The Chocolate Temptations

Lent always seemed to last for more than forty days. Giving up candy and putting the money you would normally spend on it in a cardboard mission box was a real sacrifice to the typical third grader. One day during Lent I came home to tell my mother that our Brownie troop would be going on a field trip to the Mars Candy Company in Chicago, not very far from our
neighborhood.

“That’s going to be very hard,” she said. “You realize it will still be Lent when you go and you remember your promise.”

I’m sure my mother thought the non-Catholics in charge of the Brownies scheduled the trip during Lent on purpose, knowing most Catholic kids were trying to abstain. We were usually allowed a treat on Sundays in Lent, but five days was sooo long to wait.

“But this is a special trip, Mom. Can’t I have an excuse?”

“They don’t give excuses for breaking your promise. Now, it’s not a sin if you eat the candy, it’s just that God will be very disappointed in you.”

I stood at the window of our living room and could picture God looking down from the clouds. His fatherly face had a very hurt expression. I looked up, feeling very small but still determined to compromise. In my mind the negotiations were going back and forth.

“It’s just this one time, Heavenly Father, and all the other girls will be eating the candy, and I promise to go back to not eating it on the next day, OK?”

In my imaginary conversation, God wouldn’t look at me. He just shook His massive head and stared off into what must have been the suburbs of heaven.

“It’s not a sin, my child, but I guess you just don’t have what it takes to be strong enough, to fight the temptation. Don’t you see that this is practice for when the Devil really tempts you to do something wrong? If you can say no now, you will be strong enough to say no when it really counts.”

This made up dialogue played over and over in my head. I was miserable and I wanted the candy. I decided not to decide until the field trip.

We arrived at Mars in the late afternoon. It was still light enough to see a long, low building with perfectly straight awnings on each window, immaculate grounds, manicured landscaping and not a spot of litter, nothing broken or out of place anywhere. We were ushered into a receiving area and greeted by a woman in a stiffly starched lab coat and hairnet. She passed out identical hairnets to each of us as she welcomed us to the birthplace of my favorite candy bar - the Milky Way. We could already smell the chocolate.

We quietly followed and entered into the largest, cleanest kitchen I had ever seen in my life. We were behind huge windows which gave us the opportunity to see everything while staying beyond any actual touching or tasting. All the workers moved about in spotless white uniforms, pushing buttons to control huge mixers, conveyor belts, cookers and all the other equipment it took to create a candy bar from sugar, butter, chocolate and, I was sure, secret ingredients that made it taste so good.

The temperature in the building was cool but we ignored the chill as the process held our complete attention.The sweet smell was all around us. We had never seen so much chocolate in our lives. Our fingers were itching to be dipped in those huge vats of caramel and nougat. Three Musketeers, Snickers, Mars Bars...we were in heaven. We traveled along the observation trail, watching all the ingredients gradually come together to form the most perfect candy bars - hundreds and hundreds of them marching along the belts toward the packaging machines. Yes! There you go little Milky Way bars! Follow along and we Brownies will all take good care of you!

Toward the end of the tour, we watched our favorite treats disappear into cardboard boxes and were carted away to be stored and delivered. The candy was always just beyond our reach and now it was gone. We found ourselves in the same receiving room as when we arrived, gathered our coats and prepared to leave. Our tour lady, the last to emerge from the plant area, walked in with just what we had been hoping for-- boxes of miniature samples of all the Mars products for us to take home and eat until we made ourselves sick.

I had never had so much candy that I didn’t have to share. I just looked at the white box with the cellophane cutout - they were all there and they were all mine. As we got on the bus, our troop leader told us to wait until we got home before eating the candy but her admonishment fell mostly on deaf ears. I longingly looked at my treasure and managed not to open the box. As the “public” kids chowed down on all that delightful chocolate, we Catholics knew we had to save our treasure until the following Sunday.

When I got home, the box went into the refrigerator and I managed to wait. On Sunday I could take it out for a treat, but I had to have been dreaming to think it was mine alone. Everyone in our house got a share.

Fannie May, Milky Ways-- chocolate covered anything was a favorite of my mother’s but such treats were never consumed without sharing. We would bring home a candy bar, which only cost a nickel, and as the wrapper came off, a kitchen knife came out and the bar was split in three and I shared with my sisters. I don’t think I ever ate a whole candy bar until I was an adult - and only because having had small portions as a child, the whole thing was entirely too sweet and too much to eat at one sitting. I can still make a large-sized Milky Way last an entire week. However, I don’t think my mother could say the same thing.

