Author: patcamerino

My most vivid memories of my years before entering elementary school are of my first and greatest friend, Jimmy Rossi. For an unknown reason I was not allowed to go to his house, two blocks away. It may have been because of my all-protective mother, who did not permit me to go to any location where she wasn’t. Or perhaps it’s because Jimmy’s father was the local undertaker. Years later, when Mr. Rossi attended to the passing of both my mother and father, he became a “funeral director.” But in 1940 he was an “undertaker.”

Jimmy was allowed to come to my house to play. And he did. Often. Not every day; maybe several times a week. It seemed to me we were as inseparable as any two non-brothers could be. It could have been because neither of us had real brothers.

Our days were spent with Tinkertoys and Lincoln Logs, not the later plastic ones, but the real ones with interlocking pieces of wood. The deep brown logs came in three lengths: long, short and end-block – along with the green roof slats that always slipped off, unless they were placed “just right.” We joined the logs in as many different arrays and heights as possible. The Tinkertoy sticks and the red, round joining-pieces allowed greater creativity in our constructions. Until one day we couldn’t. The day when all of the Lincoln Logs and all the Tinkertoy sticks had to be destroyed. Immediately.

Jimmy had become ill. He died. Suddenly. Everything he had touched had to be burned, if at all possible. I knew he had died; I would never see him again. His family took care of what was once my very best, my only, friend.

I tried to learn why Jimmy had died. My mother said he had passed away because “he had a pimple on his chest.” I could not understand how a pimple could have caused his death. I did know a little about death. I had seen baby birds lying on the street, having fallen out of their nests. They died; they were buried.

From time to time, I had pimples. I really feared getting one on my own chest. The slightest red mark panicked me beyond consolation. Nothing worse could befall me than to have “a pimple on my chest.” Even into my teenage years. And then one day, suddenly and for no apparent reason, I realized I had misunderstood how Jimmy had died. It was “Poliomyelitis.” I no longer had to dread a pimple. My five-year-old ears had heard the name of a disease and made a strange translation into English: a “pimple-on-my-chest.”

Now I had an even greater fear. Polio. The dread infantile paralysis, which could readily go beyond braces and iron lungs, was the plague of the mid-twentieth century. In the forties and early fifties, its apprehension led to the closure of all places, especially swimming pools, where children might gather. Fear spread rapidly through every small town in the country. Well-meaning parents, among whom my overprotective mother was an exemplar, cloistered their offspring in every way possible. It was not until the late fifties that Salk’s vaccine and Sabin’s oral treatment were introduced. A sugar-cube laced with the newly discovered and deactivated virus destroyed the need to worry about a dreaded pimple on my chest.

Now there is COVID-19 to worry about. Recently, respiratory syncytial virus (RSV) has also become a major health concern for parents with young children who, having been isolated from other viral attacks, seem to be highly susceptible to this long-existing pulmonary virus. A vaccine is currently available for the treatment of COVID-19 but not for RSV.

During the past three years, 2020 – 2022, people throughout the world have feared contacting a variation of this coronavirus which had become evident in late 2019. And yet, the public strongly disagrees on what should be done to avoid it or mitigate its effects. A new type of antivirus, one based on the construction of messenger RNA rather than on a deactivated form of the virus, was released in 2021. The biochemical methodology for the development of this new form of vaccine was initiated almost a decade ago.

Since the production and ultimate release of the countermeasure for COVID-19 occurred within a mere eighteen months following the outbreak of the contagion, many people have refused to be vaccinated. The virus has infected 1.1 billion people worldwide, with 100 million in the United States. Slightly over 1.1 million people in this country have died as a result of the virus.

A condition which should be limited to discussions of its biochemical properties has been expanded to include its political ramifications. Anti-vaccinators can be found among a variety of demographics. If their viewpoint had prevailed in the mid-nineteen-fifties, sucking sugar cubes to prevent polio would not have prevailed and this disease would have continued its decimating effects. In fact, some are concerned that we may return to a time when people will once again fear polio or smallpox, as well as the latest viral transformation in Africa or Asia – or New York, Chicago, Los Angeles or Houston. Given the propensity for self-determination and freedom of choice, political-biomedicine can no longer be limited merely to a scientific study of a “pimple-on-my-chest.”

