Savin Hill: A Redheaded Kid’s Memoir

By Dr. Edward McKenney

Edward McKenney looks back to another era with entertaining stories from Savin Hill, an Irish Catholic neighborhood, in this entertaining and heartfelt memoir highlighting the period from 1969 to 1979.

Edward’s father almost became a priest, but then he met an attractive strawberry blonde who became his wife and mother to their children.

As one of nine siblings, Edward stood out with his red hair, an enormous gap between his front teeth and horned-rim eyeglasses.

He relives the humorous and serious sides of receiving a Catholic school education during the seventies. Bullies, gangsters, and psychopathic nuns crossed the paths of the McKenney children, and all the while, their parents tried to shield them from negative influences with Catholic moral teachings.

If you drove a Big Wheel, ate Mallo Cups, or survived an education at the hands of the Sisters of Perpetual Misery, you’ll enjoy these tales filled with comedy, travails, accomplishments, and tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532003387

Dr. Edward McKenney

Dr. Edward McKenney earned a bachelor’s degree in biology from Boston University and a doctor of chiropractic degree from Life Chiropractic College in Marietta, Georgia. He and his wife, Andraea, operated a practice in Pembroke, Massachusetts for more than twenty years. His daughter, Jenna, is a student at Harvard University. He retired after being diagnosed with ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. Edward died in 2013. Proceeds from this book will benefit others living with ALS.

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Copyright © 2016 Edward McKenney.

Author Credits: Jenna McKenney

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-0337-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0339-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0338-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016912385

iUniverse rev. date: 06/18/2019

To Drae,

For

bringing love into my life.

For your joyful spirit, compassion, and laughter.

To Jenna,

For allowing me to be your dad, it is what I cherish the most.

For your smile, your courage, and love.

In Memoriam

My Parents

HENRY AND MARY MCKENNEY

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Contents

The McKenneys

Christmas ’69

St. William’s School

The Hills

Savin Hill Avenue

Summertime

First Holy Communion

Sundays

Hook, Line, and Sinker

Canned Beets

Sister Annalucy

The Altar Boys

Thunder Thighs

The Band

Shinnying

Tree Fort

Dad’s Hobbies

Summer of ’73 – Dogs, Apes, and Fireworks

Brant Rock

Miss Liddy 1973-1974

Delivering The Globe

Creepy October ’73

Don’t Forget Your Wheaties

Meanwhile Back at the Gully

Saint William’s Band Visits Shutter Island

Forced Busing

6th Grade ’74 – ’75

Thanksgiving ’74

December ’74

The Daniel F. Marr Boys Club

Easter ’75

Hold Onto Your Bike

Saint William’s Band Visits Fort Devens

Eddie Connors Gunned Down

The Green Bridge ’75

Time to Cut the Cord … and the Lobe … ’75

What’s That Noise!?

Ice Rafting

The Age of Reason

The Bicentennial

Moving On

BC High

Blizzard of ’78

The Body on the Beach

Summer of ’78 – Beer, Boating, and Beaches

More BC High Antics

The Great Flood of ’79

BC High Dances

The Red Skull

The Bench Manufacturing Company

Something’s Wrong

Edward and His Merry Men

Strange Happenings

The End

The McKenneys

I was born the fourth of nine redheaded children to Henry and Mary McKenney; the year was 1963 in Savin Hill. In the ensuing years, the phrase I don’t know who the other five kids were, but one of them was definitely a MCKENNEY would be uttered all too frequently in the neighborhood.

Savin Hill was a small section of Dorchester, a neighborhood that encompassed the southern part of Boston. It was bordered to the north by the Boston Globe facility and to the south and east by Savin Hill Bay and Dorchester Bay, respectively. The rest of Dorchester was situated to the west. The Savin Hill neighborhood was split down the middle when the Southeast Expressway was constructed in the late 1950s. A bridge connected the two halves of the neighborhood. This created a designation of residents living over the bridge or under the bridge. If you lived on the east side of the expressway you lived over the bridge; if you lived west of the expressway you lived under the bridge. The western inhabitants did not like this phrase because of its negative connotation, conjuring up images of what usually lived under a bridge, e.g. a troll. Our house was located over the bridge.

The population of the neighborhood was mostly Irish Catholic working-class with some Italian and Polish American families. Virtually all civic activities revolved around Saint William’s Church, which was located on Dorchester Avenue in the western half of the neighborhood.