Lost Brother

17. From the time I was a toddler until I turned twelve, my mother spent about four years of her life pregnant. During the 1950s, pregnant women didn't worry about smoking, caffeine, eating certain fish or taking Lamaze classes. And when it was time to deliver, they were pretty much knocked out, and woke up with their babies sleeping off the same anesthesia down the hall in the nursery. For the most part, Mom did a pretty good job having her babies. Each labor and delivery got quicker with each kid, so much so that when her last child, Amy, was born, Mom barely made it into the delivery room before my sister made her presence known.

But it was while we were living on Cortland street that my mother suffered a miscarriage during the early days of 1959. It was a cold and wintry day. I was playing with my sisters in the living room and Daddy was shoveling snow out in front. Mom suddenly called me from the bathroom. It was a loud call at first and I reluctantly got up from what I was doing and walked through the dining room, following her voice. She continued to loudly whisper my name, obviously not wanting my younger sisters to hear or see her.

She was crying, clutching my father’s old tan terry cloth bathrobe around her and even though she tried to stay as much behind the door as she could, I still saw that the robe, her hands and the floor were all stained with blood.

“Go get Daddy,” she pleaded, “and tell him I’m hemorraghing!”

I was eight years old and very scared at what I saw. I froze for a second, frightened by her bloody hands and the fear in her face.

“Mom, what happened?” I started to say, but she quickly cut me off.

“Nancy, hurry, I need him!”

Racing for the stairway I kept repeating her words - words I could not totally understand, but knew their seriousness - with each leap on the steps.

"Hem-rah-jing, hem-rah-jing, hem-rah-jing," frantically whispering it over and over to myself as I jumped down the three flights of stairs so I wouldn't forget, wouldn't get the big, strange word wrong and not be able to communicate the seriousness of the situation to Dad. I opened the front door and ran up to my father. Before he could question why I had run out of the house into the snow without a jacket, he saw the look of fear on my face.

“Mommy said she’s hemorraghing,” I told him as loudly and as carefully as I could. Without a word, he threw the shovel in the snow and took the stairs two or three at a time. By the time I got back upstairs, he was carrying her out of the apartment; she was still wearing his robe. They disappeared down the stairway, into the car and drove away down snow-encrusted Long Avenue.

I don’t remember who stayed with us while they went to the hospital or even how long she was gone, but I do remember later asking my father if Mom would be coming home with the new baby. He looked and me, then away, running his hand through his short, dark brown hair. Slowly and sadly he shook his head, “I don’t think so, honey.”

Many years later, my mother told me about the miscarriage. She was nearly seven months along when she stopped feeling movement. As it was her fourth pregnancy, she knew something was wrong. The doctors confirmed that the fetus was dead, but she had to continue to carry it. Finally, weeks later, her body rejected what would have been my parents’ first son. Of course, they knew it was a boy when she delivered it at the hospital but they didn’t tell my dad - not until after my brother was born in 1960.

Dona eis requiem

16. Third grade class photo

Events of tragedy have the impact of making people remember exactly where they were, and what they were doing when the news hit. For all Chicagoans, December 1, 1958 was a day of such sadness that the memory floats on like a horrible nightmare, a dream with impacting pictures frozen forever, yet awakened again at the simple mention of the words, Our Lady of the Angels.

It's a cold December afternoon. Susie and I have walked home from school with Joyce and Michelle and their big sister Janice. We climb the stairs to the apartment on Courtland and walk in the front door which is in the hallway between the living room and the dining room. Judy is playing on the floor with her doll and my mother welcomes us home. We go to our room, take off our uniforms and come back to turn on the television. American Bandstand and the Mickey Mouse Club are favorites. We don’t have homework and can play or watch tv until dinner.

Before the evening news is on, the programming is interrupted by a news bulletin. The words travel across the bottom of the screen, but I’m not paying enough attention to understand the message. Finally, after a few more bulletins, I call my mother into the living room to tell her something is going on. She stands there, a dish towel in her hand, staring at the tv. Her hand goes to her lips and she silently whispers, “oh my God, no...”

It should be obvious to her that Susie and I are home, we are safe, we are playing right in front of her. But the news is so disturbing, she draws us closer and holds on tight without taking her eyes off the television. When we question, she seems to waken from a trance, and answers vaguely, changing the channel and not ready to let us know what has happened.

