Stickball To Clamshells

By Tommy Claffey

The book is divided up into a number of concise and engaging chapters, each of which is centered on a different recollection or experience and imparts a different lesson.

With a conversational style and a good dose of humor, Tommy's memoirs are sure to resonate with anyone who has ever had

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas A. Claffey
• Release date: Oct 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087919409

Book preview

Introduction:

In this interesting memoir, Stickball to Clamshell, author Tommy Claffey shares recollections of his early years, that makes you connected to your own childhood.

Tommy lived a typical childhood in Boston during the 1950s and '60s, filled with friends, school, sports, and of course, sticky summer days spent trying to avoid getting caught with a balled-up piece of gum on his shoe. In this delightful book, Tommy recalls all sorts of adventures - from hanging out with Uncle Peppermint to visiting the World's end - each story bringing back its own set of happy memories.

The book is divided up into a number of concise and engaging chapters, each of which is centered on a different recollection or experience and imparts a different lesson.

With a conversational style and a good dose of humor, Tommy's memoirs are sure to resonate with anyone who has ever had a childhood friend, played a sport, or gone on a family vacation. Whether you're reading about him messing with teachers, getting detention, or playing pranks on friends, you're sure to find yourself laughing out loud and reminiscing about your own childhood adventures.

So, sit back, relax, and enjoy as Tommy takes you on a journey through his childhood memories, Stickball to Clamshells.

Foreword:

When I was younger, life was easy, and I didn't have to worry about much. I didn't have a single concern in the world at that moment. I made the most of my time in Boston by hanging out with my friends, playing stickball in the streets, and generally making the most of every moment.

Since I've become older, there are times when I find myself wishing I could go back to those younger years. But then I think about all of the amazing things that have happened to me since then and the memories that I've created, and I'm thankful for those things as well.

Nevertheless, there is a unique quality that only comes with a childhood that can never be replicated or forgotten. And that is exactly what this book is about: the memories that I hold most dear from my childhood.

Chapter 1 - Past the Classic Studebaker Hawk

A pinky ball, or tennis ball sliced in half, a broom handle, sides chosen, and another game of stickball underway on a quiet, dead-end street in Boston’s Mattapan section. No matter if it were ten, or twenty kids on hand, everyone played. Boundaries were sidewalk curbs, bases were manholes, and sewer drains; a home run was anything that went past Mister Pearlman’s Studebaker Hawk.

Mr. Pearlman had run off with Mrs. Blaustein, who lived diagonally across the street from the Pearlman’s well over a year earlier. Some weeks prior to that having occurred, Mrs. Pearlman had taken too loudly yelling at Mr. Pearlman, something about him being a cheater, a gigolo! Running away with someone else’s wife was one thing, but how Mr. Pearlman could have run off on a Studebaker Hawk was just unacceptable, appalling!

Not long after the pair had absconded, Mr. Blaustein must have felt as badly for Mrs. Pearlman as he did for himself because he began visiting her nightly. It was obviously comforting for Mrs. Pearlman because her falsetto crooning of ohhhh Marvin, ohhhh Marvin was whiffing throughout the neighborhood, closed windows or not. All the while, that mint-conditioned, candy apple red Studebaker Hawk sat unmoved, unused except for being a home run marker for our stickball games.

On a Sunday morning, not long after Mr. Blaustein had begun to comfort Mrs. Pearlman, Mr. Blaustein’s two sons came, and the threesome started moving boxes across the street from Mr. Blaustein’s house to Mrs. Pearlman’s house.

My mother was herding me off to Sunday School as the Blaustein Moving Company was at their labor schlepping all these boxes, trying to be so quiet about their business at hand. Although it was barely a whisper, they did say good morning to mom and me. Mom did return a friendly good morning to Mr. Blausteins’ sons, but mom was never one to hold a thought. Her salutation to Mr. Blaustein was not good morning,'', regardless that it was a beautiful Sunday morning. Her greeting began with; who do you think you’re fooling Marvin, and ended with him being some type of - - - Jerk! On Monday morning, there was a For Rent" sign on the Blaustein’s house.

Mrs. Pearlman and Mr. Blaustein were topical for a while in the neighborhood, but that soon faded, as perhaps did the need for Mrs. Pearlman’s nightly comforting by her Marvin. Mrs. Pearlman’s nightly croons of "ohhhh Marvin, ohhhh Marvin '' became fewer, and dropped in octaves until her vocals had fallen from an excruciating falsetto to a whiskey baritone, then nothing. The time for comforting had passed.