What puts a person to sleep can have other interesting effects. This is very true for anesthetics. Ether was the one used on me when I underwent surgery at a young age. The cause for the surgery was tonsillitis, a not uncommon illness in the 1940s. If a kid’s tonsils were inflamed and there were constant complaints of sore throats, the tonsils came out. Physicians back then probably knew why these glands in the back of the throat had to be removed, but little kids were given only one reason, “you gotta have them taken out.” The same was true for adenoids. I was led to believe that these glands, in the nose rather than the throat, also caused problems relating to my repeated head-colds. Tonsils and adenoids must be dug out as soon as possible. For me, this happened when I was about five years old, a few months before I entered first grade.

I don’t’ recall directly what was done to me. Perhaps back then, even my parents were not completely informed of the procedure. All I remember was the gas mask being placed over my nose. The next thing I saw were pink elephants dancing around the tops of the walls, near the ceiling in my hospital room. They amazed me.

I did not expect to see dancing elephants, pink or otherwise. I was not sure how they got there, but they were very real. The only good result of seeing strange, albeit cute, pink elephants was the ice cream that came along with them. I was told ice cream was earned when tonsils and adenoids were removed. The elephants were my extra reward.

These amazing animals and their movements may have been my own particular response to what Disney was doing about then. In the late 1930’s, Walt produced Silly Symphonies and its ultimate form, Fantasia. If he could create pirouetting hippos, I could have my own dancing elephants.

I later wondered which came first, Disney’s fluid colors and music or my own synesthesia. Starting at a very young age, I’ve been able to close my eyes and listen to music that produced shifting, blending colored patterns in my head. Brass yielded red-golds and orange-yellows depending upon pitch and tonal qualities. Strings came in purples and violets. Woodwinds were seen in greens and blues. It was wonderful to observe symphonies behind closed eyelids. Later, this became a problem. Other concertgoers no doubt thought I slept through every classical performance. As I’ve aged, however, the mixed senses have become less common. Closed eyes and music now results in sleep more than in personal fantasias. Back then, I found that ether, given as part of a surgery, had results similar to those provided by orchestras.

As for the surgery, itself, the result was also somewhat strange and unexpected. The removal of tonsils and adenoids from my throat resulted in aluminum arch supports for my feet.

Family legend has it that when my tonsils and adenoids were excised, the surgeon nicked my thyroid gland. Whatever the cause, within a month after the operation, I had gained weight, almost fifty pounds. My body did not readily adjust to the rapid increase. When I went from what appeared to be a malnourished kid to one with, what relatives continued to call, “just baby fat,” the arches in my feet collapsed so that I left Donald Duck footprints when I stepped out with wet feet. I was forced to wear aluminum arch supports for the next six years, until I started junior high school.

My footprints are still very wide. I seldom go around with completely bare feet. I need to make sure I do not leave the tracks of a dancing, pink elephant.

In the 1940s, elementary schools performed what they called “operettas,” the childhood response to the dictate, “let’s have a show.” The productions kept the kids active and the parents proud. Lincoln Elementary School followed the practice. There was the assumption that every little kid could sing. Wrong! As the others belted out their first and second grade lyrics, I was relegated to beating time with “rhythm sticks.” I was strongly urged to “mouth the words” without making any loud sound. All of the kids were expected to take part in the class’s annual production. No parent could be left behind!

In my first-grade operetta, everyone in the class was a sprite. Each of us wore a pointy-hat made from bright-yellow crape paper. It might have been because I was scared, or maybe it was the result of being forced to attempt to sing, that I burst out in tears before the performance. In her efforts to calm me, I remember my teacher telling me: “Good little sprites don’t cry; their yellow caps give them courage.”

I did appear as the lead in operettas when I was in the fifth and six grades, not because of my singing ability, but rather because I was able (and willing) to memorize all of the lines. In one of them I played a miser. My costume was stereotypic for the time. I wore a black skull cap to which a white, straw-wig had been sewed. I don’t know where the material originated; it could have been from a broom. In the other production I was a kindly school janitor who pushed a broom. My grade-school custodian showed me how to wield it properly. I had tried sweeping it back-and-forth. That doesn’t work, a janitorial broom is always pushed forward to get rid of all the debris covering a classroom floor. I was a first-rate miser and a janitor, as an actor but not as a vocalist.

