TURNPIKE BONDS

         It is a known fact that around six o’clock in the evening on the first Sunday of every month, approximately twelve percent of the residents of the city of Baltimore decide that it would be a fine time to drive to New York City. They head north on I-95, cross the Delaware Memorial Bridge and speed their way up the New Jersey Turnpike.

         It is another known fact that the first Sunday evening of every month is the date chosen by the Eighteen Wheelers Association to hold their Driver’s Competition and Rodeo. The location for this event is the Northbound lanes of the New Jersey Turnpike between Exits Three and Nine.

         I was not aware of either of these facts that fatal Sunday in April. All I knew was that the New Concordia Building and Loan Association would be holding their monthly meeting that Sunday afternoon at four o’clock in its offices on Ritner Street, deep in the heart of South Philadelphia, not far from the intersection of 10th and Moyamensing.

         I had received a notice telling me that if I did not come to the April meeting, the membership that I had inherited from my father would lapse. It has been a long time since I had attended, if I ever have done so. On the principle that I never knew when I might need a ticket fixed, or a second mortgage on my house, I decided that I should ‘follow in the footsteps of those who've gone before.” I drove to South Philadelphia and answered “Present” in a firm voice when my name was called.

         Now I was heading home. Dusk was falling as I nudged my car into the Northbound lanes of the Turnpike at Exit Four. Valatie was a short three and one-half hours away, even with the heavy traffic that seemed to be barreling up the road at an average speed of seventy-five. A flashing road sign a few miles on alerted me of that which I should have known:

THE TURNPIKE WELCOMES BAL-LA-MUR RESIDENTS

         A double-tandem roared by me in the left lane and then cut in front of me. The number ‘27’ was painted on its sides, and a sign telling me the driver was participating in the Quick Lane Change competition was stuck to the back, just over the “How’s My Driving” sticker. I was beginning to think I should have stayed and had a few drinks with Al, a guy I had met at the meeting and who said he remembered my father. By leaving later, I might have avoided the heavy traffic.

         There was no reason yet to complain. Traffic was heavy but was moving well. Or so the Marylanders, the truckers and I all thought. None of us knew one more important fact that any veteran Turnpike user could have told us. SUNDAY EVENING IS THE FAVORITE TIME OF AUTHORITIES TO DO ‘LIGHT CONSTRUCTION WORK’. There we were, one hundred thousand strong, all hurtling at seventy-five miles an hour toward a stretch of less than one-half mile between Exit 7A and 8 where the three lanes of the turnpike narrowed to two.

         The motif of the evening became the flashing brake light. Just past Exit 7 speeds slowed to less than thirty mile-an-hour and within another two miles, traffic came to a stop and then continued in a pattern of stop and go driving for the next twelve miles. Now the signs flashed:

CONSTRUCTION AHEAD

         It is at times like this that frustration sets in unless there are happy memories to fall back upon. What happier memories could I have but of the fellowship of the New Concordia Building & Loan Association! I'm so sorry, dear reader, if I lapse off into mawkishness. I get that way when tradition is involved. The New Concordia Building and Loan gave my father a mortgage. To show his gratitude, he trooped down to South Philadelphia once a month for years. Now I had taken his place.

         Stuck in traffic with one foot on the clutch and one on the brake, I thought back on the day. The meeting was an eye opener. I was glad I went. The minutes of the last meeting were read and approved, a supplicant seeking a loan had the application denied, and since there was no other new business on the floor, motion was made to adjourn, seconded and passed. Out of the cellar came one of the last cases of Ortliebs’ Beer in the world; another motion was taken and the beer was passed around. All was done following proper rules of procedure as outlined by Mr. Roberts.

         My father paid off his mortgage in 1966. I am told the last loan was fully amortized in 1981, but the Association keeps open its doors. The moneys are invested in New Jersey Turnpike and Sport Authority Bonds. These are thrifty folks. They are concerned with safety, hence the tax-frees. The younger members respect the sagacity of the elders, but have a sense of humor. At March's meeting someone asked when the "Hoffa" bonds would mature.

         The meeting adjourned at 4:45. There were eight in attendance. Within minutes of adjournment, Al DelFranco called the local steak shop for six 'with' and one 'without' and ‘hold the ketchup’ on one of the 'withs'. This is the local dialect. The other Al went to the cellar and carried up the case of Ortliebs’. Talk went around that within a year they would run out of Ortliebs’, which meant they would have to break into the Esslinger. Talk then turned to the Iggles, the Philadelphia Iggles.

         I could not stay long. I polished off my ‘with’, turned down a beer, hoisted a Frank’s Black Cherry Wishniak, said my ‘good-byes’ and headed for my vehicle. I gave the young urchin who ‘watched my car’ an extra tip because it was still safe and sound in the spot where I had double-parked. Now sitting on the Turnpike, I wished I were back in the bosom of my Building & Loan mates.

         First-Second-Third-Brake-Clutch In-First-Clutch In-Brake, slowly I inched my way to the spot of the construction. All around me were cars from Maryland and big rigs, all doing the same thing as I was. I knew there was no one from Pennsylvania or New Jersey in the tie-up. No one had roared up the shoulder and cut in. Everyone here was from civilization.

         At last I reached the construction area. Everyone acted mature. We squeezed into two lanes and oddly traffic sped up. I could see the construction workers. It was break time. They were eating ‘one with’, but I knew they were not from Philadelphia. The tip-off was the bottles of cream soda in their other hand. “North Jerseyites!” Before I could get more indignant, I was through the bottleneck and doing seventy-five again. My anger did not dissipate. I stopped at the first rest stop and, using my cell phone, placed a call to the other Al. I gave him my proxy for the next meeting and told him to vote to sell the Turnpike Bonds. “Buy more Hoffa Bonds.” I drove off singing ‘and we won’t be reunited, ‘til we reach that other shore.’

Valatie May 4, 2002