and Nelson
\n Street. My cash register was an empty cigar box
\nfrom one of the men who rented a room in my grandmother’s house on White
\nStreet. The intoxicating aroma of a cigar always makes me think of my childhood
\nsummers in Saratoga. <\/p>\n
\na child, I loved and looked forward to summer vacations. I was outside all the
\ntime and when I got sick of playing outside, I would ride my bike to Peerless
\nPool in the State Park which didn’t seem that far, with the exception of the
\ntime I foolishly stayed in the sun too long and got second degree burns
\n(blisters) on my body, and the bike ride home was rather torturous. The sun is
\nrather unforgiving on Irish skin.<\/p>\n
\n Street and there were many kids on my block. I was
\nrarely indoors even when the weather was freezing, and only came home, like
\nmost kids of my generation when we were made to. My childhood playmates and I
\nwould be no less than irate when called in for dinner as this would interrupt
\nour baseball game. Whoever got called in for dinner would promise to only eat
\nenough food to make parents happy and then we would dash back outside to resume
\nthe game. Any kid who was forced to sit through an entire meal and was
\nsubjected to adult conversation and was considered tardy by our standards was
\nlooked down upon and was subjected to verbal abuse and\/or alienation when they
\nfinally did return. <\/span> <\/span><\/p>\n
\ntoo hot and we didn’t feel like going to the pool we would wait patiently, well
\nmaybe not always patiently, but we would wait for the distinctive and unmistaken
\nable sound of Grasso’s Ice Truck to come by. The truck was a former milk truck
\nthat seemed to hum as it rolled down the street, it had three decorative
\ntriangles painted on the back, green, white and red (colors of the Italian
\nflag) Old man Grasso was an Italian immigrant who seemed like an unlikely
\ncandidate for an ice cream man. He was not all that conversational and he never
\nwas without his cigar and the ashes of the cigar would inevitably end up in
\nsomeone’s Italian Ice.<\/p>\n
\nthe sight of ash in my ice but what I wouldn’t do for one now. Mr. Grasso
\noffered only three flavors of Italian ice, cherry, orange and lemon. Cherry and
\norange were the most popular and sometimes he ran out and I would have to
\nsettle for lemon. I even remember the price of his ices which never seemed to
\nchange, which says a lot about the philosophy of old Italian men, the world
\naround them may change considerably but they never do. Thank god for Old
\nItalian men. 10 cents for a small, 25 cents for a medium( the one I usually
\ngot) and 50 cents for a large (considered expensive in the 1970’s). <\/p>\n
\nkids and I would often sneak into the Saratoga Race Course during its off
\nseason (most of the year), and play hide and seeks for hours on end. In my
\nmind, the Racetrack is a perfect place for hide and seek, the only thing that
\ncould top that now would be if NYRA suddenly got smart and was actually
\ninterested in turning a profit and opened it up as a haunted house for
\nHalloween. (I’m game) I wax nostalgia as I recall running through the Club House
\nfinding hidden rooms and passageways that the public never gets to see. As a
\nteenager I would often sneak in there by myself to be alone with my thoughts.
\nIt’s too bad that the tourists never see the Race Course at its most beautiful,
\nin the autumn in all its stunning and majestic glory.<\/p>\n