Jmj

By Gilroy MacFrancis

The book is about growing up in an Irish Catholic family in Philadelphia in the fifties. It features the interesting, wonderful characters I remember.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490768410

Gilroy MacFrancis

Gilroy MacFrancis worked for IBM and taught at Johns Hopkins University, Loyola University of Maryland, and the University of Maryland University College. He is married, with two sons and four grandchildren.

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Copyright 2015 Gilroy MacFrancis.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN:

978-1-4907-6834-2 (sc)

ISBN:

978-1-4907-6841-0 (e)

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Contents

Why JMJ ?

Our Family Felony

Luigi, the Lamplighter of Long, Long Ago

I'm Lattner, You're Guglielmi, and I'm Worden

The Free Library of Philadelphia

Brown Water

A Confirmation with Donuts and Pretzels

Dr. Ida's Story

Pink Sisters on Green Street

Eerie Sister

The Cincture

Valentine's Day

Mom on Carlisle Street

The Haunted House and a Jump to the Tioga T's

The Magic Shop

Peggy, Robbing Hood and Maid Marion

Pop, the Artist

Not So Real Baseball

Stickball

Joe Brown

Rest in Peace

Broad Street -- Going South

Deafy

Big Doings on Labor Day Weekend

Easter Sunday Mass

Blue Velvet for Velvet Blue

H&H's

Angelica

Chevy

Amigo

Fistball

Crusader Joe

In Union There IS Employee Loyalty for Certain

A House is a Home with Mom and Pop

Iszat Your Plymouth

Anything for the Souls in Purgatory

At the Movies with Bob Can-of-Baloney

Carlisle Street

Clearfield Bar and Grill (aka The Field)

Nurse MacFrancis and So Many Other Titles

It Just Doesn't Add up

Pete the Cop and Terrence Fitz Martin

Mary's Procession in May -- The May Procession

Parish Visits

The Olympic Games

The Carmen

The Nativity Scene

Zeke, the French Tonsorial Artist Salvador

Lucky's Used Cars -- First Come First Swerved

Epilogue

Why JMJ ?

This is not really a religious book but it is a book of my remembrances of my very wonderful during my elementary school years in the late-40s to mid-50s. I went to St. Edward's and St. Stephen's Catholic elementary schools in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The good nuns -- and I mean GOOD nuns -- made us put the letters JMJ on top of all the papers we used, homework, tests, and schoolwork. We weren't required to put JMJ on the Valentine cards were obligated to send to fellow students of the opposite sex. Some students probably did so anyway. No, JMJ was for real stuff, not sissy stuff like Be My Valentine and I'll Be Yours.

JMJ stands for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the Holy Family and, like the Jesuits' AMDG notation, For the Glory and Honor of God, it was and still could be a reminder that we should do everything for God's glory and with respect to God's family. It's nice...really. Enjoy

This book is the second book of a promised trilogy about life in Philadelphia in the 40s and 50s from my perspective, a happy-go-lucky kid from a great family, great city, and unreal neighborhood. I continue to present to the reader characters from my past that have been unforgettable and unbelievable to people not familiar with life in the inner-city at sixty to sixty-five years ago or there about. Every day was a holiday as they say, yet sometimes during a holiday crazy happenings happen and frankly crazy people made them happen. I don't omit myself from these crazies but I'll leave it to someone else to write to you about me.

As every politician claims, we were poor, we were patriotic, we walked several miles each day to go, we wore hand-me-downs, and we studied many hours each day until we were so exhausted we couldn't go any further. Scratch the last part and that's who we were. Add to that, we were happy, healthy, and children of two saints. Hopefully, these characteristics will become obvious to you as you read JMJ.

Our Family Felony

Pop made a game out of almost everything we did with him. When we were very young, for example, Pop led us around the house on Saturday mornings saying hello to everything. Pop: Good morning Mr. Chair. Five kids: Good morning Mr. Chair. Good morning Mr. Couch. Good morning Mr. Couch and so on for at least ten minutes. He would take us for rides all over the Philadelphia area.

We'd all sing after Pop, You gotta shoe? Yeah man. I gotta shoe. Yeah man. All God's children 'shoe. Yeah man. And when I die I'm gonna put on my shoes and walk all over God's heaven, heaven, heaven.

