Growing up Gorgone

A ride down Memory Lane! A compilation of stories from West Newton © Judith.

River Street

Within one quarter mile of my house there were 5 family grocery stores. Catarino’s market on Nightcaps corner, Schicalone’s, Bunnies, The Boston I (Italian) Store, and Jacks. I never realized how Italian my neighborhood was until I started to write this. That and my neighbors like Mulaterri, Civetti, Companionni, Capizzi. Funny, it was pretty obvious!

We used to shop most at Schicalone’s market because they were our Goombare’s, which meant they came from the same region of the old country as our family. I can still smell the Picorino Romano cheese and Salamis that hung from strings above the deli .There were rows of wooden barrels with marinated pickles, and black shriveled olives. Nothing ever seemed covered, not even the barrels .And if you were there at the right time you could watch them make the fresh sausages.

There was always a huge rectangular tray of delicious homemade pizza squares on the counter, and an old Coke machine outside that held the beverages. You used to have to dunk your hands in the freezing cold mixture of water and ice to get an Orangiata.

Every store seemed to have it’s own character and family made specialties. My mom used to send me to the store what seemed a gazillion times a day to get something or other. It seemed as though she always ran out of some spice or staple just before every meal. "Go to Catarino’s and get some bread, go to Schicalone’s and ask her if there is any sausages." Sometimes she would just say "Go to Doris’s and see if she has two eggs," "Go to Greta's see if she has a cup of milk". Those were my aunts, of course it was safe to walk anywhere.

One day she handed me a ten dollar bill to get some groceries. I remember that the money seemed so big for my tiny pockets, so I held it in my hand. It was a breezy Fall day, and I was only about 6 years old. Ten dollars back then seemed like a lot of money. After all a candy bar only costs about 5 cents. I took my time, skipping, dillying, and dallying. Walking on the curb, off the curb, on the curb. I even held the bill out to blow in the breeze like a flag. I was having a grand old time.

Then a wind gust blew the money away faster than my tiny legs could run! It must have been lunch time, because no-one was out on their porches or outside to aid me in my plight. I ran and I ran and the dollar tumbled and rolled around with the leaves ahead of me until it disappeared like magic into a gutter. I stood there overwhelmed at it was far below my reach.

I didn’t know what to do, so, I just walked around sobbing and sobbing. Around the block. Around the block. Down the street. Up the street. Until , finally, someone saw me and took me home. I had to face the music.

By the time I got home, my mom was frantic, that she was happy to see me alive. The money and the groceries, well, nothing mattered.

West Newton Playground:

When I was a kid I looked forward to summer at the playground. I fondly remember those hot sweltering days playing games under willows and scrambling with the other kids. I never heard of camp.

Then, was a time of innocence.

We didn’t need adults to walk us to the playground, for no one ever heard of crime. The neighborhood was one big family; we knew everyone in it, and everyone that passed through. Every morning, my siblings, cousins, and I would walk down to the playground and impatiently wait for the gates to open. We spent that time deciding which crafts we would do with the money clutched in our tiny hands. "Lets see, a potholder is 15 cents....a dishtowel 35...or a....". The choices seemed plentiful: something embroidered, something painted, something made of wood. It was there we were intorduced to lifetime skills. Oh our poor mothers! Houses full of kiddy crafted household items, since we occupied ourselves there athe entire summer!

Once inside the gates, there was a myriad of organized time for group play, learning and sports. Of course the first order of the day was to have prayer and sing playground songs. I liked most of the songs, and I loved singing. But to this day I remember that I wouldn’t sing "k-k-k-Katy, my beautiful lady". It sounded too much like ka-ka, and I wasn't supposed to say that word!

Once the morning formalities were over, we would rush to the big toy box and anticipate it’s opening...we would want to be the first to get our favorite games. Parcheesi was mine. I would spend hours and hours playing that game, and I was the playground champ. Looking back, I think I loved the colors and pattern on the board, and to this day I can hear the sound of the dice shaking against those little black cardboard cups.

We would have a lunch break, at which time the leaders would go home and so would we. But at 1 PM sharp we would once again be impatiently awaiting the start of afternoon activities! At the close of the day, we would reluctantly hand over our unfinished projects to be placed in the box for the next, and the next, until they were complete. Then we’d wander home, picking leaves off of bushes, blowing on them to make sounds, kick crab apples as we walked and sang songs.

