Life with Fred & Lucy, Episode 33: Card Sharks

                                                            

Aunt Rita, Uncle Frank, Aunt Louise, Uncle Jack, Aunt Helen, Mom, little Lucy, me

My father and his siblings loved to play cards. It was a chance for them to get together after a long day at work. Sometimes the games were held at our house, but most often they were held at Aunt Helen’s or Aunt Rita’s house.  My aunts Helen, Louise and Rita were my father’s younger sisters from his mom, who had passed away when my father was very young.

 

My grandfather, Michael Maratea went back to Italy to find a new wife. That’s what people did back then when a wife died. I guess it was something like a mail order bride. Grandpop had his family in Italy put their feelers out for prospective mates who were willing to take on the job of raising four children and working long hours in a grocery store, and all for the chance of living in America. Side note:  My grandfather had originally joined a seminary to become a priest. Priesthood ran in the family and we had several Maratea men as Cardinals in Rome. I think the love bug hit Grandpop and he left the seminary and married my grandmother Maria.  

                                                              

                                        Grandmom Rose and Grandpop Maratea

My Grandma Rosie not only took care of my father and his three sisters, but she gave birth to four children, and that’s how my father acquired four more siblings, Aunt DeDe, Aunt Margie, Aunt Rosie and Uncle Michael.

    Aunt Louise and Aunt Rita before card game                                                                              

Pinochle

This was my father’s favorite game and he and his sisters played this game all the time. My father knew how to count the cards and because he did, he could figure out what each person held in their hand at any given time. He wasn’t a gambler and never went to the casinos at Atlantic City, but it’s a good thing he didn’t do casinos because he would have been banned. He was that good.

                                                                

My father was also a poor loser and I was witness to the many arguments that would break out when someone messed up the game. Whenever I heard my father ranting, “What are you stupid? Why did you throw that card, dumb ass?” I immediately knew who he was yelling at. My poor Aunt Louise was usually the poor recipient of these outbursts.

                                                                                                                         

My Aunt Louise was also a recipient of one of my father’s more famous practical jokes. My father tricked my poor aunt into thinking that her husband Jack was helping my father care for pigeons that were kept in a pigeon coop on the roof of our home. Why? It was an excuse for Uncle Jack to sneak over our house and play cards. We never had pigeons. This went on for a long time before Aunt Louise found out. She read my father the riot act, but that never stopped Fred from orchestrating his long list of pranks on his family.

Apple Pie

One time, my father was pissed off at a man who usually showed up at the card games over my Aunt Rita’s house. Ed was a business partner of my aunt and uncle and he was often invited to play cards at my aunt’s home. I never learned what Ed did wrong at one of those card games, but what I do know is that my father had found the perfect revenge. Ed hated pumpkin pie and my father sold pies at our grocery store. Fred would bring a pumpkin pie at every game even though Ed vehemently complained.  Ed’s only salvation from the hated dessert was when the season for pumpkins had passed.

                                                                

 

My father had taught all us kids how to play pinochle, and while he was alive and well, we played whenever we could all get together...but I haven’t played the game since he died. My grandsons wanted to learn the game, but I forgot some of the rules and how to keep score. Yes, I know I can download the information from the internet, but it’s just not the same.

                                                             

My father and mother take turns visiting my home and my sister Lucy’s home. I should say their spirits visit us. The dead are always with us and my parents are both determined that I don’t forget this.  I was thinking...maybe if I leave the deck of cards out...maybe my father will help me remember how to play the game.

Life With Fred & Lucy Episode 32: Don't Kill Patty

                                                              

My sister Lucy, who was the youngest of Fred and Lucy’s spawn and, had somehow survived past her infancy in spite of her older siblings as told on this episode, had received a Patti PlayPal Doll for Christmas. Lucy was so happy to have a doll that was just her size. Lucy really loved that doll. Unfortunately, she lived in a dysfunctional home and Patti’s survival looked dim

Patty Play Pal

This doll was the big hit in 1961 and the best way for you to understand how big a deal it was to own a Patti PlayPal, is to see the commercial.

