Trask Avenue

My folks, though far from wealthy, believed in family vacations. They tried to take my sister and me on some sort of trip every year, a week away from the mean streets of northern New Jersey. Usually it was a jaunt to the shore or a few hours by car to the wilds of Pennsylvania or New York. But occasionally they would pop a real surprise on us and scrape together enough scratch to go exotic. 1973 was one of those times. No salt water taffy from Atlantic City, no Gettysburg battlefields, no Baseball Hall of Fame. December ’73 brought few presents under the tree, but plane tickets to Caracas, Venezuela.

It has never been clear how they afforded such trips. Granted, these kind of whirlwind adventures were definitely the exception, but still it must have blown to hell whatever budget they had. I guess when you are determined to expand the horizons of your kids you will find a way to do it. More pointedly, it probably explains the three months of peanut butter and jelly suppers which followed for the rest of that winter.

I recently stumbled across a few polaroids from this trip. Some of my most vivid memories were not captured by Edwin Land’s marvelous camera, but remain lodged in my ever-leaky brain: the absolute poverty in Caracas we saw during our cab rides to and from the airport, the fist-sized water bugs which greeted us every morning in the hotel room tub, and the hot, hot December sun. Still, the most enduring memory remains “The Clarence Williams III Incident(s).”

Clarence Williams III, star of the hip police drama The Mod Squad, was staying at our resort. I knew it was him because I knew such things. The first time I saw him I excitedly told my folks, “Hey, that’s Clarence Williams III, star of the hip police drama The Mod Squad!” Mom was dubious since The Mod Squad was not part of her regular viewing schedule. “Are you sure?” she asked.

I was aghast. “Of course I’m sure. I may not get straight A’s in school, Mumsy, but I certainly know my TV celebrities.” Well, Mom loved celebrities, even those she had did not know. So she encouraged me to say hello. Even then I understood celebrities preferred not to be bothered in public. Why else would the venerable Clarence Williams III choose to vacation in South America instead of New York or Miami? It clearly wasn’t to do field work for a thesis in Entomology. I declined.

Mom, however, had a different perspective. Calling upon her gift for being bracingly outgoing she marched right up to CW III, dragging me along, and launched right in. “Hi, don’t I know you from television?” CW III smiled warmly, a practiced Hollywood trick. “No Ma’am, I’m afraid you don’t.” She was not to be deterred. “Oh don’t be shy. I know who you are. You’re on that television show. You’re on…The Rookies!”

If the earth’s maw had opened at that moment I would have happily sunk into its fiery pit.

Old CW III remained gracious, denying it was him (which technically was true), and moved along. That one brush with absolute mortification would have been fine. But it was not to end there. Of course not. For the remainder of the vacation whenever we saw CW III mom would march right up and proclaim with loud conviction, “Don’t deny it. I know who you are. You are on The Rookies!” Sigh.

Thankfully I have these photos for without them the beautiful scenery from that week would have been forever lost to me, overshadowed by visions of tropical bugs and an increasingly frustrated television actor.