Growing up Catholic in the Twentieth Century: A 1940S - 1950S Memoir

By S. P. Perone

Parochial school in the 1940s and ’50s. Strict discipline and rigid rules. Everything was verboten—from eating meat on Friday to patent leather shoes. The catechism told us we were sinners; Bible stories told us we would be punished. Teen-agers would struggle with “sinful” emotions and humiliating confessions. Finding ways to circumvent the rules—without the guilt and fear—became this teen-ager’s obsession.

It was mid-century America, when one didn’t question authority; when millions proudly joined the army to fight World War II; when those at home gladly sacrificed; and when everything seemed black and white.

Coming of age during those times, headed for that ultimate jarring collision with reality, was a humorous-in-retrospect adventure that needed to be told—a nostalgic romp for those who were there and a poignant revelation for those who were not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663209160

S. P. Perone

Sam Perone has worked in academic and government arenas and as a consultant in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has published numerous technical articles, two textbooks, nine novels and two memoirs. He and his wife live in the Sierra foothills of Northern California. Visit his web site at www.samperone.com.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 S. P. Perone.

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.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-0917-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1742-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-0916-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021919233

iUniverse rev. date: 09/17/2021

DEDICATION

Alla Famiglia

CONTENTS

Preface

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Prologue (1952)

PART 1:   BEGINNINGS

Chapter 1     Birthday Melodrama

Chapter 2     Island Avenue

Chapter 3     Strange Lady in Black

Chapter 4     Mom and Dad

Chapter 5     The War Years

Chapter 6     Late Summer Sunday, 1945

PART 2:   WELCOME TO PAROCHIAL SCHOOL

Chapter 7     The Journey Begins

Chapter 8     Little Sinners

Chapter 9     Crime and Punishment

PART 3:   THE INNOCENT YEARS

Chapter 10   Scary Stuff

Chapter 11   First Best Friend

Chapter 12   Friendly Fire

Chapter 13   Sister Josepha

Chapter 14   Altar Boys

Chapter 15   Saint Joseph

Chapter 16   The Van Wie Bus

Chapter 17   Camp Rotary

Chapter 18   The Weekly Reader, October 1948

Chapter 19   Latham Street Winters

Chapter 20   Puppy Love

Chapter 21   Going to the Movies

Chapter 22   Courage of Martyrs

Chapter 23   Scary Times

Chapter 24   Doomsday Distractions

Chapter 25   Sex Talk

Chapter 26   Transitions

PART 4:   AN UNEXPECTED YEAR

Chapter 27   New School

Chapter 28   Football at Saint Mary’s

Chapter 29   Academic Events

Chapter 30   Christmas Show, 1950

Chapter 31   The Birds, the Bees, and Dad

Chapter 32   Basketball and Other Stuff

Chapter 33   Social Consequences

Chapter 34   A Different Path?

Chapter 35   Baseball at Saint Mary’s

PART 5:   HIGH SCHOOL: SHINING SHOES AND   SPREADING WINGS

Chapter 36   Get Your Kicks.…

Chapter 37   Football?

Chapter 38   Life at the Palace Shoe Service

Chapter 39   Saint Thomas: Freshman Blues

Chapter 40   First Dance

Chapter 41   Football, Dad, and Me

Chapter 42   Chico

Chapter 43   Family Money

Chapter 44   Larceny on Elm Street

Chapter 45   Lying and Cheating in Forest City

Chapter 46   Sex Education?

Chapter 47   Sylvia

Chapter 48   Young Christian Students

Chapter 49   Diane

Chapter 50   September Swing

Chapter 51   Getting Better

PART 6:   HAPPY DAYS

Chapter 52   Maria’s Basketball

Chapter 53   Cars

Chapter 54   Learning to Drive with Dad

Chapter 55   Bless Me Father, You’re Not Gonna Believe This.…

Chapter 56   Christmas Eve, 1953

Chapter 57   Good Friday

Chapter 58   American History with   Father Lawrence

Chapter 59   Rhythm or Not?

