Roots: Grandparents/Parents/Through Eight

Roots - Grandparents - Mom/Dad - Birth Through Eight

My maternal/paternal grandparents plus my parents came through Ellis Island from Sicily, the largest island in the Mediterranean Sea -
an autonomous region of Italy - Greek roots. Mom’s side from Messina; Dad’s Palermo. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sicily
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Messina http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palermo

I believe my father was fifteen then with three brothers and one sister. My paternal grandfather was a blacksmith and mortician.

My maternal grandfather/grandmother were cousins. They came from polar opposites. Grandfather’s side was very poor; grandmother’s well off. They fell in love. Both sides of the family immediately rushed to thwart thoughts of marriage. Too late. Grandma was considered a spitfire.
In an era that kept young women innocent even onto wedding night,
she announced: if you don’t let us marry, I will become pregnant.
Lock her up, throw away the key; or succumb. They married;
and immediately announced were moving to America.

On this side of the family there are some other great telling incidents: one of the greats was a stone mason and built a marble coffin, placed it in back yard and liked to sunbathe in it. Another one got someone pregnant when he was in his 60s; and my favorite is the great-great who went to
plaza square every weekend - was town orator - kept them entranced by weaving historical dramas.

Alas when my grandfather and grandmother arrived, they didn’t count on prejudice. My spoiled spitfire grandmother couldn’t deal. Her parents wired the money; they returned. Four children; poverty taking its toll; my mom is born, grandfather’s pride threatened. He told my grandmother they had to try again; this time `he would pass‘, so Mom was one year old in 1912 when they came the second time. He became `big Mike’ and worked in the PA coal mines.

Somehow he came up from the mines to do his craft: a stone mason; there is a church with his name on the cornerstone. And then onto farming. It was there that my mother contracted polio. Her legs became horribly twisted; feet severely crippled. Her elder sister used to carry her piggy-back over a mile to school; but got to heavy for her to continue past seventh grade.

One night neighborhood farm had fire; everyone nearby ran to their wagons with all available hands. The fire was almost out when suddenly my Aunt Freda ran to the wagon where my mother was and grabbed her crutches; to the horror of all, she threw them in the fire. With tears streaming down her face, she defiantly told the shocked crowd:
the doctor said my mother had to learn how to walk on her crippled feet.

The family moved from the farm to the city where granddad bought a mom/pop corner store. Mom’s elder siblings found jobs in factories; she was put in charge of the home sewing. One day she went to her mom exclaiming: I know I just sewed this last week. Grand mom burst into tears: Oh Papita, I ripped it out - you are so good and finish everything so fast and nice, I was worried you won’t think you are needed.

It was the depression. At night, Grandma used to make up care baskets; anonymously deliver to porch steps ala Saint Nicholas. One day she is confronted by her husband who exclaimed he knew they had a large brook of eleven, but grocery bill was as if they had three times that. She tossed up her hands and said `they were growing’; she never told him
where the extra went too.

It was during this time too that my grandfather woke one Monday to a terrible stillness in the house. Normally he was greeted with excited enthusiasm by his children. This time deathly silence. The day before was a familiar pattern when after mass and spaghetti/meatball brunch, the cronies would come over for homemade wine and cards. He walked through the house, spotted his son Dominic trying to avoid him. Dominic, what’s going on, he bellowed. Pop, you hit mom. He brushed aside and went to the kitchen where Grandma was too trying to keep her head to the side. He reached up - saw the bruised eye. His horror was self-murderous; he went through to every cabinet, pulled every bottle and poured all down the sink; never touched another drop.

In the meantime back in New York, my father wanted to be a priest. He is working in a machine shop. Two fingers got sliced off: the ones that hold the host for communion. Career goals dramatically change at age 35. He has to find a wife and settle down. In the same factory worked my aunt Freda, the one who threw the crutches in the fire. She is a new widow. My father approaches her and she says no: not for me, but I’ve got the perfect mate for you; and tells him about my mother. Arrangements are made. He arrived in Philadelphia; mom is peeking out the window - love at first sight.

Marriage is immediate; return to his family in up state New York; Mom is very, very lonely. She misses her family terribly. She becomes pregnant with first child. At time of delivery, mom goes to hospital, inexperienced intern inserts needle to break water - punctures baby’s head and kills first born girl - named Mary. Second child is boy who contracted
Rheumatic Heart Fever. Doctors gave prognosis of less than two years. Next child is a son with Adenoid problems. Third son is free of concern. And then comes me: also given name Mary in honor of Blessed Mother but coupled with Saint Joseph so the name is: Mary Josephine aka Mary Jo.