I was forbidden to sing my numerous lines. I was forced to recite them as poetry. The audience may not have realized what was happening. Both elementary music and poetry had lots of rhyme and rhythm, that’s all that mattered. My fellow performers were happy. They did not need to listen to me as they bellowed forth their choral parts. The teachers strongly urged me to join in by moving my lips without any movement of my vocal cords. Reluctantly I acquiesced and began my lifelong role of being a “non-singer.”

This nonperformance attitude was reinforced in junior high school. Although choral music was required for all of the other members of my seventh-grade class, I was excused and allowed to attend an extra study-hall. Remarkably, my report card for that year shows an “A” average in music for each of the two semesters, even though the individual grade for each six-week period was left blank. It’s probably because I had an “A” in everything else, except Physical Education in which I earned a “C” average.

Although singing is supposed to be part of the genetic pattern for all Italian males, I seemed to have been overlooked when vocal DNA was handed out. One of my father’s brothers had a professional, operatic voice. My father, a typical Italian male, thought he could sing, too. However, the only time I heard him sing was when he was very angry. It was a good signal to know when to stay out of his way. The words “Funiculi, funicula …“ always sent me into hiding.

On the other hand, the Italian-male, vocal gene might be recessive. My son, Ken, has a great voice, as does his own son, Jordan. Although the family says this resulted from my wife, Karen, who performed on stage in college, was the song-leader for her sorority and, later, had fun in Gilbert and Sullivan productions, as well as Li’l Abner, it’s possible my latent, genetic contribution was of some benefit to the boys.

Since I had failed to follow my Italian operatic heritage, I thought instrumental music might be a good substitute. Or maybe it was my parent’s thought. I tried to learn how to play the piano. My lessons were given by Mrs. Corbett, who lived in the house across the street from us, the one into which we later moved! Her music room became our parlor.

I struggled through the required finger movements and how to pass my thumb under the other four fingers. I’m not sure I really got too far beyond playing a competent scale with both hands. And yes, there was the usual recital at the appropriate time, or at least Mrs. Corbett thought it was appropriate. All I recall is that, during the recital, I had to play the introduction twice. I vividly remember starting to play it and immediately forgetting what notes came next. I stopped. I restarted from the beginning, hoping to get past the previously omitted notes. I wanted to cry. I then remembered what my first-grade teacher had said about “good little sprites.” Her words came into my head as I repeated the opening measures of the piano piece I was performing. I did not have a yellow cap. Only the ivory keys of the old YMCA piano were available. They had to do.

My early years did not cause me any significant vocal problems. The difficulty arose when I wanted to join a fraternity in college. There was a requirement for neophytes, during the last week of their pledge period, to render a sung request before being allowed to enter the House. During this week, I spent hours waiting patiently to be granted permission by any brother who would finally take pity on me. I almost gave up trying to join the fraternity.

In my adult years I was unable, physically and emotionally, to sing out-loud. This was especially true at church, where, with post-Vatican II reforms, everyone was encouraged to participate. Later, when I was ordained as a Permanent Deacon in the Catholic Church, my pastor agreed I could pray without singing. He, too, was a compassionate man.

I retired from an active role in the Diaconate at the right time. The current Cardinal-Archbishop of the Diocese of Galveston-Houston loves singing and strongly encourages all of his clergy to chant whenever the Liturgy calls for it. Once more, I escaped my earthly torment.

Yes, from my early years in operettas, I learned if I’m perfect at anything, it’s being a perfect monotone. Perhaps, someday, I will be able to sing out, with joy, in the heavenly choir.

Before little boys entered the first grade, in the early 1940’s, they wore short pants. Not long, short-pants; but short, short-pants. If you had to dress up, maybe for going to church, a “good pair of long pants” was acceptable, but be sure you had suspenders, the narrow, clip-on kind. The suspenders could also be useful for those shorts. In many instances, suspenders may have been mandatory to keep the pants from falling down at inappropriate times, like when running fast.

