Life with Fred and Lucy, Part 21: Fresh Fruits

                   Our Family Grocery Store in South Philly                                         

I’ve mentioned in earlier posts that owning a grocery store does not guarantee financial freedom. Nope! My dad learned to make due with the small change made off each product sold. He called it being frugal, us kids called it being cheap!

                                                                  

Before the age of dousing fruits and vegetables with toxic chemicals and when there were more local farms, my father bought his fruit from the vendors who sold the produce from the back of a pick-up truck; nothing like fresh fruits in season.

                                                                        

My Uncle Jack had a farm in Jersey and in the summer, sold my father the excess peaches that Aunt Louise couldn’t make into a pie or jam. The peaches today don’t have the sweet taste of the peaches that I remember from my youth. The taste is different from the peaches of the 50’s & 60’s era… something has changed with the taste of our food…something is missing.

Anyway, because Dad could only sell fruit to our customers while it was fresh and was at odds on what to do with the fruits displaying signs of rot. Guess who was given the bad fruit?
                                                                  

Yep, the Maratea kids were given the apples, bananas, peaches, etc. with brown spots. It wasn’t until I was an adult and went shopping for food on my own that I realized that, contrary to what I was told as a child, bananas don’t grow on trees squishy and brown. Wow!

My father changed his ways as the time passed and grandchildren were born. After my divorce, my two year old daughter and I moved back in with my father. My mother was no longer there. No, she didn’t pass away…she took off, heading to sunny California, but that is a story that I’ll save for the book.

                                                                     

Fred was different with Rere. She was the first grandchild and was treated as royalty. When my father gave Rere fruit from the store, it was the prized peach or apple. My daughter never ate a banana that featured any brown spots.

                                                         

Why the big switch? One day, before I headed off to my job at St. Agnes Hospital located on Broad Street in South Philly, my father handed my daughter a big juicy peach to eat before she left for the Montessori pre-school across the street. I was curious and asked, “Fred, why the fresh fruit now and not when we were growing up?”

His reply, before heading back into the store was, “Dumb ass!” This was his normal response to any questions that he either refused to, or did not have an answer for. My daughter never having to dream about eating fruit without spots did not appreciate the gift given to her and because the peach was too big and she wasn’t able to finish it; she hid it.

                                                                      

I came home from work to find a plumber working diligently on the downstairs bathroom. There was something clogging the pipes. My father was mumbling under his breath about dumb-ass plumbers and how expensive they were, while my daughter, clueless to all the activity going on around her, played with her dolls.

My father and I were in the store wondering what could have possibly caused the back-up and following biblical flood in the bathroom, when the plumber came out holding the slightly eaten peach in his hand.

                                                           

My father, who would have taken the belt to us kids if we ever did anything like this in the good ole days, said nothing to my daughter or me. Grandchildren change the way we handle disasters. My father continued to give the best produce to his granddaughter and a special spot in the fridge for Rere to store her unfinished fruit.

Side note: Later that year, my father found another hiding spot where Rere stored her unwanted dinners; Fred’s snow boots.

                                                                            

Life with Lucy and Fred

                                                      

               

                                                    Lucy and Fred

I’ve been posting old photos of my family for the past month or so. The pictures, some taken before 1956, are of my family’s grocery store that was located on 15^th and Porter Street in South Philadelphia.
 
My father learned all about running a store from his father, who had a grocery store at 17^th and Moore.  My father had been working as a trolley driver with the PTC, and I loved riding on the trolley. I especially enjoyed the times my father would clang the bell at each street corner. But, my father wanted to own his own business and one day, he took me to check out a property that was for sale. 

                                                      

                

          Dad cleaning the ham before selling it. Uncle Pat in the background

This was a family business, and back in those days, the government looked the other way about children working, especially if it was a family business. Not only was I helping out in the store at the age of eight, but so were my sister Jane and my cousins, Jerry and Anthony. As soon as my brother Mike and baby sister Lucy were old enough, they also joined the work force.  Growing up in the family business was an education. We not only worked long hours, seven days a week, but we had to keep up our grades in school.

                                                           

          The Maratea kids take a break from the store and visit Atlantic City

It was a learning experience that I wouldn’t trade for all the money in the world. I learned so many things. I could slice luncheon meat without losing my fingers and I could do my homework sitting on the edge of the onion bin without falling in.

Working in that store is what made me so people friendly, open minded and compassionate, today. My father would often give credit to people who didn’t have enough money for food, saying to them, “Pay me when you have it.” And bless their hearts, every one of them did pay their bill, once they were back on their feet.

                                                           

                                              Dad, Mom and me

Now, let me tell you about Lucy and Fred. My father was a hard worker, very strict, but he was also a practical joker. One year, he had my Aunt Louise believing that he had a pigeon coup on the roof of our two story building. Why, you ask? He needed an excuse for her husband to join the secret card game. My father had a bum leg and he told Aunt Louise that Uncle Jack would need to climb the ladder and feed the pigeons. After several months,  Aunt Louise found out about the card game and she went ballistic. But no one ever stayed angry with my father for too long. He was too funny.

                                                                    

My mother Lucy was a diva who was stuck in South Philly. She was into women's liberation before the first bra was ever burnt. But, like Lucy Ricardo, my mother was also a disaster waiting to happen. Her driving skills were horrid and, our neighbors would call their children home whenever my mom  would head for her car. As a frequent passenger in the car, I didn't blame them.

                                                                

The picture at the top of the blog shows the most common expression my parents wore when dealing with their four overly active children. We were bad. My father often held his hand over his heart, yelling, “What the hell are you goofballs doing now?”

                                                           

We feared my mother more that we did our dad. My mom was able to throw a shoe at us and that sucker could turn corners. She never missed her target (us). If I’m not mistaken, even the heat seeking missiles that the military uses today, couldn't match my mother’s record of direct hits.

                                                         

Next week, I’ll tell you how we protected ourselves from thieves