Читать книгу ShoeShine Kids - Mary Cullen - Страница 14

My story begins in 1948 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I was four years old. I lived in a three story home, aptly nicknamed a Father, Son, Holy Ghost house, in North Philadelphia with my four sisters and three brothers. Back then, that is what the poor Irish Catholic people called these houses, which were actually only half a house, usually situated in the back of a court or an alley way.

The first floor of the house consisted of one room the size of a living room. Approximately 10 ft. by 12 ft. In the center of the room sat a potbelly stove on the linoleum floor. This room was our kitchen and living room. A, table, a few chairs, and a small couch were situated in this small room. The potbelly stove was used for cooking and heat. We usually had a brick sitting on top to better radiate the heat. Only in the kitchen was there a little heat from the potbelly stove. We would put wood that we found, or if desperate, steps from an abandoned house, just to keep warm.

The second floor was the kids' bedroom, which all eight of us shared. There were two big iron beds, one on each side of the room. One bed was for the girls, and the other for the boys. The floors were wood, not soft, but splintered. There were also two windows on the front wall, without curtains or shades. These were always open to help cool the house in the summer, we covered them in the winter to keep the cold out.

We had one large bureau in the room for our clothes. We kept a bucket in the bedroom since we were too afraid to use the outhouse in the back yard at night. Winters in the house were very bad, without heat or plumbing. To say it was cold would be a gross understatement. Since I was the youngest, I always seemed to be on bucket duty. I can’t count the times I spilled the contributions from the night before. I was so scared of the outhouse. First, I would open the door, and hold it open by propping something against the door. Then, I would throw a brick or something in there to scatter any critters that might be in there. This would usually take me at least an hour by the time I could summon up the courage to open that door and dump the contents of the bucket down the hole.

My sisters would say I deserved this duty coming to me, considering the mess I would make for them every night. I was a bed wetter, and when I went, everyone usually got wet. As a result, I was not very popular with them. I would wake up to the sounds of their screams. “Why don’t you get up and go in the bucket instead of on us”? They often threatened I would sleep on the floor the next night.

My parents' bedroom was on the third floor. Their room consisted of a bureau and a bed. On cold winter nights everyone would get all the clothes they had and would wrap themselves in them to stay warm. I can remember this like it was yesterday; how cold it felt. We huddled together to try to stay warm. That feeling stays with me even now.

Most nights, it seemed like when we settled down for bed, we would hear our father’s voice when he came home. Everyone would hold their breath and act as if we were fast asleep. We knew if we were awake, or worse still, if he knew I wet the bed again, there would be beatings for everyone – not just me. We would get beatings for insignificant things. It did not matter if it was just me, he would start with me, and everyone would likely pay for my mistake. Our father was a cruel man.

One night we heard him come in the door and my mother was still awake. He must have had a bottle of beer in his hand because she said, "You have the guts to come home with beer, and your kids went to bed with just apple butter sandwiches for dinner?" His response was, "I had a hard day at work. I don’t want to hear you running your mouth as soon as I walk in the door. Shut your mouth!”

My mother told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, going out to bars, night after night when your kids are going to bed hungry. “I told you to shut your mouth, didn’t I?” He picked up an ashtray and threw it towards her; breaking a glass on the table. My older brother, Mark, jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs to see if he was hitting mom. My father liked this. In his inebriated, sick way, dad liked it when Mark would confront him. He knew Mom could not stand to see him hit one of the children.

On this particular night, Mark confronted dad. He told him he just wanted to see if mom was all right – that he heard glass breaking. Dad’s response was, “Does she look alright to you? Now get your ass back in bed before I break your face.” With that, mom went right to Mark’s side. Her response was, "You are not breaking anyone’s face – not as long as I am here. " His response was, “We can change that." He grabbed mom by the hair, and started to push her towards the door.

Mark ran across the room and jumped on my father's back. My father went crazy, twisting and turning, trying to get Mark off his back. My mom was chasing after both of them, trying to make sure Mark did not get hurt. Dad could not get Mark’s hands from around his neck. Mark was holding on for dear life. Unfortunately, he thought of another way to pry him loose. He slammed Mark so hard against the wall, a big chunk of plaster fell out. Mark slid down the wall into a little heap on the floor.

