Sentimental Journey (A True Story)

By Nancy Carroll-Johnson

Sentimental Journey begins in the 1950s in New York City, teeming with European immigrants who occupy sought-after apartments in a state of disrepair and ready to crumble around them. Author Nancy Carroll-Johnson learns of her parents’ plans to relocate to sunny California for a better life at the tender age of eleven.

In this memoir, she offers a portrayal of a Scots-Irish family of six jammed into a 1952 Plymouth, pulling a U-Haul trailer carrying all their belongings across the United States. Born with a congenital heart defect, having undergone cutting-edge, life-saving open heart surgery at age three, the story of her progressive medical intervention appears in multiple prominent newspapers. Despite obvious contraindications, she has no choice but to breathe in the plumes of smoke exhaled as a result of her parents’ Philip Morris habit, along with her brother and two sisters, as they make their way to parts unknown.

Through much laughter and tears, and more than one cross-country trip, the Carroll family arrives and stays put on the West Coast. At age sixteen, Nancy meets Drew, and they live on love for the rest of their lives. Sentimental Journey shares an honest and touching story of Carroll-Johnson’s journey through time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665711500

Nancy Carroll-Johnson

Nancy Carroll-Johnson is a court reporter-turned-author premiering this, her first publication. She lives in Corona, California, and writes in between playing avid tennis, competitive Scrabble, and hiking to monumental heights throughout the Southern California wilderness in her quest for adventure.

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Syllabus of a Family

The door of the apartment stood open, our well-worn red hassock propped before it lest any unlikely breeze should stir. One floor below, Mrs. Pasternak was boiling her chicken bones again. My mother recoiled at the unpleasant odor that wafted upward twice weekly. From early morning until well past supper time, the skeletal chickens simmered in their own juices and apartment dwellers’ noses were assaulted by the inescapable fumes that floated through the dank and dismal hallways. Sitting at the kitchen table, perched expectantly on the edges of our seats, we awaited my father’s arrival home from work with news that would alter the course of our lives forever. We were the Carrolls, staunch Catholics and stoic Scots-Irish Americans trying to survive in post-war America, having taken up residence in populous New York City, bursting at the seams in the early 1950s.

Somehow his approach seemed a little lighter that day. We recognized the unmistakable sound of his footsteps as he climbed flight after flight of stairs. They had a certain quality about them, his natural sincerity as transparent as his unflagging weariness. Perhaps our ears just grow accustomed to a uniquely familiar resonance. Or maybe it was the decrepit tile halls that echoed even the slightest movement on their surface. Nevertheless, his tread was distinct, the paradox of shiny wing tips worn with pride evident in contradiction of his blue collar plight in life. My father detested the interminable staircases, gasping for air at the final landing from his overworked, tobacco-filled lungs. His fierce determination to change his lot in life made him wonder what motivated so many rigorous residents to remain in their own sad state of affairs, trudging up countless steps to gain access to small apartments badly in need of repair. Looking expectantly into their eyes, he saw not a flicker of desire for betterment, but, rather, acceptance and jaded resignation. Hardship was no stranger to these European immigrants and World War II veterans whose goal was merely to survive.

The promise of a ground floor apartment was apt to ignite a spark of interest, the superintendent having to be bribed and this most sought-after unit going to the highest bidder. My father knew the ropes. I vividly remember his experience in attempting to secure proper residency for his growing family. Frustrated by the existing inconvenience of a household of six squeezing into a one-bedroom apartment, he jumped at the chance for a two-bedroom on the third floor in the same building on Kingsbridge Avenue and paid dearly to be considered for eventual placement. The situation was absurd, but such was the mode of existence for millions of individuals contained within drab spaces which passed as home in teeming and crowded mid-century Bronx, New York.

The ancient dwellings also offered residential space for non-paying and otherwise unwelcome guests. To be exact, hordes of cockroaches. My father said you’d have to burn New York to the ground to ever get rid of them. What only added to their proliferation was a service supposedly provided for the benefit of the tenants called a dumb-waiter. This device was employed for the purpose of garbage disposal. To briefly elaborate, the mechanism was a miniature, two-shelved elevator contained in a shaft and operated with ropes, by hand. It was propelled to each floor by pulling either the up or down rope, as the situation would require. In any event, when the occupants of the apartments opened their dumb-waiter door to place bags of refuse, they were showered with coffee grounds, egg shells, etc., from the garbage shoved in the unit by tenants who were fortunate enough to be among the first to effect disposal of their trash.