Pop sometimes drove us downtown to see the ships on the Delaware and at the Navy yard. We'd come home by 5th Street because 5th Street had a tunnel about two city blocks long. Going through that tunnel was as thrilling as going to Lion's and Kresson lakes, with their brown cedar water. Mom, who was catching up on all her work while Pop drove us around made the games special. After saying good morning to all our friends on Saturdays, Mom called us out to breakfast of pancakes, eggs and scrapple. We had milk, which was sometimes delivered on Saturdays. In cold weather, one of us got the cream on the top of the bottle. It wasn't cream; it was icy milk and it tasted awful. Mom could play her role perfectly if she saw and heard Pop start one of his games.

These games weren't planned; they were a product of Pop's quick, creative mind. The best games were played when we were out of school for some reason. March 19th was a big day for our Sisters of St. Joseph; it was their feast day. There was no school that day. We went to the mandatory 7 (7am Mass).

On our way home from Mass it rained for about the last ten minutes of the walk. The rain had two effects on me: I couldn't wait for Pop's famous omelet and I knew that it was unlikely that the guys would want to play Halfball or football at Temple's Dental field. I wouldn't consider reading my History or Geography to get ahead of the rest of the class, except the girls, who will read that stuff all day. For some reason, Carlisle Street had a hue of blue and the raindrops were bouncing higher than usual off the street. One car was parked on the street, a black car that was near the end of the street, right outside the shimmy alley. Pop, as expected, made his famous omelet of eggs and whatever was in the icebox. Everything but the baking powder and anything unopened was used in the omelet. The 19th was right in the heart of Lent. But we, Sisters of St. Joseph's students, received a special dispensation from somebody unknown, but probably a Cardinal from the Vatican. That allowed us to have what we gave up for Lent. I planned to at least get some fudge to celebrate the day off. After breakfast, there was nothing fun to do. Pop looked out of the front window in the direction of the black car.

Come on out to the porch. Look at that black car. Do you like it?

Five of five comments were affirmative. One comment, Vince's, said what we were all thinking, I wish that it was ours.

I got an idea and maybe the car could be ours.

But Pop, you can't drive.

I know, but I'd like the car to be ours, like Vince.

Franny, you go to Toronto Street and keep an eye to see if anybody's coming. Gilroy, you do the same at Clearfield. Maureen and Theresa, you two watch for cars or people or Carlisle. Vince, you come with me. We're stealing this car, Pop said in a whisper as if not to let the cops hear him.

Vince couldn't be happier; he had no fears at all. The girls, knowing that Pop couldn't drive weren't concerned. He didn't have the keys and he can't drive anyhow.

When Vince and I get into the car, you all leave your stations and get in the car. We'll go to Pep Boys. Mom's about to have a lunch break, Pop said in a slightly louder voice.

Pop told Vince that the keys were in the car and they were. Vince was thrilled and couldn't wait to get going. Maureen and Theresa were getting nervous, but not chickening out. Fran, age thirteen or so, was planning when he could use the car if Pop was serious. I'm remembering Sister St. Raphael and Sister Prophetess and I see an eternity of fire and shoveling coal. The car starts and the horn beeps.

Time to go for a ride, said little Vince like it time to go downstairs to see what Santa brought us for Christmas.

Let's see, push the clutch pedal and release the brake. Now push the long pedal and let go of the clutch. Move the big stick to the right then down one click. I hope that I remember how to stop the car. Here we go. Pop drove to Allegheny Avenue and made a left toward 29th Street.

I love this car and I hope that we never get caught. How fast can it go? Mom will be mad at Pop. Can we stop at the next gas station and drop the car off before the police catch us red handed? Pop, your driving is good. How to stop the car. Wadda you mean Pop.

Mom was outside Pep Boys pretending that she didn't see us. She was wearing the gray smock, so she was setting up displays in the store.

Now we were going to ruin her day.

Mae, the kids and I stole this car from in front of the alley. I drove like Uncle Joe and Uncle Arthur. Uncle Ted was impossible to watch; he's used to a red car and speeding after people. I think I'll take the kids home the back way, down 15th and over Allegheny to Broad to Clearfield. I can practice stopping. I wish you could join us, Pop said to Mom who was not angry or surprised. In fact, she smiled.