In the tradition of our culture boys were eagerly desired - men worked the farms and did the heavy labor work. Women were desired to work indoors. My mom so, so needed me physically; yearned for the little daughter she lost; and by this time, after three boys, my daddy definitely wanted a girl. I was born at home; the story goes, my father leapt for joy higher than six steps - went yelling down the street to announce my coming to the neighbors. I was the darling of a doting father, three brothers, and phenomenal mother. But, she was glad when seventeen months later, the sister she prayed for arrived. She was concerned that I was going to be spoiled. So the baby was put in my arms with the axiom: you are the little mother in charge. And that’s when my childhood ended for I became mom’s `go for’…the work was nonstop, but I never knew it to be work for she was a master at praise.

In the meantime back in PA, my uncles were in the military along with cousins, one of whom did not return. My grandmother went to daily mass. One day heading back to an empty house, she was stopped on the street by a beggar. In halting English, she beckoned him to follow her. They got to the house, she told him to take a bath; when he got out, she had clothes of my one uncle waiting. She took him to the kitchen, fed him; had a lunch bag ready for him, and gave him a couple of dollars. When my grandfather heard this, he almost went through the ceiling. When my uncle got home after the war, he shared that he got dropped behind enemy lines in France. A farmer’s wife brought him in; they hid him and fed him; gave him clothes to sneak back through the lines. It was the exact day that grandma helped the homeless man.

I remember vividly my first pair of Mary Jane shoes juxtaposed soon after with first brush with death. The rented house backed up to a training field for racing horses. Spectators used to come into our yard and park behind the fence. Mom is outside hanging clothes; I’m at her feet. She didn’t see me crawl towards the fence. A car drives in heading towards me. Mom sees/screams. His windows are up - can’t hear. She throws clothespins that hit window just in time; I was half under the wheels. He is so shook up. I’m crying: car hit me; car hit me. To this day, I stand way back from curbs, watch approaching cars apprehensively.

I terrified my mother when I decided my sister and I needed to go to school and visit my three elder brothers at least three major blocks away across one serious busy street. They found me walking down the halls, holding her hand peeking in the rooms that had doors open.

I was my mother’s partner in crime. Daddy was a cab driver and worked most of the time. When he was home sleeping, mom would send me in and take change from his pockets. If he woke up and caught me, there would be no problem versus catching my mom. Then in secrecy and stealth we would walk down cellar and go to the canning jars on a high shelf way in the back. Behind the tomato and grape jelly ones were empties…the change was stashed.

There was always the smell of a bean dish cooking on the stove. The aroma of Pasta Fazool, split peas, fava beans or lentils is wonderful. The best smell would be on Sunday with meatball sauce. One week she is baking bread and looked out the window to see the kids next door hanging out of their window drooling like us. Immediately mom sent baked bread over.

Mom never went anywhere; family/friends visited her. I was allowed to sit by her side but never participate. To make sure little ears didn’t hear what not supposed too, conversation was usually in Italian which dad and she refused to teach us so that first generation Americans would grow up speaking country language. They alas thought they were making best decision, but I sure wish I knew my native language.

Something quite remarkable happened at the tender age of two. I lost something. Mom took me to her bedroom - on all four walls were Catholic religious icons…cross above the bed, opposite, Sacred Heart, to the left: picture of Saint Anthony holding the Christ Child; opposite: Saint Joseph. She directed me to Saint Anthony and told me to say three Hail Mary’s. I dutifully did so, left; within minutes I found it. I went back and gazed intently at this saint saying: you’re really good. He has been my special patron since; I have a treasure trove of `miracle stories’ where he helped me and those whom I guided too.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_of_Padua

Those early days in our new home were wonderment for my siblings and me. It seemed so, so big; we could play hide and seek in it. There was a large back yard where forts were built in the winter time; great snowball wars. Snowmen and angels in the snow were always there. When I got older, I too walked several miles to the outdoor pond ice rink; and loved the shoe on roller skates that were handed down from one sibling to another. The knife sharpener who rode through the streets in horse/wagon was a familiar sight; along with the ice delivery and milk man. Of course coal was delivered too; and all my brothers delivered newspapers/shined shoes.

