"My young summers at Spanish Camp" by Catherine Burgos has been published on January 13, 2008, on silive.com website of the Staten Island Real-Time News.
I don't need to say "GREAT STORY" to Catherine because when she read it at the Staten Island Museum, I said it then. I loved the story for its close-to-the-heart honesty, and clarity, and love, which mirrored the essence of Spanish Camp. I do want to say congradulations to Catherine on it's publication, and still keeping Spanish Camp real as we remember it.
Sandra Serrano
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Buddy Martinez discovers a shark on Annadale/Barat beach
Early one morning in August 1963, an 8-foot shark that washed up on the Annadale beach was discovered by two 5-year-old boys. One of them was Buddy Martinez of Spanish Camp. The other was my youngest brother, John Hughes, who lived in the second bungalow on Barat Lane (Zephyr Avenue). I assume someone who follows this blog will remember Buddy Martinez. I didn't know him and don't know anything about his family. St. Josephs by the Sea appears in the background. (Click the photo to see it larger.)
The Staten Island Advance published a different shark photo with a caption that was wildly incorrect in several respects (e.g., referring to Spanish Camp as the Spanish Village). I can't reproduce that one because my only copy is a clipping, deeply faded and stuck to a board.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
I was a Neighbor
I never lived in Spanish Camp so I don't have the memories that many of you have related, but I hope to be able to contribute something useful to this blog every now and then.
By way of introduction, my family (Marge Hughes and her children--Johannah, Tom, Mary, Jimmy, and Johnny) lived across Poillon Avenue from the Camp, down at the end of Poillon by the beach (in the second bungalow on what was then Barat Lane and is now called Zephyr Avenue), from 1959 through the early 1960s. I myself lived there only briefly until I graduated from Tottenville High School, but my mother and siblings were friendly with many people from the Camp and Poillon Avenue. I remember the Camp as charming, vibrant, peaceful. In particular I remember the lanterns and the music, sometimes flamenco, on summer nights. I loved walking through Camp, stopping at the Cantina, checking out activity at the Salon, going over Renda's Bridge and down the path to Hylan Boulevard. We shared a wild, wonderful beach. I remember swimming, beachcombing, the boats, the men fishing with seining nets, the horseshoe crabs, and jellyfish glowing in the surf or at the stroke of an oar at night. I've seen the Spanish Camp Exhibition at the Staten Island Museum and I'm thrilled that people are now able to reconnect with each other and with their own history by way of the Internet. I'm grateful to Peter Quiñones for preserving and sharing so many elements of our history and to Catherine Burgos for creating this forum for our use as an alternative to the circulating emails.
By way of introduction, my family (Marge Hughes and her children--Johannah, Tom, Mary, Jimmy, and Johnny) lived across Poillon Avenue from the Camp, down at the end of Poillon by the beach (in the second bungalow on what was then Barat Lane and is now called Zephyr Avenue), from 1959 through the early 1960s. I myself lived there only briefly until I graduated from Tottenville High School, but my mother and siblings were friendly with many people from the Camp and Poillon Avenue. I remember the Camp as charming, vibrant, peaceful. In particular I remember the lanterns and the music, sometimes flamenco, on summer nights. I loved walking through Camp, stopping at the Cantina, checking out activity at the Salon, going over Renda's Bridge and down the path to Hylan Boulevard. We shared a wild, wonderful beach. I remember swimming, beachcombing, the boats, the men fishing with seining nets, the horseshoe crabs, and jellyfish glowing in the surf or at the stroke of an oar at night. I've seen the Spanish Camp Exhibition at the Staten Island Museum and I'm thrilled that people are now able to reconnect with each other and with their own history by way of the Internet. I'm grateful to Peter Quiñones for preserving and sharing so many elements of our history and to Catherine Burgos for creating this forum for our use as an alternative to the circulating emails.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
MY PLAYGROUND
Spanish Camp was my playground and the bungalow was always home base. The bungalow was a place to rewind, recharge and fuel up. Ours was crowded too, 3 generations under one roof but as a child, 10 people living together for 2 months was normal and just fine. Once breakfast was done, usually a sunny side up egg cooked in bacon fat, bacon or chorizos and sweet platanos, I would run out to find my friend Dooley, we did everything together in camp. Sometimes with my cousin Douglas by our side. Sometimes with Karen Derusso or Chuchi Garay. We would spend, what felt like hours, on Chuchi's hammock. I always felt very private and cozy in her yard. Karen was always the fastest runner but I always made sure to give her a run for the money. It was all so peaceful, free and just so much fun.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
SHARE A MEMORY
Share a significant memory of a Spanish Camp resident! Post your answer!
There are many folks that I can remember clearly, but my most vivid memories are of my grandparents' contemporaries. Most were people who were comfortable with themselves, and walked through life (and Spanish Camp) with apparent ease and confidence. I spent many an afternoon at my grandfather's side as he played poker, seated at the picnic table behind our bungalow. The participants were men who played a low-stakes game very seriously. They smoked as they played, and I looked at my grandfather's hand as he puffed on his Marlboro's, attempting to understand the mysteries of the red and black cards he held. Their play was punctuated with cards thrown on the table with a flourish, and the occasional expletive...in Spanish, of course. My grandfather would show me his cards and wink at me, apparently thinking I understood the importance of what I saw. I smiled back and nodded, afraid he would detect my ignorance. The game meant little to me. Leaning against my grandfather's shoulder was what mattered.
There are many folks that I can remember clearly, but my most vivid memories are of my grandparents' contemporaries. Most were people who were comfortable with themselves, and walked through life (and Spanish Camp) with apparent ease and confidence. I spent many an afternoon at my grandfather's side as he played poker, seated at the picnic table behind our bungalow. The participants were men who played a low-stakes game very seriously. They smoked as they played, and I looked at my grandfather's hand as he puffed on his Marlboro's, attempting to understand the mysteries of the red and black cards he held. Their play was punctuated with cards thrown on the table with a flourish, and the occasional expletive...in Spanish, of course. My grandfather would show me his cards and wink at me, apparently thinking I understood the importance of what I saw. I smiled back and nodded, afraid he would detect my ignorance. The game meant little to me. Leaning against my grandfather's shoulder was what mattered.
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