Husky On Edwards (Draft, First Six Chapters)

Husky on Edwards (Draft) Greg Kreisman
Husky on Edwards
by
Gregory Kreisman
Draft, first six chapters
1
Husky brings to mind a noble arctic dog with the spirit and power of a wolf,
majestically running over a snowy, windswept landscape. This is exactly the wrong
husky for our story. The husky I am referring to is corduroy or denim. Husky is a
size. Husky was the name of Sears department stores' largest size for young boys.
There is no wolf like spirit here; the closest thing is sweaty armpits and chafed legs.
Huskies were made from a treated fabric that would be pulled uncomfortably tight
over pudgy frames. The fabric would resist staining. The fabric acted like a personal
a drop cloth for fat kids. It would resist spills of coke, cool-aid, BBQ and pasta sauce,
as they trail from the mouths of over eager eaters. Mothers can then simply wipe
away the drops of sauce and dribbles, from these errant gobbles and chews.
Huskies are for that special type of American child, the one who overindulges, the
glandular, the big boned. And it was to this weighty child's mother, that Sears
marketed the clothing line. A mother buys Huskies for their child for practical
reasons, not for aesthetic ones. And it is the child who must suffer the indignity of
the brand, or wear it with pride. This is the story of an unapologetic, heavyweight,
Husky wearer, waddling over the landscape of a middle American town, above
average in every way that is physically possible.
Edwards is a street on the near south side of St. Louis. Missouri, a city founded in the
late seventeen hundreds at the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi rivers. Most
people who are not from there, associate it with Huck Fin and his raft. The city has
several major league sports franchises, hockey, baseball and football, for which it is
also widely known.
St. Louis has large Catholic and Jewish populations that it owes to nineteenth century
immigration from Italy, Germany and Eastern Europe. The 'Louis' in St. Louis is
often pronounced Louie by people living south of the the old Mason Dixon line. But
none of the papists or Jews who actually live there would say Louie. The Catholics,
Jews, and most everyone else who lives there, pronounce it Louis, in a distinctly
northern way.
In the nineteenth century St. Louis was the fourth largest city in the United states.
And during that gilded age the city was outfitted with beautiful public buildings and
social resources as gifts from wealthy philanthropists, like the St. Louis library, art
museum, Forest Park and the symphony orchestra.
The worlds fair was held there in 1904 and transformed a large part of the city's rural
areas into a world stage for the exhibition of the emerging modern world.
When I was young my grandfather, Bud Whacker, used to tell me that just about
every modern convenience was invented at the 1904 worlds fair. Inventions such as
ice cream cone and the hotdog bun were believable, but the paperclip, the garden-hose
and the can-opener, what's more, the car window roller-upper and roller-downer, the
club sandwich and the toothpicks used to hold that invention together, seemed, to me,
a bit too much. Think of some invention, anything, a soda bottle top or copper wire,
for example, Grandpa would proudly say it was invented at the worlds fair.
2
The 1904 Worlds Fair left a powerful lasting impression on the city, a high water
mark of cosmopolitan possibility and importance.
The twentieth century was less kind to St. Louis. It saw its population slip to the
ranks of the 52nd city in America. And far from being a world stage, it became more
of a quaint museum, with a few bright spots of culture supported and protected from
ubiquitous social ills and urban decline.
This cultural St. Louis was a world physically close to Edwards street, in the south
side of the city, but conceptually far afield from my world, which consisted of a two
story converted duplex at 2015 Edwards. This two story building on a small lot in a
dying city in the Midwest marks my origin. This building formed my original celestial
sphere; a young boy's universe constructed of red brick. This small world of mine
was situated in the little Italy section the city bordering both the Irish and Jewish
quarters.
For most of my young life there was just five people living at Edwards, my mother,
sister, grandmother and grandfather and me. The Edwards house was built just after
the Worlds Fair as were many of the buildings in the surrounding ethnic
neighborhoods. The bricks of these buildings were reclaimed from temporary
structures used for the Worlds Fair exhibition. Some of the bricks were glazed with
different colors and were smooth to the touch like semi opaque ancient glass. I have
a lasting tactile memory of feeling the smooth glaze on the bricks of our house. The
glazed bricks were gathered together in batches of mismatched colors, like a
patchwork quilt over the buildings of the ethnic neighborhoods. These bricks often
formed a beautiful color pallet that, I believe, was most elegantly demonstrated in the
brick shed in the back yard of our Edwards house.
The ethnic neighborhoods shared these glazed bricks as a meager but fitting family
inheritance from the World's Fair. But that is perhaps just a small part of the Fair's
impact on these neighborhoods which were built in the shadow of the great
exhibition. There was no shortage of colorful stories. St. Louisans called the Irish
neighborhood dog town, and not out of some ethnic slight against the Irish. Rather, to
hear my grandpa tell it, it's a ethnic slight against the Chinese.
Grandpa maintained that a group a primitive Chinese people were displayed at the
Worlds Fair. But the exhibitions ran out of money and they had to cut the Chinese
free, instead of sending them back home.
"you know let them out of their cages.", Grandpa said
"Cages, Grandpa?", I replied
"OK maybe not cages but some sort of hut or other kind of enclosure. The important
thing is the fair organizers just let them fend for themselves."
"Now Greg," Grandpa continued, "do you know what Chinese people eat?"
3
"No Grandpa. Chinese food?, I said imagining something like cat food.
"Chinese food!" Grandpa retorted, irritated by the tautology, "No, son, they eat
dogs."
"Dogs?" I answered quizzically, "No they don't, grandpa. They couldn't."
"Yes, son, they would eat Rover or Spot. They eat dogs just as we eat pigs. And
you'd probably eat the neighbors' dog too, if Grandma were late with your lunch."
"Grandpa that's mean," I complained but deep down suspected it to be true.
"So, as I was saying," Grandpa continued,"they let these Chinese guys go fend for
themselves right in the city as if it was in their jungle home.
"Back then things were different, the city did not have all these buildings and
highways. They had just invented all that crap at the Worlds Fair so it didn't quite
circulate yet.
"So these Chinese guys holed up in some trees and bushes right near where Paddy's
pub is now, on the south side of the park.
"You know Paddy's, they got the burger you like."
"yes, Grandpa, just near the park."
"So they holed up there in some trees. But they were getting hungry and they didn't
have no money, no Chinese money, or real money."
"What did they do Grandpa?"
"They made arrows and bows out of stuff just lying around," Grandpa continued, "like
from the trees and garbage. I guess it was the head Chinese guy that had the plan. He
was thinking, that if you give a man a fish he eats for a day. But the river was like
seven miles away; and they didn't have fishing poles; they had arrows. So, the head
Chinese guy instructs them to hunt dogs."
"Dogs! How did they eat them?
"The Chinese guys hunt them and then the Chinese ladies skin, and cook them."
"But your not getting the story boy, Grandpa continued, now, somewhat frustrated,
"This ain't a recipe, fatty. I am trying to tell you a story about ingenuity and hard
work. "It's about the railroads, laundry and about those funny hats you see 'em
wearing.
Grandpa put his hands to the corner of his eyes and and gave a big smile and said in
an accent, "Ancient Chinese secret."
4
"Ancient Chinese secret," I parroted in reply.
"Now, Greg, where do you think they found the dogs?", Grandpa questioned
pedagogically.
"Dog houses, maybe," I replied.
"Yes, Greg, dog houses, in back yards, that's a good start. But are you going to feed
the whole Chinese community that way."
"No, I guess not," I answered, "but maybe he's a big dog and he can feed a lot of
them. "
"You ain't thinking boy," Grandpa said, harshly correcting me. "You got to use
strategy, like a general. "What is it that dogs want?"
"Bones, maybe?" I answered cautiously
"Yes, bones, but what else?" Grandpa asked again.
"Dog houses," I answer returning to my previous thought.
"Get off that already, Greg. What dogs want are cats."
"Cats, Grandpa?'
"Yes cats," Grandpa stated authoritatively. "So what they do is, these Chinese guys
stay holed up in those woods. Now they made their arrows. And remember, that
they're half naked, mind you. Now these Chinese guys came on down here to little
Italy we we live now."
"Why's that?" I asked.
"We'll you know how your Grandma, is a Dego WOP. That's an Italian immigrant
without papers. Get it W. O. P. ; with out papers.
"Well, Greg, you know what Dego WOPs eat?"
"Spaghetti", I replied
"No Greg, they eat roof-rabbits, or what we call them in plain English, cats."
"Oh, grandpa no, it can't be."
"That's the honest truth", Grandpa continued. "These Chinese guys came down and
stole some of the Dego WOPs' cats and used them for traps, to catch dogs.
5
"The Chinese tied the cats to a tree with transparent sausage casing, and waited on the
dogs in the trees. The dogs were up-wind and get the smell of the cats. And then
BLAM! "The Chinese shot the dogs with arrows."
"The Chinese used the Italian's cats to trap dogs," I said, "It all sounds so sad."
"Now you got it, Son," Grandpa said, patting me on the head. "it was a more barbaric
time. And you know that created the longstanding mistrust between the Italians and
the Chinese, that is, until the Irish moved in."
Squirrel Highway
So my childhood home was this red brick, two story building, built just after the 1904
Worlds Fair. It was positioned on the east side of Edwards street, in the middle of a
small city block. An alley ran along the south end of the house. The alley was like a
country road misplaced in the middle of the city, a relic left partially paved with
weeds and wildflowers growing 12 inches on either side.
The two story house was remarkably small. Not even 30 feet from front door to back
door, and less than 25 feet from side to side. It was originally intended to be 4 family
flat, so it had two doors of the on the first and second floor. Each floor was cut into
four pieces, which made four rooms, two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room.
Indoor plumbing and bathrooms were put in just before my grandparents moved in.
The original intention of 4 families living in just two rooms a piece with no plumbing
or bathrooms always seemed quite rough. Knowing that, some how, made this place
seems like a castle, as our one family was living where 4 families had lived before.
The building was tall and boxy. It had a flat roof. But it was certainly not square to
precision. The tall walls of the house seemed to be in a slow-motion sway, when
viewed from the sidewalk. I am not sure whether this was an optical illusion of
perspective or poor craftsmen-ship, I suspect a bit of both.
There were first and second story stone and concrete balconies, that ran the length of
the front side of the house. They were merely three feet wide but each of the four
front doors had access to them. The ornamental white sandstone was so soft, as
children, we could easily clear out a gash after a 10 minutes of rubbing. Some times I
would sit on the front porch soaking in the morning sun sitting next to my mother
who was cat napping in a folding chair. I would sit and feel the sandy residue beneath
my toes and working small indentation into the facade of the building.
The only problem was that the second floor balcony by design or accident leaned
toward the street, and and gave the impression that you could easily fall to the street
below. A three foot tall black metal railing was the only protection. I was often
cautioned not to lean against the railing, heavy as I was, as it seemed to be loosely
attached to the stone pillars with rusty metal screws, some of which had already
broken free from the crumbling sandstone.
6
I would safely survey my neighborhood hugging one of the sandstone pillars for
balance. You could see clear to the next street and over the one story houses in our
neighborhood. When I stood there I felt as if I was up in the aether. From that
rarefied air you could launch a paper air pane clear down the block if you folded it
really well. Across the street was a single story sausage making plant. It was started
by and catered to the Italian immigrants in the neighborhood. There were no
windows facing us, just white cinderblock walls with a black tar roof. During the
summer the smell of the meat curing was only overpowered by an occasional coating
of fresh tar on its roof.
Power lines, suspended on tall wooden posts, ran up and down the block. Fat electric
cables and thin phone lines connecting and crisscrossing all of the neighborhood
homes. Leaning, like I wasn't supposed to, I could almost touch one of the lines, a big
post was less than two feet from the tip of my chubby little finger.
These lines may have been intended just to carry power, but their other use seemed far
more natural and exotic. It is what we called squirrel highway.
Grandpa took me outside. We'd left the back gate walked up the alley to the front of
the House. We were facing east looking at the front of the house. He told me to look
up. Just to the right of her house was a tall electrical pole a good 12 feet above our
porch. To the left of our house was another electrical pole just as high, with clunky
ceramic resistors and hulking electrical capacitors. As we were on the corner of we
were a hub for the neighborhood power grid. That powerful electrical grid connected
the East and West of the neighborhood. It had two thick heavy black wires, and stood
just 6 feet above our porch. Four feet above those wires, ran a second smaller series of
cables. Grandpa told me those were for the telephone.
Squirrels would run up and down the poles, over the lines, jumping from tier to tier,
from crowded thick cables to thin telephone lines. The squirrels would exit at trees,
jumping onto branches, or exit at buildings, jumping onto roofs, or even exit on our
porch.
"Now boy," he said, "see that pole?"
"Yes, Grandpa."
"When you're upstairs with your mother, while she does her nails, don't you ever lean
over and try to touch those wires."
"Yes, Grandpa."
"They will fry you sure as anything," he said, now, patting me on my round tummy.
"And you would fry up real nice, apple in your mouth and everything."
"Cut it out, Grandpa."
"But Greg, I just wanted to tell you that I know your mother's been doing her nails a
lot. And staying out late at night, too. I just want to let you know that this is normal."