With entrance into the first grade, little boys were allowed to wear knickers. Only advertisements in the stores might call them “knickerbockers.” They were the in-between version for pants. The trouser leg came to just below the knee. The young boy’s lower legs were protected from scratches by long stockings.

If you were well-dressed, the bottoms of the knickers were secured by a button or two immediately below the knee. Many mischievous boys went with falling socks due to unbuttoned knickers; mine were always buttoned. Although the knickers might be either gray or dark brown, or most likely black, their major, consistent property was that they were made of corduroy cloth. Knickers always made a swishing sound. They hissed and went whip-whap with every step. Every teacher knew immediately when a little boy walked up behind her; there was no quiet entrance. I tried to walk quietly but seldom went unheard.

Kickers went the way of other breeches once worn by Washington, Jefferson and other founding fathers. A boy could wear kickers in the first grade, but never in the second. However, they could not get rid of the sound accompanying long, corduroy pants. Teachers still knew when a little boy approached from behind. Fortunate boys were able to shed their corduroy by the fifth grade.

What kickers were for little boys, pinafores must have been for little girls, even if they were not made of corduroy. Little girls were Shirley Temples; young boys were the little rascals.

Little boys wore short pants, knickers and corduroys but seldom tried them on before they were bought. If mom made a buying mistake, she could always return them for another size. Shoes were different. I enjoyed going with my mother to buy shoes. It was fun.

When I tried on different pairs of shoes to learn which might be the right size and, therefore, wearable for a few months, I could look at my feet inside of the durable leather covers. Yes, the fluoroscope was the fun part of shopping for shoes. With X-ray vision, I saw how my toes wiggled inside of them.

My mother or the saleslady looked through the observer’s porthole while I viewed my feet through the main one. I wondered if she saw them upside-down. The wearer could look through only one opening at the view screen below and not both portholes located opposite to one another. If my mother bought shoes for herself, I did not have the chance to see her wiggle her toes. Of course, the real purpose for the fluoroscope was not to see me wiggle my own toes, but rather for the adults to see what space existed around my feet. Was it sufficient for me to “grow into my shoes?”

When it was discovered that fluoroscopy was dangerous for young, growing feet, shopping for shoes was no longer fun. It was just another task little boys had to endure. It was no more fun than looking for new knickers.

Moving from the first grade to the second grade is our introduction to the societal need, or personal desire, for advancement. True success is marked not only by the promotion, itself, but with the signs accompanying it. For a grade-school kid, this is more than a mere change from knickers to long pants. Symbolism remains important throughout adult lives too. The number of windows in our workplace becomes a measure of our progress in the company. There is an ultimate desire for the corner office with all of its perks.

When I entered the second-grade classroom at Lincoln Elementary, I was overjoyed. I had made it! A grand future awaited me. I liked being with Miss Dunlap for the first grade and would miss her, but Mrs. Davis, the second-grade teacher, should also be nice. It would be a very good year.

This second year passed quickly and pleasantly with Mrs. Davis, but I was very eager to advance to the third grade. I looked forward to having Miss Scully for my new teacher. Anticipating another great year, I was totally unprepared when the Principal called me into her office to inform me that, on the next morning, I was to report to Mrs. Davis, the second-grade teacher I had last year.

I was being demoted! That was my immediate, horrified thought. Then the next unverbalized questions exploded inside my head. What had I done to deserve this? Had I failed to do something last year? Had the third-grade teacher, whom I had just met, taken an instant disliking to me?

I didn’t cry there in the Principal’s office. It wasn’t until I met Mrs. Davis, on the way back from my meeting with her, that my tears poured forth. As the sobs came, so did my questions: why was I being forced to go back to the second grade? What had I done wrong? Why was I being held back a year?

Mrs. Davis assured me: I had done nothing wrong. I was not being held back. I was not being demoted. She told me of about the new way Lincoln Elementary would be doing things, the new “policy” – but she didn’t use that word. Starting tomorrow, the second through fifth grade would now be taught on a split-class basis.

Beginning with the 1943-44 school year, the second-grade classroom would continue to have five rows of students, with three of them being at the regular, second grade level; the remaining two rows would be for the third grade. While sitting in the second-grade classroom, I would really be in the third grade. As a third grader, I would help her with the students in the second grade.