The houses in the neighborhood were a mix of two and three-deckers as well as a few elegant single-family Victorians.

Eight of the nine children arrived between 1959 and 1969. Billy was the oldest followed by Ann, Mary, me, Gerard, Joan, Stephen, and Dennis. Brendan, the youngest brother, was born in 1976.

We lived on the upper floor of a two-decker at 184 Savin Hill Avenue. My dad had lived in this house since he was two years old. His cousin Bridie lived on the first floor. She must have been deaf or wicked (as in wicked nice to put up with two adults, nine kids, a dog, and a parakeet all living one floor above her).

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184 Savin Hill Avenue

It was a typical Dorchester two-family house with green asbestos shingles on the bottom floor and red asphalt shingles on the second. There were two full-length porches on the front of the house. The upper porch had two metal chairs, one of which was my dad’s perch during the summer months. There was a parlor at the front of the house adjacent to a formal dining room. The dining room was connected to the kitchen, which was located at the back of the house. There were two bedrooms downstairs, one occupied by my parents and the other shared by Stephen and Dennis. Upstairs there was a haphazard arrangement of bedrooms. At the top of the staircase there was a hallway off of which there were two bedrooms; Gerard and I shared one, and Mary and Joan shared the other. A door from Mary and Joan’s room connected to Ann’s room. A door from Ann’s room opened into another hallway, and Billy’s bedroom was located at the other end.

My dad was a gregarious food broker and was well-liked in the neighborhood. His original plan was to become a priest, so he attended Saint John’s Seminary for four years; the plan changed when he met my mom.

He was a tall man with a slight paunch. At home my dad usually dressed in a white t-shirt, polyester slacks held up with a leather belt, and a pair of open back slippers. His thinning hair retained a brownish auburn tint and was worn in a stylish comb over fashion. His skin tone varied from white to crimson red depending on his anger level. He constantly had a cigarette dangling from his lips or hanging precariously between his index and middle finger. He sported a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, as did all the NASA scientists of the time. When I was six I started to wear a smaller version of those handsome eyeglasses.

On workdays my dad wore a neatly pressed dress shirt with a matching tie that always looked a tad short due to his protruding abdomen. He also wore a pair of meticulously polished dress shoes. My dad drove a company car, always a late model Ford Country Squire station wagon with wood panel siding.

My mom was an attractive strawberry blonde woman who resembled Ann Margaret and Rita Hayworth. At home she typically wore a long housecoat and Dr. Scholl’s wooden sandals. The Dr. Scholl’s were also used as a deadly weapon, very effective for disciplining her children. She was taciturn, and whenever she went out her hair and makeup were perfect, and she was dressed to the nines.

There was no other neighborhood in Boston that possessed the myriad of amenities that were found in Savin Hill. All within one block of our house was a beach, a playground, a baseball field, tennis courts, a basketball court, and a wooded area with a stunning view of Boston and Dorchester Bay.

Christmas ’69

It was 3:00 A.M. The familiar hum of traffic on the Southeast Expressway and the scraping sound of transit trains on the metal rails were noticeably absent. The frantic footsteps of my dad had halted two hours ago. I pushed aside the window shade to see a dusting of snow on the cars parked along the street.

A voice in the dark uttered, Edward, what are you doing? It was Gerard. His bed was perpendicular to the foot of my bed. He was five, and I was six. I thought I heard sleigh bells, I retorted. In fact, it was probably one of the frequent police sirens heard at night while growing up in Dorchester. Should we look downstairs? I asked, to which he replied, Okay! We scurried out of our beds to the top of the stairs. At that point, another voice in the dark blurted out, What are you doing? It was Mary, our older sister. We’re gonna see if he came. She joined us at the top of the stairs. We were all in bare feet and trying to be as stealthy as Indian scouts. I went first, and as my foot landed on the first wooden step an ear-splitting creak resounded from it. We all froze and waited a good ten seconds before considering a retreat to our beds. All was quiet again except for the hiss from the steam radiators. With renewed confidence we continued down the turned staircase to the hallway that abutted the parlor. As we peered into the parlor, with the aid of the streetlight, we could see several items that weren’t there earlier. The quiet excitement was suddenly interrupted by a loud, groggy baritone voice, Get back to bed! We clamored back up the stairs and landed in a heap on the first landing. What did you see? I saw two sleds! I saw a giant doll! I saw something with two big … From below, my dad’s voice bellowed, Get back in those beds! We sprinted up the remaining steps and plunged into our respective beds.