7
"It's OK," I said, "I like staying downstairs with you, on nights Mom stays out."
"Greg I want to tell you about squirrel Highway. Now you know how those squirrels
run back and forth along those wires. they can cross any direction in the city. The
squirrels can go up north to Jewish town. They can go down south with the Dutch.
They can even travel far of North and be with the blacks, but I don't think these like
squirrels want to do that.
"Now I'm telling you a story about a certain girl squirrel, who lived on squirrel
highway. This squirrel had a big fluffy tail. It was a real pretty color, kind of brown
and little red. It was like your mother's hair before she died it blond."
"Yes, I remember, Grandpa, real pretty she called it all burn hair, which sounds kind
of bad to me."
"That's right Greg. This auburn haired squirrel had a real nice family. She had a
mother that went to squirrel mass almost every day. But this auburn haired squirrel
like to run about. The mother and father squirrel sent her off to squirrel college, so she
could find a good squirrel husband and maybe even a decent job so she could bring
home some nuts. But, this auburn haired squirrel met a sad gray squirrel that she
thought had a lot of potential. This gray squirrel was going to be a squirrel doctor
taking care of a lot of sick squirrels. She and her squirrel parents thought this squirrel
doctor was going to have a lot of nuts.
"They'd both came running home on holidays. When the squirrel father met this gray
squirrel doctor, he thought the gray squirrel looked a bit different. His nose was much
longer bigger. Kind of like your nose, pudgy." Grandpa says, tweaking my nose.
"Cut it out, Grandpa," I said, pushing his hand away and looking up at the power
lines, looking out for other squirrels darting across them.
"This gray squirrel's nose was long and thin, with a black tip that darted back and
forth every time food was put on the table. The squirrel father thought the gray
squirrel's beady eyes, made him look like he was planning something. And one time
when the auburn squirrel, the gray squirrel and her parents were all sitting around the
table talking about tails, they all of a sudden set on what was so different about the
gray squirrel. That gray squirrels tail was bald as your bare ass."
"But, Grandpa, squirrels have bushy tails."
"Not this one Son. This tail was bald and segmented, like some kind of worm. It was,
really, really, ugly.
"Grandpa, that's a rat!"
"Well done Boy, you're not as stupid as the auburn squirrel." While patting me on the
shoulder, Grandpa quietly remarked, "I hate to think who you get that from."
8
"What's that? Grandpa."
"Never mind, Son. Back to the story.
"So the auburn squirrel and a the gray squirrel, or rat, get married. And It turns out
that the rat is not yet a full squirrel doctor. He still has a lot of work to do. And he
doesn't bring any nuts, whatsoever, back home. He even borrows nuts from the
auburn squirrel's parents.
"So the auburn squirrel is working really hard. And one day, a couple of squirrel
babies come along. One real fat one and a real skinny one. The fat one would eat a lot
of nuts too which made for more pressure.
"At this time, there is a big rodent war going on, far way from these squirrels' part a
squirrel highway. So the rat goes off to the rodent war. The auburn squirrel and her
children move in with her squirrel parents."
"Where is the rodent war, Grandpa?"
"Far away, Boy, where all the squirrels have different color skin, and low morals."
"Do the squirrels use guns?"
"Yes, Boy, of course they use guns. But the moral of this tale is that, this rat won't
ever be coming on squirrel highway.
"I know how you look out that window and how you sit on the porch, with your
mother, with her painted nails, and bleached blond hair. Just remember, when you're
watching those squirrels run up and down the thick black power lines, that the bald
tailed rat is never going to come back."
The Shed
My childhood home at 2015 Edwards was situated on a small lot. It was a rectangle
just 55 feet long and 25 feet wide. There was no front yard; the front of the building
sat directly against the sidewalk and street. The left side of the lot bordered a half-
paved alley, with weeds and wild flowers poking up through crumbling asphalt.
There were three round trash cans set toward the far end of the lot. The back of the
lot bordered a grass alley. This alley was unpaved and had dandelions and other
weeds were growing unchecked. The house took up half of the lot, with the remainder
left to a small back yard. Yards like this were commonly referred to as "postage
stamp" yards owning to their diminutive size. A brick shed stood at the far end of the
yard.
The shed was our lot's finest example of glazed bricks, reclaimed from the Worlds
Fair. All of the bricks used to make the shed were remarkable for diversity. The shed
9
had patches of deep greens, with dashes of reds, blacks, browns, and even the odd
bright yellow brick. It was a tiny, but sturdy structure, almost a perfect cube. It was a
mere 10 by 10 foot building. It had one window on the back wall with plywood
covering the glass. And, yet, even with the plywood, there was a blind hung over
window. The blind was open, and its metal louvers had been collecting dust for
several generations. There was a large green door offset to the left that smelled of
mildew. Long chips of green paint were peeling off its soggy wood. This door was
held shut with a large padlock. I remember being just tall enough to open it on my
own, if I wanted to lend a hand to my grandmother. When the door was open the
smell of mildew intensified, and mixed with the smell of tar, paint and oil, from long
forgotten household projects. There was very little light in the shed, as the only
window was blocked, and it had no electric lights. The only light came from the
doorway. I would cast a shadow as I peered in. I could just barely see the wooden
beams of the roof. They looked as if they were railroad ties. Strips of tar paper
slipped through the joints of the wooden beams, making an outline that could easily
be mistaken for a hanging bat. On the right side of the shed was a large deep shelf
that held most of the smaller tools and seemed to be home to every sort of bug and
creepy crawly. On the left side of the back wall there was the remains of the stove
pipe which outlasted the wood stove long which had long since been removed.
Spiders spun large webs at the end of this pipe, catching the few flies that found their
way down the now blocked chimney. The shed floor was concrete. Tools and
Bicycles and the lawn mower were kept on on the five feet of remaining floor space.
Grandma would cut the small lawn with a push lawn mower. It had a cylinder of
cork-screw blades attached to two small wheels. The wheels were so old they
reminded me of wagon wheels. The handle was little more than a modified shovel
handle. I would often take the lawn mower out for her, trying to make myself useful.
"Greg, bring out the rake and the scissors. And hurry up, on account it's going to
rain.", Grandma said.
I dragged the lawn mower behind me, its blade ratcheting harmlessly as it free-
wheeled. I carried the rake and the scissors in my chubby right hand.
"Can mow the lawn, Grandma?"
"OK Greg, but you gotta run over those dandy lions two or three times, they just lay
down and wilt, tricking you into thinking they're cut. But just when you turn you
back, there they go popping up again."
I ran the mower over the weeds, pulling it back and forth several times. Grandma
took the scissors and started to manicure the lawn, sniping at the edges where the
lawn met the concrete. These were not some sort of specialized gardening tool but,
regular scissors that you might use cut paper.
"Hold up Greg, we got some good dandy lions here."
I stopped mowing. Grandma got down on her hands and knees and started picking at
the weeds. Her body made a odd shape on the lawn. Her curly white hair was all you
could see of her head, as she bent face-down, pulling up the tender young dandelions.
10
Her backside stuck up in the air, and the two tails from her long coat fell backwards
onto her back. She looked as if she were a giant bunny rabbit with a fluffy white tail
and and a fat black face.
"How about these over here grandma?", I said pointing out other dandelions.
"No they ain't no good, if they got a flower already. They're too tough even if you
stew 'em."
She collected the weeds and set them in a pile in front of her. Still kneeling, she fixed
her jacket. She took an empty Wonder Bread bag out of her pocket. She shook the
bag. It caught a gust of wind, and opened. The bright circles of color on the Wonder
Bread bag made a stark contrast to Grandma's dreary black outfit. She looked as if
she were a nun carrying a golden chalice or gilded bible. She, then, picked up the
weeds and began to fill the Wonder Bread bag.
"OK Greg, that's about all the dandy lions in our yard. You finish up here, I am going
back to the grass alley and see If I can find enough dandy lions to round out a salad
for dinner."
I continued cutting the lawn. The wind was picking up and the sky turning gray. The
shed door was still open and the grass cuttings were being blown back into the dark,
dank shed.
"Greg where's Grandma gone to?", Grandpa said, sticking his head out the back of the
house.
"She's in the alley looking for dandelions, for salad."
"Damn, woman!" Grandpa shouts, toward the alley as he walks into the yard. "Why
you gotta pick weeds for dinner. Why can't we eat normal vegetables, like white
people. You don't have to go picking on the ground. Dogs shit there."
"Shut up Bud," she said while walking farther down the grass alley, to a particularly
bushy bunch of weeds.
"Hey Son," Grandpa said too me, "your grandma's got a big butt. That's where you
get if from, her side." He pats me on the stomach, "No wonder you eat so much
candy, with her feeding you weeds."
"I like them, Grandpa."
"Shit, kid, you'll eat anything that won't eat you first."
"Mary," Grandpa shouted, "get your ass back here, it's starting to rain."
Grandpa took the lawn mower out of my hand and kicked the blades with his leather
shoes. The cylindrical bade freewheeled backward and the thin blades of grass and
long dandelion stems flew off. He then put the mower back into the the shed.
11
"Greg, Bring the rake, its raining now."
Distant thunder reverberated. Grandma walked back into the yard leaving the metal
gate swinging behind her, her Wonder Bread bag full of fresh dandelions.
I drug the rake behind me and set it in the shed, Grandpa took the key out of my
hand, pausing to look into the shed, as the light faded. He gazed into the darkness, as
if trying to remember something. I stood next to him trying to look where he was
looking, trying to stand as he was standing, all the while, smelling his strong after-
shave mixed with, grass cuttings, mildew, oil and paint.
"You know what this used to be, do you?" Grandpa said, after a long pause.
"What, what used to be?"
"What the shed used to be."
"No Grandpa"
He points to the back of the shed, "Look at that, on the window, that's a venetian
blind. This used to be a venetian blind factory."
"What kind of factory?"
"A Venetian blind factory, He repeated. "Do you know how to make a Venetian
blind?"
"A venetian blind," I say pointing to the blind covering the the boarded-up window.
"No it looks kinda complicated. Grandma doesn't like me playing with the living
room blinds."
"Oh forget it. Get in the house. It's starting to rain. Sometimes you are stupider than I
imagine. But wait, tell me, Greg, who's buried in Grant's tomb."
"I don’t know. Is it someone famous?" I reply.
"Get in the house, and check on your sister!"
I run across the freshly mowed lawn and up the back steps. The back of the house
had a porch and balcony like the front, so I was now protected from the rain. The sky
was almost green as Grandpa finished locking the shed. He was wearing a hat, like he
always did. He locked the door and Grandma had walked beside him. She gave him a
kiss on the cheek. He hugged her, and after breaking free from the embrace, slapped
her on the butt. She was carrying the wonder bread bag full of young dandelions.
She had turned up her collar, as the rain started to come down more heavily. She
followed me, running up to the porch. Grandpa walked more slowly. The heavy
drops of rain were bouncing off his narrow brimmed hat and black trench coat.
12
Grandpa was a short man. He was bowlegged from malnutrition as a child. He was a
skinny man, who seemed to carry all his strength in his forearms and hands. His
shoulders were narrow and his back was slightly bent. I thought he walked like a
cowboy. He had straight gray hair that came to a pronounced widow's peak on his
forehead. He had a long crooked nose, kind eyes and a mouth that was most often
turned in a smile.
After grandpa comes up to the porch we all enter the house through the back door.
I run through the kitchen, straight into the living room where Angela was laying on
the floor watching TV on a large black and white television that was already a
museum piece. The picture was stretched at the sides, as the picture tube was rounded
like a small section of a sphere.
Angela was two years younger than me.
She was resting her head on her hands laying on the living room rug, her small frame
in skinny red corduroy pants and a white t-shirt with blue piping. I ran in and kicked
her foot. Then ran to the window and started playing with the blinds.
"Cut it out Greg!"
"Hey, Angela, look at this," I said, pulling on the blinds, quickly opening and closing
them. "This is a Venetian blind." Sh-wing, sh-wing.
"So what, who cares? You're not supposed to play with that. Grandma's going to
spank you."
Sh-wing, sh-wing, I continue opening and closing them. Sh-wing, swing.
"Angela did you know, that the shed used to be a Venetian blind factory. I bet you
don’t know how to make a venetian blind?"
"Who cares? Its just a stupid blind. Greg you're a dipstick dork."
"But look how well it works", I insisted. "Do you think the string goes up inside that
top part?" I say moving a chair toward the window too get a better look at the blind's
workings. Sh-wing, sh-wing.
"What time is mom coming home tonight?, Angela asked, completely ignoring my
investigation of the blinds. "I want to go upstairs to our house."
(The bottom four rooms of the house were Grandpa's and Grandma's The top four
rooms was where my mother, my sister and I lived.)
"I don't know," I replied. "She 's working." Sh-wing, sh-wing.
13
"Get down from there! And wash you hands, you little ragamuffin. You're getting dirt
all over the window sill. And look at your feet." Grandma smacked me on the butt. I
ran to the bathroom. "And you, little, lazy princess," she continued, addressing
Angela, "help me in the kitchen."
As Angela passed the bathroom door she stuck her tongue out at me.
The bathroom was small, less than four feet wide and and six feet long. It had a cast
iron tub with animal feet and a white, glazed basin, which grandma would scrub with
dry green detergent after every bath. The bathroom was done in black and white tile,
and it had a toilet that sat so high, my feet would barely hit the floor.