I believed her. All of the third graders were chosen to help her teach second graders! I felt better. This is probably what my Principal intended would happen. Unfortunately, she had not described it that way during my visit with her.

I had Mrs. Davis for both the second and the third grade and, later, Miss Scully for both the fourth and fifth grade. The sixth grade remained the sole province of Mrs. Sullivan, and later, Mrs. Mortz.

For me, the system did have positive results. It gave me my first experience as a teacher. I helped tutor individual second-graders and, later, fourth-level students when I, myself, was in the fifth grade. These interactions gave me sufficient pleasures and rewards to inspire me to want to become a teacher when I grew up. My “demotion” provided me with the incentive to do what I have enjoyed doing whenever the opportunity came my way over the next eighty years. My love for teaching began at an early age. Going backwards may be going forward, if you change your perspective.

What I did or may have done in my elementary school days has vanished except for a few particles glimpsed in the mists of a fading memory seventy years afterwards. The causes for their disappearances vary. Mere aging and its accompanying forgetfulness are, no doubt, major ones. My confusion on exactly when they were created may also be a result of those years in strangely split classes. I no longer recall if something happened in the third, fourth, or fifth grade. Was the action accomplished under the watchful eye of Miss Dunlap, Mrs. Davis, Miss Scully or Mrs. Sullivan?

Only particles remain, like floating dust motes in bright sunshine. Perhaps elementary school memories may also seem like the boxes of the Periodic Chart of physical elements. Memories can be collected and organized in their own boxes.

Within one box I see two sheets of paper, each bearing a drawing. One sheet has four adjoining squares making up a single block. Each area is colored with a different crayon. Elemental red, green, blue and yellow. The images are large; the crayon has been deposited in a variety of directions. The red goes both up and down, and side-to-side. Also, diagonally. Part of a colored box may be light; other parts have heavy deposits of color. The only requirement had been to stay within the lines of each block. I had; I did not just “scribble”: I got an A+ for my work – not only for art, but also, for following instructions. My mother saved the paper for many years. It has now vanished.

The second sheet of paper displays a tree, actually two trees with bushy curvatures of green leaves and well-formed branches. The tree on the left is printed with the purple lines of a ditto machine. The reproduction on the right is drawn with a pencil. Each student had to make a freehand copy of the ditto-tree and color both of them with crayons. My teacher, probably Miss Dunlap in the first grade, criticized me. She accused me of tracing the tree instead of redrawing it. On close examination, it’s observable that there are slight differences in the two structures. My hand-to-eye coordination was judged to be exemplary. Again, I got an A+. I’m not sure how long my mother kept these examples of my early accomplishments or where, along the way, I discarded them.

The only other academic activity I recall is learning how to write. Hand-to-eye coordination was also helpful when letters must be formed between two parallel lines or placed so part of the letter goes below the bottom line. For comfort with cursive, there was the reproduction of rows of o’s – either overlapping or sitting side-by-side. This exercise may no longer be used. My grandchildren seldom use cursive; any manually produced writing uses block letters. By the end of the next decade, it will be unlikely that anyone under the age of thirty will be able to read correspondence kept from my own adolescence.

In a short time, the source of all to be read will be electronic. On the other hand, I have a strong memory of a classroom reading table. We stood around it when we learned how to read, so it must have been in the first or second grade. The one I especially remember was light green. It was not flat, but shaped like a long tent. Our books could be propped on it as we attempted to read from them.

I also recall this table for a personal disaster as well as for its intended use. Almost all members of the class had to go individually to the Nurse’s Office for some kind of vaccination. I had already received mine before starting the schoolyear and remained in the classroom. However, as the students returned to the room and continued their lesson at the reading table, the odor of the alcohol, which had been used to sterilize the injection sites on their arms, increased dramatically. The fumes finally reached a level resulting in my passing out and hitting my head on the reading table before I ended up on the classroom floor. I’ve disliked and tried to avoid shots, ever since. Not all elementary particles are recalled with pleasure.