 

That year, my brother, Michael, had also received a Christmas gift that he’d been hoping good, ole, Santa would bring him. His gift was a Remco Science kit which held all kinds of scientific experiments. Michael was ready to play Dr. Frankenstein. A few days later, while Michael was setting up his diabolical laboratory, my mother was in the kitchen washing dishes.
                                                                  
                                                                     

                 Michael, Jane, Mom, unknown doll, Patty Play Pal and Little Lucy

Mom was at the sink and she wanted someone to dry the dishes. There was a mirror over the kitchen sink. To this day, I don’t know why my father would have hung a mirror over the kitchen sink, but I suspect it was to see what we were doing behind his back.
                                                                                    
                                                                      

                                              you can see the mirror over the sink

Unknown to Mom, Lucy left her Patti doll sitting at the kitchen table while she ran to the bathroom. Mom thinks it’s my sister sitting at the table and when Lucy ignored her request for help, my mother gave a "Gibbs smack to the back of the doll's head and it went flying off the chair. My mother let out a scream thinking she had seriously hurt little Lucy.

Little Lucy had just returned to the kitchen to see Patti lying on the floor. “You killed Patti!” Lucy cried out, but luckily Patti wasn't damaged. That would soon change with my brother planning his first experiment.                                                                      

My sister Lucy came home from school one day to find a badly scarred Patti sitting on her bed. There were stiches drawn in permanent ink across her face, arms and legs and one of her eyes was a bit crooked. “Mikeeeeey,” she screamed in horror.

                                                                          

My brother came running into the bedroom wearing a white lab coat and holding a pen knife. When Lucy, who was in tears, asked why he broke her doll, his reply was, “I saved the patient.”

My father gave the good doctor a spanking and tried to undo the damage to Patti, but she was destined to remain a character from a horror movie.  Lucy refused to play with her doll in public. It was too painful explaining to her little friends that our family was more like the Addams Family. Later that year, Patti lost a limb during another one of Michael’s experiment. Patti was finally put to rest in doll heaven, better known as the basement.
                                                               

 I'm writing an apocalyptic series and in the first book, Roof Oasis, one of my characters is a robot. I named her Patty in honor of Lucy’s doll, but unlike my sister's doll, no one can hurt this Patty. She’s armed.

Life with Fred and Lucy, Episode 31: Street Smarts

                                                                               

How does one acquire street smarts? If you have parents with a bad case of OCD and paranoia, the answer is easy; trust no one. My father was a survivor of “The Great Depression” and my mother moved here from Naples, Italy right as Mussolini was in power and becoming chummy with Hitler, so they saw things that probably stayed with them for a long time.

My father could tell by a person’s body language if they were up to no good. Every once in a while, when a customer entered our store, Fred would say to us four kids, “Keep an eye on him or her. They’re going to steal something.”

                                                                   

 

Since I usually played the role of ‘Devil’s Advocate’ I would quickly counter with, “But…dad, they go to school with us. I don’t think they’re like that.”

“Just watch,” my father would snap back his reply, folding his arms in confirmation. Damn! He was right. I would watch from a hidden section of the story and see friends and neighbors that I knew or thought I knew, pocket candy or cakes, rolls, etc. into coat pockets or purses.

My father was a fountain of behavior profiling before it was ever a science or used by law enforcement agencies. These are just a few of his theories: Always check their eyes; If they won’t look you in the eye, they’re hiding something; If they keep glancing around as if nervous, they’re getting ready to do something bad; If they keep clearing their throats when speaking to you, they are in the act of lying.

                    The sisters practicing self-defense on each other                                          

 

Why were Fred and Lucy always on target? It was a gift. With my mom, I think it had to do with her psychic abilities and with Fred maybe it was the horror of growing up during very hard times. My father said he could usually tell if a person was ‘missing a few days of the week’ (the code for knuckleheads) by looking at their eyes. There were so many times that my father and I would argue because he didn’t like one of my friends. “Keep away from that kid! There’s something wrong with them.” Fred was usually right about the friends that he didn’t like, but at the time I was too angry to appreciate his attempts to protect me.

