I have much more and better memory after we moved about a half mile closer to the center of town - 127 Canandaigua St. The house had an enclosed front porch (still does, last I saw). When you enter the front door, straight ahead is the hallway to the dining room, to the left is the stairs to the 2nd floor. To the right is the living room. On the other side of the living room is a smallish longish room that served as the TV room. It also, at times, doubled as my parents' bedroom at night, which was quite frustrating to a kid who wanted to watch Saturday morning cartoons while the TV was being held hostage by slumbering parents.
Speaking of TVs, the one we had was tiny, well the screen was, anyway, and black & white with shades of grey. We didn't get a color TV until I was 10 or 11. I watched Captain Kangaroo on that little TV - Mr. Green Jeans, Mr Moose, Bunny Rabbit, the shower of ping pong balls - the whole nine yards. Also Romper Room, which was a kids playtime program hosted by a goddess named Miss Rita. I came quite close to meeting Miss Rita in person - she was at a party that my friend Jackie was attending. I ended up with an autograph glossy, which was OK, I guess.
Another notable thing concerning that room was an act of kindness initiated by my brother Roger. I was spanked for some misdeed and sent to park my sore fanny on the couch in the TV room. After sitting in misery for some time, Roger came in, set up the TV tray, and placed a bottle of Mountain Dew with a straw in front of me. Mountain Dew was a relatively new drink at the time and it was delicious, to say the least. On top of that, straws were a luxury for us in those days. So that, coupled with the kindness of Roger, made it a memorable event.
Earliest Memories
"Where's the baby?" was the question of the day as the kids filed home from school. Not "Hi Mom, how are you?" I was #1 on the popularity charts from the 1st day I arrived from the hospital. Being the last of 7 children has its advantages. I was entertained, watched over, taught how to talk and read, played with, and generally spoiled rotten...I had a great time.
When I was something like a year old, we moved from Iowa to the Washington DC area (I think we lived at my Aunt & Uncle's house in Maryland) for about a year, then to Palmyra NY. I spent my childhood years (up to age 17) in the Palmyra - Macedon area.
I have scant recollection of my first few years of life. We lived (all 7 of us with our parents) at 407 Canandaigua St in Palmyra. The house is now some historical landmark of some sort. Just seemed like some big ole house at the time. We (us siblings) visited the place around 10 or so years ago, and the most common observation amongst us was how small the place appeared compared to when we was kids; seemed relatively palatial back then. I slept in a crib in a tiny side room off my parents' bedroom. I remember that room, though I was maybe 2 or 3 at the time. I have snippets of memory of Brownie, the dog. I remember riding my tricycle up and down the sidewalk in front of the house. I remember Mrs. Smith (May Smith) who lived next door or somewhere nearby, if not next door. She seemed old at the time; then again all adults seem old to a little kid. I believe she died in my early teens. Her son became a doctor, and was our family doctor for a time. We had a movie theater in Palmyra. I went to it once that I recall - Roger took me when I was 3 years old to see Bambi.
The winter of '66 was a snowy one in Western NY, as there was a particularly bad snowstorm early that year. What I remember about it was that snow drifted up and completely blocked in one of the doors to the outside. You open the door from the inside and there was a wall of snow. At one point, post snowstorm, someone was outside throwing snowballs into the house through the open doorway while someone else was standing inside launching snowballs to their declared enemy outside and using the drift as a shield. Whomever they were they were having a great time, as I recall.
When I was something like a year old, we moved from Iowa to the Washington DC area (I think we lived at my Aunt & Uncle's house in Maryland) for about a year, then to Palmyra NY. I spent my childhood years (up to age 17) in the Palmyra - Macedon area.
I have scant recollection of my first few years of life. We lived (all 7 of us with our parents) at 407 Canandaigua St in Palmyra. The house is now some historical landmark of some sort. Just seemed like some big ole house at the time. We (us siblings) visited the place around 10 or so years ago, and the most common observation amongst us was how small the place appeared compared to when we was kids; seemed relatively palatial back then. I slept in a crib in a tiny side room off my parents' bedroom. I remember that room, though I was maybe 2 or 3 at the time. I have snippets of memory of Brownie, the dog. I remember riding my tricycle up and down the sidewalk in front of the house. I remember Mrs. Smith (May Smith) who lived next door or somewhere nearby, if not next door. She seemed old at the time; then again all adults seem old to a little kid. I believe she died in my early teens. Her son became a doctor, and was our family doctor for a time. We had a movie theater in Palmyra. I went to it once that I recall - Roger took me when I was 3 years old to see Bambi.
The winter of '66 was a snowy one in Western NY, as there was a particularly bad snowstorm early that year. What I remember about it was that snow drifted up and completely blocked in one of the doors to the outside. You open the door from the inside and there was a wall of snow. At one point, post snowstorm, someone was outside throwing snowballs into the house through the open doorway while someone else was standing inside launching snowballs to their declared enemy outside and using the drift as a shield. Whomever they were they were having a great time, as I recall.
First Days
I was born of Spanish parents
Well, not exactly…
My father’s parents came from the Dominican Republic, but he was born in New York City. From the stories he tells it seems that growing up in the Big Apple, even way back then, was far from easy. He joined the Navy at age 16 and served during WWII, sometimes aboard ship, more often in Naval aircraft. I have heard a few war stories, some funny, some tragically sad, but this is my story so I’ll let him write his own memoirs. I know that he was a tough guy growing up (born of necessity living in NYC and also of his family situation, which I do not know much about but gather that it was generally lousy). I have seen a picture of him in a boxing ring knocking out a fellow boxer. This is significant because if you talk to my older siblings (I’m the youngest) they describe a father that is foreign to me: tough, demanding, aloof; my experience was significantly different.
