Daddy's Book

By Joseph Coppini

This is how the story begins, it was a Wednesday night and I went to a dance every Wednesday night at the P.S. Pavilion; a nice big dance hall like the big ones we had in Chicago, with the big bands. I felt like I was about 18 years old and I danced every dance. I had a few drinks and I left the dance about 11 :00 P.M. I got to bed about 11:45 p.m. I woke up about 5 a.m the next morning. I couldn't breathe, I was having a tough time breathing; so I called 911. I knew I was in some kind of trouble so I took my pajamas off, put on shorts and with that I put my medicare card and blue cross/blue shield card, and my driver's license in my pocket I waited out side. It seemed like an hour but it was probably only a few minutes, before the fire dept arrived with their wagon. I was standing in the driveway, waiting for them to arrive. I said, "I'm having a hard time breathing would you please give me some oxygen." They kept asking, what's your name, . . .where do you live? I kept asking them to please give me some oxygen. I was having a tough time breathing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483656588

Joseph Coppini

Joseph has served in the Second World War in the Anzio campaign, and as a police officer in the City of Chicago. After retiring from the police force, Joe started a career as a barber, where he practised for thirty years.

Book preview

Daddy’s Book

Joseph Coppini

Copyright © 2013 by Joseph Coppini.

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.

Rev. date: 06/19/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

This book is dedicated to Mary Lou and Maya, both of whom have made my life better.

I’d also like to dedicate the book to my daughters, Paula and Claudia who’ve brought joy to my life.

Foreword

Writing a book is difficult, but rewarding work. The following book was written by my uncle, Joe Coppini, and has been more than fifty years in the making. It’s finally done, and my uncle should be proud that he’s committed his stories to paper.

Personal memoirs capture the spirit of the writer, and you can catch a glimpse of Joe’s spirit in this book. It’s a proud, humorous, sometimes tempestuous spirit that Joe has, but beneath the sometimes gruff exterior, there is a warm heart ready to lend a helping hand.

As you read these stories, you’ll visit a world that was simpler and in many ways, nobler. You’ll read about Joe’s service in the Second World War and his time on the Chicago Police Force. You’ll read about growing up in a predominantly Italian neighborhood, where people knew and cared for their neighbors. You’ll read about Joe’s mom and dad, brothers and sisters, and life for an immigrant family in a tough neighborhood in Chicago. You’ll also read about how that family became acclimated into mainstream American culture. Maybe you’ll understand that something is lost when people become part of the melting pot that is America.

I hope though, that you come to understand Joe a little; I know I did when I helped edit his book. You’ll understand his vitality, his humor, his larger-than life persona, and when you do, I hope you will love and respect him as much as his family does.

June 5, 2013

Peter Ponzio

Chapter One

This is how the story begins, it was a Wednesday night and I went to a dance every Wednesday night at the P.S. Pavilion; a nice big dance hall like the big ones we had in Chicago, with the big bands. I felt like I was about 18 years old and I danced every dance. I had a few drinks and I left the dance about 11 :00 P.M. I got to bed about 11:45 p.m. I woke up about 5 a.m the next morning. I couldn’t breathe, I was having a tough time breathing; so I called 911. I knew I was in some kind of trouble so I took my pajamas off, put on shorts and with that I put my medicare card and blue cross/blue shield card, and my driver’s license in my pocket I waited out side. It seemed like an hour but it was probably only a few minutes, before the fire dept arrived with their wagon. I was standing in the driveway, waiting for them to arrive. I said, I’m having a hard time breathing would you please give me some oxygen. They kept asking, what’s your name, . . . where do you live? I kept asking them to please give me some oxygen. I was having a tough time breathing.

I sat down with my back towards my car. Finally the paramedic arrived. They started asking again, all the same questions. I told them: give me oxygen or I’ll pass out I can’t breathe. He said, I’ll start an IV… just relax. I said if I relax more than I am… I’m sure I’ll fall asleep. I remember him ripping my wrist apart to get the IV in and sure enough I passed out. And that’s where my story begins.

I passed out and when it’s your time, it’s your time to go. Then you’re gonna go. I woke up in the intensive care unit of Palm Desert Hospital. I couldn’t talk because there was a hose down my throat. It felt like a garden hose. I was tied down and I see my 2 daughters standing there. (I later found out, that at least 14 hours had gone by,during which time the girls were getting their airline tickets, with the help of Darlene DiCanio and flying into LA, renting a car and getting lost on the way.)

I was telling the staff not to call my daughters because they lived in Chicago. I tried to talk to my brother Frank who was there. Then I tried to talk to the girls. No one could understand me. Finally I motioned for a pen and paper. As I was writing, my daughter, Claudia was trying to decipher it out loud. I’m writing get me out of here these people are incompetent, they are going to kill me. And here is Claudia, reading it all out loud. Well, there were about 5 nurses there and everyone of them started to laugh. And I heard one say, he doesn’t know what happened. And then it started, I began to drift in and out of consciousness. Later I found out, I had died. Really died.

I was DOA by the time the paramedics got me to the hospital. A John Doe, DOA.