The behavior profiling didn’t stop in the store. My parents were always telling us kids how to be aware of your surroundings while away from home. Here is a list of Fred and Lucy’s truisms: Always keep looking behind you when walking on the street; if you’re suspicious about someone who is approaching you; cross the street and then walk quickly away; lock your car door as soon as you get into the car; hold your purse close to your body; if there is a group heading your way, and you’re afraid, then walk into the street.

I wondered if walking into oncoming traffic was wise, but Fred had an answer for that too. “If you have to get hit by a car to keep from getting dragged into the bushes; do it.” Since we did not have bushes in South Philly, I kind of ignored that bit of advice, but it did come in handy years later.                                                                     

We kids became street wise and there were dangerous situations that we were able to avoid or get away from because of the lessons learned from Fred and Lucy. I passed these lessons on to my daughter, and she to her children.
                                                                   

Recently, my youngest grandson was being followed by a white pick-up truck. It could have been innocent, but… he was nervous. It didn’t seem right that the truck would drive real slow as it followed him home for almost two weeks. ReRe notified the police who took down the information. Was that enough for my daughter and I? Hell no!
                                                                        

My daughter and I began our stake-out. We had coffee, cameras, and dark sunglasses. We were ready for the white pick-up.  We would watch as Nathan left the school to walk home; wait a few minutes to see if anyone followed and then we tailed Nathan until he reached home.

                          We were trying to be like Cagney and Lacey                                          

 We did this for several weeks and collected a few suspicious license plate numbers for the police. We may have scared the shit out of the men in that white pick-up, because Nathan hasn’t seen the truck since we began our stake-out.  The investigation is still on going, but to make sure Nathan was 'street smart ready', I re-stated my parent’s warnings.

Be Street Smart and pass it down.

Life with Fred & Lucy, Episode 30: Robert Hall

                                                       

Back in the day, during the late 50’s and early 60’s, shopping for our family’s clothing was limited to three particular areas: The shops on 7^th street between Ritner and Snyder, Lit Brothers Department Store at 8^th and Market Streets or Robert Hall Clothing Store near 24^th and Oregon Ave.

A trip on the trolley to Lit Brothers was always a special treat because Lit Brothers had a larger selection of clothing to choose from and that meant that Jane and I had more leverage with mom. My mother, who always bought and dressed in the latest fashions, seemed to lose all sense of style when it came to buying clothes for her pre-teenaged daughters. You can tell by the above picture that I was not at all happy with my outfit, and in fact, tried to hide among my cousins.

                                                                

 

Michael and Lucy being younger didn’t mind as much, but Jane and I dreaded every shopping adventure with mom. She always bought clothing that was too big, and when we complained, she would quickly counter with, “You’ll get more wear out of it.”

More wear? Like...did she expect us to keep the dress for our 80^th birthday? She did this with shoes too. I’ve often wondered if my siblings' and my classmates thought that we had a genetic condition with our walking because we clumped around in our shoes, but... according to Lucy, “You’ll get more wear out of it.”

                                                                     

 

Mom also liked to buy things in duplicates and triplicates, for example, if she liked a particular sundress then she would buy the same dress for Jane, Lucy and me. We weren’t triplets or twins, but mom wanted us to look the same. How wonderful! Jane, Lucy and I looked like refugees; all wearing the same dress that were two sizes larger than they needed to be…you know to get more wear out of it.

Although we would make the trip to Lit Brothers and 7^th street at least once a year, my mother’s favorite store was Robert Hall. It was in walking distance, ten city blocks away, and the clothes were more affordable according to mom. Maybe my mom liked the jingle for the store. Here is a sample.
 

 

One particular summer, my mother had bought Jane, Lucy and me the shorts and tops we would need for our two week vacation from our crazy parents and the grocery store. Mom had packed our clothing into the metal trunks without us seeing what she bought and sent us off to St. Monica’s Summer Camp.

                                                                  

Robert Hall must have been having one hell of a freaking great sale on red and blue shorts because Mom bought Jane and I five exact shorts all the same color…five…exact…shorts. Lucy was spared only because they didn’t carry the style in her size. Nothing like being teased at camp because the kids thought you and your sister were wearing the same clothing over and over. I still have nightmares about that summer.

                                                                

I hated this dress!!!! Can you tell?