I followed them into the kitchen. Grandpa is sitting at the kitchen table reading the
paper and drinking a cup at of coffee that grandma pored from the peculator.
"So Grandpa tell Angela about the Venetian blind factory.", I said, sitting down at the
kitchen table across from Grandpa.
"Bud are you telling stories again?" Grandma said as while cleaning the dandelions in
the sink.
"I don’t care about a dumb old factory," Angela said.
"Here dear cut up these carrots," Grandma said to Angela, "but careful that knife is
sharp."
Grandpa remained quiet hid behind his news paper.
"I want to make a Venetian blind," I said, proudly. "It doesn't look too hard. Can I
use your tools?"
"Shut up, Greg! You're such a dork, blinds are stupid. I like curtains."
"You’re the dork Angela. I could make one I could make one. Curtains are for girls.
Blinds are cool tell her Grandpa. Tell her about the shed, tell her that it used to be a
factory, tell her."
"Damn, Boy!" Grandpa said putting the paper down, "You're too fidgety. Calm
down and I tell you about the factory."
"Oh Bud, you can go on all day can’t you," Grandma interjected.
"Well, Greg, you know we moved to his house when you mother was just a sweet
auburn haired girl. Long before she went blond. And long before you were a sparkle
in your father's beady eyes."
"Bud, please!" Grandma interrupted. "Just, tell him about the blinds."
14
"OK. Now listen, when we moved here, there was not a single thing over any of the
windows. The sun would come streaming through during the day. And at night the
street lights, and the car head lights would shine through. Grandma did try to sew
some curtains. They were real pretty to hang in in the window, but curtains can only
do so much especially in the summer.
"We were still moving in and hadn't explored the place, yet. The house was dirty and
I had just got my job at McDonald Douglass, and Grandma was busy taking care of
you of your mother and her older sister and and brother."
"You mean Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill?"
"Thats right Greg. We had just opened up the shed. There wasn't much in there no
bikes or lawn mower, just some burlap sacks covering something on the shelf.
What do you think we found?"
"Spiders?"
"Well hell, yes, spiders! But that’s not the important part. What do you think we
found? Think a bit this time, Greg. "
"Venetian blinds, Grandpa"
"Give this boy a treat Mary, he's beginning to think a little. Yes, venetian blinds.
Enough for every window in the house, even the bathroom windows. How many
windows is that?"
"Um lets see there's the downstairs living room, kitchen, bedroom, well a that’s..." I
said, counting slowly on my fingers.
"It's 18," Angela said confidently. "18 windows in the whole house, upstairs and
down stairs." She then continued cutting up carrots with a butter knife
"See your little sister is sharper than you are, tubby."
"Tubby! That's for sure," Angela repeated
"Shut up! Monkey face." I said directed at Angela.
"Now Greg don't go disturbing your sister when she is using a knife she might cut
herself." Grandma said.
"So we find 18 Venetian blinds," Grandpa continued, "and they're covered in a burlap
sack. Just the right number to fit over all the windows in the house. And we also find
a lot of spare louvers."
"Found a lot of spare what?" I said.
"Louvers kid, you know what a louver is?"
15
"What, Grandpa?"
"The louver is part of a blind, and it ain't the cord."
"The flat things that go up an down, Grandpa?"
"Yes another word for them is slats. Now Greg, there is a lot of art in a louver. And
in the shed we found a bunch of louvers, made of all different kinds of materials. And
there was this manuscript. Like a note book with all sorts of crazy designs. But at the
time I didn't think much of it."
"Bud, what are you going on about," Grandma interjected.
"After we moved in," Grandpa continued, "I met with some Italians who had been in
the neighborhood for years. They told me about the crazy guy who used to live in our
shed. He was from Italy just like the rest of the WOPs in this neighborhood.
"Greg can you guess what city he was from, remember we are talking about venetian
blinds?"
"Maybe, Rome, like the pope."
"No, not like the pope," Grandpa corrected, "This man was from Venice. He comes to
St. Louis around the time of the Worlds Fair and starts his business. This man always
wears a big hat because he doesn't like the sun.
"Back in Italy this man in the big hat, spent all his time in fancy museums looking a
pictures of fat naked ladies. Because back in Italy, especially in those days, they had
nothing but fat ladies. Your grandma would have made a good fat lady, if she stayed
in Italy."
"Be quiet Bud," Grandma said.
"Greg's never seen a naked lady, cause he's a big dork," Angela interjected.
"Have too!"
"Have not! Mom doesn't count."
"That doesn't matter Greg," Grandpa said interrupting the name calling, "there is
plenty of time for naked ladies.
"But this man from Venice, who wore a big hat, had a problem. In St Louis, at that
time, people did not like nudity, like they did in Europe. They would wear, maybe,
two or three layers of clothes. They would even put clothes on statutes, if it showed
too much leg and other bits."
"Really Grandpa?"
16
"It's true. They covered all the statues with flowing robes, until a naked Venus would
look like the virgin Mary."
"I think Mary is beautiful, like a princes," Angela said.
"So this man from Venice who wore a big hat because he didn't like the sun starts
manufacturing Venetian blinds, right here in our shed. But he also mixes in his other
interest-- naked ladies."
"Oh Bud what on earth are you going on about?"
"It was your Uncle Bill that discovered this," Grandpa continued. "Grandma, here,
doesn't know about it.
"Of course I don't Bud."
"Tell us! Grandpa, tell us!" Angela and I shouted.
"Your Uncle Bill uncovered a bunch of louvers. And these louvers were sort of odd,
in that they were white on one side but had some kind of colors on the other.
"One by one you couldn't tell that those louvers maid up a picture. But your Uncle
Bill was a patient boy who also had some interest in puzzles and naked ladies.
"He found that if you make a Venetian blind with those louvers, when you fully close
it, you get a picture of a naked lady, but when open it is hidden."
"Where is it Grandpa? I want to see it!"
"We don't have that thing, anymore. And good thing too, because looking at a picture
like that is not good for your eyes.
"In fact, that's what happened to that man from Venice. He spent so much time
closing the binds an looking at naked ladies, that he lost his sight."
"How about Uncle Bill?"
"Well, luckily, I took it away from him before that could happen. It just goes to show
you that there is more than one way to make a Venetian blind."
17
Italian Cream Bread and the Virgin Mary
At the end of our block was a bakery, Missouri Bakery. It was one of two other, two
story brick buildings on our block. The two story bakery and our two story house
seemed to form bookends for the one story houses shelved on the south side of the
block. I always thought our house had some special affinity to the Missouri Bakery
because of the two story-ness and of course the red bricks. But the most powerful
motivation for regarding the bakery as special was not this architectural similarity, but
the fact that they made food.
There speciality of the Bakery was the Italian bread. They called it cream bread. I
don't think it had milk in it. But that did not stop the Jewish in-laws from pausing
before talking a bite being concerned of Kosher law of dairy and meat when eating an
Italian sandwich.
This cream bread had a golden brown crust and seemed quite firm, but was in fact
light and fluffy inside. Sometimes a slice would have large pockets of nothingness
under the crust. I would feel cheated when I could see my salami peeking through.
When we bought this cream bread, we always bought it sliced. In its sliced form, it
was almost as mailable and grocery store Wonder bread. It lacked, however, the
colors and fan fair of the Wonder Bread bag.
While Grandma was in the basement, doing the laundry, while, Grandpa was napping
in his chair, and while Angela was laying on the brown carpeting watching TV, I
would sneak into the kitchen.
The kitchen had a counter made of plywood and covered with cheap material that is
supposed to look like marble. The same fake marble covered the kitchen floor.
Grandma used to call it linoleum. (I would often confuse linoleum for oleo which
was some kind of artificial butter. Grandma's house was like a reserve for endangered
words.)
Across that the linoleum floor sat a large gas stove. It was the kind with four burners
and a griddle under the hood, for special pancake days.
Next to the stove sat the earliest from of an automatic dish washer. I had a bread box
sitting on top, stocked with Italian cream Bread and Wonder Bread. (The dish washer
was on wheels. When it was loaded with dirty dishes, Grandma would move it butt up
the sink. Then, like some pornographic kitchen gesture, Grandma would have to pull
out its long hose, and with two hands attach it to the sink faucet.)
Next to the dish washer was the real hearth of the house. Traditionally this was the
stove. More modernly it could be argued that the TV is the nexus of family
interaction. But to a ten year old fat kid, the fridge is really the hearth. Grandma's
fridge was that special color green shared by many appliances in the seventies.
18
I never entered or left the kitchen without opening the fridge and looking inside at the
food, which was there for picking. The fridge held blocks of Velveeta cheese, tubs of
butter, and glass jars of jelly. There were apples, peanut butter and lunch meat. It
held baloney and the richest of the childhood meats, braunschweiger.
My chubby hands and food gathering reflexes had been honed, to the point where I
could deftly open the fridge, scan for the best target, snag some slice of ham or
salami, scoop a finger full of peanut butter or mayonnaise, and shut the fridge, before
being scolded.
Then kicking the fridge door shut with my right foot, I would hold the spoils in my
right hand. With my left hand, I would open the bread box that sat on top of the the
promiscuous dishwasher, and pull out a slice of the most convenient bread, which was
more often than not the Italian cream bread. I would, then, fill the slice with the
contents of my right hand and eat it, before anyone became wise to my actions. With
precision raids of the fridge, conducted many times a day, I became quite serious
about efficiency.
So I conducted 'bread tests'.
The bread box usually held a loaf of Wonder Bread, a loaf of Italian cream bread and
some stale coffee cake for Grandpa's breakfast. I would never touch his coffee cake. I
wanted the white carbs. The pure stuff, the kind you can feel turn to sugar on your
tongue and gums.
I would take out one slice of Wonder Bread and one slice of Italian cream bread. I
would feel them in in my hands; both had soft fluffy dough, giving to the touch.
For malleability and sculpting, Wonder Bread had the clear advantage. I could take
Wonder Bread and crumple it in my chubby little palm. With the folds of my greasy
palm I could, with one hard squeeze, make a small Wonder Bread statue of the Virgin
Mary. The head of the Madonna pushed up through my forefinger and thumb, while
her body clothed in flowing white vestments was created in my tightened fist. Of
course, while I did this, I would say a little prayer before dunking her in jelly.
This sort of devotional sculpture could not be done with the Italian cream bread.
However, it had other useful attributes. While the crust of Wonder Bread is almost
the same consistency as the bread itself, the crust of Italian cream bread is very
different from its bread. When the cream bread was sliced, the crust formed a shell
that protected the soft bread inside. The crust gave it form, like canvas stretchers
supporting a painting. Italian cream bread could support mini masterpieces of
snacking, created with a finger fulls of food from a refrigerated pallet.
19
The Virgin Mary
I loved the virgin Mary. A three foot statue of the Virgin Mary stood in our yard, on
the far right side of the shed. This was the devotional place in our yard, which was in
a very devout neighborhood. Every back yard, in this Italian neighborhood, had a
statue of the Virgin Mary.
The basic form was pretty much the same, a young woman dressed in flowing robes
standing on a short pedestal cast in inexpensive cement. However, back-yard, Virgin
Marys were in very different in the details.
Some back-yard, Virgin Marys had painted layers of vestments. The outer layers
were usually blue and inner layers a deep orange. Others had blue outer vestments
with a golden sash and crown. A few were more detailed with painted hair and face.
Then there were the few truly devout neighbors who would electrify the Virgin and
out fit her with spotlights and even a neon halo.
These flashy differences are easy to see. To the initiated, to the ones who pray daily,
to those who carry a rosary, other more subtle differences were apparent.
Back-yard Virgin Mary's have three basic differences, head position, arm position,
and snake or no snake.
Mary's head is either a tilted down to the right or to the left.
Her arms are either, folded in a prayer position on her chest, or, extended out in a
welcoming pose, as if to give a big, low hug to the whole world.
The third difference is, whether or not, Mary is standing on a snake.
Usually, a back-yard Virgin Mary, that had folded arms, had no snake. Nor, could you
see her bare feet. Her folded arms made this Mary seem a little up-tight. Grandpa used
to say they reminded him of protestants.
A Virgin Mary with extended arms, standing on a snake, had her little feet out, for all
the world to see. The snakes mouth was usually open, sculpted as if it was his last
dying breath. Yet Mary stands elegantly, as if she standing on a beach or freshly
mowed grass. She is not portrayed digging her heel in for the rib crunching coup de
gras.
The virgin in our back yard was the cheapest one on the block. She was an extended
armed, Mary standing on a snake. However she had several large disfiguring gashes
on her backside and one foot was nearly missing. What's more, if you didn't know any
better you might easily have mistaken the snake for a long lump of dog poop.
But her face was pretty and tilted slightly toward her left. We did not paint it. We left
it cement gray. But we did extend her pedestal, by placing her on two discarded red
20
bricks raising he a couple of inches higher than the neighbors Mary, whose vestments
were painted blue and and whose head was crowned.
My sister and I loved the Virgin Mary. We would say rosaries with our grandmother,
sitting in the living room. We had glow in the dark rosaries, so we could finish of
decets, ten hail Marys, as we went to sleep. We had prayer cards with rich colorful
pictures of Mary and baby Jesus. We had small statues that we would use as toys,
alongside Star Wars action figures or Barbie.
Mary was part of the family. And when we prayed we only prayed to Mary.