By this time, all seven of us kids were down the stairs, scared to death but willing to fight for mom and Mark. There was no need to intervene though because as usual, mom never had any fear when it came to protecting us. She grabbed the first thing she saw, which was a broom, and with one big swoop, hit my father across his back as he was leaning over to rough Mark up a little more. We were all screaming and crying, terrified of what he would do.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and our neighbor came through. It was as if Hercules walked through the door. Our neighbor, Bob, was 6 feet 3 inches tall, and had to hunch over to get in the doorway. He grabbed dad by his shirt and said, "If you touch one hair on that kid, I will knock you three weeks into next Sunday.” Dad looked up at the guy, and he knew he was serious. Dad told Bob he did not hit him, but if he did not wise up, there would be no stopping him next time.

Than dad told us to get our “Asses to bed. Now.” We all took the hint and ran up the steps behind Mark. We could hear our father say to Bob, “I do not appreciate you coming into my home and telling me what to do with my family.”

Bob’s response was, “Well, I don’t appreciate a grown man throwing around a young kid, and terrorizing his family, night after night. So anytime you want to come home and fight, just knock on my door.

I looked around our bedroom and my brothers and sisters were all laughing with their hands covering their mouth. Dad said maybe he would. But we all knew, he would not. He only terrorized us, not anyone who could fight back. We all knew we would be safe for the rest of the night. I lay in bed that night and wished that our neighbor, Bob, was our father. It was so nice to fantasize, which I did it a lot, actually. Unfortunately, reality always came back. And it was usually with a vengeance. The next day reality returned fast. Breakfast was a piece of bread, with lard, that we would put in our big, black iron frying pan and cook on the potbelly stove till it was brown on each side.

I remember having a friend who lived down the street. When I would go to her house in the morning, I would have to wait for her to finish her breakfast. Her mom would give her oatmeal, and tell her it would keep her tummy warm outside in the cold. She was an only child, and her father did not live with them, but her mother was able to feed her well and dress her beautifully. I sat across from her and would be mesmerized by both of them. They always looked so pretty and happy.

The love and kindness they expressed to each other was foreign to me. Yes, my mother loved my siblings, and me, but the kind of easy love they shared was something I longed for. I wanted the same thing that little girl was receiving; not just for me, but for my family as well.

My friend and her mother would ask if l had breakfast and I would say yes, even though my stomach would be churning from hunger. My pride was strong, and I always wanted people to think that my family was the best. That scene, of her sitting at her table, stayed with me the rest of my life. I realized that day that my family was different. We did not have the same things that my friend had. We had to fend for ourselves. Our mother loved us, but we had nothing like that little girl had. Our house was not a home. It was a place; filled with fear and anger. Our father worked, but he drank his wages away. It’s funny how certain things in your life stick with you.

My brothers and sisters ranged in age from four to fifteen years old. Helen was the oldest at 15. Mark was 13, Lyda 11, Charlie 9, Betty 8, Margie 6, then Joey, 5 and I was the youngest at 4. Mark would go to the bars with my father most weekends. Mark had a great singing voice, he and my father would put on a show, going from bar to bar, singing for whatever they could get, which was mostly drinks for my father, since he would always come home drunk. Mark would have to hold him up on the way home, and quite a few times he would mess his pants on the way. Helen, Mark and Lydia would have to take care of him, which meant taking his pants off and scrubbing them on the scrubbing board.

One night, while we were all in bed, we heard him coming down the court singing. Soon, he came in and called for Helen. It was her nightly duty to put up with him. He wanted her to get him something to eat. Of course, there was nothing. That is when the fireworks began. She told him that there was nothing to eat. He said, There was potato soup whenI left for work, where is it?” Helen’s response was,“Dad, I gave it to the kids for dinner. There was only enough to give the little ones, Mary, Joey and Margie. The rest of us had apple butter bread.” His response was, “I am getting sick and tired of people taking things that don’t belong to them! They are little glutens.” “Dad, I gave it to them. I figured you would want them to have it since there was nothing else to eat.” She tried to make him feel like this would have been his idea, but of course it did not work.