 

Once Jane and I were in high school and going to Newman’s dances, we began to argue with mom about the clothing she was trying to force on us. The last time my mom bought clothing for me, we were in one of the dressing rooms at Robert Hall. I hated the dress. Mom liked it. I threw it on the floor. She hauled off and smacked me…but in the end I had won the battle and she didn’t get the dress.

                                                                 

      

Jane in a dress she bought with her own money

                                                             

Jane and I began buying our clothing with our allowance money from working the store. We no longer worried about wearing clothing that hung on us or was outdated. The clothes Jane and I shopped for were always in style and more importantly, they fit.
 

                                                               

                                            

Rere with an outfit she picked out

 

I vowed that I would never force my fashion style on my daughter, and I didn’t. Rere was pretty savvy on clothing style as young as four years old and she would often pick out her own clothing whenever we went shopping. But…some things never change. On one of my yearly visits to see my mother, who was then living in Napa California, she took my daughter and me clothes shopping. Mom had found a beautiful dress that she wanted Rere to try it on.

It was two sizes bigger and definitely nothing Rere would wear; my daughter was a tomboy, but Mom persisted on buying it. I was about to say something, but Rere beat me to it. “Grandmom, it's not going to happen.”

                                                                  

 

“Okay, pick out something you like instead.” And just like that, my mother let her granddaughter pick an outfit she wanted to wear.

Who was this woman?

Life with Fred & Lucy, Part 29: Attack of the Gnocchi Python

                                                                                     
                                                              

I’ve mentioned enough times on my blog how my mother’s cooking was always an adventure, but did you know her cooking sometimes involved the principles of physics? Yes, indeed  it did and especially her baking. The incident with the pasta occurred several months after the cake that ate South Philadelphia catastrophe that I wrote about in episode 9.
                                                                       

My mother was determined to make her own hand made gnocchi. This is a dish that normally involves potatoes, flour, water, but with Lucy in the kitchen, her four children were also required. Before I go any further, there are tons of great gnocchi recipes on line. Here is one sample and it sounds delicious:  http://www.101cookbooks.com/archives/how-to-make-gnocchi-like-an-italian-grandmother-recipe.html
                                                                 

                                                                                
But, I can tell you right now, my mother did not use this recipe. Mom apparently scribbled her recipe on the back of a sales slip that the woman who owned the bra & girdle shop on Broad and Porter streets gave her. The sales slip was all wrinkled up because it was shoved to the bottom of Lucy’s purse. Lucy didn’t want Fred to know about the expensive girdle. I kid you not!

                                                           

To make a long story short, Lucy could barely read the instructions, but that never stopped my mom. She was determined to make the gnocchi or else. After making the mixture, she began to roll out the dough.  She rolled and rolled and rolled. The dough seemed alive and it kept growing. It was the size and length of a grown African python. All four of us kids were in the kitchen watching this culinary adventure because my mom thought it would be great idea if we learned how to cook. 
                                                                  

                                                                         

“Mommy, the dough is hanging off the table,” my brother exclaimed in shock.
“Quick grab it,” Mom screamed while  Michael and Lucy tried their best to hold the growing tube of dough, but she needed more hands on board and Jane and I were put on the other end of the gnocchi beast that just would not stop growing. It was a good thing that the four of us were there to help because that sucker was heavy. 

                                                                                         

“What the%*&*#%$ are you doing in here?” my father asked mom after peeking into the kitchen. He had been ringing the buzzer for one of us to run in and help with the onslaught of lunch time customers, but when we didn’t show up, he came looking for us. 

“I’m making gnocchi for dinner,” My mother replied, giving Fred her ‘Release the Kraken’ stare.

“I can’t move. The wall is in my way," my brother cried out.
                                                                      

Picture this! Our kitchen table was six feet long. Jane and I held at least another four feet stretched out in our hands and Michael and Little Lucy the same on their end. Do the math!

“Why don’t you just cut the dough into smaller slices?” my father asked, ducking the sifting can that my mother tossed at him.

