Skatekey

By Jennifer Ranu

SkateKey presents twenty-two childhood stories told by men and women connected by a metal gadget, the skatekey, a popular tool used to make a roller-skate fit onto a skater's shoe.

This collection of memoirs emphasizes diversity multicultural and religious family backgrounds. Each roller-skating story takes place during a specific time period in American history: The Great Depression 1920s-1030s, World War II The 1940s, The 1950s, The Civil Rights Movement 1960s, and The 1970s. Some stories are funny while others present the hardships and struggles of children growing up during difficult times. SkateKey arouses nostalgia and includes authentic photos of the times and places represented in the stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456876296

Jennifer Ranu

Jennifer Ranu is a professor in the Department of Curriculum and Teaching at Montclair State University in New Jersey where she is a teachers’ teacher. She has served as an educator in urban and suburban school districts in New Jersey for thirty –five years touching the lives of countless numbers of children and having her life touched by them as well. SkateKey marks Jennifer’s debut as a book author. She is currently writing her memoir, Teacher’s Teachers and is the CEO of Jennifer Lee Creations.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Ranu.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011903552

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

Contents

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Chapter 1 Roller-Skating Around The Great Depression

Julia Does The Three-Strike Rule Apply To Roller-Skating Too ?

Lena Who Wore The Dress That Matched Ragdoll’s Sparkling Rhinestone-Button Eyes?

Catherine Can Someone Be Addicted To Eating Pickles And Roller-Skating?

Dorothy How Beautiful Is A Patch Of Green Clover That Grows Along The Roadside?

Maria Can Being Put In The Dark Open Your Eyes?

Rose What Would Old Maples And Giant Oak Trees Tell About A Neighborhood?

Chapter 2 Roller-Skating During World War Ii

Maryland When Does The Ordinary Become Extraordinary?

Florence Does Practice Make Perfect?

Patricia What Is An Ankle Saver?

Chapter 3 Roller-Skating With Baby Boomers

Jennifer Who Was Princess Summerfall Winterspring ?

George What Do Pope Leo Xiii And Lou Costello Have In Common?

Linda Who Was Watching Big Brother?

Mary How Does Roller-Skating Help Control Childhood Obesity?

Felice Why Would Roller-Skating Kids Need A Mikvah?

Alette How Did The Gang Play The Whip?

Victoria Can A Bully Have A Golden Heart?

Chapter 4 Roller-Skating In The 1960S

Peter-Anthony How Can A Loner Become A Mulitasker?

Phyllis How Did The Watson Crew Become Risk Takers?

Rosemarywhere Will The Dandelion’s Seeds Land To Grow?

Chapter 5 Roller-Skating In The 1970S

Michele What Is In A Name?

Bindu Can Roller-Skating Help Immigrant Children

Assimilate In American Culture?

Maureen How Many Days Until Christmas?

To the joys of my life:

my son, Jeff and his wife, Lisa

and my ever beautiful granddaughters,

Giuliana and Karolina

Introduction

One hot July getaway day at the New Jersey Shore, four middle-aged women sat on beach chairs under the canopy of a multicolor flower design beach umbrella, digging the soles of their tender feet in the hot sand. Gripe about all the people, places, and things that contribute to their stressful lives went on for at least an hour, but as the tide pushed the soothing waves closer to their beach blanket and pulled the saturated sand granules back into the cool refreshing ocean, their heated conversation drifted to a time when they were carefree little girls. The tone changed. School days, bike riding, hopscotch, jump rope, and first kiss stories triggered laughter, the medicine that helps to cure. As each shared her personal ball-bearing, metal roller-skate story, a sense of contentment dispelled the hanging stress clouds that overshadowed their beach outing. Happy thoughts of childhood days cleared the stagnant air, and once again the fresh ocean breeze stimulated every tiny nerve ending with each heart-tingling memory story.

That night when the women returned to the shore house they drank a few margaritas and mudslides, sang theme songs from their favorite 1950s television shows and commercials, and discovered the therapeutic magical cure of the skatekey. As once was shared with little friends, this popular gadget (a metal tool used to make a roller skate fit onto a shoe), the women discovered as middle agers that the skatekey opened a door that securely guarded precious innocent childhood memories and released from within them joy and happiness that was all their own.

In writing SkateKey, which took four years, I discovered the meaning of what my mother meant whenever she said, "Things just ain’t like they used to be!" The Great Depression and World War II certainly represent a time of great hardship and struggle for her. Yet the true beauty of nature in the parks and rivers that were untouched by "progress" is perhaps something we can only see through the eyes of those who lived during those times. As our roller-skating journey takes us over smooth or bumpy surfaces, we find in the chapters of this book, which span five decades in American history, children from different cultural and religious backgrounds-played, shared, and loved together. This is the beauty of America that is represented in SkateKey. So, take a getaway day and enjoy the therapeutic action this book of memoirs offers as twenty-two people share their skatekey with you to reveal their childhood roller-skating stories and take you back to a time when things although similar, just ain’t like they used to be.