“Don’t you tell me what I would do. They are little pigs! They have to have every scrap of food.” Then, he began to throw everything in the room. Lyda started screaming, down the steps to him. “Why don’t you buy food instead of beer.” He looked like the veins in his head were going to pop while Helen was in the corner, crying and shaking. He ran up the steps, two at a time. Helen was right behind him. He even looked like he sobered up a little. Betty, Margie and I hid under the bed. I think the springs were even shaking.

I don’t know where the boys were because I did not wait around to see. Lyda was fearless. She was not afraid of anyone, or anything. I think she said that to him to get him away from Helen. She knew he was about to beat her. When he reached the top of the steps, Lyda was right there to meet him. She was only 11 years old at the time, and maybe 4 feet tall and 50 lbs, but God gave her the courage of a giant. I stayed under the bed, praying our neighbor would save her.

Lyda could not ignore the things he did, and said, to other people. Most of us would run away from him, but not her, she always stood tall. Lyda knew what was about to come. The hate and disgust was planted across her little face. He hit her so hard across her face, you could see the imprint of his hand in the darkened room, forming a welt on her face. She held her hand to her face, but did not cry. She looked up at him with those big, black, beautiful eyes and they told the story. I don’t think he was fond of any of us, but he actually hated Lyda because he knew he could not scare or humiliate her. Lyda was a stallion; my dad could not break her. As much as he hated her, we loved her. She let us see first hand what dignity and courage were all about.

Charlie and Mark tried to stop him from hitting her anymore, but I think what really stopped him was sheer exhaustion. He did as much damage as he could, and went to bed. We all tried to console Lyda,but she just laid there, staring straight ahead. Only God knows what she was thinking.

The next morning, we were all up early. We had planned the day before to go to the zoo, just to see if we could get in. Helen and Mark had to work, but the rest of us went, Betty, Margie, Charlie, Joey and Lyda, and I.

We lived about twenty miles from the Philadelphia Zoo. So what if we did not have money to get inside? We never let that stop us. Charlie and Joe brought their shoeshine box, and that is all we needed to make some money. Charlie was the hustler of the family, and would get people to get a shine; even if they did not need one. I guess one look at us, coupled with Charlie’s sweet talk, and they would give money even if they did not want a shine. Charlie charged a nickel a shine.

The girls' job was to look for empty soda or beer bottles to take back to the store, kind of like recycling today. Two cents for small bottles, and a nickel for big bottles. People sat out on their steps in the summer, and at the end of the night, some would forget to take in their bottles. These bottles were like gold to us. With our time­ spent shining shoes and taking back bottles to the store, it would take up most of the day just to earn enough money to get into the zoo.

We met families, got meals, and made some friends along the way. The only person we feared was our father. Most of our food came from days like this, when we would go off on our adventures. We found all the missions in the city and visited them almost daily. The people that worked at the missions were great to us. If we said a prayer, we would get a box of donuts. Looking at us, they could tell we really needed food. But I could never get used to the way people looked at us. Either with sadness, or pity, or sometimes with just plain disgust.

Our shoes were old and came apart at the seams. Our clothes were either too big or too small. And since we only got a bath once a week, I guess we were pretty dirty. Still, when people pitied us, we did not like it. On these days, we did not have anyone worry where we were. We had no one to check in with. Our mother knew; when we went out we would not be home until it was dark.

We finally did make it to the zoo. We had made enough money for everyone but me. Since I was the smallest, my brothers and sisters figured they could squeeze me through the bars on the fence that surrounded the zoo. Charlie paid to get in, and went around the side where I was waiting. Margie and Betty positioned me sideways, up against the fence. My body could fit through easily, but my head was another matter. Betty and Margie pushed and pushed until I cried. Lyda said,"If her head gets stuck we are in a world of trouble." I calmed down, and they pushed one more time until I fell on the ground on the other side. I think I still have the dents in my head, but we made it. Everyone else paid and we were so happy. On the way home, we laughed and talked about all the animals we saw, and which were our favorites. It was not long before we were back in our neighborhood, though. What a great day that we had.