Something that did not go away was that Classic, candy apple red, Studebaker Hawk. Every once in a while, Mrs. Pearlman and Mr. Blaustein would come out and slowly circle that mint automobile. Mr. Blaustein pulling at his whiskers, Mrs. Pearlman followed closely with stooped shoulders, hands clasped behind and muttering below her breath. When their circumnavigations of the Hawk had ceased, they’d pause a moment on the sidewalk, grumbling to each other, animated hand gesturing, then saunter back into their house chatting like chimps in a banana grove.

Neither drove, neither seemed to want to learn, and for whatever reason, didn’t sell that magnificent automobile. Just the chrome accessories alone would have fetched enough money so that they could have taken a cab once in a while instead of always the bus.

Chapter 2 – Losing To ‘Campbell Soup Twins"

Mimi had a pitching arm like Dizzy Dean. She could make the half of a pinky ball or tennis ball make a humming noise en route to home plate, then dip just as it arrived. She was lanky of build, had rusty red hair, and looked like Howdy Doody with a wig, freckles included. Mimi was always athletically and gymnastically inclined in grammar school, those being the years I knew her. Much later in life, I’d heard she’d morphed into a stunningly beautiful Rita Hayworth lookalike. She became an acrobatic artist in a major circus, married a member of management, moved to Africa with him, and together they started what was a very successful, non-hunting safari business.

Although there were many girls our age in the neighborhood, Mimi wanted nothing to do with playing dolls, skipping rope, or hopscotch; she was always with the lads. It didn’t matter if it were stickball, no pads tackle football, baseball, mumbly peg, or even swinging a hammer building a fort or a tree house; Mimi was there and good at everything.

Mimi and I were always in the same classroom every grade through 3rd grade in Boston Public Schools. She lived diagonally across the street from me, so we’d meet each school day and then join the other kids from our street, walking to school.

Lunchtime was optional because a student could go home or bring lunch. There was no cafeteria in our school. If a student brought lunch, and the weather permits, lunch could be outside in the play yard. No tables or chairs; sit on the brick school stairs, the play yard apparatus, the stone wall, or the ground. If the weather were inclement, students would stay in the classroom and eat at our desks. Mimi’s desk was always opposite mine through those first three years.

She and I always brought our lunches and often shared things we’d had. Half a tuna sandwich for half a P. & J. A Hostess Twinky for a Hostess Cupcake. If we were able to have lunch outside, Mimi and I often went to the school supply & penny candy store next to the school and bought a nickel pickle- 5 cents for a sour dill pickle, the size of a knockwurst Weiner. No sanitary conditions were considered then. The counter person would take the money, make whatever changes necessary, then plunge a bare, unwashed hand into the pickle jar, snatch one of those beauties that resided in all that salt brine, withdraw it, and plant it into one’s hand, PLUNK! No napkin, paper towel, or even a tissue, never minding the sloppy juice we’d just enjoy.

During the morning and after lunch recesses, Mimi and I were always in the games of Red Rover, Revliev-ee-o, tag, punch ball, and bombard, and she was always one of the first picked whenever teams were made up. When recesses were held inside because of the weather, we would do puzzles, coloring, clay modeling, or gimp work together. Her gimp work of bracelets, necklaces, or key chains was good enough to be commercial. Mine had more gimp ends hanging out than a centipede has legs.

After school, we’d walk home with all the other kids on our street, except the two afternoons a week when there was Hebrew school for all our boy pals. On those two days, Mimi and I would walk home together. The girls didn’t go to Hebrew then at that time, but Mimi always walked with me so that I wouldn’t be alone.

After school, she would take care of her younger brother, who had been afflicted with Polio. She wanted to spend time with him and that her mother is afforded a bit of rest for an hour or so, then she’d be right back out and into whatever fray was at hand that afternoon.

After snowstorms, our street had to have been one of the best sledding and tobogganing areas of Boston. Being it was a narrow hill with a dead end, an ordinary snowplow wasn't able to turn around to plow the opposite side. Instead, the city dispatched a small bulldozing apparatus in order to navigate that situation. The plow was big enough to move the upper portions of the snow but left an inch or two in its wake, which alone would be pretty good for sledding. However, after turning at the dead-end foot of the street, and coming back up the hill, then repeating this process, the tractor treads compressed the remaining snow rock hard, perfect for sledding, and tobogganing.

The Shimky twins had moved into the neighborhood during Christmas vacation. They were absolutely identical in looks, and demeanor and didn’t open doors; they just walked right through them.

They showed up on the street after a snowstorm with a homemade sled their father had built for them. It was a soap box derby type arrangement with a steering wheel, rather than the conventional sled steerage, which lent a rapid, and wide turning ability to its well-waxed runners. Those brothers used to take turns driving while the other would try to remain standing on his head the whole way to the bottom of the hill. Although the ladder was always an effort in futility, they thoroughly relished showing off, and why not? They were the Shimky