September

I plan to take a few weeks off to organize the stories yet to tell. Don't worry, I'll be back.

There are at least 30 more subjects to cover.

August

Today it gives me tremendous pleasure to relate this story that Grandpa Joe used to tell in
a variety of ways.

There was a shoe repairman named August and his shop had only a few customers so he

didn't have money to pay the rent. The landlord told him he had to come up with his rent or he would have to close his shop in September. The shoemaker had a few repairs, but he still

couldn't pay his rent.

So the shoemaker put this sign in the window of his shop:
The first of September will be the last of August.

I think it's great and story and I plan to tell it until the last of Marsha.

Block Party

In the mid-50's, Block Parties were in their heyday. Two summers in a row, at least, there were

Block Parities on Winona. The block was so long that only from the hill down to Wabash was

included in the festivities. There were about 15 houses involved and almost every house had

kids. Of course, the Meyer family made up for any childless couples because they had about

eight kids in that one house. It was a strange house that didn't look like any other of the houses

on the block, not even the Neithe house. It was made of dark shingles with dirt instead of a lawn in front and back. There were odd items in the yards and dirty toys of all kind. During the block parties, none of the kids were allowed to go, and the parents chose not to go either.

There were games and food and music. I don't know how they kept the food in the safety zone,

you don't have to worry about that when you are only 10 years old. For entertainment, Joann,

Linda, Diane and Marsha provided music accompanied by a kiddy phonograph and 45 rpm

records. We were somewhat good at lip-synching to "Doggie in the Window," "Lollipop,"

and "Mr. Sandman." We even made Neil take part in the singing, cause he was the only male

lip-syncher available.

After the entertainment, Mr. Nagle hooked up his radio to a speaker of some sort and the

parents did some dancing in the street. We went into Linda's basement and played Super

Market with all the cans her mom had stored there. Sometimes, we'd pretend some of us

were girls and some were boys, and the "boys" would ask the "girls" to dance.

About 10 or 11 p.m., people would start to wander back to their own houses, calling for their

kids to follow them home. Sometimes, we had so much fun at the June Block Party, we'd

have another one in August.

Secret Fan

My brother, Brian, started his musical career while he was still in high school. In fact, he and

a friend, for all practical purposes,single-handedly staged a production of "Little Me" when they were at SLUH. Brian also performed around town with his guitar. He did not want any of his family members to be in the audience. He could sing to perfect strangers, but not to his own family.

There was a time when he was the main (and only) performer at Dohacks, a restaurant. It was

during a time when Dohacks had an out-door seating area. Brian and his guitar would sit in

the out-door area and entertain South County diners.

When my sister found out about this situation, she took matters in hand and made it her cause to, so to speak, catch him in the act. One Saturday night, she parked in the farthest point in the

Dohacks parking lot. Then she slipped around to the back of the patio area. A privacy fence allowed her to sit right behind where Brian would be singing. She waited there until he began

and stayed for his entire set. She gave him an affirmative review, but permission to see him perform solo was still not allowed.

The first time I heard him sing professionally was in the movie "Follow That Bird." I've heard him sing live with others at my wedding and at my sister's wedding, and with his kids. But as of yet, I still haven't heard a live, solo, performance.

Family Songs

Over the course of years, there have been songs that bring us closer as we remember them.

One of the first I remember hearing is to the tune "Try a Little Tenderness." It goes like this:

She may get weary, women do get weary,

Wearing the same shabby dress.

When she gets weary,

Buy another shabby dress.

I'm sure that ditty was from a old stand-up comic, but there were some that were originals.

I do believe that Mary Fran came up with this:

I cantaloupe with you tonight

Though we're a peach of a pear.

I'm plum nuts about you

Go bananas when I kiss you,

But I cantaloupe with you.

My Aunt Rita also wrote a romantic song -- about a fly that was driving her crazy while she

tried to feed one of her kids:

He's gone again,

He flies away every time we meet.

But he'll come back again

And I'll knock him off his feet.

This next song, is really just a title, originated by, I think, Tennessee Ernie Ford:

If I Had a Nose Full of Nickels, I'd sneeze them all at you.

My favorite and most enduring family song was written by either my father or the father of Pogo, Walt Kelly. It is a Christmas Carol.