My dad was on Santa sentry duty because my mom had been admitted to Saint Margaret’s Hospital on December 23rd to deliver her eighth baby. Christmas Eve dinner was Campbell’s tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches adeptly prepared by my dad. After dinner, we sat around the dining room table and filled out our Christmas lists while ogling at the Sears Roebuck Wish List catalog. Our dad stood close by to provide alternate suggestions for any chimerical items that had been added to our list.

At the very top of my list in large block letters were the words BIG WHEEL. It was the coolest, most awesome form of transportation in 1969. The Big Wheel was capable of attaining speeds of 30 mph (downhill, of course) and performing 360° spinouts with the use of a convenient handbrake. It was more popular than the Apollo 11 that had landed on the Moon in July.

Above the black gas log in the living room was a white mantelpiece where we hung our stockings with thumbtacks. There was a distinct difference between the first three stockings and the next three. The first three belonged to the three oldest children: Billy, Ann, and Mary. These were large, ornate stockings with each of their names embroidered in an elegant manner on the fur. They were adorned on the top with three gold bells. There was also an image of a smiling Santa Claus intricately sewn along the entire length of the stocking. Not only did these stockings look spectacular, they were also ample enough to hold a tractor-trailer load of items.

The next three stockings belonged to Gerard, Joan, and me. They were plain looking socks approximately a quarter the size of the ornate ones. Abbreviated forms of our names were crudely written on the stockings with a black magic marker. Magic marker didn’t work so well on faux fur.

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Our Christmas Stockings

I lay in bed wide-awake as the hours dragged by, waiting for a glimmer of daylight. Finally, I heard bedsprings squeaking and feet hitting the floor in Mary and Ann’s rooms. In an instant, Gerard and I bounded from our beds, and the race was on to be the first one to reach the bottom of the stairs.

As I skidded around the corner into the parlor, I saw it. It had two giant red wheels with a small yellow seat sandwiched between them. On the front was a colorful sticker that read, KRAZY KAR. This couldn’t be right; this was no Big Wheel. Had Santa messed up? Were we the last house on his list? Had my Saint William’s School spelling class failed me?

I was pondering a letter of protest to Santa when, from behind me, I heard my dad’s voice say, Santa got that for Gerard. I think yours is over there.

There it was, on the other side of my dad’s green velvet chair. It looked way better in person than it had in the black and white television ad which featured a tail wagging cat being thrilled by three kids racing on Big Wheels. It had a sporty, single front pedal power mag wheel. The frame was brilliant red and aerodynamically designed.

The two rear mag wheels were fat racing style tires. There was a yellow three position adjustable seat. There were red, white, and blue streamers on both of the handgrips. The blue handbrake, used only for sensational spinouts, was installed in front of the right rear tire. On each side of the frame there was a futuristic metallic Big Wheel sticker. If the Big Wheel was a Corvette, the Krazy Kar was a Volkswagen Beetle clown car. Poor Gerard!

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My Big Wheel

Billy, Ann, Mary, Gerard, and I continued to rummage through the Santa items when Joan and Stephen appeared in the doorway rubbing their sleepy but wide-open eyes. Ann and Mary hurriedly approached them with gifts that were obviously meant for them.

There was a general clamor in the parlor while sorting out which presents belonged to whom when my dad interrupted, You have a new baby brother, born last night at 11:00 P.M. His name is Dennis Joseph. There was a brief cessation of wild activity. Why didn’t you name him Nicholas? When’s he coming home? When’s Mom coming home? What’s for breakfast?

In fact, we would learn years later that Dennis was named after Denny McLain, pitcher for the World Series winning Detroit Tigers. Denny won the Cy Young Award and American League Most Valuable Player in 1968. Unfortunately, his baseball career ended prematurely when he was imprisoned for embezzlement, drug trafficking, and racketeering.

My dad sat next to the battle worn coffee table with a cup of Sanka instant coffee and his customary Kent cigarette. There was an ash dangling precariously from the cigarette’s end that miraculously always landed in one of the ubiquitous glass ashtrays in the house.

We had a brief interval to suck on a candy cane, and then we ate a breakfast of Cheerios and drank a glass of lumpy, hastily mixed Minute Maid orange juice concentrate.

