8.
Despite my minor transgressions during the early years of grammar school, my mother had already become a favorite of all the nuns in St. Pete’s convent even before I started first grade. But the way she found herself in their good graces was not a path she would every want to take again.
Earlier that year, my little sister Judy developed pneumonia at only three months old. Sue and I did our best to keep out of the way - we knew something terrible was happening, just by looking at the worried looks on our parents faces. Judy's crib was brought into the dining room and the doctor came to the house, spending a long time examining her and talking to my mother. He determined she had to go to the hospital as her fever continued to climb and, being the smallest baby my mother delivered, she didn't have a whole lot to fight with. It was during this time that my mother looked to her faith and her family for comfort and support.
Judy’s condition grew worse; her breathing became difficult and she needed to be in an oxygen tent. My mother spent as much time as she could at the hospital in Oak Park and it was not easy to make the trip everyday, with Susie and me still at home. Oak Park was a bit south and west of our home. If my father was working, my mother had to depend on cabs to get back and forth. The trip didn’t take more than twenty minutes, but considering that she had to arrange for our care, call the taxi in advance and only guess at when she would be home, the whole effort was unwieldy and time consuming. Both my grandmothers helped out as much as they could, but Nonna Amabile worked each day and Nonna Ma had to be picked up by my dad or driven by my grandfather. It just wasn’t possible for my mother to get to the hospital inside of twenty minutes if she had to. As a result, she stayed as long as she could once she got there.
The experience at the hospital became particularly difficult one day, as, upon her arrival, Mom encountered student nurses surrounding Judy’s crib. As she got closer, she discovered they were using my baby sister’s tiny bottom as target practice in their efforts to learn how to give injections. It slowly dawned upon her what they were doing to her seriously sick baby. Their giggling and ineptitude, in addition to all the stress of the situation, was finally more than my mother could handle.
“Just what do you think you are doing???” she demanded. Judy’s weak, kitten-like cries were ignored as the young nurses had attempted and failed at the injections. My mother literally grabbed the primary offender by the neck and pushed her against the wall. The other stood by motionless.
“Touch her again and I’ll kill you,” was all that my mother could gasp out of her throat as she glared into the eyes of the young student. It was a threat that both nurses firmly believed would be their fate as they quickly dropped the hypodermics and fled the hospital room. My mother then made it clear to the head nurse that under no circumstances were the two offenders to step foot in Judy’s room. Returning to her baby daughter, she tried to soothe her and comfort her until it was time for her to leave. She did manage, after the difficult experience and nearly a week of very little sleep, to get to church where she could light a candle and pray for Judy’s recovery.
Hers was a prayer of desperation and the pain that only a young mother with a seriously ill child could know. No doubt, in addition to innumerable supplications and prayer, she offered her own life in return for her baby’s health.
It was a late Saturday afternoon. Some of the nuns from the parish convent walked into church, bringing in laundered altar cloths for Sunday Mass. As they neared the communion rail, they found my mother unconscious on the floor in front of the Blessed Mother’s statue. She was very pale and weak but they managed to get her over to the convent where they let her rest while they contacted my father. Fortunately, he was only two blocks away from the apartment building where his mother and sister lived.
When he came to pick up my mother, he had good news. Approximately an hour before, Judy had made considerable improvement and the doctors guardedly told my father that they thought she would be fine. My mother felt this turn for the better happened at the precise moment she was praying to the Blessed Mother. At that point, she made a vow that she would do something for the sisters in the convent every year for ten years on Judy’s birthday - it was a vow she never failed to keep.
From 1956 to 1966, my mother prepared a complete Italian dinner for all the sisters on December 13. She prepared everything from the antipasto, meatballs and pasta to the wine, dessert and coffee. As we got older, we were able to help her with this meal for anywhere from 16 to 30 nuns, and even as she was busy with all the preparations and transporting of the feast, she didn’t forget to get a cake for me and Judy as we celebrated our birthday with the rest of the family later in the evening.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
You Can't Run from the Nun
7.
There were about 50 of us in one classroom with one nun to teach us all. Beneath her full habit was a rather plain, thin, young face with wire rimmed glasses. I knew she was a “she” but the habit took away any real indication of her gender, save the flowing black skirt. No hint of hair edged out from the severe white starched linen surrounding her face. The black wool sleeves came down to her wrists and she often hid her hands in the baggy oversleeve of each opposite ar m. She seemed very tall to me, and as one of the smallest children, I feared her but respected her; there really was no alternative - or escape.
For as young as she must have been, she knew how to strike fear in the rowdiest of boys or the sassiest of girls - though girls rarely caused any trouble. Her nun training was very effective - without any teacher aides she kept us all in line, and while her techniques may have caused tears among some of my classmates during the first few weeks, she knew how to take control and keep it.
Our room was small and separated from the next classroom by a thick folding curtain that moved along a track in the ceiling. The desks were miniature tables and chairs of blonde wood with a shelf beneath the surface for books and supplies. They touched one another on the sides, setting up the room in wide horizontal rows.
