Under the Noodle String: A Memoir

By Bernardine Williams Rosenthal

This is a memoir of a plain girl, Bernardine Williams Rosenthal growing up in Chicago during the poverty of the Great Depression. With a streak of independence and a desire for knowledge she wanted a profession to fulfill her goals of always having a job and to be an independent woman. She relates how the decisions she made during her early years prepared her for recognizing her big opportunity when a career in nursing became available.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664125889

Bernardine Williams Rosenthal

Bernardine Williams Rosenthal lived in New York for 76 years. A retired nurse, she was active in several book clubs until her death. She was the last of the Williams sisters to pass away.

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Copyright © 2020 by Bernardine Williams Rosenthal.

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.

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Rev. date: 09/16/2020

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Contents

Acknowledgment

My Mother’s Family

My Father’s Family

The Sisters

1710 North Maplewood Avenue

Across North Avenue

Campbell Avenue

First Grade

Summers

Winters On Campbell Avenue

Whooping Cough

My Parents

Sightseeing With Daddy

Neighbors

Hitting

Potatoes, Milk, And Coal

Mrs. Schmidt

Skippel Gets Drunk

A Poor Lost Soul

A Cabinet Kitchen

The Hansens And The Jensens

Grandma And Shirley Temple

Going To The Dentist

Next Door

My First Job

The Cat, The Canary, And The Dog

The Moos School Years

Baseball

Embarrassing Subjects

Weddings

Religion

The Important School Bag

Marie Takes Charge

Eighth Grade At Last

High School

December 7, 1941

A Close Encounter With Vision Loss

1920 North Fairfield Avenue

Nurses Residence

Epilogue

The past is never dead; it’s not even past.

—William Faulkner from Requiem for a Nun

I started writing the stories from my childhood when I was a young mother, and they were written in a used lined spiral notebook that had belonged to one of my children. At first, I wrote because those nice blank pages were so inviting, but I soon realized that I was writing because I needed to tell this story.

This little book is for my family, friends, and anyone who wants to know about the Williams girls and their childhood. It was way back when even a clean piece of string was of some importance. For most of you, this is ancient history and probably difficult to relate to your lives, but it may be worth knowing.

Remember, that these events shaped my sisters and me and made us the women that you know and remember as your mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, aunts, great-aunts, cousins, and dear friends. I wrote this book for all of you.

Love,

Mom, Bern, Grandma, Aunt Bern

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

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M Y FIRST THANKS is to my husband, Mort, silenced by death, but whose voice is part of my soul, still encouraging, bantering, and challengin g me.

My thanks to my family, from my mother who trusted me to my father who was afraid of how I would turn out and my sisters who shared these experiences at my sides and backing me up.

My thanks to my children who gave momentum to my writing with their enthusiasm and ideas and my grandchildren with their skilled criticism, editing, and unrivaled interest in my stories that propelled me forward. I count all of you as my muses.

Special thanks to my late sister Marie who gave me my first dictionary for my eleventh birthday when she was eight years old.

To Frankie, my late dear friend and mentor who guided my learning at Queens College and read my work with concern and devotion throughout the seventy-one years of our friendship, my heartfelt thanks.

To Katy, my professorial granddaughter who helped me with continuity and structure, my thanks for showing me how and where it was needed. All these were done with gentlest of nudging.

Special thanks to my granddaughter Julie who suggested the title, showing me the thematic thread that holds my story together.

And thanks to my daughter Jeanne who endured hours of reading and rereading for me and never begged for mercy.

Thanks also to Elise Alarimo who provided the organizational and technical skills needed to bring this project to fruition. Without her patient help and support, these stories would still be in loose-leaf notebooks.

To all of you, I hope I have lived up to your expectations.

MY MOTHER’S FAMILY

The German Connection

1826 N. Rockwell Street, Chicago, Illinois

I T WAS CALLED Grandma’s house even when Grandpa Jost was still alive, and it was the first place that I remember. It would become the center of our whole family’s universe, a North Star for us to navigate our small piece of Chicago on the northwest side near Humboldt Park. All the Jost children, my aunts and uncles, settled nearby to start their own families just as my family did. Families tended to live close together back then because they depended upon one another, and it was frequently necessary to just run over to someone’s house to give or get help and to pass on news. Keep in mind that no one had a telephone back then, so it was a necessity.

My grandparents’ house was a typical Chicago house with outside front stairs going up to two doors; the one on the left went to the first floor, where my grandparents lived, and the one on the right went to the inside stairs to the second floor. Because the first floor was raised, the basement was partly above grade and in the front; at least it had nice windows. It was a frame house that was set forward on the property, with the stairs and porch occupying the right side of the front of the house as you faced it. There were three similar houses to the left, and beyond them was the very big ice house and coal yard. On the right, directly adjacent, was a tavern that would become a major player in the history of the family. Behind the house, there was an area of grass and some bushes going back to a shed that had rabbits and chickens. Beyond the shed was the alley that cut through the whole block behind all the houses for picking up garbage.