Do not tarry at the Wassail Bowl too long, Father Dear

Do not tarry at the Wassail Bowl too long.

Do not leave your home and fireside

For a blond that's strictly peroxide.

Do not tarry at the Wassail Bowl too long.

I am happy to say the activity of celebrating events with music has been passed to a new

generation, born in this century. Ezra and Sally sang this to our elderly cat before she made

her transition.

So long Snuggles,

You've had a long run.

So long Snuggles,

We've had lots of fun.

I hope your family has also been able to partake in musical memories as we have.

Since I wrote the original posting, I thought of a few others we liked to hear and repeat.

This one could be from The Dick Van Dyke show:

Be kind to your web-footed friends,

For that duck may be somebody's mother.

And here, a few from Graucho:

Lydia, oh Lydia, oh have you met Lydia,

Lydia the tattooed lady.

Hooray for Captain Spaulding,

The African explorer.

Did some one call me schnorer?

Hooray, Hooray, Hooray!

Hello. I must be going. . .

I will add more as I remember them.

The Bungalow

One of the other flats Grandma Hilda lived in was with her sister and brother-in-law.

Aunt Elsie and Uncle Lou, who were actually my dad's aunt and uncle. Elsie, Gert, and Hilda

were the only Schmidt's alive at that time.

I think Elsie was the oldest and even after she died, Grandma stayed with Lou who was

very sick at the time. After he died, Grandma went on to live with a friend, Vera. After many

years, Vera also passed away and that is when she moved to the outskirts of Chicago on

Manheim Road, to live withher sister Gert. Uncle George and Aunt Gert lived on a tiny farm across from what is now O'Hare Air Port. Most people sold off their little farms in that area and were compensated very well. Uncle George Mischoff would not sell. Two things happened: things like motels and restaurants grew up around them and if you tried to talk it had to be in between takeoffs and landings.

After Uncle George died, Gert and Hilda moved back to St. Louis. They bought what Hilda called "a little bungalow" on Jamieson near Chippewa. They lived together for several years, and when Aunt Gert passed away, Grandma Hilda finally had a home of her own. She was the

last of the Schmidts and lived to be about 93 years old. One time, when she was at least

in her late 80's, we were talking about her family, and I was taking notes. As she told me

about each of them I could tell it was bothering her. I told her we didn't have to do anymore

that day, but she went on for me. At one point, I said, "It doesn't get any easier, even after

all these years, does it?" She shook her head no and dried her eyes with a handkerchief.

The Parade Passes By

Grandma Hilda lived in several flats before she and her sister, Gert, moved into their house on

Jamieson. When I would stay all night with her, we slept in a tiny room that was just big enough for a double bed and a fan, and a few inches of walking space.

There was a big window that we could look out even if we were still in bed. One morning, I

woke up to band music and children having a good time just below us on the street. I wondered

what it was, because I was too young to know what grade school parades were. Grandma said

it was a surprise, and that's why I stayed all night. After the parade, the kids had a picnic at

Forest Park Highlands. Grandma Hilda and I took a bus to the amusement park. To me,

grandma seemed rather old at the time, but she took me on the Whip, my favorite from that

day on, the Merry-Go-Round, and the Ferris Wheel.

We stayed several hours and then took a bus back to her house. I spent the night again, but

unfortunately, there was no parade the next morning.

Anniversary

Today is John and Sally's Wedding Anniversary. They were married in 2007, on the roof of the Western Auto building in down town Kansas City. John's friend, Mark, had an apartment in the

building and graciously took over the pre-get-together and the reception afterwards.

The weather was beautiful for any month, but especially August. Sally and John planned the

whole ceremony in less than a week! She found a beautiful sundress with a white background

any tiny rosebuds and light green leaves. John and Ezra had similar trousers and shirts.

Sally had been looking at wedding bouquets but thought they were too blase and too high

priced. She decided to make her own from spider mums purchased at the Village Garden and tied them together with a golden ribbon to match her gold shoes,

Her bridesmaid was her close friend, Stephanie, and Tim was John's best man. Another friend,

Enrique, played his guitar and sang a romantic version of "Up On the Roof." Ezra received a

medallion from the minister to signify a new union. At the end of the ceremony, Ezra, who had been practicing how he would say it, pronounced "You may now kiss the bride."