We not only had daily activities, but we had annual events. Like the doll carriage parade contest. Yes, every year we would spend what seemed the whole summer planning to decorate our doll carriages and bicycles with multi colored streamers and crepe paper woven in and out of spokes, just at the chance to be a star. As luck would have it, I had two very crafty aunts that helped me jeep up my doll carriage so it looked like a float at the Macy’s day parade! Of course I won. Pictures of me grinning like a Cheshire cat with my prize doll and doll carriage adorned all the local newspapers. Yes, fifteen minutes of fame.

It is forever imbedded in my memory, those hazy summers, whose pictures seem filtered like old film. I remember my playground leaders as I do my own aunts, and teachers, and when I was older, I too became one of them. Until finally, everyone went to camp, and the park department made cutbacks, and there was no such thing as "the playground" anymore!

Now, I pass by the playground and nothing is the same except the old cement water bubbler. It trickles memories of us kids holding our teeny fingers on the opening and squirting each other from afar. It trickles memories of summer, days gone by, and innocent days that can never be again.

Star Road

Star Road is a tiny street with ten houses. It runs off of River Street where my Grandparents lived. Of the ten houses, five belonged to my family. The other five were mostly old spinsters. I had lots of cousins on the street, 18 in all, and of course my siblings. Mrs. Brown used to get foster children, so that added a few more kids along with my Aunt Greta who was always taking some cousin(s) in for a time.

The old spinsters were like some sort of extended family, except for crabby old Mrs. Scaldi who lived next door. "What are you doing out there?" "Look out for the lillies!". "Don’t touch those pears they belong to me!" . Gawd, she drove me nuts! It seemed like she was always in the window next to where I was... just waiting for me to trip me up.

Almost everyone had a porch-and the old ladies were always rocking away watching what was going on. We used to go from house to house like we owned them. We could walk into anyone's house; front door, back door, seemed like there were no doors! We could eat at whatever house we wanted to, too!

As a matter of fact, my brother John used to have a system. My aunt Greta had dinner at 4, so he would start there. My uncle Sav had dinner at 5, so he'd cross the street and eat again. Our family always had dinner around 6...so it worked out perfectly! He was having three dinners practically every night! Neddless to say, John ended up kind of chubby. My poor mom used to cry to the doctor because she couldn't understand why! "He never eats that much, I watch him every meal, I don't understand it! Do you think it's his metabolism?" Of course we would never tattle.

Mrs. Brown had a bird named Tweety...she was always talking to you through that bird, or asking it questions. She was the seamstress of the street, and I inevitably had a broken zipper or some item of clothing from our house to bring to her. She was an incredible packrat, and her house was so fascinating to me. There was stuff everywhere, lots of antiques, and chuchkees, everything from toys to tools. There were piles of old fabric and buttons and baubles. all kinds of patterns and colors. We never had old stuff like that in our house. Italians believe in "out with the old in with the new". As a matter of fact, it is an old Italian tradition on New Years to throw things away. Once, when I was in Rome for the holidays, things were flying out windows on New Years Eve!

Mrs. Gray was the quintessential spinster schoolteacher. She was the quietest, and the sweetest. She used to teach my brother the piano and me how to tat. Tatting was making a kind of lace with a little tool that looked like a tiny kayak, thin and pointy at both ends. You moved it in and out much like a crochet needle and followed patterns. I don't remember much about tatting, but I still have the needle she gave me.

I was one of the oldest kids on the street, so I was the resident sitter. I would line up all the kids on the picnic table, and play schoolteacher in the yard. My brother John and Cheryl were demons. If there was trouble they found it. They got sprayed by the skunk, rolled in new tar, always something. They were practically at the hospital every other day.

When I was a girl scout, I sold the most cookies in my neighborhood troop. As a matter of fact that year I sold cartons of them, which took forever to deliver. One day when I was out delivering, I left the extra cartons out on the lawn. Upon my return I discovered that John and Cheryl summoned all the kids to taste the cookies. One by one they opened each box to taste which flavor was in there! They ruined all the boxes, in all the cartons. So much so, that I couldn’t fill my orders, and my mom has to pay for all the cookies. I was devastated...she was broke.

It is fun to think of the old days on Star Road. Only two houses still exist with my family in them, everyone has moved on or passed away. All the old ladies, including Mrs. Scaldi have passed away too. A lifetime can make a big difference in a place.

I returned here, though, and bought the family's house when my parents moved away. And the most curious thing happened when I got the property surveyed. I discovered that that pear tree Mrs. Scaldi used to reprimand me about actually belonged to us.

Damn that woman!

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