After my dad went back into the store to tell his customers what was going on in the kitchen, my mother decided to take Fred’s advice and cut the gnocchi python into smaller strips. We helped shape the gnocchi by rolling the tip of our thumbs across the 2” strips that mom had cut from the gnocchi python sized rope.
                                                                      

That night, my Uncle Pat and his girlfriend joined us for dinner. The gnocchi tasted delicious, but the meal was very heavy. Uncle Pat had to undo his belt, Mom had to take off her new girdle, and none of us kids could move from the table. The gnocchi was turning into lead weights inside our tummies.

My mother never made gnocchi again, not while she was married to Fred, but years later when I visited her in California where she was living with her new husband, she surprised me with a dish of her homemade gnocchi. They were perfect; light and very tasty.
                                                                      

Later I asked my stepfather if mom required his help when making the gnocchi. He took a big sip of his Napa wine, looked over his shoulder to make sure mom didn’t hear him and replied, “It was a nightmare. It kept growing.” Some things never change.

Life with Fred & Lucy, Episode 27: Rat Patrol

                                                                  

My father was adamant about keeping our building roach and rat free, especially because of the stock that we sold in our grocery store. When you live in a big city, you’re bound to encounter a roach or rat at some time in your life and Fred’s store was no different.

My father had an exterminating company do our entire building from top to bottom every month, and then as an extra precaution, Fred would spray his own concoction in between visits from the professionals. I pretty sure Fred’s ingredients would have been listed as dangerous toxic waste material by today’s standards, but in the 50’s and 60’s DDT ruled. It wasn’t until Rachael Carson’s Silent Spring caused a big uproar, that dangerous poisons were taken off the market and palmed off on the third world countries.                                                           

I went my entire childhood never encountering a roach, but one day we did have a visitor from the rodent family. The rat had arrived via delivery of stock from one of our vendors. Fred was unpacking one of the crates when he met the rat face to face. My father dropped some curse words and the large rat showing absolutely no fear, sauntered away to hide somewhere in our stock room.

                                                            

My father made the mistake of telling my mother and us four kids which elicited two different reactions. The kids wanted to keep the rat as a pet and my mother channeled her “Release the Kraken” personality and let out a scream heard all the way to Naples, Italy. “I’m not staying in the same house with a rat,” she declared and ran out of the store and to Grandmom’s house. She’d forgotten to take us with her, which was a foretelling of future events.                                                                

My father wanted a quick solution to the rat problem. He needed a cat and not just any cat. He needed a Terminator. We didn’t own a cat.  “Go find me a cat,” he ordered.                                                                           

Jane and I had no idea where to find a cat, but we knew there were a lot of strays up the alley. Taking a quart of milk and bowl with us, Jane and I went on a big game safari. We lucked out and on our first expedition up the alley, found a tom cat with a taste for cold milk. He followed us home, just as my mother pulled into the parking spot in front of the store while giving a slight tap to the bumper of the car behind her. She was just as bad at parking as she was at driving.

My father closed the store so we could take care of the rat. He first placed a wooden board that was close to three feet high at the doorway of the stock room to keep the rat trapped in the room. My mother held the cat in her arm, while my father used a broom to coax the rat out from behind the stock boxes. Mom had one job only and that was to release the cat as soon as the rat showed his head.

While my father searched for the rat and my mother stood guard with the cat, their children were begging for the rat’s life. “Can’t we keep it as a pet?” 
                                                                       

                                                                          

Suddenly, the rat scurried out and my father screamed, “Lucy, the cat!” But…Lucy was nowhere to be found. She took off and ran outside with the cat in her arms. “Where the *&#$&%$ did your mother go?”

I took a peek out the side door and replied, “She’s on Shunk.” My mother had made it to the end of the next street in Olympic record time, “And she’s still going,” I added.

“Go get her,” my father ordered, but I wasn’t so sure I would be able to talk my mother into returning.

Later that day, my mother returned covered in scratches and sans cat. It was almost dinner time and we were busy with the dinner crowd. Lucy was in her playpen where we could keep an eye on her. “Where the hell is the cat?” my father asked her when the store had cleared.

“How the hell should I know,” Lucy replied, as she began to prepare dinner. “And…don’t involve me in any more of your crazy schemes,” she added, slamming the frying pan on the stove top.

                                                              

My father had to enlist the help of Uncle Jack and another cat later that night, while my mother and we four kids visited with Aunt Louise. I guess ‘Operation Rat’ was a success because we didn’t see any trace of it or the cat.