One of my more painful memories is centered on my cousin, Fremont. He was the son of my father’s brother, Freemont. (Yes, the spelling did differ for the two of them.) One of the limited commonalities we had was our last name. We both did very well in school; but that’s about where it ended. He was a year younger and may have felt the competition more keenly, the need to excel at what we knew and did. Physically he was much thinner, almost fragile. The family story claimed he had rheumatic fever at a young age. More importantly, over the years, he became much more popular than I. Each year in high school he was elected class president. Later, he was elected mayor of Niles and served in that role for well over twenty years.

Our mutual warfare began at an early age; I was in the second grade. We did play together, especially when we were at our grandparent’s house. One day when it was time to leave, to walk the mile to our individual homes that were only a few blocks from one another, it was discovered that his sister, Mary Ann, who had already been driven home, had accidently left her baby doll behind. My Aunt Mary thought it should be returned to her immediately and Fremont was assigned the task of bringing it home. He refused. Being older, I was then given the responsibility. I reluctantly carried the thing by a leg as Fremont and I trudged homeward. It was then that our battle began.

Although I had no desire to undertake the transfer of the baby doll, Fremont made the journey even more unbearable. He teased and mocked me without mercy. Every time we passed a group of kids as we hurried down the street, he would shout out for all the boys to look at me with my baby doll, how I loved playing with baby dolls, how I could not resist carrying mine wherever I went and how I was a real sissy and should be avoided at all costs. I grew angrier and angrier but there was nothing I could do, except walk as fast as possible and dangle the object as far away from my body as I could. I had been given the duty and had to carry it through. We finally got to my house. I threw the baby doll onto the back porch; now Fremont would have to undertake the terrible transfer. There was one more action for me to take. I had to beat him up.

There in my backyard, I began to punch him, to wrestle him, to force him to the ground, to make sure he knew how mad I was and that I would not be teased and mocked like that ever again. His wails quickly brought my father onto the scene. When he saw Fremont as the underdog, he yanked my arm, spun me around and began to spank me, hard. I was not supposed to beat up my cousin who was not well. My attempted explanation concerning the cause for my actions was unheard by the avenger. As further punishment I was to go to bed without any supper. Fremont scrambled up, grabbed the baby doll and headed home.

The battle over the baby doll had results vastly exceeding the behaviors of the moment. During the following years, my cousin and I had limited interactions. The major outcome, however, was the influence the encounter had on strengthening the feeling of hatred I held against my father, the one I referred to for decades afterwards as “He” or “Him,” both in spoken and written forms.

Yes, there were other causes for the spectrum of negative feelings I had against “Him,” but the earliest one I remember is this one. Not because I was spanked and sent to bed without supper, both being classical punishments for wrongdoing. Instead, I saw them as indications of His lack of trust in what I said; of His sticking up for a cousin who deserved his comeuppance; and His view that I was not worth defending myself under any circumstances. As I lay on my bed, hungry for what was being served downstairs, these thoughts and feelings took root within me. Over the years they grew into a deep despair that nothing positive would ever come from any interaction between me and Him. For the rest of my life, that baby doll had become a very heavy load to carry with or without further mockery from Fremont.

I lived on the corner of Cedar and Seneca. Across the street, catercorner to my house, was the city-block occupied by Lincoln Elementary. The two-story, redbrick and granite-trimmed schoolhouse covered only a small part of the land. The building had eight classrooms, four on each floor, along with the Principal’s Office and one for the School Nurse. Seven of the rooms housed classes; the eighth was dedicated to school assemblies. In the center of the building two, well-worn sets of wooden stairs connected the floors, one set for going up, the other for coming down. On the outside there were eight, iron fire-escapes: forbidden territory, although very tempting for climbing adventures when school was not in session.

Perhaps the best feature of this block in the neighborhood was not the school itself, but its playground. It was a one minute walk from my house at any time of the year, but summertime was best. I devoted many hours to this piece of landscape.

Nearest to my house was the tall slide. It was probably not as tall as its name implied, but for young kids, it seemed like the top of the world. My speed sliding down was increased dramatically after a few descents on seats of wax-paper from my mother’s cupboard. How long I could sit on top of the slide and view the entire playground varied with the size of the next kid in line.

Not far from the slide were the teeter-totters. Depending upon where the fulcrum was placed, I could have one or two opponents sit across from me for a contest of who could shove off the hardest and see who lost his seat at the top of the arc. When no one else was around, it was a challenge to determine how long I could balance the board while lying on my back, or stomach.