By December 2, I understand. I see the pictures of the dozens of children, kids my own age, plastered across the front page of the newspaper. A fire at Our Lady of the Angels School, a few miles south of St. Pete’s, has taken the lives of 93 children and three nuns. The blaze started only minutes before the dismissal bell was to ring. The fire alarm malfunctioned and there was no direct connection to the fire department. The fire was reported by people in the neighborhood who saw the smoke. Before it was all over, entire classrooms succumbed to smoke inhalation - with students still sitting at their desks. Children jumped from second floor windows to escape the blaze; firemen frantically plucked kids from ledges and tossed them down to adults from the neighborhood who tried to catch them or break their falls. The old building was engulfed quickly and lives were lost in seconds.

My mother has pretty much given up her effort to keep the information about the tragedy from us - even as a third grader, I will read anything that I can get my hands on - and the newspaper reports every tragic detail it can drain from hospital personnel, firefighters, parents, children, priests, the archdiocese - anyone who will say anything. All the kids were taken to St. Anne’s Hospital - where I just had my tonsils taken out. I read all that I can before school. The paper is on the floor in the bathroom where my father left it and if I don’t put it down, I’ll be late for school. I get a nervous feeling in my stomach as I look into the faces of the kids who are dead - they look so much like the kids at St. Pete’s. That night I dream of being in a fire and looking frantically for Susie.

At school, the teachers are all buzzing with news of the fire. The closeness of our parishes insures that there are some who have lost friends or relatives - it becomes one of those school days where not a whole lot gets done. Over the intercom, Sister Superior asks us to pray for the souls of the children and teachers who have died. We go to mass, teachers are in and out of the classrooms, papers are brought in and out by students relaying messages, and we go home knowing that our school, too, has been affected by fire and things will never be the same again.
The fire continues to dominate newspapers and local television. A photo of a fireman emerging from the rubble with a dead child in his arms will haunt everyone in Chicago for years and years to come. The image of the small white coffins at a combined funeral for the victims will last in my mind forever.

By the time we come back from Christmas vacation, things have drastically changed at St. Pete’s. Over break, the school - along with almost every other school in the city- has been inspected for fire safety. Our school does not do well in the inspection. Classes will no longer being held in the basement because of the glass block windows. This cuts the number of classrooms back by at least six and a need to reallocate almost 300 students. Additionally, students from Our Lady of the Angels (which enrolled 1200 students) are being taken in by neighboring parishes. With our loss of classrooms, how can we possibly help?

We go on half-day shifts. The entire school day lasts a bit longer for the administrators but we attend school for the rest of the year only during the morning while others attend in the afternoon. We have to share our desks. My room is on the second floor and the desks are the black, old fashioned kind on wooden runners. The inside space in the desk for our books is split exactly in half and we are restricted to one side or the other. Mrs. Higgins explains to us how important it is now to be neat and orderly - even moreso than before - and to respect the property of the student who comes in the afternoon. Everything feels tight in the classroom because there is twice as much “stuff” from both students and teachers - not to mention additional supplies being stored upstairs while the renovations are being completed in the basement.

St. Peter Canisius was at capacity before the fire. Now, plans to add a new building to the school have to pick up speed and a fund raising effort begins. Since the school sits right on North Avenue, with the church and rectory to the west, homes to the south and the convent to the east, the parish must look further east for any available land. The new building will be constructed a block away, right next to the CTA bus yard, and ready for occupancy by fall of 1960.

The opening of the new school would be special event to the parish and the neighborhood. It had a modern look - only one level - and the school did its best to make sure every student spent at least a year in a building with new desks, bright windows and no stairways.

But by 1975, urban flight has hit the neighborhood and before long, the new school is empty. The building was sold and taken over by the State of Illinois Welfare Administration. By 1990, that is gone, too. The property sat abandoned, windows broken, weeds growing high in front, sidewalk cracked and an empty sadness enveloped the building.

You could still see the holes in the bricks on the outside wall, where they removed the crucifix.

Tonsils

15. My parents seemed to have more than their share of sick kids. Thank goodness, the illnesses were mostly normal childhood diseases, but either Sue or I seemed to come down with sore throats and colds every month. Finally, our doctor suggested to my mother that we both have our tonsils taken out. We were quickly scheduled for a weekday morning in November at St. Anne’s Hospital, where we were born, and repeatedly assured that the whole procedure would be painless, ending with a dish of vanilla ice cream.