Soon after we moved in there was the phone call on the party line that all family dreads. I remember my mom getting the word that her beloved father died. Oh how she cried. It was just her, my sister and me that went back this time. Never since have I seen a sadder household. As was the custom, granddad was laid out in the parlor. I had one very vivid memory of him holding my sister and me together in his big broad arms. He seemed like Santa Claus to me. Interestingly, it is my son that most looks like him.

Not long after, my Nana came to visit for the birth of my youngest brother. She had broken English. She was such a diminutive woman. She had a special Italian blessing that she would say as she hugged and kissed us. We all had the giggles as she once put on look alike dresses on my sister and me and they were backwards. Oh how we laughed and laughed.

Sunday was the best day of all if Daddy didn‘t work. I always awoke early and kept mom company as she made sauce so I could coax a meatball fried just for me. This was a problem for all through growing up for meat was usually twice a week and my brothers always got bigger proportions. It was a struggle to fight against jealousy; made a vow that someday I would be rich which meant I could eat meat every day if I wanted.

When daddy got up, radio on to Italian music and mom would rest a minute or two and encourage my dad to dance with me exclaiming: be my feet for me Mary Jo. I loved it when I would stand on his shoes and feel the rhythm and steps.

Then it was mass together; daddy annoyed mom because he loved to arrive a minute or two late with the grand entrance of her on his arm and five of us now in solid step. In our culture, children were seen, not heard; had the ability to sit through a long Latin mass without a stir.

Then home to fabulous dinner and the very, very special treat of a ride in the used limousine used by my father to moonlight for funerals. It had special pull out seats in the back. The routine was always the same. First, dad would lead us in the rosary; then out came an harmonica and sing a long would commence. We drove usually through suburbs were gorgeous houses were: siblings and I would exclaim which one was a favorite and intention of having same when `we were all grown up’. The peak would be to finish by the lake and if daddy was flush, we each got a nickel custard. If it was summertime, there would be the extra pleasure of maybe a picnic where we would play hide n seek and then delight to the band music at the amphitheater. Mom would cook food ahead of time: big roasting pan with pork/beans; Italian sausage/hot dogs already cooked; watermelon: yummy!

Mom would try to visit her family whenever possible which involved the train. My brothers and I thought it was great, going up and down the aisles; watching the tracks as you flushed the toilet. They had more freedom than me and I remember my mother often being agitated by their behavior. I was kept more closely. It was always really great when we arrived. There were lots of relatives who doted on my mother and us. We thought our cousins had funny accents; they thought the same as us. We couldn’t get over how brownstone living had no backyards; how busy city streets were.

My father usually drove us to the station and picked us up. This one time I remember vividly that we came in very late at night. He wasn’t there. Mom had to call a cab. When we got there and opened the door, the smell almost knocked us back out. Two puppies came running and yelping. He planned on surprising us…my mother spent over an hour cleaning and crying. The puppies went - I have no idea who took them in. That memory stayed with all of us throughout our childhood. No pets for us except a tomcat we called Tigress that adopted us in later years; never allowed in. I know my mother loved dogs because there was one picture of her with my daddy in one of the first Model T’s - beautiful German Shepherd named Billy. But those puppies blew it for us.

It was before my birth when really hard times fell on my parents. In exchange for rent above the mortuary, mom helped with taking care of the dead. This was really difficult for she had tremendous difficulty standing for any length of time. Mom’s closest companion throughout life was pain.

She had special Jewish friends. I don’t know how they met each other, but they used to enjoy friendly debates about Jesus…was He or wasn’t He the Messiah and was He or was He not already here at one time. It was years before I could appreciate the phenomenal role modeling that I was experiencing at that time…how different religions could be best friends side by side.