Chapter 60   Dating, Petting, and Sex

Chapter 61   Rock and Roll

Chapter 62   Not-So-Free Ride

Chapter 63   Aspirations and Expectations

Chapter 64   Miracles and Shock Waves

PART 7:   BREAKING AWAY

Chapter 65   High-Low, 1954

Chapter 66   The Pedestal Complex

Chapter 67   1954 – 55: Glimpse of the Future

Chapter 68   Pouring Concrete

Chapter 69   Revelations

Epilogue

PREFACE

From whom do we learn to know, love, and serve God?

We learn to know, love, and serve God from Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who teaches us through the Catholic Church.

(Confraternity of Christian Doctrine (CCD). A Catechism of Christian Doctrine. Revised Edition of the Baltimore Catechism. No. 2. [Patterson, NJ: Saint Anthony Guild Press, 1949], 1.)

The above snippet of Socratic dialogue, extracted from the 1949 edition of the Baltimore Catechism, carried a powerful message—that the Catholic Church was the only true Christian institution.

You didn’t get that? Well, we did—the parochial school kids of the 1940s and ’50s.

We memorized this and hundreds of similar items of faith from the Baltimore Catechism.

Rest assured; I believed every word.

And for the most part, so did all my classmates.

The teachings were stern and unforgiving. They have softened somewhat, thanks to the Vatican II Ecumenical Council of the 1960s, but I will be describing our world of the earlier era.

It was a different time, a simpler time, a time when one did not question authority.

Millions of Americans proudly fought (and over four hundred thousand died) in World War II. Many millions more at home sacrificed gladly for the war effort. They gathered around the radio to listen to President Roosevelt’s Fireside Chats. They believed in America and the American way.

This loyal patriotism carried over into the post-war era and the 1950s.

Everything seemed black and white—at least from a youth’s perspective—from the flag-waving wartime radio shows to the cowboy western movies with squeaky clean heroes, who always got the bad guys and never broke the rules.

This crystalline perspective was particularly dominant within my culture—blue collar, urban, Italian-Catholic. Our parents were hard-working, first-generation Americans and very devout Catholics. Their children were baptized within a month of birth and were expected to become devout Catholics, too. Most would attend parochial schools.

We were expected to work hard, finish school, get a job, get married, and have children—all within the loving embrace of our mother, the Church. The catechism we learned as children would guide us along this path.

What could possibly go wrong?

Sam Perone

June 2021

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Many will assume that this is another tell-all book about sexual abuse in the Catholic Church. Not so. This author did not experience such abuse in parochial school and knew no one who did. On the other hand, this book does address behavior—good, bad, and questionable—of priests, nuns, and their charges, as witnessed by this author during his formative years.

Stories will be told with historical perspective and with an eye for irony and humor. The vast majority of the parochial school students of mid-century America, and many of their secular contemporaries, will probably find these tales familiar or nostalgic.

All accounts in this book are based on real characters and actual events, mitigated of course by the attrition of human memories with time. The names of a few characters have been changed. Some accounts are composites of multiple events, and some minor characters are also composites. The specific chronology of some events may be imprecise.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful for the assistance of critical reviewers—including former parochial school classmates and other contemporaries. Many thanks to Carolyn, Carole C., Carol H., Bill, Sue, Jack, Chris, Barb, Don, Keith, Paul, Lou, Ole, Mary, Amy, Renee, Sammy, and Vita. I am humbly indebted to friends and family members who have provided documentation, commentary, and photo images. I am most grateful to the late Don Ebert for his cover graphics and many inputs to this and previous publications. Finally, I must acknowledge the contributions of my wife, Sylvia, whose unfailing support and encouragement have made this work possible.

PROLOGUE (1952)

What do we mean when we say that God is all-knowing?

When we say that God is all-knowing we mean that He knows all things, past, present, and future, even our most secret thoughts, words, and actions.

Confraternity of Christian Doctrine (CCD). A Catechism of Christian Doctrine. Revised Edition of the Baltimore Catechism. No. 2. [Patterson, NJ: Saint Anthony Guild Press, 1949], 3.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was a week ago.

As a fourteen-year-old Catholic boy, I knew better than to tell Father McConnell my most egregious transgressions right up front.

After prattling awhile about back-talking at home and other minor indiscretions, I took a deep breath and continued in a low voice, Father, I had impure thoughts.