We never prayed to Jesus. We never really thought about him. I think it was because
he was such an exhibitionist. Our church was one of the churches that had a very
realistic Jesus on the cross. A skinny guy in a loin cloth leaves little to the
imagination, beat and bloody like some New York street twink, with a heroin habit.
We could, just, not relate Jesus' whole deal.
We could, however, relate to Mary. She's behind the scenes. She has the ear of the
big guy, god the father. Not like her ADHD son who cant open his mouth, without
offending someone and causing all sorts or drama.
My favorite prayer was the Memoriae:
Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who
fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thine intercession was left
unaided.. . .
Mary was the person to go to in a tight spot. She won't let you down. The prayer
plays up Mary's accessibility and readiness to help. This suggests praying to others in
the pantheon may not be as fruitful. The safe money is on Mary.
Inspired by this confidence,
Yes confidence, that's one thing you sure can't get from bipolar, narcissistic Christ.
I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother;
The of flying was always my favorite part. And when forced to memorize and recite it
in Catholic grade school, it was the line that almost no one forgot. (Fruit of the womb
was another favorite line from another Mary prayer. That would always get a giggle.)
to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful.
I loved the repetition of the actions. I always thought of my self as sinful, all the
stolen snacks and bad thoughts.
O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and
answer me.
21
I would often say this prayer quietly to myself, after Grandma had put us down to
sleep. We would stay in Grandma's spare room on nights my mother was out.
"Now get to sleep you Little Ragamuffins," Grandma says as we hop from one single
bed to the other. Grandpa was watching the 10 o'clock news with the volume turned
so loud that we could easily listen through the french doors that separated the rooms.
"Grandma we aren't tired."
"I want to watch the news with grandpa," I say. But really I was totally bored by the
broadcast. and looked forward to the commercials and secretly hoping to watch the
programing after the news. This was usually a rerun of MASH a comedy about
doctors in the Korean war.
"Let us! please, please, we'll be good and go to bed right after," we say squirming on
the beds. "Please, Grandma, just 10 minutes. Maybe we could stay away until Mom
gets home."
"Get you butts under the covers, or I will get the spatula."
This was Grandma's ultimate threat. The spatula was a Rubbermaid cooking tool
about 10 inches long with a hard plastic handle and a thin rubbery blade. It would
sting quite a bit, when Grandma would smack it against our rear-ends.
"Let's say our prayers, now, and you can have some cookies for breakfast." Grandma
was a natural strategist and knew that for a cookie, I would exert pressure on my
sister.
We would say that popular prayer that I am sure contributes to my chronic dread,
paranoia and panic attacks. Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the lord my soul to
keep If I die before I wake I pray the lord my soul to take. There is nothing like a
children quietly secure in their beds with the self consciousness of their possible
death.
Grandma left the room. I could see blue light from Grandpa's television through the
french doors. I could still here the broadcast and would fade in an out while trying to
follow words I barely understood, Cambodia, bombings and vietnamization. I would
gain some consciousness during commercials for Tide or Lava. But then slip closer to
sleep with the sports news. I could barely make out some small talk between my
grandparents. I was waiting, like most nights, so I might possibly hear my mother's
car pull up outside the house. I hoped I might hear her keys jingle, and follow the her
footsteps up to the house. But not this night. I said one more prayer to the Virgin
Mary, a Memoriae, requesting that she protect my mom, and somehow help my dad
find his way home.
22
St. AMBROSE
My Catholic grade school was two blocks from Edwards on a street named for the
famous Italian inventor, Marconi. St. Ambrose was a large stone church, with large
wooden doors and an ornate, circular stained glass window. it is by far the most awe
inspiring building in the neighborhood. Attached to the church, was a less ornate
sacristy, where the priests and nuns lived. Behind the Church sat a building that
housed the Catholic grade school.
The classes were, for the most part, taught by Carmalite nuns. They wore long, black
habits and kept their hair covered.
There were a few lay teachers who were neighborhood house wives looking for a little
extra income.
The classes were small small and and grades one through eight shared the small
playground during recess. My class was very small with only eight boys and twelve
girls.
I was by far the fattest boy in my class. My dark blue school-uniform pants, in husky
size, seemed to be made from different material than the thinner boys. As if they had
shortened the legs of a workman's pants and put them on me. My pockets and zipper
seemed abnormally long and pockets were vastly spacious. The other boys pants fit
slim on their tiny frames and their light blue button up shirts tucked in under black
belts, completing the ensemble with clean cut style. My shirts were either too loose
or too tight and kept scooting out of the pants, which I held up with a brown belt that
had self-made extension holes, ice-picked into the leather, to accommodate my
expanding girth.
My sister and I would walk to school on own and meet up with tributaries of other of
other grade school students along the way, joining into a stream of uniformed
children, entering the large glass doors of the school building.
We would break off into our classrooms, walking down the long corridors of the first
and second floors. The home room teachers would stand at the classroom doors and
like a shepherds guiding us into our proper places.
The nuns all wore long black habits. What was set them apart from one another was
their expressions.
There were kind ones like Sister Fullamina. Her face and hands were as white as a
porcelain doll, and naturally red pigment on her lips. Occasionally, when she was
adjusting her habit, the children could catch a glimpse of her greasy brown hair, with
gray strands sprinkled throughout the locks. She would gently guide the first graders
into their homeroom. Sister Fullamina's kind disposition made the transition into
grade school life easy. As a second grader I envied those lucky children, like my
sister, who were still in her homeroom, being gently guided into class with loving
welcoming gestures.
23
Second grade homeroom was taught by Sister Fullashitta her face showed the wear
and tear of years. Her lips twitched with disappointment as each of her homeroom
children entered. Her arms were not open and welcoming like a Virgin Mary or Sister
Fullamina. Rather, her arms were more often than not crossed, or when very impatient
snapping a long ruler in the palm of her hand or, using the ruler as a crook to
forcefully guide her errant flock. She often singled me out. But it wasn't because I
was the fat kid with a husbandless Mother, who died her hair; it wasn't that I stood for
everything that was wrong with this earthly world; it wasn't because I was a glutinous
pig stealing chubby fist-fulls of food from the fridge; it wasn't even that my father was
Jewish and I had a Jewish name.
She singled me out as support. I was of average height but thick, not just fat. I was
fat, no doubt about it, but there was some structure there too. A massive frame
holding up my girth and topped off with a thick brown hair cut into a perfect bowl on
my head. (The hairstyle was often referred to as helmet head and I used to imagine
that this was not only for its appearance but for the fluffy protection that it lent me.)
So Sister Fullashitta singled me out as her crutch, when she really wanted to lay into
one of the children.
For example there was Matt Norseman who was s skinny kid with a narrow face, a
big smile and a sharp wit which he would not spare against the nuns. When he would
poke fun at one of them Sister Fullashitta would pull me out of line or get me up from
my desk and walk me over to Matt's desk. Then with the ruler in her right hand she
would repeated snap it against Matt's knuckles, while, she stabilized her aging body
on my fat frame with her left hand, her larger than normal nun hand mussing up my
perfect helmet head.
I would often catch mat looking at me helplessly, judging me for aiding in his
corporal punishment. I would close my eyes or look away. This was not my fight. I
was merely doing what I was put on earth to do. Support the Lord's work like some
unwilling apostle who would later rise to importance.
And you would think that in my role as nun crutch I my be given some special favors.
But Sister Fullashitta would unleash her full critical power against me despite my aid.
She always seemed to have a problem with my gait. I was fat, my blue husky uniform
pants would rub together. If I was walking alone through the cinder block hallways
of the grade school you could easily hear my pants swooshing together. Sister
Fullashitta hated this. But she was really critical of the way I walked down stairs.
"Gregory why do you always lead with your right leg when you walk down the stairs.
You look like and empty headed ape smuggling bananas."
"Sorry Sister Fullashitta"
"Try it again." She clears the rest of my classmates from the stairwell. So I can have a
clear piste for my downhill run. I could see that Matt Norseman was already making
some stupid remarks about Sister Fullashitta's comments. And why did she have to
24
say empty headed ape. I knew i would have to endure several days of teasing for that
one.
"Try it again. Your just like some lazy Roman solder, The kind that killed Christ."
So I walked fighting all of my instincts to shuffle down the stairs as I always would
To walk one foot in front of the other requires one to twist his hips from side to side
which, to me, felt almost sexy or flirty. And to make this movement while wading
through the gaggle of my little girl classmates put me off. It was much easier to
shuffle, it's fun and care free. Perhaps, shuffling is not graceful, but you won't catch
your big thighs together and fall flat on you big fat butt.
So of the two Nuns you fist meet at St. Ambrose school Sister Fullamina and Sister
Fullashitta, Sister Fullashitta was hands down the worst. We would often talk about
them on the playground. The playground was sweet relief from the confines of the
classroom and the dangers of social etiquette and advanced bipedalism.
The playground was a asphalt square with four-square boxes painted in yellow. The
twang of red rubber balls and screaming children's voices were everywhere. We were
young prisoners ragging on the guards.
"Isn't it funny that Sister Fullamina is is named Fullamina," I said.
"What is that ape boy, Does Sister Fullamina have a banana for you?"
"Cut it out Matt," I said and gave him a punch on the arm (Reminding him I have the
clear weight advantage.)
"You know Sister Fullamina is really nice, but her name is "full of mean" a."
"Yeah I guess that's kind of weird," Matt said almost keeping his eye on the girls four-
square game.
"I which there was something we could call Sister Fullashitta," I questioned aloud.
"Her breath stinks like poop. And my knuckles still hurt from last week," Matt
replied. "What's worse when I got home my mother saw the marks on my hand and
then she gave me another wallop for acting up at school. So I get hit again just 'cus
my knuckles are bruised."
"You should wear gloves," I suggested.
"Well helmet head, you should just roll over for once," Matt said angrily, "You just
stand there like a dog's dork while she hits hits us."
Later at home I told Grandpa about the nun making me walk down the stairs. He
wasn't a church goer like Grandma and I could usually get sympathy from him if it
was an ecclesiastical offense. I told him that I thought it was funny that Sister
Fullamina was in fact nice and and Sister Fullashitta was the mean one.
25
"So Grandpa, I wish I could call her, some kind of mean name."
"Who are you talking about," Grandpa said sarcastically, "Sister Full a shit duh." He
paused and patted me on my helmet head. "Son, I look forward to when you are a
little bit smarter so you can see how stupid you really are."
The Scapula
Sister Fullashitta would would start the day with homeroom. This was the time when
all the administrative details were taken care of. We had role calls to smoke-out the
absentees and the tardies. There were other issues, such as signed homework and
notes. After that there was always the issue of extra clothes for "accidents" and other
miscellaneous business.
One girl, Marybeth, had an accident almost weekly, that required an emergency
change of clothes. We would be standing, saying the pledge of allegiance, or sitting
drilling the times tables and the class would erupt in laughter at the sound of runny
water interlaced with desperate sobbing.
Now, second grade you think you have it all together, but these things happen to the
best of us. I still always wonder why Marybeth never just ran out of the room before it
started or why after so many times she still cried. There were even a few times late in
the year that the event was so predictable and expected that the no one in whole class
laughed when she started to tinkle during the recitation of the Our Father. She just
simply walked to the back of the class picked up her bag containing her emergency
uniform left the homeroom for the nurses office, while the rest of the class sat down
and opened there grammar books.
One thing we never laughed at was puke. A kid puking was an awful, frightening
affair. If one student ralphs in class and least two others will retch and possibly blow
chunks as well. There is no humor about it. It is serious matter involving a trip to the
nurse's office not for a quick change but a glass of 7up and phone call to parents. It
most likely means a trip home.
Kid puke is like an oil spill. It is treated as a accident involving hazardous waste.
With pee the janitor simple mops up. but with puke he cordons off the area and lays
sawdust over the spill. The treated sawdust barely covering the odor of fruit loop
breakfast, fear, and bile.
So after homeroom, if there were no accidents, Sister would usually start with some
English. Then every hour we would switch books, ending a lesson on one subject
and starting another. The day was pure monotony. Everyday, lunch and recess
spared us from these tedious classes for and hour. Twice a week we would have art or
music that let us do something other than quiet study. I rarely followed the classes I
would sit there and daydream. Serving my time in solitary contemplation or staring
out the window at the trees.
Occasionally we would have a guest speaker. It was usually a priest or deacon to tell
us some facts about the Catholic faith.
26
"Children, children, please, pay attention, we have a guest today. He is a new a

