Category Archives: Friday Flashback

Friday Flashback #514

Years ago, when Jay Cimbak was a framer at Max’s Art Supplies, he was in the alley nearby, between Post Road East and Jesup Road.

Workers were busily dismantling part of Toquet Hall. Jay knew it well: His shop used part of the upstairs for storage. In the 1800s and early 1900s Toquet had been an opera house, and the site of many other types of entertainment.

Jay was always fascinated by the section underneath the stage, which had been a dressing area. On the inside of doors were posters for long-ago shows.

Unfortunately, the demolition crew had already done most of their work. Not knowing — or perhaps not caring — about the unique doors, they’d smashed all that history to smithereens.

Except one.

Jay Cimbak, with his stage door. (Photo/Dan Woog)

Jay salvaged it. For years, it’s hung in his home.

Part of the poster had already peeled away. But the section that remains offers a glimpse into America’s strange past.

The stars of the “comedy sketch” show were John Whiteside and Margaret King.

She was a pianist.

He was a “parody singer.” And a “black face comedian.”

A very different era, for sure.

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Friday Flashback #513

Our Friday Flashbacks usually offer places and things — restaurants, stores, trolleys, Compo Beach bathhouses, and so much more — that no longer exist.

Today we explore 2 that never were.

Through the magic of AI, Nick Wiener offers a pair of what-might-have-been images. Both were hotly debated, more than half a century ago.

In the 1960s, United Illuminating wanted to build a nuclear power plant on Cockenoe Island.

You read that right: nuclear power, a mile off Westport’s shore.

You can read that fascinating story here. Today, we present an AI-generated look at what a large group of active residents (and intrepid Westport News editor Jo Fox Brosious) averted:

Thankfully, Cockenoe still looks like this today:

(Drone photo/Brandon Malin)

Not far away on the mainland, a handsome home stood for decades on Gorham Island.

(Photo/Peter Barlow)

It was a charming sight, just off Parker Harding Plaza.

Until a very large office complex was planned to replace it.

(AI images provided by Nick Weiner)

Thankfully, that was not ultimately built.

This was:

It’s easy to lament what we’ve lost over the years.

It’s also important to consider some of what we might really lament today.

(Friday Flashback is one of “06880”‘s many regular features. If you enjoy this — or anything else on our website — please consider a tax-deductible contribution. Just click here. Thank you!)

 

Friday Flashback #512

Printed high school yearbooks are forever.

Video yearbooks are not.

Briefly the rage in the 1980s and ’90s, the concept faded quickly once the cutting-edge technology became yesterday’s news.

And then unusable.

But whether your video yearbook is gathering dust somewhere (and you long ago tossed your VCR machine to play it), or whether you never bought one — or if you were not in Westport (or even alive) when these relics were made, but would love to see what Staples was like, back in the day: You’re in luck!

Staples grad Nick Wiener found 5 video yearbooks on YouTube.  They’re from 1987, 1988, 1991, 1995 and 1997.

The picture and sound quality isn’t great. But that’s not the point.

Three and 4 decades after they were filmed, edited and distributed — and soon thereafter, forgotten — they live on.

Click below, and relive the glory days: of Staples High School, and video yearbooks.

The 1997 video yearbook cannot be linked directly. But you can click here to see.

Go Wreckers!

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Friday Flashback #511

Right around this time of year, in the early and middle parts of the 20th century, Saugatuck would celebrate the Feast of St. Anthony’s.

The entire, tight-knit Italian community poured into the streets. Music, food, games — it was a beloved highlight of the year.

Then in the mid-1950s, I-95 (“the Connecticut Turnpike”) sliced through Saugatuck. Homes were demolished, streets destroyed. St. Anthony’s Hall gradually faded, as a center of social life.

Eventually, St. Anthony’s Feast faded too.

In 1983, a group of volunteers revived the tradition. Festival Italiano — held in Luciano Park, and the nearby railroad station parking lot — quickly became 3 things: A new Saugatuck tradition. A town-wide fair.

And an attraction that drew visitors from all over the tri-state region (especially Brooklyn).

Italian Fest director Roberta Troy and grand marshal Buck Iannacone exchange glances during the parade.

For 27 years — with people like Lou and Marge Santella, and Mike and Carla Rae at the helm — “the Italian Fest” was a cherished part of Westport summers. With carnival rides and booths, tons of food (especially pizza, zeppole and the like), and entertainment (including favorites like Johnny Maestro), an old-fashioned parade, and MC John LaBarca (host of the long-running “Italian House Party” on local radio station WMMM), it was a modern-but-retro version of St. Anthony’s Feast.