I waited on Father’s remarks, acutely aware of parishioners with sharp ears in pews near the confessional. Father could not see me through the small screen, but I feared he might recognize the voice of a former Saint Mary’s altar boy.

How many times, my son? he asked gently.

Umm, about eight or nine, I mumbled.

Is it a mortal sin to lie in the confessional? I wondered.

Had the Church Fathers ever considered that one? They probably thought no one would ever do it.

If so, they were wrong.

No way was I going to tell Father that some days nothing was on my mind but impure thoughts.

It wasn’t a really big lie. I listed my sins. I just altered the bookkeeping a little bit.

Did these impure thoughts lead to impure acts? Father continued.

Yes, Father.

There, I had gotten it out. I waited in silence, hoping Father might move directly to the absolution and penance.

Not this time, though.

My son, was there another person involved in these impure acts? Father asked.

No, Father.

I fantasized about the day I might give Father a yes. After all, I had to be the most frustrated fourteen-year-old virgin in Saint Mary’s parish.

Do you know what’s causing you to have these impure thoughts and acts? he continued.

Um … uh … I think so, Father.

What is it?

Well … uh … I look at dirty pictures, I whispered hoarsely.

Another untruth. I did not need to look at dirty pictures. Dirty pictures were not easily found. This was before the days of Playboy magazine or soft-porn movies. All I needed was the latest B-movie newspaper ad showing the heroine in a tight sweater.

I did not want to explain that to Father. Hell, I couldn’t explain it to myself.

Do you realize that you are placing yourself in danger of losing your immortal soul? Father asked.

Yes, Father.

Do you know what you must do to avoid this temptation in the future?

I’m not sure, Father.

Can you get rid of these dirty pictures?

I hesitated, concerned about Father’s exaggerated idea of dirty pictures.

"Will you get rid of them?" Father persisted.

Finally, I replied, Yes, Father, resolving to avoid the movie ads and the Sears catalog of ladies’ underwear as well.

I’m sure this will help you avoid temptation in the future, Father continued. Remember, my son, your body is a sacred temple. When you abuse it, you dishonor God, the Lord our Father. Do you understand this?

Yes, Father.

In the future, remember that you must keep your mind and body pure. It is the vessel of the Holy Spirit. Never forget that.

Yes, Father.

For your penance, say ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. Now, make a good Act of Contrition.

Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee.… I began.

I made my Act of Contrition as Father murmured his Latin words of absolution. Finally, he said in English, Go in peace, my son, and God bless you.

Thank you, Father.

With a swish and a clunk that could be heard by everyone waiting outside the confessional, Father closed the little screened panel that separated us. As I heard him open the sliding panel on the other side of the confessional—where another parishioner would pour out his or her sins—I got up, slowly opened the door, and exited. I avoided looking at those waiting in line, certain that they knew I was a terrible sinner, as I scurried to my pew to recite prayers of penance.

52868.png

This typical Saturday afternoon scene was repeated weekly, with many fascinating variations, as I struggled through my teen-age years. But this experience begs the question—why would a teen-ager repeatedly endure this kind of humiliating experience?

The answer is fundamental to understanding growing up Catholic in the mid-twentieth century. It can be summed up with two words—fear and guilt.

Our parochial school mentors were experts at evoking both emotions in youngsters. The consequences were sometimes painful, but often bizarre and humorous, especially for this horribly conflicted teen-ager.

To understand these conflicts, we need to go back to the beginnings.…

PART 1

Beginnings

GettyImages-537098527.jpg

CHAPTER 1

Birthday Melodrama

AS YOUNGSTERS, MY mom and dad, Celia and Frank, lived next door to each other. They grew up in Rockford, Illinois, an industrial city, the third largest in Illinois at the time, ninety miles west of Chicago. Theirs was an Italian immigrant neighborhood on the south side.

Frank was the second youngest of nine children. His parents (Sam and Nora) came from Sicily to America through the port of New Orleans around 1900. After residing as tenant farmers for a time in Louisiana, where all the children were born, the family moved to Rockford. Here, the oldest males gained work with the Illinois Central railroad.

Celia had a younger brother, Nick. Her parents (Jack and Tina) came from Sicily to this country through the port of New York and settled in Rockford in the early 1900s. Her father gained employment in one of the local iron works.