Sue and I were scared out of our minds as Mom and Dad brought us into the hospital. We were directed to a children’s ward and put in beds next to one another. The first thing the nurses did was inform us both that we had to have a shot but they knew we were big brave girls and wouldn’t cry. I made a fist and as much of a muscle in my arm as I could - only to find out the injection was much more painful when I did it. Word of the shot was about the last thing Sue could handle. She was so scared she became belligerent, much to my mother’s dismay. The nurse tried to talk sweetly to her but she made it obvious she wanted to go home and didn’t appreciate anyone touching her. We had some time before the operations so the nurse suggested that we go down to the children’s room at the end of the hall.

“These are baby toys,” Sue said as she looked disdainfully at the sad assortment of books and toys.

“Come on, Susie, want to read a book?” My father was trying to get the smallest of smiles out of her but she stubbornly held on to her fear and her displeasure at being in the hospital. Dad’s efforts were short-lived, however, as the nurse came in and announced, “we’re ready for you Susan.”

She looked at all of us as if we had betrayed her. Mom went to take her hand but she folded her arms and stood firm. I stood there, coloring book in hand, feeling a bit embarrassed that they didn’t take me first, since I was the older girl, the bigger girl. She had hardly had a minute in this playroom and already they were taking her to the operating room. She had to be brave and be first. I was older and should have gone first so maybe she wouldn’t be so scared.

By the time they did come for me, I was anxious to get it over with - complacently letting them put me on the gurney, strap me down, wheel me into the operating room and put a smelly rubber mask that reminded me of the end of a toilet plunger over my face. I closed my eyes and saw rockets blasting off, fireworks against the night sky, then - darkness. Before I knew it, I was waking up in a bed next to Sue, feeling like my throat was on fire. Waking up from the anesthetic, we were both whiny, miserable and upset. Talking was a major effort. Before the whole procedure, we had been assured that ultimate treat of a dish of vanilla ice cream would make up for whatever we had to endure. When the nurse arrived with it, along with the expected fanfare from my father, we both turned our faces into the pillows turning the treat down cold.

“Hey you two, this is great ice cream,” my dad was saying, trying to coax us. He hated seeing us in such sad shape. “MMMM...if you don’t want it, it will be gone in a second....how about just a little taste?”

We both gave the ice cream a try, but swallowing was nearly impossible, despite the intended cold, soothing effect. We continued to whine - crying hurt too much. After letting us rest for a few hours, the doctor released us. Our parents bundled us up in blankets and took us home.

Tonsillectomies were routine for most children in the ‘50s. The doctor who removed mine and Sue’s was the same man who delivered me - Dr. George. He was pretty much considered a saint by anyone who worked at St. Anne’s Hospital. He probably didn’t expect that within 48 hours, I - and then Sue - would be return visitors to St. Anne’s.

Not much interested in eating, we soon fell asleep for the night. Hours later, I found myself coughing into the pillow because it seemed like saliva or some liquid kept accumulating in my mouth. By the dim glow of the nightlight in the hallway, I could see that there were dark streaks staining my pillowcase. I was not sure what it was, but it obviously came from me and as I sat up, a sudden surge of nausea overtook me.

Nightmares, tummy aches and fevers usually brought us running into our parents room, to my mother’s side of the bed, waking her with a “Mom, I had a bad dream!” or “Mom, I don’t feel so good,” or - as on this night - “Mom, I feel like throwing UPPPP!!!” and then depositing the contents of my stomach on her side of the bed. This, of course, caused my father to leap out of bed, but my slower moving mother caught the brunt. Once my father flipped on the light, it became apparent that I had vomited blood and that my throat was bleeding from the operation.

My mother’s “Ohmigod!” woke up my sister Judy, asleep in the crib, who began crying. Both of them were running around between the bedroom, the bathroom and my bedroom, looking for towels, another nightgown, a glass of water - anything to remedy the situation. Judy is now screaming, my mother is yelling directions at my father about taking me to the emergency room, she and I are both wearing blood soaked nightgowns that make us look like victims of a massacre, my father is trying to dress as fast as he can, and I am about to faint between my parents’ bed and Judy’s crib.