visiting priest Father Geoff Brannagin. He is a visiting priest from Ireland and he is
staying at St. Patrick's in dog town. Have any of you gone to mass there?"
A few children raise there hands. Sally proudly says her cousins go to school there so
she often goes to mass at st. Patrick's.
I had never set foot inside another church. My grandmother always feared going to
the wrong denomination so we never went into other parishes. My Grandma often
spoke of the horror of one time, in her youth, sitting halfway through a Protestant
service.
"Father Geoff is going to talk to you about redemption, heaven and Mother Mary.",
Sister Fullashitta stated.
"So can any of you tell me on what day, your man, Jesus was born?" Father Geoff
asked.
The class was unusually quiet.
Guests tended to scare the smarter kids like Marybeth and Matt, I guess they we busy
thinking. Sally who spoke up about her cousins in dog town was certainly one of the
dumbest students in the class but totally unafraid of speaking to anyone.
I was sensing that this could be my chance to shine. So I begin to calculate. Well I
know that Jesus was born a long time ago. And today is Tuesday. so I begin counting
back one thousand nine hundred and seventy six years. I was getting lost in
calculation and Marco the second stupidest kid in class is raising his hand. So I
blurted out, "Saturday, father, Jesus was born on a Saturday and Mary took him to
mass the next day."
Marco, noticeably upset at my circumvention of standard procedure of waiting to be