Despite the misgivings of both families, Celia and Frank married in 1935 and moved into an upstairs apartment next door to Celia’s parents on South Court Street.

52873.png

Shortly after midnight on October 1, 1938, in the upstairs Court Street apartment, I was about to enter this world. Mom and Dad (and I) were waiting for the doctor to arrive.

The doctor had other obligations, however.

This is when Grandma Nora (my dad’s mother) entered the picture. She was a midwife, and she was there with us.

I wanted out. Mom wanted the doctor. Grandma saw little need for help. To appease her anxious daughter-in-law, however, she pushed me back in whenever I tried to get out!

Or so the story goes.

I doubt it happened exactly as recounted to me. Nevertheless, they say I did not get out throughout the long night.

When the doctor finally arrived, I was understandably upset. Not to mention the state my mom was in!

They say I was a blue baby and had a cone head, which required me to sleep on the hard dining room table for a time until it shaped up.

Perhaps all these things partly explain all the quirkiness that was to follow. Who knows?

One thing is certain. It was October 1938. The Nazis were about to take over Czechoslovakia. Hitler was already planning his military conquest of Europe, beginning with the invasion of Poland the following year.

Most Americans had blissfully buried their heads in the sand and were enjoying the beginnings of economic revival following the Great Depression.

Meanwhile, in Rockford’s thriving immigrant community, another little Italian American boy had been delivered into a world that was about to explode into global conflict. The subsequent war years would create a unique climate for his generation that others before and since can hardly comprehend.

IM01.jpg

Dad (Frank), Mom (Celia), and S.P., ca. 1939. (Copyright, S. P. Perone).

GettyImages-537098527.jpg

CHAPTER 2

Island Avenue

SOMETIME BEFORE MY fourth birthday, we moved into a two-family, two-story flat on the 400-block of Island Avenue. My parents bought this home, which was just a few blocks from my grandparents’ homes in South Rockford.

We would live on Island Avenue throughout the war years.

We occupied the downstairs. Grandma Tina’s sister, Great Aunt Ann, and her family lived upstairs. Their son, Dominic, was several years older than I. Everyone called him Sonny.

Sonny enjoyed taking advantage of my youthful gullibility. He convinced me that the model airplane he had built flew missions during the war, shooting down Japanese Zeroes. The little red trophy dots pasted on the fuselage were very convincing, especially as their numbers grew from day to day.

Because Mom worked at times during the war, I would spend weekdays with Grandma Tina and Grandpa Jack (Mom’s parents) on South Court Street. In fact, though I referred to each of my grandmas as Nana, I would call Grandma Tina, Ma. Because I spent so much time with her while growing up, Grandma Tina was always Ma to me, until the day she died.

I also learned to speak their native Sicilian, as Grandpa Jack spoke no English. He kept me occupied, though, often bringing me to nearby Levings Lake, where he taught me to fish with a bamboo pole and a cork bobber.

IM02.jpg

Upper: S.P. and Grandma Tina; Lower: Grandpa Jack and Stinky.

Early ’40s, South Court Street. (Copyright, S. P. Perone.)

Grandma Tina did her best to channel my interests toward productive activities, like gardening or collecting eggs from the chicken coop.

But I still had lots of time to myself.

And I was a very curious kid.

Because Mom’s younger brother, Nick, was away at college or in the Navy during this same period, his personal possessions in my grandparents’ home came under my scrutiny.

That was unfortunate.

I don’t recall how many of Uncle Nick’s prized possessions were destroyed, but I do remember the banjo, the model boat, and the model airplane.

How did my parents deal with this mischievous little kid?

Like most fathers of his generation, my dad believed in physical discipline. I have no issue with that. I always knew where I stood. You break the rules; you get smacked.

If the infraction were serious or frequent, punishment would likely involve applying belt to butt. I got more than my share of whacks.

I know it’s difficult to look at this through a twenty-first century lens, but it was a socially acceptable practice then. And it never diminished my love for my dad or his for me.

It rarely deterred me, I should add, from getting into more trouble.

56871.png

My sister Nora arrived in our Island Avenue home in October 1942. Like me, she was born at home, with Grandma Nora as the midwife. I understand it was a replay of the melodrama we went through at my birth, with the doctor running late again.