My parents endured the distasteful task of sweeping and cleaning up often unrecognizable debris from our floors countless numbers of times. The rest of us tried to avert our eyes to avoid irreversible psychological damage due to witnessing something not for the faint of heart, but human nature being what it is, we looked. My father, having been assailed by somebody else’s bags of garbage one time too many, decided to make our lives easier and nailed the dumb-waiter door shut for good. Easier? Hmm....it then became the responsibility of the family offspring to transport the accumulated refuse to the cellar of the apartment building, which was dark and foreboding and not, in the frequently verbalized opinion of my parents, conducive to the health and safety of four young children.

Sometimes all we could do was laugh at our lot in life, which was exactly what happened one evening when the six of us were about to consume our dinner, prepared with love by our exhausted mother. We were seated at the kitchen table, literally elbow to elbow, ready to enjoy the incomparable good cooking to which we were accustomed. With the impulsiveness of youth, my brother slid his chair away from the table a good two inches (to state the obvious, these were cramped quarters) and without warning momentarily lost his balance. His hand came down hard upon the washer-wringer switch. Faithfully, the old machine roared into action and the hoses with which washing machines of the day were equipped, being pointed upward, sprayed the entire kitchen and its inhabitants profusely with water, drenching our savory, untouched meal. The cascade rippled down the walls and came to rest on the eternally sloping floor.

Oh, dear God, what next? implored Mom, looking to the heavens for an answer.

Gerrie, we gotta’ move outa’ this damn place, bellowed my father in exasperation.

I know, Frank, she agreed, and then both of them saw the humor in it all, water streaming down their faces, and joined their family of drowned rats howling with laughter.

Unbeknownst to us, Dad had quietly been pursuing his own creative plans to escape our undesirable tenancy. His intent ultimately became known to us kids by way of conversations shared by my parents relative to the shortcomings and disadvantages of apartment living in a huge but totally confining metropolis. The frequency with which change of environment was discussed filled us children with a mixture of excitement and trepidation over the prospect. We entertained visions of grass, riparian trees and bodies of water solely for our enjoyment, as an alternative to solid brick, concrete and plaster, which was the sum of our current existence. But anxiety over the thought of leaving friends and extended family for some unknown and possibly distant destination filled us with dread.

Having fulfilled his obligation of military service in WWII, return to civilian status found my father experiencing economic strife. Thus, to hastily secure adequate and immediate income and provide shelter for his family, he accepted the first available job, not unlike many other veterans. The expansion of his family, which was in part due to celibate, well-meaning church fathers assuring him that every child was born with a sandwich under each arm, forced him into the proverbial rut of trying to survive and thrive. It became increasingly difficult to initiate any change and feed his family at the same time. Consistent with prevailing economic conditions, finding decent affordable housing was a daunting task. Forty dollars a month rent to take up residence in a 35-year-old apartment building bordered on the ridiculous for an auto parts man who had electric and gas bills to pay and six hungry mouths to feed. The units were permitted to become run-down and shabby, and renters saw neither hide nor hair of their superintendent, resorting to fixing their own darn problems.

If a tenant was known to be ill and possibly removed to a hospital, individuals would approach the super with cash in hand in anticipation of a vacancy expected due to the demise of the unfortunate soul who had been hospitalized. My conflicted father was granted our apartment in just such fashion. The former tenant was a single female in her seventies. We were informed that the apartment was ours, provided we emptied and prepared it for habitation. Upon our initial entrance into our new quarters, the sight before our eyes left us in despair. The furniture was a shambles. The bathroom facilities had not experienced the feel of cleansers in years. My mother got to work with her trusty Clorox, scrubbing for hours with cracked and bleeding hands, endeavoring to make the kitchen and bathroom usable.

Returning to the frightening but at the same time thrilling possibility of relocating, we kids knew today was D-day. Change was in the air. My father’s approach, as heard on the stairway, culminated in his boisterous entrance into our apartment. He was excitedly waving the patiently-awaited letter with the exclamation, We’re moving to California! At last, the desired reply had arrived from his would-be future employer to the west, and our fate was sealed. Now would come the hard part. As children, I and my three siblings did not fully appreciate the impact of transitioning a family of six from completely familiar surroundings, insufficient as they were, to an environment totally strange and unknown, not to mention thousands of miles away. Our eyes were saucers upon learning that we would be relocating to a place we had only read about and seen pictures of in magazines. Unparalleled fear engulfed me, and I told Dad, I don’t wanna’ go. The thought of leaving all my friends for unfamiliar surroundings was simply unbearable. But the opinion of an eleven-year-old mattered not in the scheme of things. My father simply told me, Nan, you’re gonna’ love it, and I realized I’d be packing up a storm in preparation for this enterprise which held such promise.