After breakfast we hurriedly dressed for Christmas Mass. My dad wore his traditional suit jacket and tie. My mother always took great pride in her children’s attire; however, this year she was having a baby, and the choice of attire would be left to us and would be anything but traditional.

Billy wore his Saint William’s School (SWS) uniform with a green striped tie as opposed to the usual blue SWS tie. Ann wore a white dress and fire engine red tights, which she had purchased at Arnie’s Five & Ten the previous day; she was dressed more suitably for Saint Valentine’s Day. Mary appeared in a crimson dress, mustard yellow fishnet tights, and black shoes.

Gerard and I just gathered our previous day’s clothes from the bedroom floor and went with that. Joan wore a slip that I guess my dad thought was a dress. Stephen had to settle for red overalls.

It was a cold and gray winter morning as we all piled into the back of the Country Squire station wagon for the ride to Saint William’s Church. Billy sat in the front seat with Stephen, the space usually occupied by our mom. The rest of us jostled for a position in the back seat.

Our dad counted heads and then lit up another cigarette. He sighed as he opened the door and retrieved the ice scraper from the tailgate hatch. We could all see his red face peering through the windshield as he worked feverishly to scrape the ice. He climbed back into the car and blew on his bare hands to warm them.

We traveled down Savin Hill Avenue passing all the closed stores and deserted sidewalks. Even with the de-icing delay, we were ten minutes early, owing to our dad’s timekeeping practices and efficient three-point parking on Saint William Street. Architecturally, the outside of Saint William’s Church looked like a Spanish mission that reminded me of the Alamo.

We marched up the aisle of the quickly filling church and filed into our customary pew located halfway up the left side. The usual amount of elbowing and kneeing was delivered and received while making our way through the entire length of the pew.

The slamming of the front foyer doors sporadically interrupted the sounds of coughing and shuffling feet. The balcony organ came to life with Oh Come All Ye Faithful, and everyone rose to their feet.

Two altar boys, the lector carrying the Bible, and Monsignor Bailey (dressed in his white vestments) emerged from the sacristy. They made their way to the back of the church and proceeded up the center aisle to the front of the altar where they bowed in unison.

Monsignor Bailey climbed the stairs behind the altar and waited for the organist to finish the last chorus of Oh Come All Ye Faithful. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Big Wheel.

I couldn’t help it; it just popped into my head. Everyone else was busy standing, sitting, and kneeling while I had only one thing on my mind. I started to daydream, imagining myself racing up and down the church aisles on my Big Wheel as the entire congregation watched in amazement.

I was brought back to reality as, row by row, people lined up in the aisle to go to the front of the church. My dad, Billy, and Ann joined the line as the rest of us remained in the pew. Mary was holding onto Stephen to prevent him from joining the procession.

I could see people kneeling at the front of the church as Monsignor Bailey put something in their mouth. I could faintly hear him mumbling something to each of them before placing a treat on their tongue. It sounded like he was saying, Big Wheel, to which each in turn responded, Amen!

There was more sitting, standing, and kneeling. Finally, everyone stood up, and Monsignor Bailey said in his booming voice, The Mass has ended, go in peace and ride your Big Wheel. That’s what I heard anyway.

After the organist finished Joy to the World, we shuffled to the back of the church with the crowd. As we each took turns tugging on my dad’s coat sleeve, he acknowledged a steady stream of people saying, Merry Christmas! and Congratulations!

Finally, we piled back in the Country Squire for the trip back to 184 Savin Hill Avenue. There was a mad dash up the stairs to resume playing with our Christmas toys. Still wearing my winter coat, I mounted the Big Wheel and negotiated a path through the discarded cardboard, paper, and siblings. I reached the long hallway and proceeded to peddle at breakneck speed causing the Christmas cards, taped to the doorframe, to flutter in the breeze. My ride was abruptly ended by the all too familiar voice from the kitchen. Outside only! Get in here and eat your lunch.

We all sat down to another gourmet meal prepared by my dad, which consisted of fried German bologna on Wonder Bread. We called them bologna caps. After lunch, my dad’s cousin Bridie came upstairs to babysit while Billy, Ann, Mary, and my dad went to Saint Margaret’s Hospital.

This presented an opportunity for another Big Wheel test ride. I sat on the Big Wheel with both of my feet planted firmly on the pedals and my eyes focused on the finish line, which was the bathroom door at the end of the hallway.

Ready. Set. Go!