Somewhere’s along the way, someone convinced Dad he had a flair for art. He went to art school after leaving the Navy and pursued a career in commercial art. I’ve never known him to do anything else for a living; not that I think less of him for only doing art, for there was an immense amount of variety, challenge, and creativity involved. I have the same creative bent, but excepting the occasional dramatic stint it goes largely unfulfilled.
My mother was born in the state of Maine, the youngest of 6 girls on a farm. Her father was born in the US of Scottish heritage, but her mom came from Sweden. I talked with Mom not long ago about her experience growing up: it had its ups, downs, struggles, and highlights, but it was generally hard living on a farm and her parents were not the warmest people on the planet. Like the weather in Maine, they were pretty chilly. Sometime after she graduated from high school she went to work in Washington DC (in the Pentagon, no less), which is where she met my father, and they were married 3 months later.
They had 7 children in the next 15 years. Jean and Arnold were born in NYC. Roger and Michael followed in Binghampton, NY. The first 4 were “planned”. The next 3 were not. Rita was born in the back seat of a car in Missouri. They didn’t make to the hospital in time. Dad had to stop the car along the highway, help Mom deliver the baby, drive them the rest of the way to the hospital. He was deathly sick for the next 2 days as a result of the experience.
Dennis (#6) was born back in Binghampton. I’m not Catholic, but I am indebted to the Catholic Church. Right after Dennis was born, Mom was scheduled (while still in the hospital) to have her Fallopian tubes tied, thus rendering her unable to have more kids. Apparently the hospital administration caught wind of it and put the kibosh on it, being a Catholic hospital against contraception at the time. As a direct result, I had the opportunity to join the human race. A couple years later, Dad got a job as Art Director for a company in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. So, the family picked up and moved (again) to a small town outside Cedar Rapids called Marion.
I was born (at a very young age) in St Luke’s Methodist Hospital, Cedar Rapids IA, on September 13 at 3:55am. I weighed in at 7lbs and 15oz. Coming up with a name for the 7th kid wasn’t so easy, but in the end I was named Jon Bryan. I found out very recently that I was named after a guy named Jon whom my father golfed with. All this time I thought they had picked my name out of the air.
The back of my birth certificate showing my footy prints and something else I dunno - butt print?
I found a picture of me at 9 months in an apparent attempt to escape from my highchair:
Someone had written on the back of the photo "J.B. - our future president - at 9 mos". Looks like Mom's handwriting. She died in 2011, so she never got to see me become President.
Well, not exactly…
My father’s parents came from the Dominican Republic, but he was born in New York City. From the stories he tells it seems that growing up in the Big Apple, even way back then, was far from easy. He joined the Navy at age 16 and served during WWII, sometimes aboard ship, more often in Naval aircraft. I have heard a few war stories, some funny, some tragically sad, but this is my story so I’ll let him write his own memoirs. I know that he was a tough guy growing up (born of necessity living in NYC and also of his family situation, which I do not know much about but gather that it was generally lousy). I have seen a picture of him in a boxing ring knocking out a fellow boxer. This is significant because if you talk to my older siblings (I’m the youngest) they describe a father that is foreign to me: tough, demanding, aloof; my experience was significantly different.
Somewhere’s along the way, someone convinced Dad he had a flair for art. He went to art school after leaving the Navy and pursued a career in commercial art. I’ve never known him to do anything else for a living; not that I think less of him for only doing art, for there was an immense amount of variety, challenge, and creativity involved. I have the same creative bent, but excepting the occasional dramatic stint it goes largely unfulfilled.
My mother was born in the state of Maine, the youngest of 6 girls on a farm. Her father was born in the US of Scottish heritage, but her mom came from Sweden. I talked with Mom not long ago about her experience growing up: it had its ups, downs, struggles, and highlights, but it was generally hard living on a farm and her parents were not the warmest people on the planet. Like the weather in Maine, they were pretty chilly. Sometime after she graduated from high school she went to work in Washington DC (in the Pentagon, no less), which is where she met my father, and they were married 3 months later.
They had 7 children in the next 15 years. Jean and Arnold were born in NYC. Roger and Michael followed in Binghampton, NY. The first 4 were “planned”. The next 3 were not. Rita was born in the back seat of a car in Missouri. They didn’t make to the hospital in time. Dad had to stop the car along the highway, help Mom deliver the baby, drive them the rest of the way to the hospital. He was deathly sick for the next 2 days as a result of the experience.
Dennis (#6) was born back in Binghampton. I’m not Catholic, but I am indebted to the Catholic Church. Right after Dennis was born, Mom was scheduled (while still in the hospital) to have her Fallopian tubes tied, thus rendering her unable to have more kids. Apparently the hospital administration caught wind of it and put the kibosh on it, being a Catholic hospital against contraception at the time. As a direct result, I had the opportunity to join the human race. A couple years later, Dad got a job as Art Director for a company in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. So, the family picked up and moved (again) to a small town outside Cedar Rapids called Marion.
I was born (at a very young age) in St Luke’s Methodist Hospital, Cedar Rapids IA, on September 13 at 3:55am. I weighed in at 7lbs and 15oz. Coming up with a name for the 7th kid wasn’t so easy, but in the end I was named Jon Bryan. I found out very recently that I was named after a guy named Jon whom my father golfed with. All this time I thought they had picked my name out of the air.
The back of my birth certificate showing my footy prints and something else I dunno - butt print?
I found a picture of me at 9 months in an apparent attempt to escape from my highchair:
Someone had written on the back of the photo "J.B. - our future president - at 9 mos". Looks like Mom's handwriting. She died in 2011, so she never got to see me become President.
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