Despite my misgivings, with U-Haul in tow, we did undertake the monumental task of traveling out west in an already overworked 1952 Plymouth, my father burdened with the responsibility of managing not only the demands of family but also a good-sized trailer literally brimming with all our personal belongings. Cliche notwithstanding, I would come to the realization that home truly IS where the heart is....the unbreakable bond of family through laughter and tears and a heck of a lot of love. While of no other particular significance, this 3,000-mile trek was a huge undertaking in the lives of individuals who had only infrequently ventured beyond the crowded confines of apartment buildings in the concrete jungle called New York City.

And so my story begins.

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Some Years Earlier

The union of Francis Benedict Carroll and Geraldine Elizabeth Monaghan took place on June 25, 1941 and endured over 50 years. They produced four children despite the horrific consequences of my father Frank (or Frannie, as he was lovingly known to his siblings) being drafted into the United States Army shortly after their marriage and ultimately serving his country for four and a half years. My brother, Gerald, was brought into this world on April 30, 1942 and saw his father for the first time at the age of two, his ruddy Irish descent clearly obvious, reddish hair and pale skin not betraying his apparent heritage. In between deployments over the next two and a half years, Dad was to see his son only a handful of times, my mother awaiting his many love letters written from the battlefields overseas, always beginning with the words, My Darling, her fear for his safety somewhat assuaged by the arrival of each correspondence.

Finally, the war ended and Dad arrived home safe and sound, so to speak, his bout with malaria and loss of 30 pounds evidence of the toll the war had taken on him. Not allowing his physical condition to thwart his determination to provide for his family, in characteristic fashion, he found a job at a car dealership and worked his way up to auto parts manager in record time, his near photographic memory allowing him to recall auto parts numbers without ever consulting the numerous manuals offered by manufacturers. Hence his employment with Gallagher’s Car Dealership allowed him the opportunity to rent luxurious Apt. 33 at 3246 Kingsbridge Avenue, in the Bronx, New York, and then post-war life began.

The nostalgia of the 1940’s created by the many homecomings of soldiers brought back from abroad generated an unprecedented baby boom, and on March 13, 1947 I was born, weighing under five pounds, with a life-threatening congenital heart defect, only to be detected when I failed to thrive over the next three years. The prognosis was grim. I may only have survived to age 15 unless the condition could be treated and reversed. Miraculously, a prominent physician in New York performed a new cutting-edge, life-saving surgery on my ailing heart, refusing to allow his identity to be divulged in the many newspaper articles carrying the story. He was an astute and humble man, and I wouldn’t be here to tell my story if it weren’t for him.

Post-war optimism spread, somewhat offsetting the dreary living conditions and unending struggle for financial security. With new-found hope for the future, my father went to work daily, his pack of cigarettes tucked neatly in his uniform pocket, while my mother washed and waxed the linoleum floors until they gleamed in an attempt to make our surroundings as livable as possible. I came to learn that she had skipped two grades in school, graduating from high school with honors at the age of sixteen. I wondered if she felt shortchanged. A woman’s place is in the home was the mantra of the day, the Catholic church further upholding such dogma by instructing parishioners to go forth and procreate. Thus it happened that a third Carroll child came into this world on September 27, 1951. She was named Valerie Jean and placed in the ancient wooden crib previously occupied by her two older siblings, having the distinct advantage of my parents’ full attention for a time because her bed was jammed firmly up against theirs due to lack of space.

Unlike present-day parenting advice, the trend of the day was not to over-handle one’s baby. Don’t pick the child up was the dictate. Prop the bottle up on a towel, new mothers, and for heaven’s sake don’t breastfeed. And so it was that, despite much love and devotion, all of the Carroll children learned to self-soothe at a young age. I myself never quite adapted, always anxious and fussing, a terrible blue pallor to my skin evident from lack of oxygen to my heart. This necessitated some creative thinking. One parental foot would find its way to the end of the old crib and rock it until all was quiet. This system worked, I was later told by Mom and Dad, as well as could be expected. I hadn’t been displaced yet by my sister Val’s arrival. So the baby crib was all mine. This approach to child-rearing went hand-in-hand with not wanting spoiled brats, picked up and comforted when they would cry. It suited my parents well. It seems that the Irish, though they have much love for their offspring and are typically gregarious, are not overtly physically affectionate with their children, a light pat on the back having to suffice in lieu of a real cuddle and hug.