Acknowledgments

I have many people to thank, most of all my wonderful parents, Julius and Lena Tiritilli, for their love and sacrificing so much to raise me with good values in a wholesome family environment on Jersey Street. They provided my childhood experience with essentials, especially roller-skates and a skatekey. My respect and love for them is immeasurable. Daddy, I wish you were here. Mom, I wish you could remember.

To Nancy Tiritilli, my sister, my friend: You taught me to believe in myself and how to pick myself up after a fall. Your drive to succeed has always been my inspiration.

To the fantastic people who made this book possible by sharing their skatekey stories and photos.

Julia Tirri, LenaTiritilli, Catherine Vignali, Dorothy Bray, Maria Zafarino, Rose Costabile, Florence Felano, Patricia Sinatore, Maryland Witherspoon, George Del Guidice, Linda Del Guidice,

Mary Elmo Lembech, Felice Landau, Alette Blasi, Victoria Madden, Peter-Anthony Mendoza, Phyllis Watson, Rosemary Sonn, Michele Bottcher, Bindu Belani, and Maureen O’Neill.

Thank you to: Loraine Bray, Jennifer Yu, Mary Rotella, Arlene Cardenas, Frances (Franny) Ranu, Maryanne Pescatore, Mariann Burgess, Uncle Mike Giostra, Matthew Tiritilli, Julius Tiritilli, Bernie La Porta, Rachel Anzaldo, Reneé Kauffmann, JoAnne Allen White, Alice Luca and Jeff Ranu.

Chapter 1

Roller-skating around the

Great Depression

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De Luca family

Papa, Mama, Stevie, Oggie, and Julia

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Julia’s First Holy Communion Day 1931

Julia

Does the three-strike rule apply

to roller-skating too ?

I wasn’t really sure that I was ready for this. I plopped down on the bottom wooden step of a flight of stairs that led to the second-floor open back porch of my house to ponder on actually going through with this idea. I wasn’t the athletic type. In gym class at school, nobody wanted me on their team. Kids claimed I couldn’t catch, throw, or run. Perhaps I wasn’t particularly coordinated. Then I thought how disappointed Papa would be if I didn’t even try. With my shiny new metal skatekey in my hand, I connected my new roller skates for a perfect fit around the thick leather soles of my black and white saddle shoes. The discomfort caused by the stressful pressure from the new, hard, stiff leather straps around my ankles was nothing compared to the stressful fear caused by this new challenge.

From the bottom step, our driveway seemed enormous. Over and over I dreamed about this perfect arena, someday conquering every square inch of the solid concrete pavement in play. Now that the roller skates were securely attached to my feet, trembling with fear, I struggled to an upright position by clinging to the end of the sturdy wooden banister. I was a little wobbly at first, but I managed to hold onto the shingled side of the house, gaining a tiny bit more confidence. A slight push off the house with my hands, in a fraction of a second, I began to glide down the concrete pavement on wheels that were attached to my feet. How astounding! For that instant, and just that instant, my dream came true. I had seen other kids wearing roller skates effortlessly glide on the Marshal Street sidewalk in front of my house, but as I struggled to keep my balance on the driveway, I found that roller-skating was more work for me than play.

My parents truly loved each other and had a strong passion for the meaning of family. Older brothers, Stephan (Stevie) and Achille (Oggie), constantly teased me the way older brothers sometimes do to little sisters. I cried and they usually laughed. Papa spoiled me. Perhaps it was because I was the baby, his little girl. He gave me anything I desired, even when times were difficult during the Great Depression. I was not deprived of any materialistic thing during my childhood, and I was certainly loved more than any little girl could hope to be. I absorbed his attention like a thirsty petunia for a soaking rain.

Papa’s regular job was as a fireman. Not the kind of fireman who slid down a brass pole to hop aboard a big, red, clanging fire-engine to put out a blazing fire, but the kind of fireman who shoveled black anthracite coal into the hot furnaces of the dye shops and factories to make the steam energy that drove machinery in the Paterson mills. In that thriving industrial city of the roaring 1920s, Papa worked long hours nearly every day so he could provide a comfortable life for his family, especially his sweet adorable little daughter, Julia.