It was in this room where Sr. Joseph Ann patiently taught us all to read, write, learn basic arithmetic and begin our first instruction in catechism. One of the methods of learning to read was with a letter kit. With a box of single letters printed on heavy yellow paper, we placed them in a large card with sleeves across it for inserting the letters. We created words, then phrases, then sentences, all of which complemented the efforts in our readers and the stories of David and Ann. Over the months we progressed from “Oh, look! See Ann go.” to “Mother and Father teach the children to pray.” No early reading lesson was complete without someone knocking over a box of letters on the floor, much to Sister’s chagrin and immediate direction to “pick up each and every one of them!”
We had to line up for everything in grammar school - coming in, going out, going to lunch, going to the bathroom, going over to church - during first grade I got to know the back of Marie’s head pretty well. Many times when we were in church, however, it wasn’t just lining up and walking in, we were "pro-cessing" (as in walking in a procession) for special holy days. It was during one of these processions that I encountered a different side of Sr. Joseph Ann. As we were coming out of church into the vestibule, I dipped my hand in the holy water font, only to have Sister slap it away. “You don’t take holy water during a procession!” she scolded me. I was more shocked than hurt and managed to hold back the tears, if only because of my own pride. When I told my mother what happened, she was not happy to hear that someone, even a nun, had laid a hand on her child. I don’t know if there was any retaliation on her part, but where her kids were concerned, my mother’s protectiveness was like that of a lioness.
The church experience in those days was one filled with awe and not a little fear. We memorized basic questions and answers from the Baltimore Catechism and were taught the Ten Commandments, but to a six year old, “coveting your neighbor’s wife” didn’t hold a lot of meaning. We pretty much knew that disobeying your parents and teachers, fighting with your sister, telling lies or stealing could get you in pretty hot water with God, let alone your mother, and if you had any doubt that God called all the shots, you just had to spend a little time in church during 40 Hours Devotion or Lenten Benediction. The statues, stained glass windows, the organ you could hear but not see, the Latin prayers and hymns, incense, the big crucifix, vigil candles, all contributed to an air of solemnity and ritual that left most of us fearing for our souls if we dared let our butts touch the pew while kneeling. Talking to your neighbor was unthinkable. Of course, by the time third grade rolled around, Mass was the best opportunity to sit next to your best friends and trade holy cards.
“I already have a St. Catherine,” I would say in a whisper to my friend Helen, showing her the card placed perfectly as a marker on her feast day in my St. Joseph’s Daily Missal.
“That’s St. Catherine Laboure, this is St. Catherine of Siena," she said. "Want to trade her for a St. Patrick?”
“Oh, everyone has lots of St. Patricks. My mother gets them at wakes - you know, when your parents go to see sick people?” I had never been to a wake and when my parents dropped us off at my grandmother’s on their way to one, this was how they softened the story.
“What do you mean sick people? People at wakes are dead.” Helen was Irish, had older siblings and knew a lot more about such things than I did.
“Dead?" I was incredulous. "All of them?”
“What do you mean all of them? One person is dead and everyone goes to see them for the last time in a casket.”
“You look at a dead person?” Not only had I never thought my parents had seen a dead person, the very idea scared me silly. Helen, however, thought me the complete idiot.
“Jeesh! Yeah, they’re dead.”
“Girls! Stop talking!” Our teacher had gotten wind of the whispering and brought us immediately back to perfect form for Mass: head slightly bowed, clasped hands on the back of the pew in front of you, butts no where near the seat behind you. Unfortunately for me and Helen, it was too late. As we left church to go back to our rooms, our teacher pulled us out of line and told us that for talking during Mass we had to write the Hail Mary three times.
My parents were not pleased.
There were about 50 of us in one classroom with one nun to teach us all. Beneath her full habit was a rather plain, thin, young face with wire rimmed glasses. I knew she was a “she” but the habit took away any real indication of her gender, save the flowing black skirt. No hint of hair edged out from the severe white starched linen surrounding her face. The black wool sleeves came down to her wrists and she often hid her hands in the baggy oversleeve of each opposite ar m. She seemed very tall to me, and as one of the smallest children, I feared her but respected her; there really was no alternative - or escape.
For as young as she must have been, she knew how to strike fear in the rowdiest of boys or the sassiest of girls - though girls rarely caused any trouble. Her nun training was very effective - without any teacher aides she kept us all in line, and while her techniques may have caused tears among some of my classmates during the first few weeks, she knew how to take control and keep it.
Our room was small and separated from the next classroom by a thick folding curtain that moved along a track in the ceiling. The desks were miniature tables and chairs of blonde wood with a shelf beneath the surface for books and supplies. They touched one another on the sides, setting up the room in wide horizontal rows.