Meanwhile, life moved forward and the Carrolls became an integral part of the European melting pot of immigrants who, either they themselves or their forefathers, had made the journey through Ellis Island to take up residence in America. With the multitude of brownstone walk-up buildings, tenants couldn’t help but pass each other on the way to their respective apartments, and friendships formed easily, often despite the obvious language barriers. People were determined to learn to speak English, abandoning the language of their country of origin or descent, proclaiming, I am American now. I had fond memories, as I grew older, of the many gatherings at the Carroll apartment, rug rolled up for dancing, plenty of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and the plaintive sound of happy voices singing, When Irish Eyes Are Smiling or Oh, Danny Boy. The participants seemed oblivious of landlords’ inattention to dwellings in an advanced state of disrepair. Lying in my bed and listening to the camaraderie outside my door, a feeling of warmth and acceptance would wash over me as I lapsed into the untroubled dreams and sleep of a child.

With the revelry of any given Friday night party having been relegated to simply a happy memory of the recent past, Saturday was set aside for extensive preparations for Sunday morning mass at St. John’s Catholic Church. The dresses that had been laundered earlier in the week by our ancient washing machine and put through the wringer to remove excess water, hung on the clothes line using a unique pulley system necessary for a third-floor apartment, were now finally dry. As my mother reeled them in, stiff as a board from hanging out in the elements, they gave the appearance of miniature people, headless and minus arms and legs. The arduous task of starching and ironing shirts for my father and brother, Sunday dresses for the girls, and other articles of clothing was then undertaken. Nevertheless, dinner was on the table by 5 o’clock sharp, as my mother moved tirelessly from one household duty to the next. Meals were quite an affair in our apartment and could go on for two hours, each family member offering something to the conversation, not to mention the numerous spelling and grammar quizzes we children were subjected to. There would absolutely be no student with the surname Carroll who did not make it onto the honor roll, my parents insisted, names emblazoned on the St. John’s Elementary School bulletin board for all to see, apparently such achievement serving as validation for successful parenthood.

At one such garrulous dining experience, an important announcement was disclosed to Gerald, myself, and Valerie; namely, the future advent of a little brother or sister. Apparently, there was an equal amount of surprise and dismay by my father and mother at the thought of having another mouth to feed - - and so soon! Val would only be about 18 months old when the new arrival made his or her appearance. I would be six years old and thought the idea of a new baby fun and for my benefit alone. So it came to pass that Monica Carroll entered this world on April 12, 1953, delivered in haste by a Puerto Rican intern, since the attending physician was unavailable and nowhere to be found. My mother was later to remark that Monica’s was the only birth that was fairly routine and uneventful, with no problems encountered, while she had developed preeclampsia with Gerald, delivered me at a very low birth weight with a heart defect, and suffered from toxemia with Val. I wonder if her two-pack-a-day smoking habit had anything to do with such serious medical complications, but I could never fault her for her tobacco use, which was ubiquitous and quite prevalent among child-bearing women in those days. Nevertheless, my youngest sibling, despite the praise she received for being the least troublesome delivery, always felt rather shortchanged because she was baptized and christened with first and last name only, our parents hopeful that she would actually be a boy named Timothy and pressed for time to come up with a good saint’s name for their third daughter. A second boy would have evened the playing field in their estimation, but they figured God had other plans for them and they came to love the happy little girl who made them laugh so often. My mother later admitted that she secretly believed she would be blessed with another daughter since she had had her right ovary removed along with a seven-pound tumor after the birth of my brother. A certain old wives’ tale of that era claimed that each ovary was gender-specific, one for male progeny, the other for female.

Apt. 33, filled to capacity, offered little in the way of any solitude, and left much to be desired when entering or leaving with the obstacle of navigating many flights of stairs, groceries and baby paraphernalia needing to be transported to their final destination. In the early years, Monica would be carried, Val prompted to crawl up the staircases by much encouragement and the occasional knee or foot blocking any backwards fall, with me being watched carefully for any signs of fatigue due to my former debilitated heart. Gerald, aptly named Corky due to his reddish hair and complexion, often led the pack, being five years older than his next sibling in line, and entered the unlocked apartment to deposit his grocery bag. We never had to lock our doors in those days. That was before everything went to hell in a handbasket, reiterated my father many times. Winded from years of tobacco use, he and my mother would arrive at the third-floor landing (six flights up, two per floor) breathing heavily and coughing profusely and then begin the routine of unloading groceries and tending to four hungry children.

As kids are wont to do, I and my brother, the two oldest, would beseech our parents to go outside to entertain ourselves and play with the abundance of friends available when living literally on top of each other. Veronica Cafferky, my very Irish friend, lived in the basement of the building, Janice Bozzone and Roseanne Gaffney equally close-by. My brother Gerald would be itching to play stick ball in the street, a poor man’s version of baseball wherein one uses a sturdy stick and any makeshift ball and proceeds to run the bases on the four corners of a rather busy thoroughfare. Automobiles often stopped as a ball was launched into the air and the runner made his way from corner to corner. Home run! the commentators might shout in appreciation of the batter’s accomplishment. Of course, there were also the curmudgeons who yelled, Get the hell outa’ the way, and the game had to be aborted.