After the ceremony, we went down to the apartment and had cake and coffee. Sally got the

cake from The Pastry Goddess. And Mark served cold-brewed coffee, which I had never

even heard of before. Aspen, a friend of Sally's took pictures as did Diane, so we have many

beautiful pictures to remind us of the beautiful day.

Their wedding couldn't have been better if they had planned it for a year and spent thousands of dollars. Since then, they have been blessed with another little boy, Levi. Both boys were

baptized last summer and Sally was confirmed this summer. John Floyd was very busy and

this spring he was baptized, made his first communion and was confirmed all during one

Mass.

Beautiful day, beautiful wedding, beautiful memories

Don't Wake the Pope

When ever I would stay over night at Grandma Santa's house, I would sleep with her. Grandpa Joe's room was right next to hers. He would rise early, about 5 a.m., and get read for work. Sometimes, I woke up while he was getting ready and sat up in bed to see him. Before he went downstairs, he would peek around the corner of the door and see me, about ready to talk to him. At that point, he would always put his index finger up to his lips and whisper, "Shh, the Pope's sleeping." No matter how many times he did it, I would giggle and go back to sleep. I wondered then, and still do, if he was talking about the Pope in Rome or the "Pope" sleeping next to me.

Teen Town

Epiphany parish had a youth group, called CYC, Catholic Youth Council. In conjunction with
CYC, there was a Sunday night get-together called Teen Town. Epiphany's Teen Town was known all over the parishes in the city. I think there was only one other one, St. Mary Magdalen, that could be considered in the same league as Epiphany.

Teen Town was held in the gym and provided a chance for young people to get together and hold each other closely on the pretense of dancing and listening to music. Teen Town was held just about every Sunday, except Easter Sunday, or couse. There were so many kids there that older young men volunteered to keep the school grounds, especially in front of the gym, free from delinquent behavior. Inside, fathers and mothers of CYC members acted as chaperones. The fathers would tap a young fellow discretely on the shoulder if he was holding his partner a little too close. Mother's were concerned about tight and or short clothing for the teenage girls.

One vice that was permitted in the gym was smoking, as long as you disposed of them properly.
This did not serve me well the Sunday evening I went to Mary Magdalen's Teen Town. I was
standing away from the dance floor and waiting for my escort to return from getting us Cokes.
I casually lit a cigarette and before I could exhaled for the first time, two young men in ties and sports coats approached me and told me there was no smoking in the building. They walked me to the door so I could dispose of the cigarette by throwing it out the front door.

I was humilated and steaming not only from the summer humidity outdoors but also because I felt like killing my date. When I met up with him back inside I expressed my disappontment;
his weak excuse was, "I thought you knew."

After that, I frequented only Epiphany's Teen Town, not because I was such a smoking fiend,
but because I knew the territory and really didn't like Mary Magdalen that much. It was too
sterile, what with bright lights and teen age guys in ties and sports coats. It was okay for
the Adult Advisors at my own parish to remind me of my uncouth behavior, but I didn't want someone my own age doing it.

Fyler Bridge

In the 60's, Fyler Bridge and, alas, the Terminal Cafe were taken out of commission when I-44

was going to cut right through the city. Many neighborhoods were severed, including The Hill,

Epiphany Parish and the Lafayette neighborhood. More about that later.

When Jim Puckett worked for the Associated Press, his apartment was in Maplewood. If anyone ever anyone mentioned the Fyler Bridge, he would not believe it even existed. True, the viaduct was still there, but I-44 replaced every remnant of the old bridge.

It also took over where Kathy Belgeri lived on Smiley. One side of the street was paved over

but the houses on the other side were still standing. On Lafayette, my Grandma's house was

demolished but the houses on the other side of the street are still standing.

I cannot even begin to explore this subject in one night, but I will give every aspect its full

description in the future.

Maplewood

The last few years on Winona, I was in 6th and 7th grade. Just about every Friday after school,

after we came home on the school bus, my next door friend, Carolyn and I, would walk down

the long street and catch the Lindenwood bus on the corner of Winona and Lindenwood. We

took the bus to Fyler Bridge and then either walk across the viaduct that led to Maplewood, or waited for the bus to take us across the bridge that went over a train yard. Sometimes I would make the trip to Maplewood with Kathy and Marybeth.