Now, that’s no way for a guy like me to go. But go I did, then back I came. Then I was in and out and it’s true; your whole life does pass before your eyes, when you’re in that kind of spot. So my life flashed in front of me. The next thing I remember was being a kid. Being with my friends… most of us stayed friends even after we grew up. Most of us were of Italian descent. First generation American. At that time, you thought everyone was Itallian. Until you started taking your lunch to school. Lots of the kids had Silver Cup bread. I felt sorry for them. There was nothing to that bread. You know what I mean. I could probably eat a whole loaf and not get full.

The other 10 % of the kids were Irish, German and Jews. They were stuck with us for one reason or another. Some had businesses and didn’t have enough money to locate in a better neighborhood. As I grew older, I could see what was causing the changes. The Irish were getting established In the city of Chicago. There were police, fireman and politicians and they were organizing unions. The Germans came here with gold and went in trades.

The Poles stayed in mostly established poor neighborhoods. Like the poor Italians and they were doing a lot of manual labor, too. The Italians were pushing the Jews out and the blacks were pushing the Italians out. We had a large building; 24 apartments on the corner of Ogden, Taylor, and Kendall. All blacks lived in that building (our house was about 2 blocks from there, next to an empty lot) we went to school together with them. After school they played or whatever on Kendal street. A couple of houses south of that building there was there B Baptist church. On Sunday afternoons you could hear music and singing… in the summer they would leave the door wide open and you could see them dancing and going wild. I t was like a floor show to us. We never bothered them. They never bothered us. Now, that I think of it, I guess it was sort of a strange understanding, ’cause about a couple miles north of us on Lake Street from Ashland to California was an all-black neighborhood. They had their own food and clothing stores. The neighborhood ran about a mile and a half south of Roosevelt from Ashland on the east end to Wood Street on the west side and south to about 14th street it was as much bigger area than North Lake Street. Again, they didn’t bother us, and we left them alone. After WWII it seemed our neighborhood had been taken over by blacks. I found out later, that they were brought in from the South to fill in some jobs that were needed, because most of the white men were in the service.

Getting back to the story; the poor Italians with parents speaking broken English had a rough time getting jobs. If you had a good strong back and were willing to kick back a portion of your pay, some big shot would give you a job.

Like my father, he was strong but had no education at all, which was common in our section of the city. The few who were educated in Italy still had a rough time learning the language.

My mother came here when she was 5 years old and her mother came to the USA, too. Now, this neighborhood was an ordinary one. Each family had about 6 kids. That’s a lot of kids for a small area. The average age ranged from around 20’s to a new born baby. By now, you have a pretty good idea of what kind of neighborhood we had.

Most of the houses were run down. The people who owned them before sold to these poor people. Never did any work at all to the houses. This didn’t stop the poor people. They bought the houses and helped each other on their day off. Most of them worked after finishing their jobs then helped their friends fix their houses. Many of the people worked 7 days a week. We were lucky to have food. Our menu was: Monday macaroni and beans; Tuesday macaroni and potatoes, squash. Peas and anything else my mother could find that was fresh. No canned food. Of course, you would hear about a group of Italians every now and then; Sicilians who were black hand. Then there was a hush as soon as you said, black hand. It was an euphemism for organized crime. This was the phase before the so called Mafia.

After someone would say it, believe it or not, we found that this group of guys were muscle men. They would cheat people out of money, steal from them and actually they were killers too. Being a young kid I just let it go over. I pretended not to know how bad they were.

So we had the parents from Europe and the apartment building full of blacks. Now we have to start putting the kids in groups for school; naturally boys don’t hang with girls unless they’re a fairy, right? Every age had their own gangs. Just like in a jungle, the toughest or the strongest rule, even if you didn’t like what we were going to do for the day. You went along, or else. Again, the toughest called the shots for the day, whether you’re out of school, or in school, or after school… once in a while one of the guys who wasn’t so tough, but was a friend of one of the leaders, would make a choice; the older guys controlled the rest of the groups… usually the families with the most boys pretty much controlled the groups. Like the time I was about 12 years old. I got into a fight with Blackie’s brother Joe who was my age; also our fathers were very good friends. After I beat Joey up I had to fight his brother Blackie (Albert) who was 2 years older than I was. I also had a brother 2 years older. Blackie’s other brother was named Sam. Anyway, Blackie was having a hard time beating me and a started to fight dirty. My brother George jumped in; he took care of Blackie and Sam, too. That’s how it went in those days.

After a few incidents like that, you gained respect for people who could take care of themselves. Your younger brothers and sister… sometimes, the older guys would try to settle a dispute and wind up fighting one of the fathers. Then there really was trouble and usually someone would get hurt real bad and maybe even killed.

I remember an incident involving the Sparrow brothers; there were 9 of them, they started from the early 20’s all the way down in age to the little guy. Then there was this guy called Farmer who was a next door neighbor of theirs. He was a Lenetta. He was fighting with Chickie 12 of the Lentil Boys, one was in jail for murder and they lived next door to each other. Before you know it, what was really going on was 6 of them—three from of each family—and both mothers and their sisters screaming and crying… blood is spattered all over. The guys fighting had broken heads, busted noses and lips. Finally the older brothers and fathers came and busted up the fight. Families like these would then stay clear from one another ’cause they wouldn’t take crap