My girl friends and I were likely to head back upstairs to beg my mother to allow us to play dolls on the fire escape outside our window. She would usually relent and spread a blanket on its surface so our Ginny dolls (an early smaller version of Barbie, not so anatomically correct) wouldn’t slip through the metal slats and plummet to their deaths. Apparently, there was no such worry about a similar outcome for us girls, just a stern reminder to be careful and avoid the gaping opening that posed inherent danger for four young ladies. We happily pretended to make our inanimate, robotic dolls talk and moved them about, changing their tiny little outfits to suit whatever gala event they would be attending that day. We needed little other than our imaginations to pass the day in fantasy and childhood pursuits, oblivious of the noise and congestion beneath us, cars honking and whizzing by, clattering trains at eye level so near that we could wave to the riders as they made their way farther into the city along the upraised tracks above Broadway, no distraction too insurmountable to continue our capricious juvenile meanderings.

All too soon, my mother would call, Time to come in, girls, and under much protest we would collect our dolls and their limited wardrobes, climb through the third-floor window of our apartment, and conclude play for the day - - unless it was summertime, whereupon we would all disperse for dinner, only to meet up again on a designated stoop in front of one of the many brownstones to decide on whatever activity might occupy our time until darkness encroached and we were forced to go inside. Then the Carroll family would begin the regimen of preparing for bedtime. With simply one bathroom for six people to perform their ablutions, it was a bit of a juggling act to get hands and faces washed, teeth brushed, and pajamas on four youngsters who rarely actually wanted to retire for the night. Baths were taken on Saturday night to be clean as a whistle for church on Sunday. Water was not abundant in these archaic apartment buildings and was meted out at the discretion of the super. The same bath water frequently remained in the old claw-foot tub throughout the bathing of all the children, the last unfortunate kid scrubbed with somewhat murky and dubious soapsuds.

During wintertime, with snow blanketing the sidewalks and making the trek to school hazardous at best, we were forced to bang on the pipes of our radiators to rouse the superintendent into action to provide hot water and heat to households trying to wash up in icy cold water, shivering from the often below-freezing temperatures outside. With repeated reminders not to touch the radiators that were finally heating the apartment to a tolerable degree, the business of breakfast for six was undertaken, often delayed at times to attend to one of the children who had carelessly forgotten the adamant warnings regarding the danger of hot radiating pipes and had burned his or her fingers to a crisp. The usual fare was a soft-boiled egg served in a shot glass, the top of the egg cut off to enable one to dip toasted slices of fluffy Wonder bread into the yolk and then spoon out the remaining contents to be consumed. I really loved those soft-boiled eggs. The only problem was intractable constipation from lack of fiber in the diet, followed by admonitions from my father that I would be eating bowls of Shredded Wheat for the next several days to remedy the situation. If that failed, I was marched down the block to my Aunt Kathryn’s apartment for administration of a Fleet’s enema (my mother was too squeamish to perform such a duty), much to the amusement of my cousins, who lurked outside the bathroom door laughing hysterically at my predicament. None of my siblings ever fell prey to a similar fate and gladly devoured their shot-glass eggs with gusto.

There were no school buses to transport students to and from St. John’s. All were sent off by mothers in hair curlers, scarved Lucille Ball-style so that they would be perfectly coiffed by the time their husbands arrived home from work. We were told not to dawdle and incur the wrath of our Catholic nuns by being tardy. Children were taught with an iron hand, corporal punishment being the disciplinary choice of the day for teachers burdened customarily with over 50 unruly hellions for six hours daily. Providing a brief respite for these Brides of Christ, we were allowed a 15-minute recess on a concrete school yard containing no play equipment and left to our own devices to burn off any excess energy accumulated by sitting at our wooden desks for hours in starched and pressed uniforms. One didn’t ask for a bathroom break once seated in his or her allotted space for fear of reprisal and ultimate denial, many young students suffering the humiliation of an accident and concomitant jeers of fellow classmates. We actually walked home for lunch every day and returned an hour later to continue our studies. Most everyone lived in close proximity to school, with the exception of the kids who inhabited private houses, as we called them, and they ate their lunches in a classroom designed for this purpose. Though I wanted to reside in a private house, the thought of not being able to reunite with my family to have lunch together offset that desire. My father would arrive home at approximately 12:10, if he was able to locate a parking space close to our residence, and lunch would commence as follows:

Bless us, Oh Lord

and these thy gifts,

which we are about to receive

from your bounty, through

Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Bologna sandwiches on Wonder white bread were set out, my accommodating mother catering to the varying gastronomical proclivities of her flock, offering butter, mayo, mustard, lettuce and tomato, cutting off crusts while reminding us that the starving children in China had no such good fortune and that we should be grateful to God for our blessings. Instructions to Chew with your mouths closed were sometimes ignored as every child fought for equal time to relay stories regarding who was mean to whom and how Sister Bernadette had slapped so-and-so and placed her in a corner to ponder her misbehavior. With lunchtime over, those of us of school age would dash back to resume our studies, not wanting to risk any number of punishments for being late, the worst of which was a good hard smack and the least of which having to do with writing I will not be late to class on the chalkboard a specified number of times.