About a block from our house was a corner store called Mike’s. As we neared the store, we noticed John, a man from the neighborhood. Every time he got drunk, he would buy all the kids in the neighborhood popsicles. He paid for them by putting them on the tab at Mike’s Store. He was a number writer, and at least once a week he would get drunk. The next day he did not look as happy, being thay he had to pay the tab at Mike’s. I always wondered why this man was so happy when he was drunk, especially since our father was so nasty when he drank.

By the time we got home, it was late. As we walked up the court, we noticed Helen scrubbing something on the scrubbing board in the big metal bucket we used for our baths. Joe and I ran up to her and told her we went to the zoo. I was going on and on until I realized there was trouble just by the blank look in her eyes. Lyda and I asked her what was wrong, and she said, "It’s over. Dad is asleep and please do not wake him up." Helen was scrubbing his pants. I guess he had messed them again. I could tell by Helen’s face she did not have a good day like we did. Helen, as the oldest, went through so much more than we ever knew. We stayed out in the court until our mother came home with a big pot of potato soup from Gram. We went to bed with our bellies full that night.

Thank God our dad slept through the night. Helen and Mark did not tell us what he had put them through. I guess they wanted us to keep our happy thoughts of our trip to the zoo. Helen’s eyes told the story. How could our lives be filled with so much happiness and fun, and within minutes, just revert back to misery? There were a few days of fun, and just so many nights of sadness.

We had nights when we went to bed, and I would tell my siblings a continuous story of my shiny red car. I would expand on the story a little each night. I would take them on a different trip every night, sometimes to the country or other times, to the city. We would really become absorbed in these stories. Everyone joined in, since fantasy was our outlet, and we went all over the world in that red car. I never remember having any dreams for my self as a child. We just went day to day, never thinking of the future. I never heard anyone say, " I am going to be a nurse or a doctor." no one even spoke 0f graduating high school. College was not even a word I even heard in our home. I guess our dreams were all about our little red car and wherever it could take us. Far, far away.

Another one of our adventures was Soupy Island. In the summer, we would walk quite a few miles from Lawrence and Girard Avenue to Penn Treaty Park, only to get on a boat they called the Elizabeth Monroe Smith, and travel across the river. There was a place that poor children could get a cup of pepper pot soup, two graham crackers, and a cup of milk. We loved it there.

None us liked the soup, but we would get in and out of line repeatedly for the crackers and milk. All our time in the summer was spent running down Girard Avenue to catch the boat. These were the times we loved. I was not old enough to go in the pools, but they had a sliding board that filled an entire room. I would wait in there the whole day, just sliding, waiting for Lyda or Betty to come for me to get back on the boat. If anyone had wax paper, the ride down the slide was even better. However, I went home with a red butt all the time. Soupy Island also had a huge caurosel with beautifully painted horses, but I always preferred the slide.

We learned fast where to go for food. We lived right near a Baptist church. Every Sunday I sat in the pews. The only white person in the church, but it did not matter. I loved the people who went to that church. They were amazing singers, and they would always give me a tambourine to play. They wanted to baptize me, but Lyda would not let them.

On Sundays, I always had a full belly thanks to those kind people. They did not seem to judge me, or my clothes, or how dirty I was. They accepted me. Even though I was a little girl, I knew they cared. They truly did God’s work. I was devastated when the church moved. Sundays after that were spent at the missions, which were very boring, but at least our bellies were full. Say a prayer, and get a donut. That was basically the motto.

My brother Joey loved Superman, and he really believed he could fly. He tied a piece of material around his neck, and before anyone could grab him, he jumped out the window. He landed on cardboard that was outside of our house. Superman must have been with him that day, as he was fine and did not even have to go to the hospital.