Despite all the mayhem, Mom managed to clean me up, bundle me back up in the blankets, and tearfully send me off to the hospital with my dad. In the ten minutes it took to reach St. Anne’s, I rode with my head against the side window and white as a ghost. My father did his best to keep up the conversation while driving like a madman.

“How ya doin’ there, Skeezix?” He wanted to make sure I was conscious and I responded with feeble answers.

I can still see the black wrought iron fence surrounding the hospital flying past us as we headed for the emergency room. Dad carried me in and the nurses quickly put me on a gurney and wheeled me into the e.r. Fear suddenly gave me a tremendous amount of energy as I tried to sit up, watching my father disappear behind the doors of the waiting room.

“DADDY!” I shouted, only to be firmly pushed back down on the gurney. “I want my dad!” I told the nurse.

“We have to take care of you first - you’ll see him in a little while,” she said, but I was having none of it. I stayed down, trying to look around to see what they were planning to do to me. Apparently, my father was giving information to the doctor on call, who, when he came into the area where they kept me, looked like he had just been awakened from a sound sleep. He did a quick check of my throat then talked to another doctor. He ran one hand through his thick, dark hair and scratched his butt with the other. He looked too sleepy and out of place to be taking care of me - he didn’t look like kindly, older Dr. George. I kept looking to see if I could catch a glimpse of my dad.

Before I knew it, I was surrounded by nurses and this sleepy doctor. They spoke to one another, not to me, and the doctor had something behind his back.

“I want my dad!” I told them, but they ignored me as the doctor explained the procedure to those all around. He then brought out a huge hypodermic needle, filled with some brownish fluid, that caused me to scream for my father.

“Now, now, just lay back, this won’t hurt,” one of the nurses said. Seeing the needle in the doctor’s hands as he began to get closer to me, I knew she was lying.

“NO! STOP! WHERE’S MY DAD??!!! DADDY!!!”

The doctor held the needle above my head as I lay on the gurney. He was inching it close to my nose, trying to hold my head still. I could not understand what he was doing - only that he wanted to give me a giant shot in the face. I covered my face with my hands and rolled over on my stomach, screaming and crying for my father. They kept talking to one another over me and then I heard someone count, “1-2-3...”

Before I could fight it, I was flipped over on my back and strapped down to the gurney; I probably weighed all of 50 pounds. A nurse was holding my head straight and tipping up my chin. The doctor approached when they got me still and proceeded to empty the contents of the syringe into my nose and it then dripped down into my throat. It was painless in that I did not get pinched by the needle, but the fluid made me feel as if I was drowning. Crying only made it worse and I figured that the quieter I stayed, the sooner it would be over. When it was, they took me up to the children’s ward where I eventually fell back asleep, scared but too exhausted to cry. My father had to leave without seeing me.

I awoke in the morning to see my mother coming into the room with a new coloring book and crayons. The emergency room nightmare was far from my thoughts as I cracked open a fresh pack of Crayolas and started in on the book filled with pictures of Santa and his elves.

My hospital stay was only three days; but I couldn’t wait to go home. The worst part was the food. The main staple seemed to be jello - not one of my favorites - and my request for coffee and toast at breakfast was literally laughed at:

“Children don’t drink coffee, and besides, toast is too rough for your throat. Do you want it to bleed again?” said the nurse.

“I drink coffee every morning,” I told her, “with milk and sugar and I can dunk the toast so it won’t be so rough.”

She smiled sweetly, “Here’s your jello.”

Eventually, Sue suffered the same setback from her tonsillectomy, but only had to stay for a day and we both went back home together. Over the years since, my mother constantly swore that the colds, sore throats or bouts of flu went down dramatically after getting our tonsils out.

But to this day, I still hate jello.

One of the big kids

14. Third grade brought with it a new experience at St. Pete’s - I had my first lay teacher. Mrs. Higgins must have been in her fifties - she was definitely a lot older than my mother but seemed younger than my grandmother, at least younger than Nonna Ma. She began the year by admonishing us to use our cursive writing, not printing anymore. Printing was for the little kids and we were now in THIRD GRADE. We all must have had a brain drain over the summer - how could we forget the hours spent practicing cursive with Sister Ann Josephine? Apparently, it took us a while to get back on track, only to begin another challenge: multiplication tables. For most of us, flash cards became the key to learning our “times” and before too long, the simple rote methods got us through.