My mother’s parents, my grandparents, Maria Henrika Katerina Becker and Theodore Jost, were both born in Germany. Maria came from Northern Germany, Oldenburg in Kloppenburg, and immigrated when she was eighteen years old. She told me that she had a brother, Bernard, and an uncle or cousin who was the town mayor. She also had a cousin, Louise, who lived in Chicago, but there was some problem between Grandma and her cousin, and they stopped seeing each other.

Grandpa Jost came from Trier in Southern Germany. He immigrated with his family when he was two years old. Since he would have spent his childhood here, his English language skills and American ideas were well established. Before he died, I remember that he could make Grandma laugh, and they both seemed happy. That difference in their immigration times would explain why he teased her a bit about her German dialect. I vaguely remember the differences between Hoch Deutsch and Platt Deutsch (high and low German dialects) being argued in a pleasant teasing way.

Grandpa was very tall and friendly and seemed to get along with his children because I never saw him angry at them. On weekends, he drank beer that was brought by the pail from the tavern next door, and he could swing the shiny pail full of beer around in a vertical circle without spilling any of it. He liked to do it in the front room, and Grandma didn’t like it. It was my first lesson in centrifugal force and also taught me that here was a person that Grandma did not boss around. My grandpa and centrifugal force were that powerful.

He was a teamster by trade and had a wagon with a team of horses for his work. Most things in those days were delivered by horse and wagon, everyday necessities like milk, coal, and ice. Grandpa did moving as well, and his sons would work with him.

From their wagons, peddlers sold produce fresh from the farms in the summertime, calling out the produce as they came down the street, Watermello, get your sweet watermello. Or my most favorite was Hey, Golden Bantam, and my parents would be sure to go out and at least look at the beautiful load of corn. Anyway, there were few trucks or cars around, so Grandpa must have been busy; there would have been plenty of work to do.

Maria and Theodore had six children, all of them still living at home when I was born in 1926. Here they are in birth order with their ages at that time: Theodore, twenty-one, dubbed The Duke by his siblings because he was Grandma’s favorite. Bernardine Katherine, my mother, who was eighteen, was not Grandma’s favorite but was the one who Grandma counted on to help. Johanna, seventeen, called Honey by Grandma because she was the other favorite. Then Vincent, fifteen; Joseph, thirteen; and Agnes, ten; none of whom were Grandma’s anointed. Her favoritism was always blatantly in the faces of the four not favored. Everyone knew who got the best and most of food, who got approval, and who was able to take advantage of his siblings.

They always talked about how The Duke would bring eclairs home after work, which he would eat all himself or share only with Grandma. Maybe Honey got a bite. Grandma didn’t have a problem with that. Mama had her nose broken twice, and both times Duke was involved. In a photograph of Duke and Mama, he looked to be about three years old, and she was about eighteen months old. He had his fist clenched as if to punch, and I knew that her nose had been broken already. Again, Grandma did not have a problem with bullying of a baby. When Mama was eighteen and pregnant with me, he pushed her down the stairs, and her nose was broken again. I don’t remember Grandpa having a part in this; he seemed to me to like all his children. I thought that he also liked me.

Grandma and Grandpa Jost were Catholic, so their children were all named after saints and went to Catholic school until Grandma became angry at the parish priest, left the church, and enrolled the children in the local public school, Bernhard Moos. My mother graduated from Moos as did I and my sisters. Of all the Jost children, my mother was the only one who was scholarly and loved school; the others really didn’t care about it and did as little as possible to get through school.

Mama was so sad when she graduated from Moos because the Josts either couldn’t or wouldn’t permit her to go to school any longer. She had to get a job when she was just fourteen years old and contribute to the household. She was very sad and cried for three days, but nobody cared because they all thought that school was a waste of time; you could get a job without it. She did get a job at a silk factory spinning thread onto spools. She told me about how she saved some money and bought pieces of yard goods, cloth that could be made into many things and some nice curtains for the home and family she hoped to have. She kept all this in a special cardboard box waiting for that time.

Grandpa kept pigeons in the attic that he bred and raced. He also bred rabbits for competition in the shed behind the house. There were pictures and ribbons of the winners proudly displayed in their house. Occasionally, pigeon or rabbit stews were made with the losers, and my mother would never eat them. Uncle Vince loved to tell about wringing their necks just to be disgusting. He also said that he got his curly hair from letting the pigeons poop on his head. Mama would just keep a straight face when he was making those jokes, but Joe and Agnes loved it and would be poking each other with their elbows and laughing.

Grandpa seemed to enjoy life and was not as stern as Grandma. He even loved to bicycle ride and would think nothing of riding as far as Cicero, Illinois, for a jaunt. It was on one of those trips that he was caught in the rain coming home. He died from pneumonia soon after in 1932, and everyone said it was because he caught a chill in that rain.

