It was one of those gloomy February afternoons in Pittsburgh, the sky remaining gray and insistently dull, as if time stood still, never knowing if dawn or dusk would be arriving. My father arrived at the Linden School Ballfield, still in his Police Uniform, picked me up at 3:45 pm, a light mix of flurries and freezing rain falling, making the already murky horizon even more miserable, and manic. It was time for his and my, six-week barbershop haircut and we were going to Jerry and Son Barbers, across the street from Sterret School. Albeit the distance between the two schools was maybe 10 minutes by car, driving in the fog of a Pittsburgh Winter, with the intensity of sad skies melding into puddles of melted and frozen over snow on the ground, created a monotony that any mile driven seemed forever, and having no change in the scenery almost implied we were not moving at all. I remember the car radio was on the KDKA AM station, which as a kid always heralded voices of broadcasters, with baritone voices, whose only decibel of sound, sounded as if what they were about to say, would be terrible, so listen closely! On this February 7, 1962, the voice of the broadcaster, was not only in warning mode but in A you better buckle up for a wild and scary ride, MODE! I looked at my father, not quite understanding what I needed to be scared about, but I must have made a very concerning facial expression, and he immediately turned off the radio, placed his right hand on my shoulder, and said, nothing to be worried about.
We arrived at Jerry and Son Barber Shop, rushed out of the car as the wind decided at that moment to become wild and furious, smacking us with its fury and lots of flurries. We darted into the Shop, which was as miserable-looking on the inside as was the weather on the outside. Two barber chairs, in faded dark green vinyl, a collection of Brylcreem, Vitalis and Murray’s Pomade on old wooden and dusty shelves, three chairs most likely from someone’s grandmothers vacated apartment with cushions tattered and torn as if a cat had used them as a playground and a Naugahyde sofa, with two matching cushions and some replacement kind of cushion in the middle, welcomed us, along with six rows of fluorescent lamps, all blinking in a random order causing madness and maybe hysteria. Jerry and his son Jerry Junior greeted us and were friendly and good people. (Supposedly Jerry Junior cut my hair because he knew what young kids liked, but I never had a choice and any haircut I received was a crew cut and seemed the same as my fathers) They then pointed to the 16-inch TV located on a corner wall, and said: “Walter Cronkite, seems worried that this Cuban Blockade will cause World War Three.” I must have gulped loudly upon hearing this bit of news. Suddenly the awful world outside seemed even worse inside, and even though the two radiators were blowing hot steam into the Barber Shop, I felt cold, tired, afraid, and gray inside and out. Were we going to be in this Barber Shop with all its windows as the Atomic Bomb fell!
Walter Cronkite continued to talk and talk and talk during our haircuts. Thank goodness, I guess, our two barbers were also talking so I heard less and less from Walter and more and more from these two men, whose choice of topics ran from World War Three, good pizza, back to nuclear fallout, and more really good Italian food. The haircut FINALLY ended, the flurries were now accumulating, and my father and I returned to the car. My father turned to me in the car, placed both of his hands on my shoulders pulled me closer to him, and said, “Lots of things in this world may seem bad, terrible, in fact, but remember that I am here for you, I will protect you, and anyone or anything that might harm you will have to get through me first!” He started the car, and said, “you like that teenage radio station KQV, don’t you, let's play that.” “I loved you then dad, and now; thank you for being my father, Happy Father’s Day to you!