It was in this room where Sr. Joseph Ann patiently taught us all to read, write, learn basic arithmetic and begin our first instruction in catechism. One of the methods of learning to read was with a letter kit. With a box of single letters printed on heavy yellow paper, we placed them in a large card with sleeves across it for inserting the letters. We created words, then phrases, then sentences, all of which complemented the efforts in our readers and the stories of David and Ann. Over the months we progressed from “Oh, look! See Ann go.” to “Mother and Father teach the children to pray.” No early reading lesson was complete without someone knocking over a box of letters on the floor, much to Sister’s chagrin and immediate direction to “pick up each and every one of them!”
We had to line up for everything in grammar school - coming in, going out, going to lunch, going to the bathroom, going over to church - during first grade I got to know the back of Marie’s head pretty well. Many times when we were in church, however, it wasn’t just lining up and walking in, we were "pro-cessing" (as in walking in a procession) for special holy days. It was during one of these processions that I encountered a different side of Sr. Joseph Ann. As we were coming out of church into the vestibule, I dipped my hand in the holy water font, only to have Sister slap it away. “You don’t take holy water during a procession!” she scolded me. I was more shocked than hurt and managed to hold back the tears, if only because of my own pride. When I told my mother what happened, she was not happy to hear that someone, even a nun, had laid a hand on her child. I don’t know if there was any retaliation on her part, but where her kids were concerned, my mother’s protectiveness was like that of a lioness.
The church experience in those days was one filled with awe and not a little fear. We memorized basic questions and answers from the Baltimore Catechism and were taught the Ten Commandments, but to a six year old, “coveting your neighbor’s wife” didn’t hold a lot of meaning. We pretty much knew that disobeying your parents and teachers, fighting with your sister, telling lies or stealing could get you in pretty hot water with God, let alone your mother, and if you had any doubt that God called all the shots, you just had to spend a little time in church during 40 Hours Devotion or Lenten Benediction. The statues, stained glass windows, the organ you could hear but not see, the Latin prayers and hymns, incense, the big crucifix, vigil candles, all contributed to an air of solemnity and ritual that left most of us fearing for our souls if we dared let our butts touch the pew while kneeling. Talking to your neighbor was unthinkable. Of course, by the time third grade rolled around, Mass was the best opportunity to sit next to your best friends and trade holy cards.
“I already have a St. Catherine,” I would say in a whisper to my friend Helen, showing her the card placed perfectly as a marker on her feast day in my St. Joseph’s Daily Missal.
“That’s St. Catherine Laboure, this is St. Catherine of Siena," she said. "Want to trade her for a St. Patrick?”
“Oh, everyone has lots of St. Patricks. My mother gets them at wakes - you know, when your parents go to see sick people?” I had never been to a wake and when my parents dropped us off at my grandmother’s on their way to one, this was how they softened the story.
“What do you mean sick people? People at wakes are dead.” Helen was Irish, had older siblings and knew a lot more about such things than I did.
“Dead?" I was incredulous. "All of them?”
“What do you mean all of them? One person is dead and everyone goes to see them for the last time in a casket.”
“You look at a dead person?” Not only had I never thought my parents had seen a dead person, the very idea scared me silly. Helen, however, thought me the complete idiot.
“Jeesh! Yeah, they’re dead.”
“Girls! Stop talking!” Our teacher had gotten wind of the whispering and brought us immediately back to perfect form for Mass: head slightly bowed, clasped hands on the back of the pew in front of you, butts no where near the seat behind you. Unfortunately for me and Helen, it was too late. As we left church to go back to our rooms, our teacher pulled us out of line and told us that for talking during Mass we had to write the Hail Mary three times.
My parents were not pleased.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Give that Kid a Cigar...Box
6.
In September of 1956, I started first grade at St. Peter Canasius School. St. Pete’s was a large, active parish with lots of Irish and a good smattering of Italian families. It was founded in 1925 with the gradual construction of a church, rectory, convent and school, all situated within two blocks along the 5000 block of North Avenue. In the early years of the parish, the area consisted of clusters of houses separated by spans of prairie. The northwest corner of the city had bec ome a desirable area for raising families and as the years passed, the prairies gave way to city blocks of two flats and bungalows. The urban spread continued and by the 1950s, over 1200 students were enrolled in the school.
My anticipation of starting school was heightened by the knowledge that I would be attending with lots of kids from Cortland Street as well as many others from along the half mile of blocks we walked to get to school. The day I started first grade, everyone in my family prepared for it as a big event. I had my uniform - a white blouse under a navy blue jumper. A blue ribbon bow tie was pinned at the collar and a patch with the letters “SPC” was stitched near the shoulder of the jumper. New school shoes - saddle shoes, a style which I came to hate by fourth grade - all stiff and free of any scuffs or marks, white socks and barrettes in my hair completed the outfit.
Dad was waiting in the car as my mother and I scrambled down the stairs with my two sisters. We settled in and he was about to pull away when I realized I was missing something.