Our main goal in going to Maplewood was to purchase a new release of a 45 rpm single, either

at Katz Drug Store or Goldie's Department Store. At first, it was enough to just buy the

record, but as we became more sophisticated, we bought the record and rushed back to see if

they would play the same recording on American Bandstand, which came on every afternoon

at 4 p.m. Before AB, we had to be content to watch 15-minute programs starring Patti Page,

Kate Smith, and Howdy Doody. I think Charlie Ruggles also had a 15-minute program in there,

too. During the summer, when there wasn't any school, I remember watching "Queen For A

Day." They would focus on these women who were desperate to have a washer, dryer or

kitchen table. The sorriest woman of the day would be voted "Queen For A Day" and Bess

Myerson would swoop in, take off the mink she was wearing and put it on the "Queen." Then

the host, Jack Bailey, would crown her with a tiara. They might as well have taken the mink back after the show, along with the diamond tiara, because what was she going to do, wear them while she did the laundry?

Back to Maplewood. When we had made our purchases, we either walked across the viaduct

or took the bus back to Fyler. The we had to wait for the Lindenwood bus and it was kind of

creepy because by this time, several men were leaving the rail yards to go home. Of course,

we only had to ride with a few of them because most of them made a stop at the diner across

the street, The Fyler Bridge Terminal Cafe."

Cookie Day

At St. Elizabeth's there were teaching nuns and service-oriented nuns. I don't know what their

official designation was, but at SEA the service nuns mainly worked in the kitchen. The sisters were excellent cooks and even better bakers. Thursday was cookie day and for about a quarter you could purchase 3 chocolate chip cookies during lunch period. This transaction was a lot safer than going to the bakery up the street for cookies for about the same price. However, you could not kick back and have a cigarette in the school cafeteria.

Thursday being designated cookie day must have been a religious-order thing because when

my brother Neil went to McBride High School, the cafeteria brothers made cookies every Thursday . My brother Brian went to St. Louis University High School and I don't know if
SLUH even had a designated cookie day let alone specifically Thursday. Probably not because Jesuits make it their business to never copy any group, religious or secular.

The Hohlfelds on Tholozan also had a designated activity on Thursdays. It was trash day. When they were growing up, my brothers were not burdened with many chores. How they turned out to be such wonderful husbands is a mystery to me. Neil had at least one household duty. He was in charge of getting the trash ready and putting it out in the alley on Wednesday night. I think my brother Brian had a chore relating to our dog, Fang, because theoretically Fang was his dog.

Anyway, every Wednesday night my mom and Neil would engage in a conversation that

started with my mom asking, "Do you know what tomorrow is?" And Neil would answer,

"Cookie Day." A variation of this exchange went on almost every Wednesday night until Neil graduated from high school.

First Day

Yesterday was my first grandson's first day of first grade. I don't remember my first day of

school. I do, however, remember my sister's first day of school. At the time, though,

it's apparent that I didn't give a thought. I left her standing on the long flight of concrete

steps leading up to the old red brick school.

The trip to school was awful. My mother told me to stay with Diane on the bus and make sure

she got to the right room. That seemed easy enough. When we got on the bus, the driver,

Jaz, told us to sit in designated seats. I said, "I've got to sit with my sister." Jaz replied, with a cigar in his mouth, "You don't gotta do nuttin'." His real name was Mr. Jazzorka and he ran a car repair shop near the school. Needless to say, his attire left something to be desired. But

he kept the bus in good repair and volunteered to drive the bus. No body messed with Jaz. So in tears, I went to my assigned seat and Diane went to hers. At least I was able to get off the bus with Diane and take her to her classroom.

By 3 p.m, I had completely forgot about the Jaz incident and evidently my sister, too. After

the 20-minute ride, the bus stopped in front of 7071 Winona. My mother was smiling at

the foot of the long driveway that ran uphill and leveled off at the beginning of our front steps.