called upon, blurted out his guess, "Sunday, Father, it was Sunday. And Mary was at
Church."
"No Children that's not quite right," Father Geoff said a little shaken by our answers.
Now the rest of the dullard students in class offer up their hypothesis, "Wednesday,
Monday." The smart kids stayed completely out of this theological train wreck.
"No Dear Children you have gone off the mark," Father Geoff said sympathetically.
"The answer is Christmas, Jesus was born on Christmas."
Father Geoff now leaned back on Sister Fullashitta's desk almost exasperated. Sister
Fullashitta sat behind him looking terribly disappointed at her class.
Father Geoff was dressed in standard priest black, with a black suit coat over his
black shirt. He had a full head of greasy white hair and pale wrinkly skin. His black
suit coat was ill fitting and his large white hands waved about as he talked.
27
"I am here to talk to you about Mother Mary. And a gift that she gave to all of us. A
gift that can make sure we get into heaven. And this gift will make sure you don't
have to spend too much time in purgatory, or fall all the way down to the fires
bellow."
"You mean h, e double tooth pics," stupid Sally Said.
"Yes, dear child."
Father Geoff continued, "There was this Priest a long time ago named Simon, Simon
stock. He lived way back in twelve hundred and fifty one. And the Mother Mary
appeared to him. In her hand she was holding two pieces of brown cloth with two
long strings connecting them. She told Simon to take these pieces of cloth and string
and wear it around his neck. With one piece of cloth over his front and the other
piece over his back. She told him that he who wears this cloth will surly escape the
fires of Hell."
We students were transfixed by the story and shocked at father Geoff uttering loudly
the word Hell.
"Now you children know that as you are dying, even if you have committed the wost
sin, even if you have murdered, you can ask God to forgive you. And he will surly
forgive you. But for your sins you may have to do some time in purgatory. "
"So all I have to do is say I'm sorry before I die and I get into heaven?", stupid Sally
asked.
"Yes the Almighty is forgiving of our sins."
"So we just have to say we are sorry?" dull Marko asked.
"How about a murder?" another student asked.
"Why yes, that is up to God."
"What if you stole a million dollars and you killed someone," another young
theologian asked.
"Yes, the Lord is forgiving. But if you have committed so many sins that your soul
has turned black you may have to spend some time in purgatory as punishment for
you sins. But god will not send any soul to Hell that is truly repentant. Do you know
about purgatory children?"
"That's the place unpasteurized babies go to." sally said.
"I think you mean unbaptized, sweet child. But no, unbaptized babies go to limbo."
"Yes father, I know" Mickey d'Angalino said. "My grandma tells me to say some
prayers for my father who was in a poker game that went wrong. Grandma says he
28
lived like a bad man but he was a good boy at heart. She tells me to say some extra
prayers so god will let him out of purgatory early."
"Why yes that right," Father Geoff said, stunned that a single theological question
was answered correctly. Sister Fullashitta was showing something close to pride for
her students.
"That’s right children, God may see fit to let you wait before you get into heaven.
After you die he will make you work off your sins. But you Have to be truly sorry."
"Does it hurt there, like the other place. You know. The H word?" Maggie asks.
"Now children you can say Hell as long as you are not cussing. But ..."
Suddenly Mickey interrupted, "Shut up stupid Maggie of course it doesn't hurt in