“Who has my cigar box?” I asked. My required cigar box with two safety pins, a ribbon and two very fat pencils without erasers had been left behind on the dining room table.
“I need my cigar box and we’re going to be late for school!” I was near tears; my father had to race up the stairs, unlock the door, retrieve it and return. While he was gone my mother discussed with me the importance of being responsible for my school supplies, now that I was in first grade.
“You make sure your uniform is hanging up each night and your schoolwork is in your schoolbag, Nancy. Your are in first grade now and you have to be responsible for your things. I have to worry about your little sisters - I can’t be looking for your things, too.”
This was big time school and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. I was only five years old and had not been to kindergarten, the reason being that my December birthday was beyond the November 1 deadline of the public schools. When the teacher at the public school told my mother to come back the following fall, my mother responded with, “Why should I? St. Pete’s will take her in first grade next year.”
Instead of kindergarten, my mother did a bit of home schooling on my alphabet and numbers, but it was frustrating for both of us. I can still remember working on a page of letters on which she had me copy each line of A’s or B’s. I thought I did such a great job but she gave it back to me with what she called a “goose egg” at the top because my printing was still so undeveloped. I cried at her criticism and tried to do a better job, but she was not a teacher and I would have rather played with my sisters or watched tv. By the time September of 1956 rolled around, I was more than ready to be in a real classroom.
We arrived at St. Pete’s, turning off North Avenue onto LeClaire, the street that separated the school from the convent, and my whole family went with in me, walking right to the first classroom off the stairs in the basement. Sister Joseph Ann greeted the parents in the hall and made us say our goodbyes before I walked in alone to find my seat. I found it in short order, put my cigar box in my desk and made friends with a dark haired girl named Marie who sat next to me. Mom stood in the doorway, Judy in her arms and tears in her eyes. Sue was very curious about the classroom with so many kids. I smiled and waved goodbye - I wasn’t about to cry like some of the other kids who wouldn’t leave their mothers, and as soon as she was gone, the very thought of crying left me, too.
In September of 1956, I started first grade at St. Peter Canasius School. St. Pete’s was a large, active parish with lots of Irish and a good smattering of Italian families. It was founded in 1925 with the gradual construction of a church, rectory, convent and school, all situated within two blocks along the 5000 block of North Avenue. In the early years of the parish, the area consisted of clusters of houses separated by spans of prairie. The northwest corner of the city had bec ome a desirable area for raising families and as the years passed, the prairies gave way to city blocks of two flats and bungalows. The urban spread continued and by the 1950s, over 1200 students were enrolled in the school.
My anticipation of starting school was heightened by the knowledge that I would be attending with lots of kids from Cortland Street as well as many others from along the half mile of blocks we walked to get to school. The day I started first grade, everyone in my family prepared for it as a big event. I had my uniform - a white blouse under a navy blue jumper. A blue ribbon bow tie was pinned at the collar and a patch with the letters “SPC” was stitched near the shoulder of the jumper. New school shoes - saddle shoes, a style which I came to hate by fourth grade - all stiff and free of any scuffs or marks, white socks and barrettes in my hair completed the outfit.
Dad was waiting in the car as my mother and I scrambled down the stairs with my two sisters. We settled in and he was about to pull away when I realized I was missing something.
“Who has my cigar box?” I asked. My required cigar box with two safety pins, a ribbon and two very fat pencils without erasers had been left behind on the dining room table.
“I need my cigar box and we’re going to be late for school!” I was near tears; my father had to race up the stairs, unlock the door, retrieve it and return. While he was gone my mother discussed with me the importance of being responsible for my school supplies, now that I was in first grade.
“You make sure your uniform is hanging up each night and your schoolwork is in your schoolbag, Nancy. Your are in first grade now and you have to be responsible for your things. I have to worry about your little sisters - I can’t be looking for your things, too.”
This was big time school and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. I was only five years old and had not been to kindergarten, the reason being that my December birthday was beyond the November 1 deadline of the public schools. When the teacher at the public school told my mother to come back the following fall, my mother responded with, “Why should I? St. Pete’s will take her in first grade next year.”
Instead of kindergarten, my mother did a bit of home schooling on my alphabet and numbers, but it was frustrating for both of us. I can still remember working on a page of letters on which she had me copy each line of A’s or B’s. I thought I did such a great job but she gave it back to me with what she called a “goose egg” at the top because my printing was still so undeveloped. I cried at her criticism and tried to do a better job, but she was not a teacher and I would have rather played with my sisters or watched tv. By the time September of 1956 rolled around, I was more than ready to be in a real classroom.
We arrived at St. Pete’s, turning off North Avenue onto LeClaire, the street that separated the school from the convent, and my whole family went with in me, walking right to the first classroom off the stairs in the basement. Sister Joseph Ann greeted the parents in the hall and made us say our goodbyes before I walked in alone to find my seat. I found it in short order, put my cigar box in my desk and made friends with a dark haired girl named Marie who sat next to me. Mom stood in the doorway, Judy in her arms and tears in her eyes. Sue was very curious about the classroom with so many kids. I smiled and waved goodbye - I wasn’t about to cry like some of the other kids who wouldn’t leave their mothers, and as soon as she was gone, the very thought of crying left me, too.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Garden in the Yard
5.