Best of all: the sponsoring Sons of Italy returned $2.5 million to local charities.

But in 2011, Festival Italiano became another memory too.

It had become harder to find volunteers. Costs rose. Sponsors dwindled.

Saugatuck has changed so much over the years. St. Anthony’s Hall on Franklin Street, and the Sons of Italy building on Riverside Avenue, are gone.

Families like Capasse, Anastasia, Luciano, Cribari, Giunta, Caruso, D’Aiuto, Dorta, Romano, DeMattio, Arciola, DeMace, D’Amico, Manere, Capuano, Arcudi, Melillo, Rubino, Caputo, Tiberio, Bottone, Nazzaro, Saviano, Reitano, Valiante, Tedesco, Gilbertie and Nistico are spread all over town — and the world.

The neighborhood was redeveloped in the early 2000s. Now — with plans afoot for new apartments and retail — it’s changing again.

It’s been over a decade and a half since the last Festival Italiano. An entire generation of newcomers has moved here, with no memory — or even knowledge — of that great summer fair.

And even less knowledge of the Feast of St. Anthony’s, which preceded it.

Time marches on. But if it marched backward, we’d all be outside this week, in the middle of Saugatuck.

We’d listen to music. Play games. Ride rides. Meet old friends. Enjoy life.

And of course, eat way too much fried dough.

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Friday Flashback #510

A lot of people spent a lot of time stuck in yesterday’s fireworks traffic, heading to and from Compo Beach.

Even at non-holiday times, the light at the Compo Road South/Greens Farms Road/Bridge Street intersection can be long. There’s plenty of opportunity to look around.

What we see is the I-95 overpass. It seems like it — and Greens Farms Road — have always been there.

But for decades before the “turnpike” construction in the 1950s, the road came in at a different angle.

There, on the southwest corner, sat Ken Montgomery’s grocery store.

When the state of Connecticut planned the new route, his building was in the way.

He tried to relocate to a lot he owned on Bridge Street, across from what was then Saugatuck Elementary School (now The Saugatuck co-op housing), yet was rebuffed.

So one day in the mid-1950s, Ken’s store was demolished.

(Westport Town Crier photo courtesy of Mary Palmieri Gai)

Ken hoped to return with a new store in the same vicinity, once the highway was completed. In the meantime, he went to work at his mother’s (similar) grocery store, not far away by Old Mill Beach.

He never returned.

Instead, he took over from his mother. For many years, he operated “Ken’s” — aka “Grub’s” (IYKYK).

Today, it’s Old Mill Grocery & Deli by Romanacci.

And there is not a trace of Ken’s original store — or the original Greens Farms Road — underneath the I-95 overpass.

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Friday Flashback #509

All right kids: Sit down. You want to hear something crazy?

Back in the day — the last millennium — we did not have cellphones. 

If we were out somewhere — say, Compo Beach — we could not text our parents: “Pick me up.” 

We would have to use this device (below). It was called a pay phone.

Compo Beach, 1983. (Photo/Arthur Nager)

We would say — politely — “Mom, can you please come pick me up?”

Then we would wait. We had no screens to scroll through, until our mothers — not Uber — arrived.

I think we talked to each other. Or looked at the sky.

Somehow, we managed.

Phone calls cost a dime.

There was nothing more fun than walking by, sticking your hand in the coin return, and finding money.

Then again, that was when people still used cash.

A lot has changed. But look again at the photo.

Except for the long-gone pay phone — and the now-locked doors at the back of the bathhouse — a lot has not changed.

That’s part of the magic of Compo Beach. If you’re growing up here now: Enjoy it.

And maybe one day you’ll tell your grandchildren what it was like to text for a ride.

(NOTE: Click here for photographer Arthur Nager’s website. For archival prints, email artnager@gmail.com.)

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Friday Flashback #508

We posted these photos nearly a decade ago.

But xince this weekend the Yankee Doodle Fair entertains thousands of kids of all ages (mostly kids) (and their parents) — as it has since 1907 — we figure it’s a good time to give it another ride.

Pam Ehrenburg — Pam Blackburn, as she was known in her Yankee Doodle-going days — unearthed several fascinating old photos. All were taken by her father, famed magazine photographer George Barkentin.

They show the fair on what appears to be Jesup Green — or perhaps the topography of the sponsoring Westport Woman’s Club was different 60-plus yeas ago. (Pam believes the images were taken in 1952.)