One Sunday as we got in the car for traditional excursion, Mom said to my father: drive to this address. We kids groaned, thinking it was an `old fogey’. My father raised his eyebrows and asked: who lives there? Mom hushed him and us with what we called her bulldog stare. No one ever dared talk back to that. So off we went and got to a strange neighborhood with plain neat and orderly simple houses. We all got out and went to the front door expecting mom to ring the bell and/or knock. Instead she pulled out a key. My father’s eyes looked like my mothers when they bulged. She had a delicious smile on her face, opened the door and we kids raced in like galloping ponies. To us it was a mansion. The attic had been finished off with plywood so it looked like we had two stories. My eldest brother claimed upstairs back which had a mysterious cedar closet. My second brother claimed up front. My third brother got half the middle; my sister and I got the other half. But there was a storage room without a cellar off the kitchen. I begged my mother for that room when it wasn’t winter. There was what we called a library off the parlor…too trippy for words. It had a fake fireplace and floor to ceiling bookshelves half filled with left behind books. There was an old piano left behind in the dining room; and an even rickety one in the basement that had coal bins; wringer washer, toilet and storage shelves. There was one bathroom upstairs, kitchen with pantry. Large side back porch for the ice box; small front porch with vestibule. It was a mansion!!!

My mother had saved five thousand dollars in pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters - had given them to friend to buy the home who then transferred it into parents names later. I didn’t find out why ‘til years later.

Alas, mom hadn’t asked the neighbors permission for we very soon discovered we were not welcomed. It began with garbage in the yard; and neighborhood boys ganging up on my brothers individually. At first mom told them to do everything possible to avoid them, but it all came to a head one time as one got back from delivering newspapers and the others from shining shoes. She told them: stick together and fight back. Soon after they came in together: bleeding and grinning. Almost immediately I was called to help her get to the front door. I remember vividly looking up at her for she seemed to be rising and her voice was a powerful force of ice as she told the group of neighbors complaining that their sons had gotten beaten up: we had come in peace but if we had to fight to stay, then fight we would.
I asked my mother: why? She said because: we were different. I went upstairs to my bedroom where there was a vanity with a full view mirror and took off my clothes to examine myself. I couldn’t see anything.

A measure of tolerance evolved but no where close to acceptance. My parents worked out an agreement with the local private Catholic School two blocks down. Supplemented with special collections by church members for scholarships, mom would cook her famous sauce several times a month and daddy would chauffeur them around when off from work. This blessing occurred throughout grade and high school for me and siblings.

Across the street were three sisters, two youngest same age as me and mine. I started kindergarten with eldest; we would walk together to school and back. It was first grade and both of us were very excited. We had a test and we both scored very high. We raced home to show off our papers; my mom was so, so proud of me. The next day as we walked she had a grim taunt look; I asked her what was wrong: didn’t your mommy say she was happy? I got spanked! You got spanked for getting a good grade?! No, I got spanked because you beat me. I was so shocked and horrified that throughout the rest of our school years I subconsciously did something for I never beat her again…maybe tied…but never over.

My sunshine brother, the one right next to me; he and I were often called sunshine; got a crush on eldest daughter. For Valentines’ he bought with very hard earned money a box of candy and gave it to her. It was returned.

Two incidents happened revolving around my sister and me; both unpleasant. The first was my mother very gently taking me in her arms to explain that there really wasn’t a Santa Claus who came with wonderful presents; I was old enough to know this, but my sister wasn’t. So I was to be a very, very big girl and not tell, and be surprised when she received a doll and I didn‘t. I still, of course, had treasured doll from man who almost hit me, but I did not like being that big one bit. Then there was the time my sister was crying and I asked why? She said she asked daddy for a nickel and he said no. I told her, I’ll go get it totally confident that I would. Sure enough, ran to my father, got it, ran back to give it to her. She wasn’t the least bit happy and the hard corps lesson was real that I subconsciously knew. Daddy favored me; Mom favored her. Jealousy was a monster.

I was a precocious child; Mom did her best with teaching me how to read and if ever I dared say I was bored would hear: go read a book. This was very amusing because the books left behind were adult, but we had a library right down the street and I was allowed to go. Mom signed for a library card. I believe I was their youngest ever patron. I remember vividly entertaining them with `stories’ of my family. Of course I didn‘t know it then, but I must have inherited my Greats’ story telling ability. I worked my way through the books at the house; once went to my mom saying I thought we were Catholic. She looked at me saying: Of course; I then gave her the book that said: I AM Protestant. Mom laughed…the word was Persuaded.

By this time there was another baby, a boy; my sister and I had specific duties that were equally shared and changed over each week for her to clean upstairs, me down and then vice versa. Down the street, across from the school was a small neighborhood theater. On Saturday, Mom would dole out something like twenty cents for me to hold my sister’s hand tightly and go to the movies with strict instructions to see the first movie twice, second movie once - all in all a total of about four hours. It was wonderful except to this day, I do not like cartoons. Sometimes they had marathons and I overdosed. My sister and I had one scary incident at the movies when we went past a man sitting at the end who touched us. We went out the other way following mom’s strict instructions regarding a stranger and told the manager. We were taught that there was bad in the world; we had to be careful against the devil and his followers.