The small size of our Courtland Street apartment and our growing family gave my parents a good reason to start looking for a larger house. They had originally bought the two flat in early 1955 when I was four and Sue was two. By December of that year, on my fifth birthday, Judy was born. My mother joked for years about filling nut cups with M & M’s and peanuts for my birthday party in between labor pains.
The room Sue and I shared was quite small, but since we had bunk beds - beautiful maple four-poster beds that could be used stacked or side by side - it gave us a bit more room, especially once Judy entered the picture. The previous owners of the building had wallpapered our room with a circus mural that wrapped around the walls. What wasn’t part of the circus picture was white with red polka dots. To match it, my mother had bedspreads and pricilla-type curtains made for the single window of red dot material.
When our room was tidy, it looked quite nice. The annual flood of Christmas toys and birthday presents created a bit of a storage problem since, during the winter especially, we preferred to play in our room instead of the unheated sleeping porch off my parents’ room. Sometimes we did play out there, wearing jackets while we dressed our dolls, served our pretend meals with our dishes, miniature table and chairs. The room was cluttered with an assortment of stuffed animals, games, coloring books, and dressup clothes we had pilfered from my mother’s drawers and closet.
My parents’ room was painted a rather dark green. Judy’s crib alongside one wall, their bed, two dressers and two nightstands filled the room to capacity, but more often than not, one of us would wake up in the room most mornings. A belly ache for me or a bad dream for Sue would bring us climbing into our parents’ bed in the middle of the night - a tight squeeze that sometimes sent my father back into our bedroom, if only for some uninterrupted sleep.
Still, we made good use of the space we had - the side yard made it feel like the most spacious building on the block. We were always playing there or in the back yard and during at least one summer my maternal grandmother came over to plant tomatoes, zucchini and basil. No matter her age, Nonna Modesta - or Nonna Ma - always seemed a large, older woman, her gray hair constantly tied in a bun. I can see my mother hanging clothes on the lines while Nonni puttered through the vegetables, weeding here, watering there. Whisps of hair came free from her hairpins as she bent down and up, and her rough hands becoming dirty from the soil. She always wore a dress with an apron pinned to the bodice and tied around her waist. She and my mother would talk now and then, always in Italian, each woman intent upon her chore.
I would amble between the swings, playing in the dirt where our feet had worn away any semblance of grass. The dirtier I got, the more my mother wanted me to stay clear of the laundry, even though I loved to run through the sheets, smelling the soap and bleach and trying to catch the edges as they blew above my head.
Nonni called me away, knowing my mother wanted no part of dirty handprints on her laundry.
“You like tomatoes?”
She showed me the vines, heavy with green tomatoes just about ready to begin turning. I looked with some interest as she pointed out the little yellow flowers that would soon give birth to the final crop of the season. I squatted down next to her, watching her hands trim the plants, dig away at the weeds and pat down the soil. I started digging with a stick, working on some planting of my own.
“You like this guy, too?”
I turned to see her outstretched hand with a caterpillar the same shade as the tomatoes, and as thick as one of her fingers. I stood up and stepped back, immediately frightened or repulsed by the creature inching along her hand. She smiled at me.
“He likes the tomatoes and he puts holes in them. He looks like the tomatoes so the birds don’t eat him. But I don’t want him in the garden.”
She flicked her wrist toward the alley and the caterpillar flew off, now exposed for any hungry crow.
At my grandparents greystone house on Harrison Street further south in the city, they always managed to plant tomatoes, flowers and an overflowing grapevine in their tiny yard. Even after she reached 90, Nonni planted her tomatoes and put them up in Ball jars with basil. When age caught up with her, though there were no longer any tomatoes or grapes in the yard and only wild sage that grew year after year, she still thought the plants were there, and she would tell me to take something home “for when you’re cooking.”
The small size of our Courtland Street apartment and our growing family gave my parents a good reason to start looking for a larger house. They had originally bought the two flat in early 1955 when I was four and Sue was two. By December of that year, on my fifth birthday, Judy was born. My mother joked for years about filling nut cups with M & M’s and peanuts for my birthday party in between labor pains.
The room Sue and I shared was quite small, but since we had bunk beds - beautiful maple four-poster beds that could be used stacked or side by side - it gave us a bit more room, especially once Judy entered the picture. The previous owners of the building had wallpapered our room with a circus mural that wrapped around the walls. What wasn’t part of the circus picture was white with red polka dots. To match it, my mother had bedspreads and pricilla-type curtains made for the single window of red dot material.