Some of the fashions are different. But in many ways, the Yankee Doodle Fair is timeless too.

This looks like Jesup Green -- with National Hall (then Fairfield Furniture) in the background, across the river.

This looks like Jesup Green — with National Hall (then Fairfield Furniture) in the background, across the river.

A classic Ferris wheel.

A classic merry-go-round.

This is noted writer Parke Cummings. He may have walked over from his home on the corner of South Compo and Bridge Street. He owned a tennis court -- still there -- that was open to anyone who wanted to play or learn.

This is noted writer Parke Cummings. He may have walked over from his home on the corner of South Compo and Bridge Street. He owned a tennis court — still there — that was open to anyone who wanted to play or learn.

Marjorie Teuscher and her son Phil. Her husband -- a doctor -- owned real estate downtown, including the building that is now Tavern on Main. Phil -- now all grown up -- still lives in Westport.

Marjorie Teuscher and her son Phil. Her husband — a doctor — owned real estate downtown, including the building that is now Nômade. Phil — all grown up — still lives in Westport. And he still owns that Main Street property.

Pam Blackburn -- who sent these photos from her father, George -- is shown here with her sister Perii and their mom, Jessica Patton Barkentin.

Pam Blackburn — who sent these photos from her father, George — is shown here with her sister Perii and their mom, Jessica Patton Barkentin.

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Friday Flashback #507

Last month, we flashed back to Chubby Lane’s. Readers commented rapturously about the fantastic burgers at his 2 locations: Compo Beach (where the volleyball courts are now), and Post Road East (current site of Willows Pediatrics).

There was another great burger spot in that 1960s and ’70s era too.

We’ve written several times about Big Top. Today it’s McDonald’s. For a while it was Roy Rogers.

But back in the day, it rivaled Chubby’s.

If Chubby’s was the Beatles, Big Top was the Rolling Stones. You know — scruffier, edgier.

This is not our first time honoring Big Top.

But we’ve got a great new photo to show:

(Photo courtesy of Jim Roderick)

As soon as you’ve finished salivating, click “Comments” to share your Big Top memories.

(Friday Flashback is one of “06880”‘s many regular features. If you enjoy this — or anything else on our website — please consider a tax-deductible contribution. Just click here. Thank you!)

Friday Flashback #506

Earlier this week, David Pogue took a large Westport Library crowd on an entertaining, instructive journey through Apple’s first 50 years.

Scott Brodie remembers those early technology days too.  The 1970 Staples High School graduate writes:

Early in the “Harry Potter” series, as Harry ships off to Hogwarts for the first time, he stops by Ollivanders to purchase his first magic wand (rather, it chooses him).

It was much the same as a student at Staples in the 1960s. During the first week of Chemistry class, students took a few days out of memorizing oxidation states and valences to learn how to use a “slide rule” – a 17th-century contrivance which facilitated multiplication and division, even trigonometry.

Like Harry’s wand it came in a long, thin, dusty box, and was considered a major purchase on the way to competence in math and science.

A Pickett Model N3-ES slide rule just like mine, bought in 1967, with its leather case. The rule is set to perform multiplications by a factor of 1.25 (for example, 4.00 x 1.25 = 5.00). Scales on this side of the rule provide for calculations of products, quotients, reciprocals, squares and square roots, cubes and cube roots, sines, cosines, tangents, and inverse trig functions. Logarithms and exponentials were available on the other side.  No batteries needed.

A slide rule was a major purchase – equivalent to several weeks of one’s weekly allowance. Many of us went downtown to buy one at Klein’s or Fine Arts with our dads.

A good slide rule was expected to carry a serious STEM student through high school, college, maybe even graduate school. We tracked our progress in math and physics as we learned to understand the various slide rule scales.

I still have mine. With no batteries to go dead or worries about holding a charge, it still works as perfectly as the day it was new.

Computation had made little progress since the invention of logarithms and the slide rule (based on them) in the 1600s. They were the mainstay of most routine calculations in the design of the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo spacecraft that took Americans to the moon by 1969.

Accountants used simple 10-key adding machines. A few mechanical “calculators” — noisy boxes full of whirring gears — could multiply and, with luck, perform division.

But these were frightfully expensive, and available only in laboratories like Los Alamos, where the first atomic bombs were built. So we made do with slide rules, and tables of the values of the trigonometric functions.

State-of-the-art calculation in the early 1960s: (left) a Gilbert 10-key adding machine. With tedious effort, it could also multiply. Right: This Marchant desktop calculator could add, subtract, multiply and divide. The “carriage” at the top shifted left and right to provide for place value.