I did not take kindly to my sister’s arrival on the scene. My one-on-one fun with Dad seemed to vanish overnight.

IM03.jpg

Dad and S.P., ca. 1940. (Copyright, S. P. Perone.)

I did share a few things with my new sister during the war years—whooping cough, chicken pox, and measles. Those little red quarantine signs tacked up on our front door were rarely taken down.

Each summer season brought the added anxiety of polio epidemics. The summer of 1945 was the worst. 382 were stricken in our Winnebago County alone.

59094.png

I was not a cautious child during my Island Avenue years. In fact, my earliest memories include several unfortunate incidents requiring ice packs, iodine, or stitches.

Sometimes others were victims of my misdeeds. For example, I pushed my younger cousin, Teddy, down the basement stairs. Bloody mess! Ice packs and iodine for Teddy, and I got a hell of a whipping.

I do not know why I assaulted Teddy that day. Perhaps I resented having to play with a younger kid. But it was not the last time he suffered injury at my hands. (More about that later.) He’s never forgotten, however, and he still has the scars to remind him.

And there were consequences for me, too.

GettyImages-537098527.jpg

CHAPTER 3

Strange Lady in Black

THE PERSON KNOCKING at the door of our Island Avenue home this early fall morning peered through the screen into our front room.

From the kitchen, this three-year-old peeked around the doorway to see a tall, thin woman at the door. She wore a one-piece, ankle-length black dress, cinched at the waist, with black shoes and a black cap. Her hair was tied up in a bun under the cap.

Mom dropped kitchen utensils on the counter, wiped hands on her apron, and brushed by me into the front room.

Frank, she’s here! she shouted over her shoulder.

I heard Dad rushing up the basement stairs. He also brushed by me, joining Mom at the front door.

From my spot just inside the kitchen doorway, I watched anxiously as they greeted the strange woman and invited her inside. Sister, they called her.

As they walked into the room, I could see beyond her a dozen young children standing in a line on the sidewalk. Another sister in black garb was with them. The line of children was held together by a long rope. The outside sister held on to one end.

They were waiting for something or someone, I thought.

Then it hit me.

They were waiting for me!

Sammy! my mom cried out. Sammy, come here. Meet Sister Clare.

I shot out of the kitchen, but not toward the front door. I streaked toward my bedroom.

Before I could slide completely under the bed, Dad’s strong hand grabbed a foot and dragged me out.

No! No! I don’t wanna go! I screamed, as my dad carried me into the front room.

Now, Sammy, you’re gonna be with lots of other kids, he said, sitting us down on the sofa. He held me while Sister Clare stood nearby. She wasn’t smiling.

On Dad’s lap, my little body quaked as I thought, This is ’cause I pushed Teddy down the stairs!

Sister Clare is here to take you to Saint Elizabeth’s kindergarten, Mom explained from her seat next to me. You’ll be there while we’re at work. It’ll be fun.

"Why can’t I go to Nana’s house? I screamed. I’ll be good! I’ll be good, I promise!" Grandma Tina’s home on South Court Street was where I had been spending every weekday for as long as I could remember. That was my safe place.

I didn’t know this strange lady in the long black dress with the long black sleeves. All I could see was a tiny, pale face with thin, colorless lips and small eyes hidden behind rimless glasses.

No way was I going away with her!

"Call Nanu to get me!" I screamed. Most mornings, Grandpa Jack drove his ’32 Chevy to our Island Avenue home to pick me up.

Don’t you want to have fun with other kids today? Mom pleaded sweetly.

I squirmed out of my dad’s grasp and tried to run away, but Sister Clare did a quick sidestep to block my path.

Whoa! Now it was three against one.

Dad reached out and pulled me back. I squirmed and beat my tiny fists on his arms. Then Mom pulled me to her, holding my arms to my sides.

Sammy! she said sharply. You told me you wanted to go to school.

True. I had said that, watching some of my older friends marching off on recent mornings.

But that was then. This was now. I did not think going to school would mean trudging along on a tow rope between two scary, black-garbed strangers.

No! I screamed, kicking and pulling away.