When our room was tidy, it looked quite nice. The annual flood of Christmas toys and birthday presents created a bit of a storage problem since, during the winter especially, we preferred to play in our room instead of the unheated sleeping porch off my parents’ room. Sometimes we did play out there, wearing jackets while we dressed our dolls, served our pretend meals with our dishes, miniature table and chairs. The room was cluttered with an assortment of stuffed animals, games, coloring books, and dressup clothes we had pilfered from my mother’s drawers and closet.
My parents’ room was painted a rather dark green. Judy’s crib alongside one wall, their bed, two dressers and two nightstands filled the room to capacity, but more often than not, one of us would wake up in the room most mornings. A belly ache for me or a bad dream for Sue would bring us climbing into our parents’ bed in the middle of the night - a tight squeeze that sometimes sent my father back into our bedroom, if only for some uninterrupted sleep.
Still, we made good use of the space we had - the side yard made it feel like the most spacious building on the block. We were always playing there or in the back yard and during at least one summer my maternal grandmother came over to plant tomatoes, zucchini and basil. No matter her age, Nonna Modesta - or Nonna Ma - always seemed a large, older woman, her gray hair constantly tied in a bun. I can see my mother hanging clothes on the lines while Nonni puttered through the vegetables, weeding here, watering there. Whisps of hair came free from her hairpins as she bent down and up, and her rough hands becoming dirty from the soil. She always wore a dress with an apron pinned to the bodice and tied around her waist. She and my mother would talk now and then, always in Italian, each woman intent upon her chore.
I would amble between the swings, playing in the dirt where our feet had worn away any semblance of grass. The dirtier I got, the more my mother wanted me to stay clear of the laundry, even though I loved to run through the sheets, smelling the soap and bleach and trying to catch the edges as they blew above my head.
Nonni called me away, knowing my mother wanted no part of dirty handprints on her laundry.
“You like tomatoes?”
She showed me the vines, heavy with green tomatoes just about ready to begin turning. I looked with some interest as she pointed out the little yellow flowers that would soon give birth to the final crop of the season. I squatted down next to her, watching her hands trim the plants, dig away at the weeds and pat down the soil. I started digging with a stick, working on some planting of my own.
“You like this guy, too?”
I turned to see her outstretched hand with a caterpillar the same shade as the tomatoes, and as thick as one of her fingers. I stood up and stepped back, immediately frightened or repulsed by the creature inching along her hand. She smiled at me.
“He likes the tomatoes and he puts holes in them. He looks like the tomatoes so the birds don’t eat him. But I don’t want him in the garden.”
She flicked her wrist toward the alley and the caterpillar flew off, now exposed for any hungry crow.
At my grandparents greystone house on Harrison Street further south in the city, they always managed to plant tomatoes, flowers and an overflowing grapevine in their tiny yard. Even after she reached 90, Nonni planted her tomatoes and put them up in Ball jars with basil. When age caught up with her, though there were no longer any tomatoes or grapes in the yard and only wild sage that grew year after year, she still thought the plants were there, and she would tell me to take something home “for when you’re cooking.”
Monday, April 19, 2010
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 t
unes 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.
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 t
unes 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.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Mom and Dad
3.
Rena married Leno at 21 and had me, her first child, eleven months later. The children continued coming every two or three years until there were five. She was the youngest of three girls and grew up in the Taylor Street area of Chicago.
She was a devoted mother who never stopped worrying about her children. She was passionate about them, wanting them close by and always in line. Never one to hide her feelings, she always spoke her mind particularly with her husband and kids. Hers was not a quiet house with voices often raised in joy as well as anger. The battles she fought over the years - with her weight, her husband, her children, her religion, her in-laws - were sometimes painful but often healthy ones. Fires seldom smoldered within her for very long - loud eruptions either brought them to an end or at least put them out temporarily to be stoked up another time.
Rena kept a clean but disorderly house; she was always doing laundry, giving her kids baths or putting forth monumental efforts to sanitize one room while the others fell into chaos. She was an exceptional cook, able to feed twice as many as the table was set for at any given extraordinary meal.
“If I can cook it, bake it or wash it, I can do it,” she would say. “Just don’t ask me to sew it, draw it or paint it.”
She was as quick with a swat as a hug and worked hard to make sure her children were polite, respectful and unspoiled. She had her pet peeves about discipline and they were often enumerated in her discourses on “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a kid who...” The list expanded well over one thing, but included: “a kid who spits...who says ‘no’ to an adult...who lies (I just hate a liar!)...who is sneaky...who has a big mouth...who doesn’t wash…who listens in on adult conversations... who whines...who throws a tantrum...who gives Indian burns...” Spitters, liars and whiners were probably the greatest of kid criminals in my mother’s eyes, although tantrum throwers were kids we held in complete awe. Whenever we witnessed such behavior in a grocery store or at a party, we would look from the performer to my mother, mouths agape at his stupidity.