I remember one day, when Joe and I were out playing, there was a laundry cleaner on our block. Trucks would pull up and unload huge laundry bags and throw them onto a laundry shoot. A conveyor belt would drop the clothes into huge containers. I was leaning over, looking down the shoot, and accidentally fell and landed in a huge laundry basket. I was so scared that I was going to land in one of the big washers. I was crying in the basket when a worker found me and took me back out to the street. Joey got in trouble that night. I tattled on him for letting me fall, but I felt really bad. Being the youngest, I was fearful.

Joe, and I would go off on our own sometimes when the older ones were busy. We saw Charlie and Betty at the abandoned factory around the comer. It was used by all the kids in the neighborhood as a playground. It was pitch black in there; I had seen Charlie in there, but at some point, I had lost him. I don’t know if it was by accident, or if they intentionally lost me. I was feeling around with my hands and felt a door. I could not open it. I was crying and screaming, “Let me out, let me out.” Suddenly, someone tapped on my back. It was not one of my brothers. I think I passed out; I was so terrified.

Next thing I remember, I was outside the building. My thumb was cut and it was bleeding very badly. Oh boy, Betty was in trouble again. I loved and admired Betty greatly. Even when she was in trouble, she never took it out on me. I always wanted to be around her.

Betty was scared. She knew she was in serious trouble. Our father was home and he was drinking. She tried holding the cut real tight. Nothing worked though. My dress was full of blood. We started home, dreading what was going to happen. I was more concerned what my father would do, than my hand bleeding.

As soon, as we walked, in he saw the blood. I was shaking like a leaf in a storm. Our father started screaming, "Where were you?" Betty just kept apologizing. He looked at her with disgust on his face. He loved it when we were scared. He screamed for her to come over to him. She walked a few feet and stopped. He screamed so loud, we all began to cry. Betty nearly ran over to calm us, which would have made things so much worse.

He hit her so hard, she fell onto the floor. Charlie, Betty, Margie, Joe and I were all crying. He said to Charlie, "You were there too?" Charlie nodded yes. Our father gestured for him to come close. Charlie went over with a look like go ahead and hit me. And of course, my father obliged. Charlie just held his hand on his face and moved back. The blood from my finger was soaking my dress, even though I was holding it so tight.

Margie, like me, was terrified of him. He screamed at Margie to get over to him. She was not even inside the building, she was outside with Betty. It did not matter though, everyone was getting a beating. This was his entertainment for the day. I looked at Margie and she looked so scared. Here again, everyone was getting punished for me. She went forward with her hands clasped together in front of her, like she was holding them together so she could not protect herself. Maybe then she would not get him mad. As little as she was, she realized if she took her beating the right way, his way, then it would not last long for her.

Joey was next, and my father said to him, "You went in a abandon building?" Joey did not answer and just walked over to him, almost like, let me get this over with. Joey put his hand to his face, maybe to just to piss my father off. Instead of getting one crack, Joey got a few more. How dare he protect himself? Joe went down just as Betty did.

I was next and I tried my best to be brave, but I was not. I went over, one step at a time, so scared I did not hold my finger, and blood was pouring out with my heart pounding so fast. When I got close enough for him to grab me by my arm, I closed my eyes and did my best to not let him hit me directly. I was screaming that I was sorry. And he was screaming back, "You want to be bad? You're going to get it every time."

I opened my eyes and I looked at him. I saw a smile come over his face. He said, "I have no problem beating your asses every time you don’t listen." He told us to get upstairs and told Betty to change me. I felt so bad. I caused this, and everyone had to pay for me. My body was shaking from crying so hard . My chest was convulsing, and when I passed by him to run upstairs, he asked if I wanted something to cry about. I just ran up the steps. When we got upstairs, Betty grabbed an old, torn shirt and made strips from it. She wrapped and wrapped until no more blood could be seen. She then changed my clothes.