As I crossed the street, smiling right back at her, I saw her smile turn to disbelief and then to

a sort of worried horror. "Where's your sister?" she demanded. I remembered then, for the first time since 9 a.m., that I had a sister. "I think I forgot her," was my weak reply. "You were supposed to get her on the bus this afternoon." Then the words of the eloquent Jaz, came to mind. Apparently, one of my "gotta do's" didn't get done.

My mother grabbed my hand and ran into the house to use the phone. She called the school,

talked to the principal and told her we were on the way. She grabbed her purse, and without

letting go of my hand, raced down the steps and the driveway and up the hill and down a

hill and across a street, and stopped only when she came to the bus stop sign. At that point,

the Hohlfeld's did not have a car so public transportation was her only recourse.

We had to wait only about 10 minutes, but then we faced another 20-minute bus ride. The

bus stopped at the corner of Ivanhoe and Smiley and we wasted no time walking about 30 yards

to the aforementioned steps. Sitting on the steps was my sister and Miss Lewis, a teacher I

had last year in second grade. Diane actually looked like she was enjoying herself while I, on

the other hand, was miserable. I had had visions of her lifeless on the long flight of

stairs with vultures circling her tiny little body. But there she was, talking and laughing with

Miss Lewis, the young and beautiful Miss Lewis. Last year, all I got from Miss Lewis was

a few smiles, here and there. And this year I had the fearsome Sister Hilda.

My mom thanked the teacher over and over again. Miss Lewis said she had found my sister

waiting on the steps and realized no one was picking her up. Diane told her she was supposed

to wait for her sister. When she asked Diane "What's your sister's name?" she knew

exactly whom Diane was waiting for. Then the principal got involved and asked Miss Lewis

to stay with her until we got there. We said goodbye to Miss Lewis and went back to

Ivanhoe and Smiley to wait for the Lindenwood bus to stop. On the ride home, and even

after we got home, my mother didn't mention what an idiot I had been, which made me feel

even more wretched.

I had told my mom on one of our bus trips what Jaz had told me that morning, which seemed

like last month. So, the next morning my mom walked across the street with us to talk to

Jaz through the opened bus door. Diane and I were busy getting on the bus, so I didn't

hear what mom and Jaz spoke about. A few minutes after my mom went back across

the street, Jaz pulled the huge brake into the on position and headed toward us. I thought maybe he was going to kill us, but instead, he took each of us by a shoulder and plunked us down in one seat. I guess there are some things people "gotta do." Even Jaz.

Watering the Grass

The other evening around sunset, when we were walking into house from the car, there was a smell in the air that immediately made me recall the summer evenings as I sat with my Grandpa Joe as he watered his front lawn on Lafayette.

After a day of being on his feet all day, repairing other people's shoes, he would come home and

eat a small dinner. Grandma always made his first course spaghetti and he ate only about an

ounce with butter and sometimes a little cheese. Then he would have a small portion of whatever else Grandma Santa had made.

After dinner, he would sit on the wide steps that led to their front porch. The steps were concrete and Grandpa Joe would sit there and water his medium size front lawn. I sometimes would sit with him or on a rocking chair on the porch that went across the whole front of the house.

He'd ask me what I had for lunch and breakfast. I think he feared that Mary Fran didn't

know enough to feed her kids. But on the other hand, I think it was a simple way for him

to communicate with me. As the water fell across the hot grass, it gave off an alluring

aroma. At the time, I didn't think much of it, but as an adult, whenever I smell it, it brings

back memories of those long summer afternoons that slipped into long summer evenings.

Sometimes in the late morning or early afternoon, my sister and I, and sometimes Barbara, would sit on the wooden rockers and play "I see something." The participants would say, "I see something blue?" and the other player would respond, "Is it the sky?" Well, of course it was. Then the other player would take her turn. "I see something green." And the other would reply, "Is it the grass?" Yup. As we got older, about 8 or 10, we became much more clever. We would spy passing red cars, or a brown bird. This led to cries of "foul" by the other player because how was she supposed to know what color car went by four minutes ago!

If you can't guess the passing cars then you might as well work them into the game. We

would count how many white cars went buy, or blue, or whatever color we designated. I

don't quite remember the point of that game, but at the time it seemed sensible and natural.