We would wonder, has this kid lost his mind? Doesn’t he know what fate awaits him at home when he pulls a stunt like this? Nothing is worth the punishment for throwing a tantrum!
Actually, none of us ever had the nerve to do such a thing because my mother’s threats, from a very early age, were enough to permanently dissuade us. After seeing her reaction to one tantrum, - the flashing eyes, the set jaw - and hearing “Give me just five minutes with that kid and we’ll see if he ever throws another tantrum,” we never tempted fate. It just wasn’t worth it.
Raising and caring for her children was my mother’s greatest joy. Cortland Street was where her family started to grow and where, in a short time, the family passed some of its own milestones. For my father, it was a time of changing from one job to another, still under the watchful and often critical eye of his parents who lived only a mile away.
Rena married Leno at 21 and had me, her first child, eleven months later. The children continued coming every two or three years until there were five. She was the youngest of three girls and grew up in the Taylor Street area of Chicago.
She was a devoted mother who never stopped worrying about her children. She was passionate about them, wanting them close by and always in line. Never one to hide her feelings, she always spoke her mind particularly with her husband and kids. Hers was not a quiet house with voices often raised in joy as well as anger. The battles she fought over the years - with her weight, her husband, her children, her religion, her in-laws - were sometimes painful but often healthy ones. Fires seldom smoldered within her for very long - loud eruptions either brought them to an end or at least put them out temporarily to be stoked up another time.
Rena kept a clean but disorderly house; she was always doing laundry, giving her kids baths or putting forth monumental efforts to sanitize one room while the others fell into chaos. She was an exceptional cook, able to feed twice as many as the table was set for at any given extraordinary meal.
“If I can cook it, bake it or wash it, I can do it,” she would say. “Just don’t ask me to sew it, draw it or paint it.”
She was as quick with a swat as a hug and worked hard to make sure her children were polite, respectful and unspoiled. She had her pet peeves about discipline and they were often enumerated in her discourses on “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a kid who...” The list expanded well over one thing, but included: “a kid who spits...who says ‘no’ to an adult...who lies (I just hate a liar!)...who is sneaky...who has a big mouth...who doesn’t wash…who listens in on adult conversations... who whines...who throws a tantrum...who gives Indian burns...” Spitters, liars and whiners were probably the greatest of kid criminals in my mother’s eyes, although tantrum throwers were kids we held in complete awe. Whenever we witnessed such behavior in a grocery store or at a party, we would look from the performer to my mother, mouths agape at his stupidity.
We would wonder, has this kid lost his mind? Doesn’t he know what fate awaits him at home when he pulls a stunt like this? Nothing is worth the punishment for throwing a tantrum!
Actually, none of us ever had the nerve to do such a thing because my mother’s threats, from a very early age, were enough to permanently dissuade us. After seeing her reaction to one tantrum, - the flashing eyes, the set jaw - and hearing “Give me just five minutes with that kid and we’ll see if he ever throws another tantrum,” we never tempted fate. It just wasn’t worth it.
Raising and caring for her children was my mother’s greatest joy. Cortland Street was where her family started to grow and where, in a short time, the family passed some of its own milestones. For my father, it was a time of changing from one job to another, still under the watchful and often critical eye of his parents who lived only a mile away.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Cortland Street
Whenever I think of Cortland Street, it is almost always of a hot, sunny day with a dozen assorted kids playing up and down the street. I’m dressed in a sleeveless button-up shirt in red checks with faded shorts and gym shoes with a half-moon of white rubber across the toes. My white ankle socks irritatingly ride into my shoes when I run and I’m always stopping to pull them up. My sister Sue, four years old, is also a member of the neighborhood gang, and though she sticks with the younger kids, she usually has an eye out for me, just in case. Even at this early age, she’s stubborn and won’t admit to needing me for anything. Still, we have a secret understanding that we share without saying - we know we have each other.
Sue looks like me only shorter and fairer. We’re slight, skinny kids with pixie haircuts and big brown eyes. We share the same room and a mutual skepticism about that baby who cries so much. But this is summer - a time for endless play, and we take off each morning for the yard and beyond, while my mother stays in the house. The city heat and humidity gives us all rings of sweaty dirt in the creases of our necks, arms and behind our knees, but we don’t seem to notice. We lived for playing in packs, all day long, roaming from one yard to another. We dreaded the sing-song call of any mother, beckoning any player home for dinner. By summer’s end, most of the grass on the parkways and in many of the yards had been trampled away.
The parkway in front and on the side of our building gave us room for bike riding and the adjoining empty lot, though less than 25 feet wide, seemed like a huge playground. There was never a shortage of kids, games or things to do, only sunny days to do it all in.
Ours was a pleasant, if small, apartment with a non-functioning fireplace in the living room. The front living room windows looked south, down Long Avenue and the one west window gave the view up Cortland. It was the window my mother called us from, the early evening sunlight shining on her like a beacon, as she shielded her eyes and yelled out our names so the whole block knew it was time for our supper.