My dad’s arms circled me, and he stood up. One glance at his face, and I knew his patience was about to run out. Sammy! he clipped. You are going with Sister Clare this morning.

I was barely three, but I already knew the words my dad had left unsaid—or else you’re gonna get a whippin’!

Unfortunately, at that moment, I was more scared of Sister Clare than my dad. Foolish choice, I know.

I squirmed and struggled to free myself, watching my dad’s face redden.

Mom saw the same thing. Give him to me! she cried, pulling me out of his arms while I continued to writhe.

No! No! No! I screamed, straining against my mom’s grasp.

Then Sister Clare spoke up. Let me hold him, she said.

Mom hesitated for an instant and then released me to Sister’s grasp.

Sister was stronger than she looked. She put me on my feet, arms held to my sides, and brought her face close to mine. I sobbed silently.

Sammy, she said sternly, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Look outside. All those boys and girls are going, too. You are going to have lots of fun today at Saint Elizabeth’s.

I had stopped struggling, but I was still sniveling … and scared. Then Sister released her hold on one of my arms, reached into a side pocket, and retrieved a handkerchief. She wiped away the tears and said sweetly, Why don’t you come with me, Sammy? Okay?

I sniffed and asked, What will I do there?

She gave me a thin smile. The first thing, before school starts, is to play on the playground.

Doin’ what? I asked with a glimmer of enthusiasm.

She stood up and took my hand, leading me toward the front door. Do you like to swing? We have lots of swings. And monkey bars. And a sandbox big as this room.

The sandbox did it.

We walked out the door and down the front steps toward the tow line of waiting kids.

I didn’t even say goodbye to Mom and Dad.

GettyImages-537098527.jpg

CHAPTER 4

Mom and Dad

BEFORE MOVING ON, this is a good place to describe more fully the two characters that will be central to all that is to follow—my mom and dad.

My dad’s laugh was infectious and unforgettable. It would fill me with joy from the day I was born.

But what I loved most was that Dad could and did laugh at himself. Where others might curse and swear at a faux pas, he would just shake his head, chuckle, and then capture his missteps as humorous anecdotes.

He was unconditionally generous. Because he was very handy—skilled in plumbing, carpentry, masonry, and electrical work—friends and relatives called on him frequently. I can’t remember him ever refusing. He would get a phone call, pick up his toolbox, and head off, day or night.

Dad loved to listen to the White Sox baseball games on the radio. He also loved to take naps.

Often, he would enjoy both at the same time.

He could sleep on any surface—carpeted floors, hardwood floors, living room sofa, front or back seat of a car, anywhere. But wherever he was, napping in the car or on the sofa, the ball game was on. Whenever he was painting, plumbing, or pounding nails, the radio was there, with the ball game on.

Dad had an old red-and-white Coca Cola radio, shaped like one of those horizontal soft-drink coolers you might find in a neighborhood grocery store. He got the radio through a company promotion by cashing in a gazillion Coca Cola bottle tops. Of course, we didn’t drink all that Coke. We owned a small grocery store for several years after the war ended, where customers would purchase the Cokes right out of a cooler. I was delegated to scavenge the discarded bottle tops.

That’s how Dad got the radio.

IM04.jpg

(Coca Cola Radio. (S. P. Perone Collection.)

Dad had that radio around for decades. It was splattered with paint, cracked, and broken—a mere shell of its original garish splendor—but he used it wherever he was. It must have died or disintegrated eventually, because it was gone when he died.

My dad never finished high school. Instead, he worked during the Great Depression of the 1930s to help keep his parents and siblings afloat. He was very bright, though, especially with math.

Dad was also wise regarding life’s vicissitudes, sharing his wisdom with me as unforgettable adages sprinkled throughout personal talks over the years, and passed along here in the chapters ahead.

59103.png

My mom was a special lady. From my earliest years, I realized that no matter what, she would listen, understand, console, and advise. She would be my port in every storm.

Compassionate to a fault, my mom was often consumed with other people’s problems. Our home was always open to someone in need.

I remember visiting a local carnival several times because Mom had her heart set on winning a brass horse at one of the games. She became acquainted with some of the workers who were living in tents or trailers near the carnival grounds. She invited them to our home for a hot meal and a hot bath. In fact, one of the carnival ladies, known affectionately as Peanuts, became a life-long friend of the family.