Mom wished us luck and applauded Pop for his courage and resourcefulness.

Drive carefully and leave the car in front of the alley where you got it. How'd you get the keys? Mom asked as she went back to work. We headed home using Pop's back ways.

I can't wait to get home and park the car. Father Melley's going to know that Pop stole a car when I go to Confession. I'm really in a jam: stealing pretzels at our class party, making up a story when it was my turn to read my story, attempting to steal a car. Willie Sutton, will go to heaven and I won't. The car had nice seats and doors. I saw a St. Christopher medal on the sun visor. The real owner must be Catholic. Maybe I see him at the 6 during the week.

We were turning left from Clearfield on to Carlisle when Pop stopped the car.

Do you kids like this car?

Yes, yes, sure, yeah, it's my favorite of all times.

Well, it's our car, we own it.

Honest?

I love it, Pop, thanks, it's great, and can you drive now Pop?

Uncle Joe and Uncle Ted taught me and I passed the test yesterday. I drove Mom to work when you were at Mass. I'll drive to work when Mom comes home. This weekend we'll go somewhere. Maybe the Art Museum or downtown or even Valley Forge, we'll see. Pop's first thoughts were always how he could make life better for us.

What if we go on strike and we can't afford the car? I could sell snow cones. They sell ice scrappers at Amigo's. Woolworth's sells the paper cups. I can make the flavoring. Otto sells snow cones. We'll be ok. This street is the best by far. I'll wash the car every other day for as long as we have it. Mom can come with us to Valley Forge. I'll make dinner. My shoes weren't polished this morning at Mass. I'm glad Sister Clare stayed in the convent. Do we go straight to heaven if we get a plenary indulgence? I hate when people look at your shoes. Why do they always do that? I hate when I get dog dirt on my shoes. Fr. Martin should have talked about the Sisters and all they do in class, not the same old story about the Good Samaritan. People will complain if the priests give sermons at daily Mass. Some need to get to work. I hope I still have a chance for heaven.

My parents told us to ask Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, to keep everybody on the roads safe. Saint Christopher carried the baby Jesus on his shoulder across a river about four feet deep.

Pop wanted to take us to the Art Museum to give us some culture and to see his favorites, the Dutch Masters. Believe me, one trip to the art museum wasn't going to get culture in my mind, unless culture included half-ball and street tackle. The Art Museum was our second or third trip, downtown was the first.

Our first trip took us to 5th and Arch Street, where we parked and walked around Colonial Philadelphia, the home of courage, freedom, and conviction. Betsy Ross' house -- right at the corner - was very old and Colonial. It was small and the American flag at the doorway had just thirteen stars for the original colonies. Pop passed by the furniture and the colonial dishes and silverware at the same pace as the rest of us. It surprised me until we got outside. He pondered the house's exterior when, His expression was he might come down sometime and do a painting of the house. He was very good at painting still life, places, and people.

I can picture Betsy sewing the flag. She is short and wears a plain wide dress with flowers on it. She has an apron with needles pinned to it. She wears a white shawl, which she knitted for a friend who did not want to declare independence and refused to talk to Betsy because she did. Washington comes up the steps to the drawing room, where Betsy is working. Washington is tall and big. He has a tough time with the winding, narrow steps and he fills the doorway to Betsy's room.

Betsy, it looks great so far; how much longer? he says.

The stars take the most time, general, and I only have three to go; should be a week or two. Will you be back by then? Betsy replies.

Yes, and I'll be sure to have the money for you.

Not for the work; I couldn't do that, but for the materials, that's what I prefer general. I think about all of you and, especially the kids who are fighting for us to be free. Some of them are so young general; they look so innocent, handsome and determined. Please don't ever court martial these kids, General, they are in a tough situation.

Pop can get the innocence and determination in the faces of our solders if some historical group commissions him to paint them. The background will be weird, purple sky, green and yellow fields, and wounded soldiers being helped by their friends. Pop is the best at seeing color, mood, fear, anxiety, and determination. And his painting would be in our Picture Study books. But he can't because he's got us. I bet Betsy works longer days when Washington or Jefferson or Franklin or Adams stops by.