"Nan-ceee, Su-zeee, come iiinnnn nooowww!"
There was an unheated tandem room, often called a sleeping porch, off my parents' bedroom that was used as a playroom when the weather was warm; a second bedroom, a dining room, kitchen and small back porches for each apartment. In the lot next to the house, my parents put in two diamond shaped flower gardens. Gladioli and carnations grew as best as they could, despite the abuse of kids running over and through the beds. We had a swing set in the back that my father anchored into the ground with cement at each leg. I would push Susie on the swings until she learned to pump for herself, giving her “underdogs” to make her go higher.
We lived on the second floor and my parents rented out the first floor apartment to a couple of different families during the few years we lived there. There was a separate garage at the back of the lot but I can’t remember my father ever putting his car in it. The building itself was not very old and my father’s abilities in carpentry helped to keep it in fairly decent shape.
The alley behind us backed up to a train yard and across the street on the east side was a disposal company - two good reasons right there that might encourage my parents to move. Long before environmentally sound practices were the norm, a time when the smell of burning leaves only indicated a foreshadowing of winter, big red Roy Strom dump trucks regularly emptied their contents behind the company’s fence, much of which they proceeded to burn. Often it was a load of old tires. And it always seemed to be at a time when my mother’s freshly washed sheets were hanging in the back yard.
“It stinks! It stinks!” we would yell to her as we ran into the house, our hands covering our noses and mouths, whenever the burning and smelly smoke interrupted outside play on a summer day. She became fiercely angry whenever this happened and I can still see her storming across the street to the Strom offices, sooty sheets in hand, to give whomever a piece of her mind. She wasn’t a very tall woman, but like a cat encountering a larger enemy, the anger in her eyes and voice made her appear to be a formidable opponent. She had soft brown hair with a little bit of a wave that obeyed her much less than her children. She had a lovely figure in those days, something I’m sure my father noticed when they first met.
Sue looks like me only shorter and fairer. We’re slight, skinny kids with pixie haircuts and big brown eyes. We share the same room and a mutual skepticism about that baby who cries so much. But this is summer - a time for endless play, and we take off each morning for the yard and beyond, while my mother stays in the house. The city heat and humidity gives us all rings of sweaty dirt in the creases of our necks, arms and behind our knees, but we don’t seem to notice. We lived for playing in packs, all day long, roaming from one yard to another. We dreaded the sing-song call of any mother, beckoning any player home for dinner. By summer’s end, most of the grass on the parkways and in many of the yards had been trampled away.
The parkway in front and on the side of our building gave us room for bike riding and the adjoining empty lot, though less than 25 feet wide, seemed like a huge playground. There was never a shortage of kids, games or things to do, only sunny days to do it all in.
Ours was a pleasant, if small, apartment with a non-functioning fireplace in the living room. The front living room windows looked south, down Long Avenue and the one west window gave the view up Cortland. It was the window my mother called us from, the early evening sunlight shining on her like a beacon, as she shielded her eyes and yelled out our names so the whole block knew it was time for our supper.
"Nan-ceee, Su-zeee, come iiinnnn nooowww!"
There was an unheated tandem room, often called a sleeping porch, off my parents' bedroom that was used as a playroom when the weather was warm; a second bedroom, a dining room, kitchen and small back porches for each apartment. In the lot next to the house, my parents put in two diamond shaped flower gardens. Gladioli and carnations grew as best as they could, despite the abuse of kids running over and through the beds. We had a swing set in the back that my father anchored into the ground with cement at each leg. I would push Susie on the swings until she learned to pump for herself, giving her “underdogs” to make her go higher.
We lived on the second floor and my parents rented out the first floor apartment to a couple of different families during the few years we lived there. There was a separate garage at the back of the lot but I can’t remember my father ever putting his car in it. The building itself was not very old and my father’s abilities in carpentry helped to keep it in fairly decent shape.
The alley behind us backed up to a train yard and across the street on the east side was a disposal company - two good reasons right there that might encourage my parents to move. Long before environmentally sound practices were the norm, a time when the smell of burning leaves only indicated a foreshadowing of winter, big red Roy Strom dump trucks regularly emptied their contents behind the company’s fence, much of which they proceeded to burn. Often it was a load of old tires. And it always seemed to be at a time when my mother’s freshly washed sheets were hanging in the back yard.
“It stinks! It stinks!” we would yell to her as we ran into the house, our hands covering our noses and mouths, whenever the burning and smelly smoke interrupted outside play on a summer day. She became fiercely angry whenever this happened and I can still see her storming across the street to the Strom offices, sooty sheets in hand, to give whomever a piece of her mind. She wasn’t a very tall woman, but like a cat encountering a larger enemy, the anger in her eyes and voice made her appear to be a formidable opponent. She had soft brown hair with a little bit of a wave that obeyed her much less than her children. She had a lovely figure in those days, something I’m sure my father noticed when they first met.
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