Like I said, DDT isn’t used now, but back in the days it was, and…it was probably in the spray the trucks used as they rode up and down the Philadelphia streets spraying for mosquitoes.
                                                             

I remember chasing after those trucks with the rest of the neighborhood kids and getting splashed with the mist from the insecticide spray they were using. What did we know? We were told it was safe. Scary, right?

Fred & Lucy Update

                                                                   

                                                              Me with Lucy

I’m working on several books right now, but thanks to the popularity of my “Life with Fred and Lucy” episodes; I’m hoping to have these comical stories published by next year.

                                                                      

I’m sending out a big thank you and a hug to Joanne Costantino, a fellow member of The South Jersey Writers’ Group, for putting together a sample of what the book would look like if published. Seeing a sample of the finished product has put me on a quest to get the book published sooner than I had planned.

                                                                           

Life with Fred and Lucy is a collection of funny and true stories that tell about my siblings and me growing up in South Philly during the early 50’s and 60’s to dysfunctional parents. They were not the easiest parents to love and we four kids were not the easiest to manage. Sometimes, you can survive your childhood and your DNA with a large serving of humor.

Life with Fred & Lucy, Part 26: Grandmom's Exploding Chicken

                                                                        

     Aunt Anna,                                Grandmom Marie                                              Lucy

I loved my maternal grandmother. She was a loving, funny, generous woman who made each of her grandchildren feel special. My mother was not allowed to hit us if Grandmom was around, and when we were very young, Grandmom was at our house a lot.

                                                              

My mom was not your Betty Crocker type of housewife and had no interest in cooking, so while my dad worked at as a conductor on the old Trolleys, Grandmom would come over and help my mother prepare the meals. Sometimes she would bring her dog, Blackie and sometimes she would bring her pet chickens. She traveled by taxi. She was afraid that Grandpop Chiusolo would kill the chickens and eat them while she was away. The chickens had Italian names, but I don’t remember what they were.                                                                            
                                                                   

I’ve always thought it strange how nice the taxi driver was with Grandmom, helping her out of the cab as she clutched both birds in her arms. She paid him from her black change purse. Do you remember those change purses? Every Italian grandmother had one.                                                

Once inside our house, Grandmom put the chickens in our yard and began helping mom with dinner while Jane and I played with the chickens. The chickens were not at all happy with Jane and me dressing them in doll’s clothes. 
                                                                                                                                     
These chicken visits went on for a while, until one of the chickens got hurt in Grandmom’s yard. It became Sunday dinner….well it would have been dinner if it wasn’t for the explosion. Grandmom had an old kitchen. Her stove looked just like the one on the Honeymooners.

                                                                           
 She had to light a match and ignite the oven, which she did after she put the roasting pan and chicken in the oven. Grandmom’s kitchen was small. All the houses on Ellsworth Street in South Philly were small. Grandmom had two windows in her kitchen. The one directly across from the oven faced her neighbor’s kitchen window. The distance between houses maybe six feet, so by now I think you know where this story is going, right?

Somehow, the flame went out in the oven while the chicken was cooking and Grandmom, for some strange reason, took too long striking the match to re-ignite the oven. There was a loud blast and the door of the oven flew open, knocking grandmother to the floor.  The roasting pan with chicken flew through the closed window and continued through the neighbor’s window to land on their table.

 

My mother got the call and packed Jane and I into the car and rushed over to help Grandmom. The Fire Department was there because of the gas explosion, as were all the neighbors. My poor Grandmom was a bit shaken and covered in soot, but otherwise, okay. The neighbors returned the roasting pot with a chicken that was burnt and covered in glass. Later that year, they build a concrete block wall. I wonder why?
                                                                                                                                    
After we helped Grandmom clean up the mess, my mom ordered cheese steaks from the famous Pat’s Steaks on 9^th street and we ate in the yard because the kitchen still smelled like smoke. They had to get a new range.

                                                                 

Grandmom continued to visit with her dog or chicken even after we moved into the grocery store. I still remember the expressions on our customers’ faces whenever Grandmom walked into our store, clutching the chicken tightly in her arm.

Love you, Grandmom.