At the end of the school day, we were sometimes treated to a hot dog at the counter of Woolworth’s, admonished to avoid spilling mustard on our uniforms and to appreciate the exorbitant cost of twenty cents per hot dog and finish every bite. In the early years, Monica was still in a stroller, having displaced Val due to her untimely arrival into the Carroll family. So Val was forced to trot alongside on her tiny little legs to keep pace with her siblings. She took to sucking her thumb often to find solace, I imagine, in the face of such demands at a very young age. Returning home, Gerald and I would be required to start on our homework immediately. The finished product was laboriously scrutinized to uncover any glaring mistakes, Mom shifting her attention from child to child, the youngest perched on her hip, cigarette dangling from her pursed lips, as she orchestrated the balancing act of overseeing her four charges.

Time permitting, having implored Mom to allow us older siblings to run out and play, if school assignments were impeccably completed, we would virtually fly down the steps to join our partners in crime and cook up one scheme or another to occupy our time until the daylight vanished and we were beckoned to come in for dinner, my mother hanging her head out the window, saying, Hey, you kids, dinnertime. Dad’s home. More than once, I would appear, despite numerous reminders about open invitations, arm-in-arm with one of my girl friends and ask Can Roseanne stay for dinner? in the hope that my tardiness would be overlooked. Sometimes my clever ploy worked and the meal for six was carefully dissected into seven portions, my mother usually settling for less to accommodate the extra serving. Before long, my parents were on to my trick and a steely glare from Dad would prompt me to turn to the invitee whom I had chosen that day and exclaim, See you tomorrow! Oftentimes a whack on the behind was the necessary consequence of my actions to impart the grim reality that we just barely had enough for the six of us and, though we’d love to feed the whole neighborhood, we couldn’t afford such luxury on our slim and always dwindling budget.

As soon as the evening meal began, so did the laughter, my breach of Carroll rules a thing of the past. We would entertain each other with stories recounting all the events of our day, nothing too insignificant to capture the attention of doting parents, remarking on real or perceived scoldings and asking, Were you polite and respectful to Sister Theresa? I’m sure she had her reasons for reprimanding you. Knowing looks would pass between Mom and Dad concerning the disciplinary measures employed to exact punishment for some classroom indiscretion. Inevitably, our congenial dialogue was interrupted by the youngest, Monica, coughing and sputtering from the placement of a pea or some other variety of vegetable in her nose and the resultant commotion ensuing with pats on the back (the obvious solution to all such threatening occurrences). The pepper shaker was waved under her nose until she sneezed the offending particle out like a nuclear projectile, clearing her high chair and landing on the dinner table for all to see. A chorus of Eew, disgusting. Why does she always put stuff up her nose? invariably followed.

Cleanup after dinner was a family affair. Even my father, who had been badgered all day at work by mechanics wanting their various auto parts, helped clear the table of dishes, all the while complimenting my mother on her culinary skills. Each night he never missed the opportunity to say to her, Ger, that was a helluva’ good meal. You really outdid yourself. As he retired to the living room to read the newspaper, the three oldest siblings carried out their assignments for the week, washing and drying and putting away the mismatched, chipped crockery. Val had to stand on a chair to do her part and preferred washing to drying, splashing happily in the soapy suds, my mother rinsing and encouraging her to do a good job. More than once, I traded my assignment from washing or rinsing to drying because of fingernails bitten to the nub and bleeding from anxiety over any and all inconsequential happenings, the drying detail less painful all the way around. Needless to say, I was a nervous Nan, worrying about everything from academic performance to the welfare of family members and their idiosyncrasies. I was also afflicted with an anomaly known as bruxism, grinding my teeth in ardent concentration as I attempted to relieve my anxiety and fall asleep. I’m quite certain that I must have agonized while in utero about my impending birth with my developing little brain, so intense was my proclivity for unease. Do unborn babies bite their nails? It seems doubtful. Perhaps I was splashing around in my amniotic fluid without a care in the world, except, of course, the heart failure situation.