Having a house was always a big deal in our family. I never knew how they were able to afford it. Of course, Grandpa could have earned it here with good opportunities to work. They both were prudent and hard workers. I once heard the amount that they paid for the house, and I think that it was either $1,200 or $2,000. Don’t laugh at my lack of discrimination here, but I was young when I heard the number, and I remember that it sounded like a lot, so the $800 difference wouldn’t have been that significant to me. Truth was that I didn’t understand hundreds of dollars, but I had a very clear idea that five pennies added up to a nickel, and I knew that could buy something important like some peanut butter or oatmeal.

Grandma Jost was the only grandparent that I ever really knew. Grandpa died when I was six years old, and Daddy’s parents and siblings were already deceased by the time I was born. When I came into the family, I think that Grandma had had enough of children, and I was just another mouth to feed. I knew that I was part of the out group, along with Uncle Vince, Aunt Agnes, and Uncle Joe. (Mama was not really part of it because she was always Grandma’s helper.) They would always give me conspiratorial looks as if I knew what was going on. Hey, kiddo, go inside and see what Ma is doing. I would go in and give them a report, but I never knew what was going on, except that they were trying to stay out of Grandma’s way.

When Uncle Joe tiptoed across Grandma’s kitchen floor with football cleats, he would wink at me and hold his finger up to his lips. I didn’t tell Grandma. They were always warning one another about Grandma.

Watch out, Aggie, Ma is not going to let you go out. She wants you to clean the bathroom before you can leave. The Duke messed it up.

He would, Agnes would say with a sigh and go and do it so she could finally go out with her friend. Agnes loved to go out with her best friend from school, Eleanor Rees, and she knew that it was hopeless to argue with Grandma. She would just tighten her lips, take a deep breath, and do whatever she was told.

Vince and Joe always wanted to get away also, but they wanted to pitch horseshoes in the empty lot across the street or play football. It was hard for them to get out of Grandma’s clutches though; she was very watchful to keep them from doing the things that they wanted to do. The Duke, Hannah, and Mama didn’t laugh or smile very much; it seemed as if those rascals Vince, Agnes, and Joe got the fun-loving genes.

They were always looking out for me, telling me how to stay out of trouble with Grandma and sometimes giving me treats. Uncle Vince proudly gave me a stuffed dog that he had won at a carnival. It was a wire-haired Fox Terrier, white with one large brown spot on its back and another on its head, seated attentively with forelegs straight, its head tipped slightly to the side. It was made of the softest, cuddliest wool that was so nice to put my face into and hug; I named him Buster after Buster Brown the shoe company because of their ad that had a boy with his dog.

Another time Uncle Vince won a live pig at a raffle. Of course, he did not give it to me, but he did keep it in the basement for a while, and I could pet it and watch it eat. He liked to tickle the pig and make it squeal. Mama made him stop and told him to leave the pig alone. Anyway, Mama and Daddy told me that people ate pigs, and that’s why they were not pets; Grandma was just keeping it until the right day to cook it. So one Sunday the pig was gone. I didn’t really miss the pig, but I thought that pigs, pigeons, rabbits, and even some people had a hard life at Grandma’s house.

MY FATHER’S FAMILY

The French Connection

M Y PATERNAL GRANDPARENTS Edward or Eduard and Lena Bellone immigrated from Alsace Lorraine with two children. My father, Lawrence Joseph Edward Williams, was born much later in Chicago when his mother was in menopause and his siblings were already adults. Daddy spoke as if he was the only child at home when he was growing up and didn’t know anything about his siblings. He told me that his father was a very strong man, a stone mason by occupation, who had a short temper.

His family name, Bellone (exact spelling uncertain), was constantly mispronounced as Baloney, like the sausage, when he first arrived in this country. The expression Aw, you are full of baloney meant that you didn’t know what you were talking about and full of hot air. Taunted by being called Mr. Baloney all the time was more than Grandpa Bellone could stand, and somewhere along the line, he decided that his life and the life of his family would be easier as Williams. My father said that the name change occurred early in his childhood, and he never knew any name other than Williams.

The only other story that I know about my Grandpa Williams is that one payday, a Friday, he was very late coming home from work. Daddy, a boy of eight or nine, was sent by his mother to the local tavern to look for his father. Daddy succeeded in getting his father to come home with him, and they walked on a path along a ditch next to a viaduct.

The local policeman who knew everyone by name said, Surely, Mr. Williams, it’s a shame to get so drunk that your little son has to take you home. A family man like you, you should be ashamed, is what you should be. Ah, you can hardly walk you have such a load on. According to Daddy, his father grabbed the policeman, turned him upside down into the ditch, and they hurried home as fast as they could. Whenever I asked, What happened then, Daddy? What did the policeman do then? he would say, That’s enough stories for now. It would always be time just then to do something else.

My father’s mother, Lena Palloli, was also born in Alsace Lorraine. She taught French, although Daddy spoke German and no French. Maybe