On Sundays, most Italian families sat around a dinner table to feast on homemade pasta (macaroni) and oven-baked bread garnished with whatever had been harvested from the backyard garden or slaughtered in the backyard shed. Mama was a fantastic cook, but Papa worked every day including weekends, so our usual Sunday dinner was not the typical Italian feast. Mama packed a golden wicker basket for a picnic and took us to meet Papa at his workplace for Sunday lunch. Mama spread out a crisp white linen tablecloth, which she crafted with embroidered trim of small yellow daisies, over a rickety table to cover carvings of lovers’ initials embedded in wooden hearts. I always suspected that somewhere engraved in the splintery tabletop was evidence of my parents’ love, but I never found the courage to lift up the draping cloth to take a peek.

A variety of Jersey’s chirping songbirds, local squirrels, and ants crawling on the ground couldn’t camouflage the smoke that streamed from the factories’ chimneys to canopy us with a gray blanket, covering the blue sky above. The smile on Papa’s face showed through his black soot-covered cheeks that he was delighted to see us and to sit for the short lunch break and feast on Mama’s home-cooked meal. In those days when rationing was a must, even for us, our garden provided vegetables like eggplant that Mama cut length-wise and stuffed with fried ground beef, garlic, onions, cheese, and to add flavor, green parsley. She made a simple Sunday lunch into a banquet for the children and for Papa, her true loves.

I remember that at least once a month in the evening, just after sunset when working store hours were over, Papa went to Hillman’s Jewish Grocery Store on Market Street. Imagine that, an Italian man shopping in a Jewish grocery store! Mr. Hillman unlocked the back door to let Papa enter the dimly lit back room that led to the store front area. Dried beans and flour in huge brown burlap sacks were piled as high as I was tall, and gigantic salamis dangled from big strong metal hooks attached to the wood ceiling beams. It was there, when no other customers were around, that Papa regularly pulled out his wallet to count the crisp dollar bills to pay for the purchase of a fifty-pound bag of granulated sugar or other staples that he bought on the black market. I never knew how much he paid for the bags or sacks that he threw over his broad shoulders to carry home, but somehow our family always had plenty to eat, and there was always the smell of something sweet cooking in the kitchen at our house on Marshal Street.

My brothers called me "Rolly-Polly." I was on the chunky side, and the one thing I liked more than play was to eat. Mama was a great baker of homemade bread, cake, cookies, and pastries flavored with a touch of anisette that was also homemade. I never knew where Papa bought the alcohol to put in that booze. Perhaps at night someone else let him in through their back door. Every intoxicating bite of Mama’s treats deepened my addiction for sweets, and just the smell of something baking in the oven set my salivary glands on high. One of those delicious treats was never enough for me. My pounds doubled and tripled. Papa, a hefty man himself, was concerned for my physical well-being. He thought that exercise might help to burn those awful calories that I consumed by eating Mama’s wonderful oven baked creations.

Neil’s Hardware, a home improvement store on the corner of Marshal Street and Grand Street, was a two-block walk downhill from my house. One lovely spring day when the sun was still shining in the evening sky and I was ten years old, Papa said, "Julia, let’s go for a walk to Neil’s Hardware. I need to buy a lock for the big front door of our house." Although Papa owned a car, he walked almost everywhere if the destination was somewhere in Paterson. Papa and I strolled hand in hand down Marshal Street with the intention of purchasing a lock for the door—or so I thought.

You were almost certain to find exactly what you needed at Neil’s Hardware. If the desired item was not in stock, you could be sure that Neil would have it within the week. Papa walked to the section of the store where locks and keys were displayed. He examined and tested several varieties until he selected the right one to fit our door. Then, he held my hand and guided me toward a display of roller skates that were in the same section of the store as the little red wagons, scooters, and bikes. As I gazed at the roller skates, I experienced a wonderful feeling in my stomach similar to when a tray of Italian cookies was placed before me. It was an exciting thought, that I would be wearing a brand new pair of roller skates, and I would be able to accompany my best friend when she called for play. Papa carefully counted the money from his wallet as he bought the lock and paid for my roller skates too. Neil handed Papa the brown paper wrapped package that contained my new roller skates, and in the palm of my little girl-size hand, he placed a brand new shiny skatekey.

Our large backyard had a garden that provided a variety of produce for all of Mama’s food recipes and a concrete driveway that led to three wooden garages that housed my brothers’ and father’s black Model T Fords. As soon as we arrived home, I took a black shoelace from one of Oggie’s old work boots and threaded it through the hexagonal hole in the metal of my skatekey. Then, as was the style, I draped the shoelace with the dangling skatekey and tied it around my neck. The twine that was wrapped around the brown paper package was knotted into a bow, but I stretched the twine over the sides of the package to free the precious contents. I took a deep breath and sighed.

As he was descending the back stairs of our house to retrieve his car from the garage to pick up his girlfriend for a date, I heard my brother Stevie laugh as he called, "Careful, Rolly-Polly!" Stevie’s teasing words reminded me of how I hoped to someday be as attractive as his girlfriend, Lillian. She was a very pretty lady with a