purgatory. Mickey was noticeably bothered by the idea that his father could be
suffering in purgatory. "You such a pig face Maggie."
"Now children please be calm," Father Geoff tried to quite the small row that has
developed in the class.
"Mickey," Maggie replied, "I don't know why your so upset, your Dad is in the
penitentiary not purgatory. My mom told me so. My mom says you are all a bunch
of low life crooks. And he ain't never getting out."
"Shut up pig face."
Mickey lunged across the the desk and just managed to grab little Maggie's pigtails.
Sister Fullashitta erupted, rushed past Father Geoff, who was noticeably flustered by
the ruckus, he was obviously unaccustomed to dealing with young children in close
quarters. Priests' position, high on the alter and in the sacristy, keeps them isolated
from the young, rebellious flock.
Whipping past my desk and grabbing me by the collar, Sister Fullashitta drags me to
Mickey's desk and delivers him 5 sharp smacks with the ruler as she again balances
her weight on my head, and sends him out of the room.
"Mickey d'angelino," Sister Fullashitta yelled, "you're sure to follow that Father of
yours. Out into the hall.
"Sorry, Father, Please continue."
Father Geoff regained his composure and returned to the major themes.
"Forgiveness dear children, forgiveness is what the Lord gives us. If we are truly
repentant. That means you must say you are sorry and you must work off, by prayer,
all the sins you have committed."
29
The class began to calm and follow Father Geoff again. Mickey was peeking through
the small window of the classroom door.
"Think of this example children. Imagine you have just thought bad thoughts about
your parents, then, you walked down to the corner market and stole a piece of candy.
Next, as you are tired from abusing yourself all night long, you walk straight in front
of a bus and it hits you. In a blink of an eye you dead. God has taken you. Were you
ready? Were you free of sin?"
"err Father," Sister Fullashitta interjected loudly, "these students are a bit young for
self abuse."
"Oh yes sorry Sister.
"You get the point, children, you do bad things and suddenly you are dead. You don't
have time to ask god for forgiveness. And your soul heavy with black sin falls deep
down into everlasting fire."
The children who were listening were upset, some sobbing other shouting.
"Quiet children, please calm yourselves. This is what I am here to talk to you about.
This is why Mary's gift to Simon is so important."
Father held the brown scapula in his hands and showed the class. He held the scapula
with such reverence and awe as if the pieces of felt and string held tangible power.
We children were transfixed by this celestial loop hole this holy insurance policy on a
sting.
"Now look closely children, it says on one face of the scapular that whomever wears
this shall never suffer eternal fire.
"So even if your soul is weighed down by un-confessed sins you will not go to hell.
What's more every day you wear this takes some time off purgatory."
Father Geoff then turned around to his briefcase on Sister Fullashitta's desk. As he
does the class erupts into chatter about sins and death by accident. Whether it is
possible to ask God for forgiveness before you die. I was watching Father Geoff
closely, and not joining in a conversation with the boys about whether it is possible to
ask for forgiveness before a lawn mower cuts off you head.
"But what if it gets your lips and mouth first?" Ben said. "Then you cant say your
sorry and before your killed."
"You don’t need to say it out of your mouth, you just need to say it inside your head,"
Matt corrected him.
Father Geoff took out a plastic bag full of scapulars handed them to Sister Fullashitta.
They were passed along to each of us.
I put it on, right there in class. I was instantly warmed by the power. I felt easy as if a
30
great burden had be lifted off of me. To be honest before that day I had never worried
about the worst case scenario death for a Catholic. Death without repentance. But the
notion of eternity in hell or even a thousand years in purgatory caused by the simple
omission of a "I'm sorry", was a powerful thought, easily obsessed over.
From that day forward I obsessed. Even wearing the Scapula while crossing the street
I would repeat, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, just in case a car when hitting me would
rip the scapular off my neck. One cannot be to careful. Constant repentance was
logically, the safe bet.
31