Franklin's grave is small. Vince can't climb the fence. He's too small and this is a cemetery. Old Christ's church is plain and actually ugly -- no color anywhere. Washington sat on the end of his pew with Martha next to him. Somehow, I can almost see him with boots and a blue army jacket and white wig. The minister had to focus on him because he stands out. Maria said her store is on the lot where Franklin and his intellectual friends met to discuss and exchange books at our first library. I better do my homework better; that's what the soldiers fought for. I'm not helping to put Ant-knee or Richie down the sewer any more. I'm going to Confession every week. I'll give up at least three things for Lent. I'll shovel everybody's pavement and take out the ashes with no problems.

We did the colonial tour with Pop. We saw Carpenter's Hall, Willing's' Alley, which is the oldest alley in America. It is famous for its cobble-stone street. Independence Hall was especially thrilling. Freedom from tyranny cost many lives. Our leaders made freedom a reality for us and so many people kept that freedom alive. That is why we have what we have today. I love it!

Luigi, the Lamplighter of Long, Long Ago

We had to be lucky to see him because he usually came when we were having dinner, but it was a real joy to see Luigi, the Lamplighter. He was small and quick. He was well dressed for the part, with his sport coat and tie. I don't think he had to be well dressed; his substitute wore old beat up clothes. He wore a newsboy cap like some of the Irish and Scots Irish people at Paddy's Taproom and the Clearfield Bar do. He wore a scarf wrapped around his neck during in the winter. He never wore an overcoat or any coat except his sport coat. He never smiled or looked at anyone. He was there to do a job -- he wasn't being paid to make friends - and he was going to do it. You could see that on his face. He was sane and that meant a lot to me. Sane people were rare at times, especially those people who walked into alleys. He wore knee length galoshes, which could be washed off with a hose. I often wished that he had a handlebar mustache. He'd be a walking advertisement for Italian sausage or pizza if he did. His visible hair -- under the cap -- was black and full of Vitalis or Vaseline jelly.

He walked around the neighborhood carrying a stick-like gadget, like the lighter altar boys use to light tall candles. The gadget had a wax wick on the end of it. On his right shoulder, he carried a thin ladder about seven or eight feet long and a foot wide at the bottom. The wooden ladder tapered toward the top to four or five inches at the top. The ladder had a loop on the top of it. Our favorite Lamplighter put the ladder against the lamppost, which was at the turn in the alley where the vicious dogs lived behind the broken wooden fence, which the dogs broke. He put the loop around the pole for safety purposes. The lamp pole was at least thirty feet back from the curb on Carlisle Street. The post provided light for the yard behind us, where the neighbors had an annual pig roast. I thought it was meant to light up our street, but I guess not. Luigi climbed the ladder with the candle lighting gadget. I can't remember if the wick on the end of the gadget was lit before he climbed the ladder or after he got to the top of the ladder. Anyway, Luigi lit the lamp, flipped the loop, descended the ladder, and pulled the ladder toward his shoulder. In a flash, the ladder was back around his shoulder and our Lamplighter was on his way to the next alley.

It was a wonderful sight to see and it took less than two minutes. The Lamplighter was as smooth doing his job as Robin Roberts was at pitching to Duke Snyder or Stan Musial or as Willie Mays catching a fly ball hit into deep left center or Pete Pihos running a pass play.

The Lamplighter is small. Can he handle the crazy dogs in our alley? I bet that dogs bite him all the time. The city should give him something to chase dogs away with, like a B-B gun or a peashooter or a rod that he could keep in his jacket. I don't want to be a Lamplighter although I'm sure it pays better than most jobs, like Iceman, Pretzel Maker, or Milkman. At least he gets some sunlight in the summer and spring. He can't be a piece worker because he only has certain alleys he can go to. I think that there is a Lamplighter's union because of all the dogs and cats. Lamplighters have to be small, agile and strong, like Bobby Schantz or Spook Jacobs. Uncle Matt puts doggie biscuits next to fallen telephone wires to entice dogs to get electrocuted. I wonder if Luigi does something like that for dogs that rally bother him. If Luigi isn't Italian, the pope's not either.