My third grade classroom was back in the lower level, right next to my first grade classroom and next to the infamous lunch area. I sat next to one of the curtain “walls” - thick folding curtains which, when pushed back, opened most of the lower level into one huge area for parish activities. One day as I was taking my books out of my school bag to start the day, I notices a ripped tuition envelope on the floor between my desk and the curtain. I knew money was put in the envelope and students brought them in, turning them over to their teachers. Tuition for the entire year was something like $36 and parents would often send four dollars in cash each month. I picked up the envelope, noticed nothing was inside and decided to give it to Mrs. Higgins.

“I found this on the floor Mrs. Higgins,” I said casually, figuring she would just toss it in the waste basket. She looked at it very curiously and asked, “Where did you say you found this?”

“On the floor, next to my desk,” I said. She smoothed the envelope out, realigning the ripped portion, to get a better look at the writing on it. Student names were written at the top.

“You may take your seat,” she told me without looking up. I watched her open a spiral book from her desk and check a listing of students, no doubt trying to determine if the student whose name was on the envelope had a current tuition balance.

Before the end of the day, the principal and a couple of other adults had been in and out of your classroom, quietly talking to Mrs. Higgins, usually out in the hallway. Our regular routine had been changed to working in spelling or reading workbooks, without the benefit of much direction. Finally, in the afternoon, Mrs. Higgins announced to the class that we were to speak with the principal one at a time in the hallway. None of us could understand what was going on.

Sister Superior was sitting on one of the benches near the lunch table. She had been in and out of our classroom so much that morning that we soon dispensed with the standing up and “Good Morning Sister Superior,” greeting by her third entrance. She sat down, hands up into the sleeves of the opposite arm, and asked us each our names and told us to sit on the bench beside her.

“We are talking to each one of you in Mrs. Higgins’ room,” she explained. “And asking about the tuition envelope. Do you know anything about what happened to what was inside of it?”

“No Sister,” I quickly answered. “The only thing I know is that I found it when I got to my desk this morning.”

“And nothing was in it?”

“No Sister, it was ripped and empty.” It was probably the most information she had gotten out of anyone since the interrogations began.

“OK, you may return to your desk,” she dismissed me and then followed me back in, where she made a quick comment to Mrs. Higgins.

One by one, kids went out into the hallway while we plugged away in our workbooks. The silence was suffocating - we all wanted to at least stand up and stretch, but no one dared do anything except the assignment. Whether we all realized it or not, someone was in very big trouble. Stolen tuition money was a capital offense - almost like stealing money from the poorbox in church. All evidence seemed to point to the kid who was supposed to turn in the tuition envelope, but what if he or she had dropped it and someone else picked it up, took the money and tossed the envelope? We were only seven and eight-year olds and very incapable of plotting out any kind of scheme, especially one that would work.

We went home that day without any announcements from the teacher or Sister Superior, without a note to parents, and without finding out the whole story. Whatever the outcome, St. Pete’s chose to keep the incident quiet.

Third grade definitely made me feel like one of the big kids, even though I still didn’t get to stay for lunch. This was also the first year of school for my sister Susie - at least there was someone lower on the totem pole than I.

By this time, my godfather's family was growing rapidly and my mother turned to her cousin, Anita, who lived at the end of Concord to take me in for lunch. This worked out well because I left for lunch with Anita’s daughter Kathy who was a couple years older. Kathy’s older sister, also named Anita, was a few years older than Kathy, but way too cool to have anything to do with me, Kathy or Sue. Anita was probably in seventh or eighth grade, wore bobby socks, straight skirts and a thin babushka type scarf on her head that she tied on her chin - not under her chin, on it, just under the lips, like all the big girls at school. The rest of us younger ones still struggled to get all our outerwear clothes on - or off - in time for the bell, to get to lunch, or to get back to school on time. Anita just seemed to float in and out of her family’s apartment.

Sue and I had probably come to know Concord Street as well as our own Courtland Street. My grandmother, aunt and uncle, godfather and my mother’s cousin all lived on the same block and we were there for holidays, trick or treating, birthdays or just weekend afternoons playing with my cousin Donna.