There are some special vivid memories before eight years old. Mom and dad belonged to Italian family club…great food/dancing…loved dancing with my daddy. Saint Joseph is the patron saint of Sicily; feast day March 19 and there is a special ceremony celebration where food tables are set up in neighbor’s homes and you travel from home to home eating. So exciting to be up at night as a very young child traveling the streets.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Joseph's_Day
http://www.catholicculture.org/culture/liturgicalyear/activities/view.cfm?id=454

Daddy once took me to a Trappist monastery, famous for their monks bread. I’m chattering away trying to talk to them until my father silenced me saying: they don’t talk, just pray. Who are they praying for I questioned? You, me, everyone. I was really, really impressed that someone who didn’t know me would pray for me. My daddy and mommy prayed for me; and mom said endless rosaries. If you say them right, take a good half hour. I asked her once who she prayed for, and she said: each one of my children, brothers and sisters, parents, then neighbors, friends, the world. She said sometimes I got two. So, I immediately perked thinking I was really special and she said that wasn’t it. She somehow knew I was going to need extra. http://www.geneseeabbey.org/

Prayer was integral in my life growing up. We said novenas together on our knees. If daddy was going to bed early from a night shift; I would see him kneeling saying prayers before going to sleep. The only literature I ever saw in our home were religious pamphlets. Our home was filled with sacred crosses and holy pictures.

On one of the trips to visit Mom’s relatives, we went from Philadelphia to Atlantic City where an aunt lived. We children were sent to bed on the top floor while adults gathered in living room downstairs. My sister and I were thirsty, came downstairs together went through the living room into the kitchen, crossed the floor to turn on the light and then jumped in each other’s arms screaming hysterically…the floor was covered with black water bugs, a by product of living close to the ocean.

Another terror one night during the summer time as I lucked out sleeping in the room off the kitchen. The door had a hook latch that I used for I snuck and read under the covers to the next door neighbor’s porch light. One night I awoke to my bed shaking. I am screaming and screaming. On a rare night my father was home too; both parents came running, couldn’t open the door. They are screaming at me; I finally manage to dash to the door open and am crushed in my mother’s arms as my father goes in the room with a broom and sees the bed moving! With the light on, he looks beneath to see the full grown large cat that had come in through the torn screen.

There was another trauma incident. Our street was really busy at dinner time as it was a cut through from people avoiding a busy intersection around the corner. My sister and I were playing at neighbor’s; they were going someplace so we went to go home and instead of waiting - looking both ways, sister dashed and got hit by a car - traveled in the air at least four houses - horrible gash on leg.

There were some very special times with my father. If he sometimes got a long taxi job and was close to home, he would suddenly dash in and call for me to accompany him. I got to see Niagara Falls at a very young impressionable age. http://www.niagara-usa.com/

Then if he had off Saturday mornings, we would go to mass together where he sometimes served as an alter assistant; or if not, we would sit together and he would sing the Latin responses. He had a beautiful voice. Then to the farmer’s market which dazzled me. I hated it though when he would buy live chickens for my mother. When I witnessed ringing their necks and boiling water to pluck them, I vowed I would never do that in my life. Once daddy bought fresh string beans and drooled as he gave them to my mother exclaiming how he couldn’t wait for one of her famous dishes. Well before she could make it, friends came over, and they were shucking them and eating as they did; before they knew it, all gone. So Mom improvised with canned; and we all smiled as he raved at its’ freshness.

I went on a crime spree at age six. One of the relatives who used to visit had a horribly burnt neck from a fire. I was fascinated. I took matches and went under the back porch. Mom caught me; got my first spanking. Then committed two other sins: stole chalk from school, and instead of going just to the library, I went further one day to the nearby Goodie Shop and stole a piece of penny gum. I was so sick and full of shame that I begged my mother for a nickel and a quarter; school got the quarter on chalk ledge; at shop put the nickel on the counter that I couldn’t see over. I don’t think I turned myself in at First Holy Confession age seven.