Eddie the Idiot tells everybody that Luigi is Gatemouth's uncle from Sweden. Gatemouth just laughs and everyone laughs at Gatemouth's gate-like teeth.

Luigi wouldn't hurt the dogs He was too kind from what I saw. He was a busy man content on getting his work done and going home with his family.

I'm Lattner, You're Guglielmi, and I'm Worden

In the 40s and 50s, Notre Dame Football dominated college sports the same way the Yankees dominated professional sports. Every Irish Catholic -- and some non-Catholic or non-Irish boys -- dreamed of playing for the Fightin' Irish. In addition, many Catholics of all ages loved Notre Dame knowing full well that they would never get to see the place let alone go to school there. In fact, college for everybody in my Philadelphia inner-city neighborhood considered going to any college was about as possible as having a Polish and German pope. These people comprised the Subway Alumni. Notre Dame's subway alumni were all over America, especially in the inner-cities, rural areas, and anywhere else where jobs were jobs, not careers.

This is one of my many stories about the days that my friends and I pretended to be the Notre Dame players. I'm sure that this story, if I wrote it correctly, will bring back memories of priests like Fr. Cullen or Fr. O'Brien, who announced the scores of the Notre Dame football games from the pulpit at the early Sunday masses. If Notre Dame won, all my friends and I went to Confession a.s.a.p. to Fr. O'Brien, especially if the Irish beat Southern Methodist. Fr. O'Brien had an ongoing bet with his minister friends.

Coach Leahy, call me if you need me.

Believe me, Rory Doyle really stunk up the place when he played quarterback. He always called Guglielmi first, before anyone else could. He'd turn the corner on Carlisle Street yelling, I call Guglielmi. Fortunately, he left most of the games early because he didn't like being told the worst thing: You should be Southern California or Michigan cause you stink. Other players were either very good, just OK, or terrible.

Richie Cione was the worst because he was small and scared all the time. Richie played when he had a real football that we could use, just like it was in baseball when he had a baseball without electric tape covering it or a bat with no nails keeping it together. Richie always wore a helmet and shoulder pads when he came to play football. When we chose sides, you could select two players if the other chooser picked someone with a helmet or pads. With Richie it didn't apply mostly because Richie was the last one chosen but sometimes even if he wasn't the last one chosen. Richie kept his football in great shape well after Christmas.

Many other players got footballs for Christmas, but lost them at 29th and Allegheny or Hunting Park. Sometimes a player took his football to the Gulf station and filled it with air. A couple days -- sometimes hours -- the ball would burst, making some people run for their air raid shelter. We had some speedsters and tough kids; some who went on to play for their high school teams.

Swifty was swift for sure. This came in handy at 29th and Allegheny and the streets but was useless at the dental school's field. Swifty always called Joe Heap and nobody else could call that name. Swifty was our Joe Heap. He didn't resemble Joe Heap. He was short, slight, red-headed, and, unfortunately, had an egg-head, which we all said, should have been shaped properly when he was born using a steel helmet with the right shape. Swifty agreed, but offered it up for the Souls in Purgatory. He should have been an altar boy and would have been if he didn't fail Picture Study and wasn't admitted to the Palmer method writing club on his first try.

Kill T, who wanted to be Scottish and whose real name was Gunther T. Sauer, Jr., was just Ok. He could play at all our locations. The black stones at 29th Street made him feel very tuft (he meant tough, I think), as he would say after the third and fourth quarters. His father played soccer in Germany before the war. His mother played sucker all the time. Gunther Sr. was a tyrant, who appeared to do goose steps to church. He never went into the church but turned left at Erie Avenue into H&H's for coffee and to play his favorite numbers. Numbers' writers hung around bars or coffee places. Richie Cione's father was the numbers' person in our neighborhood. Richie collected the money and the numbers some times. Gunther Sr. frequently shoveled snow or took out the ashes for Mr. Cione to pay for the numbers. Gunther Sr. never could figure horses or numbers out.

Kill T looked like Morton Downy but was huge for his age. Gunther Sr forced his family to go to the Strand Theater every Tuesday night no matter what was playing. I thought