Husky On Edwards (Draft, First Six Chapters)

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Description:

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Husky On Edwards (Draft, First Six Chapters)

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Husky on Edwards (Draft) Greg Kreisman

"you know let them out of their cages.", Grandpa said

"Cages, Grandpa?", I replied

"Dogs?" I answered quizzically, "No they don't, grandpa. They couldn't."

"Grandpa that's mean," I complained but deep down suspected it to be true.

"You know Paddy's, they got the burger you like."

"yes, Grandpa, just near the park."

"What did they do Grandpa?"

"Dogs! How did they eat them?

"Ancient Chinese secret," I parroted in reply.

"Dog houses, maybe," I replied.

"Bones, maybe?" I answered cautiously

"Yes, bones, but what else?" Grandpa asked again.

"Dog houses," I answer returning to my previous thought.

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Well, Greg, you know what Dego WOPs eat?"

"Oh, grandpa no, it can't be."

"Now boy," he said, "see that pole?"

"Cut it out, Grandpa."

"But, Grandpa, squirrels have bushy tails."

"Grandpa, that's a rat!"

"What's that? Grandpa."

"Never mind, Son. Back to the story.

"Where is the rodent war, Grandpa?"

"Do the squirrels use guns?"

"Can mow the lawn, Grandma?"

"Hold up Greg, we got some good dandy lions here."

"She's in the alley looking for dandelions, for salad."

"I like them, Grandpa."

"Greg, Bring the rake, its raining now."

"What, what used to be?"

"What the shed used to be."

"What kind of factory?"

"I don’t know. Is it someone famous?" I reply.

"Get in the house, and check on your sister!"

Angela was two years younger than me.

"Cut it out Greg!"

Sh-wing, sh-wing, I continue opening and closing them. Sh-wing, swing.

"I don't know," I replied. "She 's working." Sh-wing, sh-wing.

"I don’t care about a dumb old factory," Angela said.

Grandpa remained quiet hid behind his news paper.

"You mean Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill?"

"Venetian blinds, Grandpa"

"See your little sister is sharper than you are, tubby."

"Tubby! That's for sure," Angela repeated

"Shut up! Monkey face." I said directed at Angela.

"Found a lot of spare what?" I said.

"Louvers kid, you know what a louver is?"

"The louver is part of a blind, and it ain't the cord."

"The flat things that go up an down, Grandpa?"

"Bud, what are you going on about," Grandma interjected.

"Maybe, Rome, like the pope."

"Be quiet Bud," Grandma said.

"Have not! Mom doesn't count."

"I think Mary is beautiful, like a princes," Angela said.

"Oh Bud what on earth are you going on about?"

"Of course I don't Bud."

"Tell us! Grandpa, tell us!" Angela and I shouted.

"Where is it Grandpa? I want to see it!"

"How about Uncle Bill?"

Italian Cream Bread and the Virgin Mary

So I conducted 'bread tests'.