First Holy Communion was so beautiful, holy and sacred, and dramatic. We all had to be dropped off at the school, it was pouring rain. All of us had similar thought; we were going to get drenched as we walked across the large courtyard to enter the church. Suddenly our nuns called our attention to be extremely quiet and walk single file without a word. We were ushered down the hallway to an exit door and when it opened, stairs led downward through a cellar and then an underground tunnel all the way to the church. It was so, so cool. We emerged going upward in the back of the church to the assembly that were as mystified as to our appearance which was flush with excitement over our adventure and reverence at what was to become our most sacred rite.

Mom did a phenomenal job role modeling `turn the other cheek’ when I came in complaining how little girl across the street loved to eat ice cream in front of me without ever offering a taste. I knew she knew that this was an extreme luxury for us. Mom sent me back outside and told me to invite her for Sunday dinner. I, of course, objected. But you don’t talk back to Mom, and out I went and yes, the little girl was surprised. But she came, and no one could ever not fall in love with Mom’s sauce, it was the best. She asked and got seconds; never ate ice cream in front of me again.

I was in charge of shopping and it was a chore. Stores were two blocks away and sometimes I would have to make several trips. There was a meat market and the Sunday meal usually had the best. I had strict instructions to watch butcher special grind beef/pork together for meatball mix. Sauce was made for Sunday/Thursdays.

My eldest brother was in/out of the hospital. He never had visitors. One day Mom makes sauce and I am to carry the hot pot filled with meatballs to him using a big towel to wrap handles with. It takes me two buses with `everyone staring’ at me. I was used to this when I walked with my mom on occasions that she was forced to go to social services during the times when it got really bad and we applied for relief. I had strict instructions to never talk; but I wanted to cry and yell in frustration as I heard the disdain in each social worker’s voice over our need and too large a family that, of course, was not just the norm in every culture but particularly a rule by Catholics. I could feel my mother’s body taunt with anguish; but I was very grateful for her pride as she would tell me on the way back: it is alright to ask and take help - but try to do your best to work hard so you can pay it back and help others in need when you are able to. So there I am with the sauce, get to the hospital and I’m supposed to go in the back door so I am not stopped and I do and go up the elevator and find my brother’s room and his look of joy was over the top.


In mom’s words, I was a really good girl, an angel. At age eight, I was tested. Failed one, succeeded in others. The bad first. Dad on very rare occasions took us to a farm run by some priests. It was really great. Barn with loft to jump down into the hay, collie dog that loved kids and a cooler with lemonade side by side with cookies. Heaven. An upcoming Sunday was planned; in excitement I tell friend at school only I made it sound as if it was `our farm’ - not someone we visited. School mate promptly invited herself, told her mother who called the school principal who called my mom. I am sent home. My mother is waiting for me outside furious. I am berated as I have never experienced before, sent back to school to apologize and admit lie to friend. It truly was one of the worst experiences of my life.

Then it got better…my mother, brother, and I all celebrate birthdays in April. My second brother was being groomed to be a priest. He was quite a favorite with the nuns and did lots of go for errands for them on his bicycle. I so wanted a bicycle, but knew it was practically and impossibility. But I believed in miracles and backed up by a tradition we were taught that said if you went to a new church and prayed three wishes with faith, they would come true. I knew about the two other nearby churches, but had never been in them. I borrowed my brother’s bike, rode there, walked in and prayed…all three went for the bike. That year my birthday fell on Easter which was very special indeed to me. My parents got me a very large statue of Our Lady of Fatima. It is a singular treasure, in my bedroom office to this day, looked at it right now as I typed this. Then my mind was boggled for my brother had received a new bike from the nuns, and his old one went to me. Truly I had a miracle answered.

Not long after that, I was greeted at the front door by my mother distraught. She said my father was gravely ill and the priest had been called for the sacrament of Extreme Unction - this is done when someone is near death. I pivoted on my heel, grabbed the bike, raced to the church, stormed in, walked down the aisle and addressed my Lord, saying: I owe you. And with total confidence turned around, and proceeded back. By the time, I got back about a half hour later my mother looked at me really funny when I walked in. She intuited where I had gone, but within that time frame my father took a turn for the better.

It was during this time too that a family trip with mom, my sister, younger brother and me but this time we went just to see Aunt Freda who was the one with the hardest personality. She owned a little café and she needed help. I soon realized that the plan was for me to stay behind and help her. I loved my aunt, but that night I started sobbing at the prospect. My mother came in and held me and said I didn’t have to stay. At that moment, she was a saint to me.