My mother had her eye on a bungalow a few houses west of Anita’s two-flat that appeared to be abandoned. She even buried a statue of St. Joseph in the front lawn in her efforts to buy it. It was the scary house on the street and the bigger kids on the block would tell stories about it just to frighten the little ones. Once when we were all hanging around in the overgrown grass of the front yard, a kid lifted another on his shoulders so that he could look in the windows of the front living room. The looker was a guy named was Jim and he was kind of a leader of the kids on the block, living directly across from my grandparents. He had blondish-orangey hair, was skinny but tall and I had more than once seen him smoking a cigarette.

Jim shaded his eyes and pressed his face against the dirty glass of the big picture window.

“What’s in there? What do you see? Can you see anybody?”

“I’m trying to make it out...it’s real dark in there...there’s a couch and stuff on the floor...”

He shifted his hands like a submarine captain with a periscope, surveying the interior of the living room.

“I think there’s a broken mirror on the wall, or maybe it’s a picture...newspapers and boxes...an empty bottle on the floor...”

“Does it look like anybody still lives in there?” someone asked. We all stood around, listening to the report, curious and hungry for answers.

“Nah, I don’t think there’s anybody....ah...ah....AAAHHHH!!!!”

Jim jumped off the shoulders of the bigger boy and we all quickly scattered toward the street, running fast and frightened.

“What did you see? What was it?” we screamed after him. In the supposed safety of a few houses’ distance from the spook house, he stood under a streetlight as we gathered around him for the details. He was breathing hard.

“It’s all messed up in there,” he began. “Like someone was looking for something and threw stuff around.”

“So? That’s not scary,” another boy said.

“No,” Jim said, then taking a breath, he started his retort in almost a whisper, getting louder with each word, “but they dead guy in the chair with blood on his face sure is!!!”

My sister Sue, Donna and I all screamed, along with every other kid under ten who hung on Jim’s every word. We didn't know which way to turn.

“Let’s go home,” I said, grabbing my sister and cousin. We began racing the rest of the way down the block to my grandparents’ building. Jim’s words were ringing in our ears and causing horrible pictures to form in our heads. As our feet hit the sidewalk with each stride, we could see our homebase getting closer and closer...almost there, almost there...finally, we turned onto the front walkway and Sue and Donna clambered in through the front door.

Before going in, I looked back at the group of older kids moving as a group out from under the glow of the streetlight, and I heard the sound of loud laughing boys.

Greenie - the big fat bike

13.
The summer after second grade I had definitely outgrown the 16-inch bike that thankfully no longer had training wheels, but didn't have any brakes, either. Off and on, I whined about needing a bigger bike, but with all the other outdoor activities we found to keep us busy, I usually forgot about it -that is, until one day a neighbor approached my father with an offer I couldn’t let him refuse.

The man was walking a newly-painted green and white 26-inch woman’s bike with big fat tires, a big, wide seat with bell springs under it, big fenders and a light on the front that actually worked. It was a used bike, and a lot of effort had gone into fixing it up and making it look pretty good, but more for someone twice my size. Our neighbor offered it to my father for $10.

“It’s way too big for her. She’s only seven,” my dad countered.

“She’ll grow into it - and it’s a sturdy bike. The other kids will be able to use it too,” the neighbor persisted, looking past me to Sue playing in the yard.

I was already straddling the bike, my feet planted on the sidewalk. The new paint job was done with care and the two colors made it look like the most beautiful bike in the world to me. I prepared to ride it but there was no way would I be able to reach the pedals while sitting on the seat. And "sturdy" didn't begin to describe the bike. It was monstrous, tremendously heavy and difficult to steer. But I was determined it would be mine.

“I can ride it, Daddy. Watch me.” I gripped the white rubber handlebars and headed off down the sidewalk, barely able to keep my balance while having to keep all my weight on the pedals; it was like I was on a moving elliptical machine. I struggled to keep it in the center of the sidewalk, steering carefully to avoid the dreaded dirt gutter between the grass and the sidewalk on some of the lawns. With each rotation of the pedals, I could feel the point of the seat jabbing me in the middle of my back. It was hard work keeping my balance and I never built up much speed, but I made it to the corner, turned the bike around and started to head back toward my father.

Getting the hang of it a little better enabled me to gain momentum which helped me gain some confidence, but that quickly disappeared once I realized that stopping at a faster speed created another problem altogether. Using footbrakes was still new to me and as I attempted to reverse the pedals, I slipped off of one and fell onto the sloping frame that supported the front of the bike. The pain between my legs was nearly unbearable, but I couldn’t let my father see that this one short trip already resulted in an injury. Still, I managed to stop the bike and kept it from tipping over all together.