The first whiff of digital computers for students’ use arrived at Staples around 1968, in the form of a noisy Model 33 Teletype.

(Staples had a room full of IBM “tabulating” machines, next to the typing classroom – large devices, about the size of a sofa, which could sort punched cards, and perform simple arithmetic and printouts. They were used for scheduling, and printing student schedules and report cards.  Students were not allowed anywhere near them.)

The Model 33 Teletype banged out 10 characters per second, and communicated with a time-sharing mainframe computer at the University of Bridgeport.

It provided access to the BASIC programming language. Programs were stored on strips of punched paper tape, which could be re-read into the terminal for later use.

It was connected to the mainframe by an acoustic coupler modem. Users dialed the computer’s phone number, listened for the characteristic high-pitched sound of data coming down the phone lie, and placed the handset of the telephone on the connecting device.

Staples’ subscription provided for only a few hours of use each week – not nearly enough. Something else had to be found to address the growing interest in learning to use computers.

AT&T Model 33 Teletype computer terminal (left). The paper tape punch and reader is on the left side of the keyboard. Acoustic coupler modem (right). After dialing up a remote mainframe computer, the handset was placed on the device to pass signals back and forth, at a maximum rate of 10 characters per second.

The answer came in a new, state-of-the-art “programmable calculator”: the HP 9100A from Hewlett-Packard. A self-contained device, about the size of an IBM Selectric typewriter with about 65 keys, it allowed for data entry, storage and retrieval of a handful of 10-digit numeric values.

Unlike other electronic calculators of the day, it could compute trig functions and their inverses, and – uniquely – it provided logic functions, permitting creation of programs that could make decisions depending on previous results.

In 1968 it cost about $4,900 (perhaps the equivalent of $45,000 today). But it was “ours” – available to any and all in math classes, during free periods and after school, without time limits.

The next year the HP 9125a flat-bed plotter became available, allowing creation of high-quality graphics output.

Hewlett-Packard programmable calculator, model HP 9100A (right); associated HP 9125a flat-bed plotter (left).

We tried to outdo each other devising new and engaging applications, including solving surveying problems, calculations of trajectories and orbits, plotting theoretical curves of interest, and studying convergence of infinite series.

In 1972 Hewlett-Packard introduced the HP-35, the first pocket-sized “scientific” calculator. It was a miniaturized version of the HP-9100a, but without the programmable logic.

It sold for $395, still an astronomical sum for most all students (equivalent to about $3,000 today).

By 1974 knock-offs became available for $100. Slide rules became obsolete almost overnight.

By 1976, the cost of a “scientific” calculator was down to $25. The last high-quality slide rules were made in the late 1970s.

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Friday Flashback #505

Westport does not lack for musical entertainment.

VersoFest turns the Library into a rockin’, rollin’ concert hall. Across the parking lot the Levitt Pavilion offers dozens of concerts, of all kinds, from spring to fall.

For a decade or so, the Levitt was the site of an annual Labor Day Blues, Views & BBQ Festival.

Before that though, Westport hosted another Blues Festival.

It ran for only 2 years: 1993 and ’94. But it some great local talent.

The Slo Leak band, for example, starred Charlie Karp (the guitar phenom who left Staples High School at 16 to play with Buddy Miles and a couple of years later, Jimi Hendrix); Harvey Brooks (the Westport bassist who played on Bob Dylan’s “Highway 61 Revisited” and the Doors’ “Touch Me,” and with Miles Davis and many others), and Danny Kortchmar (another Westport resident and session musician with Don Henley, Linda Ronstadt, James Taylor, David Crosby, Carole King, David Cassidy, Graham Nash, Neil Young, Steve Perry, Carly Simon and more).

The event was produced by Mark Naftalin, the Westporter inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame for his keyboard work with the Paul Butterfield Blues Band.

Eric von Schmidt — a musician muse for Bob Dylan, and a noted artist too — created the t-shirts and poster.

Naftalin’s wife Ellen helped him. She remembers the logo included Westport’s iconic Minute Man — but “with a guitar instead of a gun in his arms.”

She adds, “When Eric first drew it he had a tightly rolled joint in the Minute Man’s mouth. But I was worried that the powers that be in Westport would object, so I asked him to make it look more like a cigarette.

“Eric snipped off the rolled end. Now it looks more like a joint than it did in the first place.”

(Friday Flashback is one of “06880”‘s many regular features. If you enjoy this — or anything else on our website — please consider a tax-deductible contribution. Just click here. Thank you!)