Love and the Ironing Board

Dad had dropped out of college to join the Army. He spent about three years as a soldier during WWII, and some time in the Philippines. Like many of his friends, he joined because it was the thing to do and their assignments often reflected their tender age and inexperience. My grandfather, on the other hand, was doing work for the government during the war. As an engineer, he helped develop a stabilizer for signal lights on boats. His work even sent him to Washington a few times.

By the time Dad returned home from the service, my grandparents had started a banquet hall called "The Belvedere," Italian for "pretty view." Actually, the only view from the place was busy intersection of Grand and Austin Avenues, and a number of small storefronts across the street. The neighborhood around this intersection, like many further south in the city where both my parents grew up, had many first or second generation Italian families. Many of the parents, including my grandparents, spoke Italian as their first language. However, my father’s parents recognized the importance of learning English and as a result, Dad and his sister grew up speaking both Italian and English.

The Grand and Austin area consisted of working class families living in small but well cared for homes and apartment buildings. Riis Park over on Fullerton Avenue, a few blocks north, provided recreational facilities such as a swimming pool, basketball courts, softball diamonds and picnic areas, as well as a hangout spot for the local young males who had aspirations directed toward juvenile delinquency. St. John Bosco Church on Austin Avenue was the one of the growing parishes, and where I was baptized.

The storefronts along Grand Avenue featured all kinds of retail endeavors including fresh fish, fruits and vegetables, a restaurant with a counter and a few booths and a body shop. One of them was occupied by Nuti Bakery, started by my great grandfather on my mother's side. At the time, my mother's uncle and cousins ran the bakery which specialized in simple breads and Italian pastries. My mother and her sister Alice spent some time working there and when it came time for Alice's wedding shower, the logical place for it was across the street at the Belvedere.

The story goes that my father was working behind the bar when my mother walked in for the shower, struggling with a large gift - an ironing board. Dad was quick to assist, and the rest, as they say, is history. By the time they married in January of 1950, the only place they could afford was one of the apartments in the back of the Belvedere. My grandparents lived in the other apartment with my father's sister Mary and her husband Swede, whose real name was Donald but everyone called him Swede because he was the only Swedish guy among all the Italians and Irish. Actually, he had very little Swedish blood - mostly German and French. He was a bricklayer by day and helped tend bar at the Belvedere at night, moving in after he and Mary married in October of 1949. By December of 1950, I lived there too.

Everyone worked the banquets. My grandmother cooked, my mother and aunt waitressed, my dad and uncle were behind the bar, my grandfather kept an eye on the operation, even though he had a full time job as a mechanical engineer. One thing everyone joked about was how my grandfather always took on the job of cutting the sheet cakes for dessert. Every piece was cut precisely the same size. The only problem was that he took so long concentrating on the exactness of the procedure that the waitresses were backed up waiting to serve the long awaited dessert to the banquet guests.

As the only child living with my parents, grandparents, aunt, uncle and a variety of friends, busboys and waitresses, it was pretty easy to be the center of attention. My mother says I talked and walked early, taking first steps across the top of the bar for the amusement of the patrons. She also said I was the only one on the premises who wouldn’t get in trouble for knocking over a bottle of scotch if I was playing behind the bar. The only real memory I have is the bright lights of the juke box where I often bounced around under the selection buttons to the tunes of Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney and Theresa Brewer. (at right, Daddy, me and Mom at the Belvedere, my first birthday)

From what I’ve been told, Uncle Swede was a source of constant amusement during my toddler years. No matter what the meal, wedges of lemons were always on the table when the entire extended family had supper in the evening. Swede would offer me a lick of the lemon just to watch my face contort at the sour taste. He would hide the lemon for a while, then offer it again, and again I would eagerly try it, only to make another sour face. He would roar with laughter with would get me smiling again, too.

“Swede! Leave that kid alone!” my mother or aunt would yell, and he did, only until the next time. Another favorite activity of ours was playing on the living room floor after he came home from a hard day of construction. He would be snoozing, flat out on the floor, and I would come along and wake him up. As he sat up, I would “push” him down into a prone position, walk around to his head, and “push” him back up again. Obviously, he was doing situps just for my enjoyment.

Over the years he loved telling the stories time and time again, and if we were at a family party, the sentimentality combined with a bit of alcohol, resulted in great hugs, a few tears and the constant comment, “you kids are all the greatest!”

Swede and my dad were close friends and enjoyed each other’s company. But working at the Belvedere didn't promise too much of a future for my father. By the time my mother was pregnant with Sue, we made the move to Elmhurst and he had switched to working construction - probably the job he enjoyed most. During the winter, the business would slack off and he found other jobs to make up the difference: taxi driver, vacuum cleaner salesman (he sold one, to my mother) and bartending stints as he was needed. The irregularity of his income, two children and DuPage County taxes soon became too much and we were headed back to Chicago after less than three years.