I told her I was sorry and she said it wasn't my fault. Charlie said it was no one’s fault. We were just playing – it was an accident. Joey was quiet. I thought he was waiting for the next beating to come. Margie also was quiet. When we were close to our father, getting our beatings, he smelled of alcohol. We knew it was not over until he went to sleep. We all sat on the bed. Quietly. We were waiting for the next problem to start. I caused my siblings beatings time after time. For stupid things I did; peeing the bed or taking the last piece of bread.

Betty checked my finger again, and when she first took the bandage off it was not bleeding. But within seconds, it started again. She held her finger over it and then wrapped it even tighter than before. I was scared it would not stop and we all would get another beating. We heard him coming up the steps and laid perfectly still as he walked up the stairs to the third floor bedroom. I swear I could hear my heart beating. Betty put her arm around me and said it will stop. Mom came home later and took me to get stitches, six of them.

If school was in session, everyone who went cleaned themselves up for school from the water heated up on the potbelly stove. Uniforms went on, and off to school everyone went. Our parish was Saint Michael’s, and our priest was Father Burke. He really helped us out a lot. He would give the nun’s clothes for us. Sometimes my sister’s came home with left overs from the convent or rectory. We were not the only poor in the parish, there were many.

Tuberculosis, polio, and influenza were prevalent in our area. Fathers and mothers would have to leave their families and go into a sanitarium if they developed tuberculosis. This caused a hardship for the families. My uncle Joe suffered for years with this disease. I believe he tried to hide it whenever it returned. Once you contracted the disease, it was a life long struggle.

My family was very lucky. We had none of the deadly diseases. Many children had polio in our area. It seemed common for me to see children with braces. Influenza was also a killer, and so were measles at that time. Scarlet fever and many other illnesses would be life threatening years ago. I did have pneumonia several times as a child, and mustard plasters were used to treat me. I always seemed to have them on my chest and back. I suffered for years with lung conditions, like bronchitis, yet I can rarely remember seeing a doctor. None of my brothers or sisters went either. When we were sick, old fashion remedies were used.

Charlie always had chapped hands from being out in the cold and rain. His old fashioned medicine was to pee on his hands. If you had an earache, salt tied up in a rag was put on the potbelly stove to get warm, and then hold it on your ear. Paregoric was used a lot for pain. Whiskey was also used, you'd put some on a small piece of bread for a toothache. Tar soap and lye soap were used for skin conditions and lice. Bedbugs were also a problem, and the cure for them was to burn the springs on the bed.

We traveled all over the city, never worrying about our safety. We were up as soon as the sun came up. None of us slept late. You couldn’t because winters were wicked, and the cold penetrated your bones. The only thing that helped was the heat from each other’s bodies. Once anyone woke up, everyone did. Down the stairs, to another day of figuring out what we had to eat, or where to get it.

Bread was our mainstay. We all gathered around the potbelly stove. The red bricks on top would radiate some of the heat. We had a big, black, iron­ frying pan. We would wet some bread, or put lard on each side, and cook it until it was brown on each side. It was something like a toaster. If we had apple butter, that was our breakfast. Oatmeal was a real treat. Mornings with oatmeal always stood out for me. I loved it, and still do. I always get a warm feeling while eating it. Our day would be planned by what we had. If we had some food or not. Missions in the area were usually the first stop, and then off to a day of adventures.

The worst night of our lives was September 15, 1948. My brothers and sisters and I were in bed asleep. Instead of being woken up by our father, it was our mother’s cries we heard. She had been sick for a few days and had stayed in bed. I could not recall a time prior in which my mother stayed in bed sick. She was moaning and rolling back and forth in bed, obviously in pain. She asked Helen and Mark to go to gram’s house and let her know mom was sick, and to please come.

Within a half hour, our house was filled with aunts, uncles, and our grandmother. They took our mom to the hospital. One of our aunts came upstairs to check on us. She said everything would be alright and to go back to sleep. The next morning, gram returned with our aunts. Everyone was crying. I heard my uncle say, "If l get a hold of him, I will kill him." I was pretty sure he was talking about our father. I did not know what happened, but I knew it was bad. Everyone, including my sisters and brothers, was crying when I came down the steps. I asked my sister Helen what was wrong, and she just said everything would be alright.