Swinging was also competitive. How high could I pump with my head held back and look at the moving sky before I became too dizzy to continue any longer? The jungle-gym bars were not as competitive, unless you included how long you could hang from your knees, which I never tried. As for the nearby spinning-wheel ride, I hoped to have an older teenager with long legs stand on the far side and push off repeatedly to make the rotation faster.

When I was a first or second grader, my favorite site was the sand box, where I could use Klondike sticks in order to construct castles, until some older kid would bust them down. It was best to use the sand early in the summer, before the neighborhood cats found it for their personal hygiene.

The playground was large enough for softball, and there was a single basketball hoop near the school, itself, but they were used by teenagers. For some unknown reason, my immediate neighborhood did not have many boys who were my age. Girls in the area greatly outnumbered the guys.

Living so close to the playground I could pick and choose the times and sites for my pastime. I preferred to engage in actions I could do by myself. Besides, I never was really into team sports or athletics. Occasionally I would play ping-pong in the basement of the school building. There was a multipurpose activity-room and storage area, during summer hours it could be accessed through a ramplike cellar-door. For me, that site was primarily a cool place on a sweltering day, where I could do craftwork, making “stained glass windows” using glass and colored tinfoil from candy wrappers which had been painstakingly smoothed-out. The figures on the glass were shaped with heavy black paint to resemble the lead outlines of true stained-glass windows. I also enjoyed braiding wrist bands from narrow, colored leather straps; the results were presented as gifts to young relatives.

Although there were rules for the use of each piece of equipment (don’t bang the empty teeter-totter boards on the ground, don’t twist the chains on the swings or stand on them to pump higher, and don’t climb the fire escapes) the major concern for most kids, including me, was to be aware of those who really ruled the playground, the guys who ended each ball game with a wrestling match or those who did not climb the fire escapes but sat on them and smoked a cigarette or two, especially in the evening. School playgrounds offered opportunities for learning the rules of social life and things that went far beyond the learning found in schoolbooks.

Playgrounds are for organized play; neighborhoods are for unorganized play and observation. My neighborhood consisted of the four blocks along North Cedar Street from Troutman’s drug store, on the corner of Cedar and Robbins Avenue, to Pearl Street. Between Robbins and Pearl were an unnamed alley, Seneca Street and Cherry Street, the eastern border for the Lincoln Elementary School playground. Beaver Street ran parallel to Cedar Street. My parish church, Our Lady of Mt Carmel, was on the corner of Beaver Street and Robbins Avenue.

Within a half-dozen blocks I could readily visit not only my grade school and parish church, but also the local drug store, grocery store (Morabito’s Italian) and Isaly’s dairy where I could buy five-cent ice-cream cones. Robbins Avenue was also the site for Rossi’s Funeral Home and the offices of Dr. Claypool, the family physician. We had no real need for a car, which is a good thing, since my father continually refused to buy one.

Across the street from our front porch there was a two-story apartment house, which had been converted to accommodate the Church of the Nazarene on the first floor. The second story had a single apartment. For several years it was occupied by my Aunt Vi, Uncle Chick (pronounced with a long “I”) and my cousins RoseMary and Donna Weida.

Mrs. Andrew, a wealthy widow, resided in the opposite corner house; we rented our own house from her. Behind her brown house, across from our backyard, with its vegetable garden, was a yellow house she owned. It was occupied by Mrs. Corbett, who gave me piano lessons for two or three years. Mrs. Corbett had a son, Jim, who was also a friend of mine, although not as close as Jimmy Rossi, the one who had died of polio. Several years later, when the Corbetts moved out, my parents and I moved into this house, where I lived until leaving for college.

The neighborhood looked like many found in small towns in Ohio in the middle of the twentieth century. The residential streets were lined with elm trees, long gone now as the result of blight. Buckeye trees were more fun. I gathered their nuts and strung them on string chains. I wondered what would really happen if I ate one, having been warned not to. Elm and buckeye leaves were also great for raking into piles each fall so that we kids could jump in them before re-raking them for burning at the curb. Was there any fragrance that smelled more like autumn incense than burning leaves?