I got in trouble for helping my brother with his homework. My second brother was really, really, really smart. The third struggled. Some things came easy to me like English, so I would help him. Well help kind of became like doing and we got discovered. Both of us severely lectured.

My brothers fought amongst themselves. My eldest brother had a hot temper. I think he felt inferior because he missed school all the time. He overcompensated by trying to be a tough guy. My middle brother tried to be the peacemaker. I remember one horrible time when the three of them went at it over not saying please to pass the ketchup.

We all had fun banging on the out-of-tune piano playing chop sticks and heart and soul. I lucked out and one nun gave me some piano lessons so I learned to read music. I had no musical talent however; just enjoyed picking out simple melodies. I was in awe of one cousin my age who when he visited with parents had his accordion along. He was really good. Everyone in the family had good voices except me; could hardly carry a tune.

We all loved the radio; would gather around it at night listening to the favorites: Jack Benny, Let’s Pretend, The Lone Ranger, Dr. Christian, et al.

So I am eight years old and am going to share the best part of my young life: Mary Ann. Sister stood there that day with this child who literally looked like a homeless waif; she was all skin and bones, stringy beige hair; forlorn eyes. And I knew with a certainty what was going to happen next: Sister was going to put me in charge of her - oh: no, no, no! And that’s what happened: This is Mary Ann everyone; she is brand new and I want you all to make her feel welcome; she can sit in front of you, Mary Jo - you can be in charge. She came to her seat, Sister turned toward the blackboard, missed the snickering look of my classmates and me. There was no way I was going to befriend her and give up the long struggle that I had endured to be accepted by my peers. So, sure enough, at recess when she looked at me, I snubbed her strongly; she got the message…slowly made her way across to the far end of the courtyard. My girlfriend from across the street and I immediately began to jump rope, a favorite game. But as I took the rope I looked across at her and just like that a bolt of spirit pierced through me. I dropped the rope and started towards her. My friend immediately sensed what I was up to and hissed: if you play with her you won‘t have me or anyone else as a friend! I kept walking.

When I got to her, she raised her head…the look of joy made me feel as if I was `God’ - it has superimposed upon my soul for all eternity. We became friends…became an `us’. I asked her one day if she wanted to come to my house. She said she had to ask her mother. I suggested she call from my home. I can’t; we don’t have a phone. The next day she said she could but only until dinner time. We didn’t have school buses; walked, so she would have had to backtrack to school and walk a few blocks after that. Mom was waiting for us and after getting what I always looked forward too, after school mini dish of whatever bean dish had been cooking all day, were ushered into the bathroom for bath; and she had clean clothes waiting for us with Mary Ann getting old dress of mine. Then hanging over the kitchen sink, we got our hair washed. Mom had been really upset since I had linked up with her. She was positive the case of head lice I had gotten were from her. She had laboriously doing my hair with disinfectant and combing them out. She wanted to start same with Mary Ann.

My large doll had a new admirer. The only other toys I had were a deck of cards, jump rope and my prized collection of comic newspaper cut out dolls with accessories. They were all we needed.

I went to her house once. I knew my family was `poorer’ than others, but I think this is where I first got a glimpse of poverty. It was a small home behind another house; commonly called a grandparent cottage. It was dilapidated, so in need of repair; one bedroom - too small for a family of five. Her mother was beaming when she met me; I was like some kind of royalty coming to visit.

Then suddenly she wasn’t at school. Days passed, then a week. Sister announce that we were going to make a special get well card for her. She was in the hospital. My classmates weren’t that enthusiastic, but when the card got to me, in a large flourish I wrote: Your best friend, Mary Jo.

And then just as suddenly, Sister said the next day we were going to visit her, say good by at the funeral home. There was an `out of world’ experience that happened to me at that announcement; remains to this day. As we got there, I hung back - last one to go in. Her mother was waiting at the door. She had the card in her hand; tears streaming down her face; in a choked voice put her arms around me and said loud enough for all to here: all she did her last days was hold and caress her card and show everyone:
This is my best friend, Mary Jo.

When I got to the casket, I was awed. She was in a white communion dress; looked healthier and prettier dead than alive. I swear as I kissed her forehead, I heard her talk to my heart and soul: I will be with you forever.

She has been; she is here now.

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