For us noisy Carrolls, bedtime preparations were loud but carefully designed so that each child had his or her special place. Once my parents’ bedroom was no longer inhabited by the youngest of the offspring, baby crib removed to allow my parents to ensconce themselves without climbing in at the foot of the mattress, the four of us siblings would settle in the only other bedroom. Monica was in a second-hand youth bed, Val and I in our respective twin beds. Gerald was required to share the space with his sisters, opening up a roll-away and strategically placing it across part of the doorway, leaving just enough room for one to squeeze through the resultant narrow passageway. If anyone needed to use the bathroom during the night, quite a juggling act ensued. My brother suffered the inconvenience of disrupted sleep and the indignity of his sisters tumbling over him to exit the communal bedroom and make the walk down the dark hallway to the commode. One of our exhausted parents was uniformly startled awake and summoned to accompany us for fear of frightful monsters lurking in the darkness. I remember one such instance when I was barely five years old and my father walked me down the hall past the bathroom and stood holding my hand at the entrance of our apartment. I thought he had lost his marbles and said, But, Dad, we passed the bathroom and I’ve really gotta’ go. Not realizing that my somnolent father had taken on a second job to make ends meet and had worked 16 hours that day, that he was tired from that and having shoveled snow that very morning to free our faltering ‘52 Plymouth from its icy shackles, I was properly annoyed about having to traverse our waxy hallway instead of stopping halfway to relieve my discomfort and avoid a near accident.

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Preparations Begin

Bronx, New York, in the mid-1950’s was evolving. Whereas ten years prior apartment dwellers could leave their doors unlocked without worry of unwanted intrusion, there was much skepticism among the residents concerning the trustworthiness of such carefree behavior. The neighborhood dynamics were changing, necessitating a more cautious approach to life in the inner city. For example, Joey the bagel maker would frequently hang a warm bag of our doughy favorites by a string on our doorknob upon his return from baking all night with no hesitation regarding whether they would be there for our enjoyment upon our awakening. In the wintertime, the door would be shut but not locked. In the summertime, the ottoman would be propped in the doorway to allow for air circulation. If Joey sensed any activity in the apartment, my mother up and tending to the little ones, he would yell in his Sylvester Stallone voice, Hey, Gerrie, hot bagels.

Oh, thanks, Joey, she would respond.

Anything for youse guys, Ger. You want more tomorra, I’ll bring ‘em.

That’s okay, Joey. You do too much for us already.

Aw, I don’t mind. I know da kids like ‘em.

They love ‘em. They’re the best, Joe, Mom would tell him.

It’s the New York wawta, he’d reply with a hearty laugh.

Well, thanks again, Joey.

Forget about it. I like doin’ it.

With new safety issues presenting themselves, the bagel dropoff became a more formal exchange, a knock at the door followed by Who is it? It’s me, Joey, the door then swung wide open in effusive appreciation of such a thoughtful gesture.

Bicycles customarily leaned up against buildings were required to be placed in the cellar and locked for safekeeping. Keys had to be dispensed to children to gain entrance into their homes. The luxury of a ground-floor apartment was no longer as sought-after since windows had to be locked at night. Apt. 33, situated on the third floor, posed slightly less danger, but access to our living space by way of the fire escape, though a concern, was not enough to demand that we close our screenless windows during the unbearably hot and humid summers, mosquito bites blotching our already freckled and fair Irish skin. With 51 itchy bumps ravaging my body at one count, I won the prize for obvious sweetness, or so I was told to minimize my terrible discomfort. I wondered if they had mosquitoes in California, as talk of our impending relocation became the topic of the day while we completed our school year at St. John’s. Our journey would take place in the summer months so that we would have perfect attendance for that year, thus making a smooth transition to our new surroundings. We would be traveling 3,000 miles, leaving friends and family, but at the time it seemed a small price to pay for palm trees swaying in the breeze, sub-freezing temperatures a thing of the past, and all the movie stars we were bound to meet in Hollywood.

To transport our meager furniture, a U-Haul trailer would be attached to the rear bumper of our faithful six-cylinder Plymouth, and my father would navigate the highways and byways in a vehicle occupied by two adults and four young charges, the trailer loaded to capacity, three family members on the bench seat in front and three in the back. Cars were not equipped with seat belts in those days and travel was accomplished through much jostling and the occasional elbow in the ribs. Another problem we were to encounter was the nuisance of a large hump in the middle of the floor in back created by the necessity of an automobile part called a muffler. I’m no mechanic, but, apparently, as its name implies, it is utilized to reduce the sound of a vehicle’s engine. All I knew was that it was extremely hot to the touch, and many an argument occurred over whose turn it was to have a window seat and who was the unlucky sad sack relegated to sit in the middle with feet resting on the scorching riser. An air-conditioned automobile was a future development and we would be tackling Route 66 with the wind in our faces on our seven-day sojourn to the opposite end of the country.