I don't remember ever seeing Grandpa Joe water the back yard, maybe he just put a

sprinkler out there. I do remember "running through the sprinkler" as being a favorite

pass time on a hot summer day. We would dry off as we played on an old swing set that

had been put up specifically to amuse the grand kids, which eventually numbered 14.

Sometimes, Aunt Rita or Aunt Barbara, or cousin Joann, would "lay out" on a blanket in the back yard. They would apply Johnson's Baby Oil with a liberal hand and lay on their fronts and then their backs while we played around them. Once I saw one of them put iodine in with the

baby oil and that seemed really gross, but I asked them to put some on me anyway. Nope.

Too young.

As the years went buy, we got too old to enjoy the simple pleasures of the back yard and

the front porch. If I had realized then what I came to understand about him later, I would have spent more time with Grandpa Joe, just sitting on the steps at twilight, watering the grass.

Kaepas

I wonder how many people remember Kaepa shoes. Both Diane and Sally had them a few times.

The shoes were white athletic shoes with the usual 80's adornments. The special thing about

Kaepa shoes was the removable triangular-shaped pop-ins on the outer side of each shoe. You

got the original color and maybe one extra when you bought the shoes. But, of course, two

wasn't enough. You could buy extra packs of pop-out color triangles. And just like most other

things that are marketed for children, there was only one favored color in each pack. So if you

kid wanted silver, pink, and yellow, you'd probably have to buy three different packs.

For awhile, the girls kept their color pop-outs in a baggie or a jewelry case or some other

special, safe place. However within a short amount of time, the colorful do-dads were misplaced or even thrown out by mistake. By this time, the fad was on the wane, so the pop- outs were no longer on the shelves to purchase. So, there was the poor child's dilemma -- to constantly wear a non-matching pop out that had been on the shoes forever, or to get rid of the shoes that still fit and did not have a lot of wear and tear on them.

I remembered we reached a compromise regarding the out-of-favor shoes. They promised to

wear the shoes in the summer if they could get new ones for school. That sounded great to me.

The only problem was, when summer finally came around their dainty little feet truly had out-grown the Kaepas.

The Music Room

The front door of my Grandma Santa's house opened into the living room. Straight ahead of the

living room was a large dining room, although it did not look as large when I was a teenager as

when I was a tyke. To the left of the front door, was the music room, which eventually became

a television room and finally, my Grandpa Joe's sick room.

Grandma and Grandpa were the first in our family to actually own a television set. From the

outset, there was a ceramic black leopard of about 12 inches long on top of the tv set. The

adults called it a tv light. The light bulb was located in the rear of the statuette, which caused

the leopard to have an aura around him. It was eerie.

People who remember those days, know that the prime-time line up was very limited. However, there was one thing that was on almost from the beginning: Friday Nights Fights. Eventually, there was Saturday Night Wrestling to complete the sports fantasy schedule.

After we moved to Winona and eventually got a car, we would all pile into the dark blue Dodge after dinner on Friday nights and head for Grandma's house. It was almost a half-hour drive,

but my Dad loved to watch Friday Night Fights. He and Grandpa Joe would watch the fights

that came on at 9 p.m. and lasted an hour. If the top matches finished early, a never-ending parade of novices were called into the ring so the program would come out exactly at

10 p.m. Daddy said that sometimes the program would end without the last bout even being

finished.

The women in the house were relegated to the dining room table where they fed babies and

reprimanded children. Of course, there was also eating and drinking at the table and in the

tv room. By the time 10 p.m. came, mothers and kids were ready to call it a night. I remember

when we left, it was always a relief to get outside because the house was usually on the warm

side. But then the cold night air smashed us in the face or the 90% humidity washed over us. I don't remember ever leaving the house on Friday nights when the weather was tolerable.

Now, if the Friday Night Fights had included other family members, such as the Gralikes

or the Veiles, we would stay out even later and go over on The Hill and have brain sandwiches.

The adults seemed to love them and the kids never knew. Our parents told us they were

hamburgers and we believed. Talk about blind trust.

I remember when Neil was 3 or 4 and already showing an interest in sports, he would join

the men in the television room and watch both the fights and wrestling. I suppose it was an

early case of bout mitzvah. It was also about this time that we kids discovered those crisp

squishy things were not hamburgers.