I smiled up at him with a shaky, “See? I can ride it real good!”

Daddy bought me that bike and it seemed to last forever - after all, I couldn't ride it to school or in the street - just up and down the block on the sidewalk. But after a while, I got big enough so that I could actually pedal around on it while sitting on the seat. And when it got a flat tire, Dad taught me how to find the leak by placing the inner tube in a tub of water and looking for the bubbles. Together, we patched the hole with glue and a red patch from a repair kit we got at a bicycle store. Greenie was good for another summer.

Years later, when the fat tires, chipping paint and broken light made it finally become too uncool and dilapidated of a bike for any of us to ride around on, we took it apart to use piece by piece for go-carts or replacing something broken on another bike.

There are probably still parts of it somewhere in my mother’s garage.

Those Lunchtime Walkers

12.
Getting me to school during my first two years was a challenge for my mother since, like most Catholic schools, there was no bus service, and my two younger sisters were still at home. My dad’s work in construction had him leaving the house much earlier than I needed to leave and as a result, my grandfather took me pretty often. Coming home, I walked with Joyce, girl in my class and her older sister Janice. They lived down Cortland street and their dad was the area’s milkman. “Walk home with Janice,” was usually the last thing my mother told me as I left in the morning.

Lunchtime was another issue. Lots of Catholic school kids went home for lunch and since my grandparents and Aunt Mary lived two blocks from the school, it would have been a natural place for me to have lunch. The problem was that both my Aunt Mary and grandmother worked during the day - Mary did waitressing and other jobs and of course, Nonni was at the radio station. However, in the basement apartment of my grandparents’ building, my godfather, one Robert (known as “Red”) and his wife Rose lived with their growing family. “Uncle Red” was a school friend of my dad’s, who took his role of godfather very seriously. As a result, Aunt Rose had me for lunch everyday during first grade. She often made me French toast with powdered sugar and syrup.

Leaving each day for lunch, I watched many of the kids grab their bag lunches and head for the tables set up in the center of the basement level of the school. I wanted to desperately to stay for lunch like the other kids, but my mother was not big on any of her kids staying at school at lunch time. I don’t know if it was because I was small and not much of an eater or if she simply wanted me to have the contact with a family member in the middle of the day.

Finally, I convinced her to let me try it once. On that momentous day, I could hardly keep still during the morning, waiting for lunchtime. Of course, Mom made me an enormous lunch and I excitedly took my place with the rest of my classmates at the big table in the lunchroom. I was now one of the lunchtime kids - no longer a lunchtime walker.

I watched as the older kids sat down and took their lunches out of their paper sacks or lunch boxes. I also had a lunch box - I think it was a gift because my mother knew I certainly didn’t need one. It was all pink, with a pink thermos bottle inside. Mom had put hot chocolate in the thermos and made me a healthy-sized ham sandwich, cookies and some fruit. It was much more than I would usually eat at home or at aunt Rose's.

I was so thrilled to be eating at school, especially with all the big kids from the upper grades that I really didn’t have much of an appetite. Still, I knew I would have to bring home anything I didn’t eat and if I didn’t do a good job on my lunch, I wouldn’t be able to stay again. The nuns also did their little sermon to all the kids at the lunch table about the sin of wasting food and to think of all the poor children in China who never had enough to eat. I continued to eat, forcing myself to finish the sandwich I never felt like even tasting.

The result was inevitable. I tried so hard to keep it down, but before the end of the lunch period, I threw up all over myself and the table, much to the disgust of the bigger kids around me. Lunchtable panic ensued.

“Oh no!”

“Yuck!”

“Move over!”

“Oh that stinks!”

Kids were falling over themselves in an effort to get as far away from me as possible. In tears, I turned to look for the nun on duty who did her best to restore order. She extricated me from the bench at the table and turned me over to an older girl, instructing her to get me cleaned up in the girls’ bathroom.

I followed her upstairs and she took me over to the sink. I was just seven and she could not have been much more than ten. But she ran the warm water, dipped in a few brown paper towels and gently wiped off my face and uniform. I was still crying but her gentleness calmed me down, telling me it was ok, asking if I felt better. Of course, my stomach was completely settled now, having lost the entire lunch, but my crying persisted, knowing that once my mother found out what happened, I’d never be able to eat lunch at school again.

Which is exactly what happened.