Our venture was still months ahead, but numerous preparatory measures had to be undertaken. The superintendent of the building had to eventually be notified of our departure. Lodging in sunny California had to be secured from afar, we New Yorkers hopeful that our San Diego destination would prove to be satisfactory.

No snow ever? we kids asked incredulously.

That’s right. It doesn’t snow where we’re heading was the answer. No more snow to shovel for big fat Dad! my father happily reported, which was a bit of an overstatement, though he had regained his 30 pounds of wartime weight loss as well as an extra 15, a sure sign in the post-war era that one was flourishing. Mixed feelings were evident on our faces as we pondered never again sledding down 234th Street at breakneck speed and traipsing to nearby frozen ponds, ice skates slung over our shoulders. But we kids weren’t assigned the task of shoveling out mountains of snow encrusting the family vehicle. So I guess big fat Dad did have a point.

Having been informed that our U-Haul trailer would only hold so much, our instructions were to sort through toys, clothes, and any other personal belongings in an effort to weed out what was absolutely necessary from what could be discarded. The St. Vincent De Paul Society provided for many needy children, we were told, who were glad to have our hand-me-downs. Parting with our material possessions was difficult, but far more painful was going to be separating from neighborhood friends and relatives, a reality that we knew was looming in the very near future. Our closest cousins were merely a stone’s throw from our apartment, their building on the very corner of Kingsbridge Avenue, ground floor. We often perched atop the mailbox situated ten yards from their windows and waved to the McIvor family as they sat around their kitchen table having dinner. It was a pretty chummy atmosphere. In fact, my Aunt Kathryn could step directly out of her apartment, take three steps across a narrow hallway, and be at Dr. Lang’s office, the dentist who employed her as a dental assistant. John McIvor, my uncle, a dead ringer for Jackie Gleason, could sit in his easy chair, top button of his pants loosened so he could breathe after his all too hearty dinner, and yell to us in his distinctive Bronx accent, Hey, youse kids, get offa’ dat mailbox. Ya’ gonna’ fall down and break ya’ heads open.

The news of our abandonment of cousins, aunts, and uncles for a better life in a warm and sunny climate was received with a mixture of happiness for us and the dawning reality that we may not see each other for a very long time. My mother and Aunt Kathryn, my father’s sister, never deviated from their routine of having a cup of tea together each day, usually at Kathryn’s apartment, her four children and Mom’s four darting in and out of the house, admonished by both matriarchs to stay out of trouble. Kathryn had been summoned to St. John’s School many a time to speak to the principal regarding Genie’s repeated use of profanity despite numerous soapy mouth washings. Our cousin Regina (Genie) was later to change her wanton ways and join the Carmelite order of nuns, forsaking all earthly pleasures. When plans for our move of such magnitude and to-do lists needed to be discussed between the women, we were often instructed to bring the red wagon so that bologna sandwiches and my mother’s famous boopy juice could be arranged strategically, allowing the two youngest children to be squeezed in amongst the Wonder Bread/Miracle Whip lunch and the icy jug of juice. We were then sent off to Van Cortlandt Park, the oldest member of our group pulling the loaded wagon. No adult supervision apparently seemed necessary or advisable. But that’s how it was when we were growing up. Children were encouraged to be self-sufficient and trusted to act accordingly. Human shortcomings and perversions being what they are, though, I am reminded of an incident that occurred during one of these park excursions wherein an exhibitionist – pedophile? – walked right past us with exposed genitalia, prompting gut-wrenching laughter and hysterics as we ambled along on our merry way home, the giggling not ceasing until we arrived at our doorstep.

Mom, I reported, we saw a man with his ‘thing’ out.

What a nasty man, she said, recoiling in horror as she began emptying the wagon.

Obviously, there was no cause for alarm, no alerting of law enforcement, her naivete precluding any action taken to prevent the indecent exposer from preying upon other young innocents in the future.

Getting back to the brazen Carrolls and their plans to begin a new life out west, a chorus of California, here we come frequently rang out through the dark and dreary hallways of our now temporary habitat and then could be heard far and wide from the windows of the old blue Plymouth as we sang our hearts out, not particularly mindful of the trials and tribulations that lay ahead. It was imperative, my father said, that we have one final outing upstate to Lake Osceola, a place where we had enjoyed numberless picnics and tried to learn how to swim. It was about an hour’s drive north and afforded us the opportunity to escape our city life, if only for a day.

Yay, Lake Osceola, we happy-go-lucky kids cheered with not a care in the world. Can we have spaghetti and meatballs, Mom?

Well, it’s not picnic food, my mother replied, "but if that’s