Funny Papers

Another memory of Lafayette is that of sitting on the sofa with my Dad on Sunday morning

reading the "Funny Pages." Sunday's "Funny Pages" were special. They took up a least

four full pages and were in color! Each panel was about three times as big as each panel in

the daily black and white comic strips.

We had a ritual before the reading of the comics. Dad would fill his pipe and tamp down the

tobacco. After that, he would light up, taking at least three or four puffs to accomplish the job.

He'd say, "Bring the pages you want to read." I don't know why he did this every week, because

every week I brought him all the funny pages. I even wanted him to read "Prince Valiant."

Daddy couldn't believe a kid like me would actually want to read "Prince Valiant." I didn't pay much attention to the words. Each week, Valiant was always off fighting the evil-doers, while his beautiful wife stayed at the castle and took care of baby Valiant. I mainly looked at the

intricate drawings and beautiful colors.

"Prince Valiant" was only in the Sunday papers, as was several of the other top notch funnies.

"Blondie" was in the paper every day with the distinction of being at the top of the page of

the funnies. "Blondie" was also the lead-off comic in the Sunday paper. It was on the first page

of the section and was above the fold. Every Sunday, the strips had more panels and gave me

that much more to laugh at. Dagwood was always late running out the door to avoid being

late for work. He inevitably ran into the mailman and they both spilled the contents in their

arms: letters, coffee cups, lunch bags, to name a few. Mr. Dithers and his wife, Cora, made

an appearance every so often. And the kids, Cookie and Alexander, were usually on the phone

or grabbing some thing from the ice box. Dagwood some times made a foot-high sandwich

with onions, cold cuts, tomatoes and pickles stacked on a tiny plate.

I could tell if my Dad was enjoying himself by the times he laughed so hard that he wheezed

and coughed. When he laughed, I did too, matching his hearty mannerisms. Sometimes I had

no idea what I was laughing at. I just followed my Dad's cue and threw my head back and

laughed until tears came to my eyes.

My Dad also had a habit of pointing to each panel with the stem of his pipe. I think he did

that so I would know what words belonged to which panel. I thought this was cool, and

often imitated those gestures when I was "reading" on my own. I didn't have a pipe so I just

used my pointing finger giving it a bounce as I went from panel to panel, making up

stories as I went along.

.

Kindergarten

In addition to the aforementioned "Spiritual Bouquets," I remember some other things about

Kindergarten at St. Margaret's. I don't remember how I got there or home. We didn't have a

car until we moved to Winona, so perhaps I walked with Barbara, or went home with Grandma

Santa.

I remember one day, Miss Alice, the Kindergarten teacher, asked me to go upstairs and ask

my Aunt Barbara to come down and help with something or other. I was to tell Barbara and

wait until she told her teacher and then return with Barb.

I suppose Miss Alice assumed I knew my way around because I had "connections." How wrong

she was. The only operative word in her instructions was "upstairs." So I nodded and took off.

The Kindergarten room was in the basement, so I headed for the steps. On the first floor, I

just stood there and looked down the long hall. The floor was polished to a beautiful shine

and all the doors with frosted, textured glass, were closed. What to do. What to do. After

waiting there a few moments, I knocked on the first door. A tall, slender nun opened the door

and waited for me to speak. I waited for her to speak. Finally, she said, "Well?" I answered,

"Is Barbara Simeone in this room?" She told me that this floor was for grades one through

four and Barbara was on the upper floor. (I guess Barb was know to all the teachers because

of Grandma Santa.)Sister pointed to the steps going up. I ran up the

steps to the second floor and knocked at the first door I came to. I repeated the message to

this nun who shook her head and pointed down the hall. "Sixth Grade," is all she said. As she

closed the door I could tell she was not happy by the interruption.

Of course, trying to deal with all this added tension, had brought tears to my eyes. I walked down the hall, eyeing each name plate on the doors through my tears. It came down to two doors with Sixth Grade printed on them. It took me a few moments to decide which one to knock on. I knew whichever one I knocked on, it would probably be the wrong one. Should I knock on both doors at one time? What if I left the building and went home? Would anybody know, or care? Then I remembered I didn't know how to walk home by myself. More crying. I finally decided to knock on the one right in front of me instead of the one a few feet from me. When the nun in this room opened the door, she could see this pitiful looking five-year-old with tears streaming down her pudgy face. She bent down, gave me a hug and said, "Barbara,

your niece is here for you." I guess I did have connections. At least this nun knew me.