As a young woman, my mom suffered from crippling arthritis. At times it was so bad, I am told, that my dad had to carry her around. While pregnant with me in 1938, my mom—along with my dad and her younger brother, Nick—were returning from a trip to Chicago, when a farmer pulled his tractor out in front of their car. Uncle Nick was driving. His brakes locked, and the car flipped over. All the guys (including unborn me) came through okay. My mom suffered a fractured clavicle, which never did heal properly, leaving her with a protruding collarbone.

IM05.jpg

Left to Right: Uncle Nick, Mom, Dad, ca. 1940. (Copyright, S. P. Perone).

Although Mom never talked about it, I learned from other relatives that she had been cured of her arthritis after visiting a shrine in Wisconsin, where, reportedly, the Blessed Mother had appeared. She never showed any serious signs of arthritis, to my knowledge, for the rest of her life.

Mom was close to Aunt Pearl (her brother Nick’s wife) and to Aunt Josie (Dad’s younger brother Phil’s wife). She talked to Aunt Josie nearly every day. Because they were both out-laws to the huge Perone family—with its clique of six sisters—I think they reveled in trading family gossip.

Mom and Aunt Josie were so close that they even had children at the same intervals. My cousin, Nova Jean, and I were born a few months apart in 1938. Cousin Phillip, Jr., and my sister Nora Lee were born a few months apart in 1942. Then, over a decade later, in 1953, Cousin Danny and my brother Jackie were born.

Coincidences? I don’t know, but my closest cousin was Nova Jean. From the time we were toddlers, we forged a special bond that was manifested many times during our formative years.

IM06.jpg

S.P. (left), Cousin Nova Jean, both ca. one year. (Copyright, S. P. Perone.)

GettyImages-537098527.jpg

CHAPTER 5

The War Years

WORLD WAR II impacted our lives on Island Avenue in many ways. Mom’s brother, Nick, Grandma Tina’s younger brother, Joe, and several of my older cousins served in the military.

IM07.jpg

Grandpa Sam, Grandma Nora, WWII-era, with picture of a

grandson in the army. (S. P. Perone Collection.)

Mom got a job at a local ordnance plant, where she befriended three young women (Gert, Barb, and Josephine) who had moved to Rockford for jobs (and possibly because of Camp Grant, the nearby Army training center). Many thousands of Army recruits passed through our community during the war years. And a fair number showed up at our Island Avenue home, courtesy of Gert, Barb, or Josephine.

59109.png

My dad was not drafted during World War II. His job at the Nelson Mitten and Hosiery Company might have been the reason.

In 1870, Rockford resident, Alfred Nelson, invented the first knitting machine that could produce woolen or cotton socks without seams. Wool and cotton socks produced in Rockford were so distinctive that they were known around the world as Rockford Socks.

During wartime, the Nelson factory employed some 3000 workers, and its entire output supplied socks for the armed forces.

Dad managed a row of machines at the plant on Kent Street in South Rockford. On warm summer evenings, Mom and I would walk the half-mile to the knitting factory. Poking our heads into a window to see my dad, we would be engulfed by the hypnotic, high-speed hum of hundreds of machines performing intricate knitting operations.

59114.png

My most iconic wartime memories are the nighttime women’s professional baseball games. The Rockford Peaches played in the old Beyer Stadium across the Rock River at Fifteenth Avenue and Seminary. Their league thrived during wartime, while men’s baseball suffered the absence of so many in the military.

IM08.jpg

Upper: Rockford Peaches Poster, 1940s. (S. P. Perone Collection.) Lower:

Rockford Peaches AAGPBL Players, 1940s. (Photo courtesy of Midway

Village Museum, Rockford, Illinois, cropped, used with permission.) The

Peaches were a charter member of the All-American Girls Professional

Baseball League (AAGPBL) formed in 1943. The stories of the AAGPBL and

Rockford Peaches were told in the 1992 movie, A League of Their Own.

The Rockford women did very well. They were league champions in 1945, 1948, 1949, and 1950. The quality of play was, in a word, professional. Fans were plentiful and kept on coming back.

Another of our favorite wartime activities was to enjoy movies at one of the two movie theaters—the