The sidewalks were made from grey, slate slabs, about three feet on each side. Magnificently smooth for roller-skating, with bumps in between, especially if the tree roots pushed them upwards to different heights. The slabs were still better than the poured, concrete road pavement that caused my roller-skates to vibrate as I passed over it.

My house, like many others, had grey, plank-siding. The overlapping boards would send my tennis ball in a variety of directions unless I bounced it just right against the outside wall facing Seneca. Most houses were constructed, like mine, near the front street, with a very small yard and a covered porch with spindle-rails. This was a good place to sit on a rainy day, especially on our two-seat swing suspended from the porch roof.

Yes, the front porch was the place to watch people walking by; to wave to some; and to chat with a few. Each open porch was a place for play and for observation of small-town life lived outdoors.

It is often claimed the success of any enterprise depends upon “location, location, location.” This summary is equally true for life, itself. The beginning decades of mine depended upon location, location, location, even when the sites were limited. I’m told the first one for me was 20½ N. Cedar, the second-story apartment above a hardware store, one for mechanical tools, not electronics!

I was born on my maternal grandparents’ farm in Mineral Ridge, Ohio. My parents and I lived in the Cedar apartment for only a short time after my birth. The first house I remember was a mere block away, 44 N. Cedar. Technically Cedar Street was divided North and South by Robbins Avenue, but few made the distinction, unless you lived south of “The Avenue.”

I lived in the Cedar Street house until the seventh grade. Toward the end of that school year, we had to move from this rented house. I don’t know why. Perhaps Mrs. Andrews sold it to someone else. My father did not believe in owning a house. In order for me to complete the seventh grade at Washington Junior High School, the middle school I attended after Lincoln, we lived for several months with my paternal grandparents on “The Avenue.”

Then, in the summer of 1948, we moved to Mineral Ridge and lived with my maternal grandmother, while I attended the eighth grade and the first six weeks of the ninth at Mineral Ridge High School. The months I lived there were the happiest of all my years prior to going away to college.

After a little more than a year of country living, we moved back to the old neighborhood and rented another house owned by Mrs. Andrews, 440 Seneca Street. This was where Jim Corbett and his mother, my onetime piano teacher, had lived while we had resided on Cedar Street.

For the Cedar house, I remember the living room, or parlor, was the first room entered through the front door. It had pink wallpaper with large white flowers and bright green leaves. I don’t remember anything about the furniture, but there must have been an upright piano, since this was when I began lessons at our future-home across the street. There was also a walled-in fireplace with its still-visible mantle. Santa Claus would never be able to enter the room, but my father once showed me an opened vent in the furnace pipes in the cellar that Santa used one year.

To the right of the parlor was the room filled by an all-purpose dining table with its chairs and sideboard. Directly behind the parlor was the kitchen with its attached pantry that included a sink overlooking our future home on Seneca. The kitchen led to the back porch, without any railing to keep kids on or off, and to the backyard with its victory garden with rows of corn, tomatoes and green vegetables that added to our meals during World War II.

The second floor, accessed by an enclosed staircase from the kitchen, had two and one-half bedrooms and a bathroom. My parents’ room faced Cedar Street, mine Senaca. There was a small area, a one-half bedroom, between my room and the bathroom. I don’t remember much about my bedroom. I must not have spent too much time there. At times it blends into my images of my bedroom in the house across the street where we lived during my teenage years. The half-bedroom held a narrow bed which my mother used on the nights she bailed out from her snoring husband.

The scary, dark, and damp cellar held a coal-burning furnace with its adjoining storage bin for black rocks delivered every few weeks through a small window near the ceiling. The open space at the foot of the stairs housed tubs for soaking clothes before they were placed in the washing-machine with its noisy, back-and-forth rotor and attached wringer through which clothes were passed before they were hung to dry, during the winter months, on lines in the cellar. The odor of wetness evident on the first floor indicated which days were wash-days. Spring, summer and fall allowed for lines in the backyard and the magnificent fragrance of clothes dried outdoors.

I, myself, spent as much time outside as I possibly could. It enabled me to escape from the constant arguments which occurred within the walls on Cedar Street during each season of the year.