Barb came out and said, "What a baby. Why are you crying?" I tried to talk, but I was taking

in more air than I could exhale. "Wait a minute. Here's your problem. Your shoes are on

the wrong feet. How did you walk all day like this?" We sat down on one of steps and she

changed my shoes around. She thought I was crying because my shoes were hurting me. I

didn't bother to tell her that I didn't even know my shoes were on the wrong feet and I was

crying because I had such a hard time finding her.

While she was changing and buckling my shoes, I told her, "Miss Alice wants you to help

her do something." Barbara said she was glad to get out of her class and go down to help

Miss Alice. I was glad I didn't have to go in search of anybody else. And even though I didn't

know my shoes were on wrong, my feet did feel different, and better, than when I went up

those awful steps.

After Mass

Sometimes, when my little baby sister was not having a good Sunday morning, my Dad and I

would go to Mass at St. Margaret's by ourselves. There was no such thing as a noon Mass. But the 10:00 Mass did last until about 11:30 a.m. On our walk back to our flat, we would take a right turn and go up Lafayette to Grandma & Grandpa's house. We would go through the gangway to the back porch, because we knew by this time Grandma would be in the kitchen off the porch making Sunday dinner. She would offer me a drumstick from the mounds of fried chicken she was making, or a little bowl of spaghetti (who ever heard of pasta) with homemade meat sauce. Of course, I never refused either of them.

Grandpa Joe would always come to the kitchen to see Dad and me. Like clock-work, after they

shook hands, Grandpa Joe would ask, "You don't want a drink, do you?" My Dad would

answer, "If you're having one, I might as well have one, too." So, Grandpa Joe would go into the cabinet below the sink, and fetch a bottle of whiskey. The sink didn't have a real cabinet under it like today's do, but it had a few shelves behind a fabric "skirt." Then Grandpa would ceremoniously go to the white, built-in cabinet across the room. It had a glass door separated into several panes. He'd open the door slowly and get the shot glasses down. Then he would

slowly pour an even amount of whiskey into each shot glass, replace the cap on the whiskey,

and offer one of the glasses to my Dad. He waited until Grandpa Joe picked up his, and then

in unison, they drank their shot of whiskey. Then again, as if it was scripted, Grandpa Joe would ask, "You don't want a beer chaser, do you?"

Waiting for a Star to Fall

Tonight, Diane and I went out searching for the last of the Perseids meteors. Our first stop

was the long, dark driveway of the senior Whitaker's, out in the middle of Grain Valley. Diane

was able to spot two or three and I just one. We started out around 11 p.m. and looked in the

south east. Then we went to the young Witaker's street and later to Ryan Road. I think we were

actually a day late. Sally just stood on her deck last night and saw a gigantic shooting star of

varying shades of color. Later, after midnight, she and John were able to spot several more.

The Perseids usually occur between August 10 and 13, yet Neil, whose birthday is August 13, didn't know about it until I told him two or three years ago. Now, I hope, in my limited vision of heaven, he is looking at the stars from a different angle, but can still see the Perseids.

Big Backyard

In addition to the large barbeque pit, our backyard on Winona contained other points of

interest. There was a gigantic tree with huge roots above the ground. It provided a great deal

of shade and space to sit under it. We have pictures of my Grandpa Joe and Neil when he was

about two years old sitting under the tree on an old blanket. They both have the same look on

their faces--that of bewilderment, wondering I suppose why there was always so many people

in the backyard!

A swing set was left by the previous owners. It was a rusty red color with two swings and some

other attachment. I can't remember if it was a glider or trapeze. In the very back of the yard

was a large squarish boulder. Right on the other side of the fence, there was a flag pole. On federal holidays, the owners raised a huge flag. When Neil would spy the flag he would run to the boulder, climb upon it and salute the flag. What a cute kid with his skinny legs and summer buzz cut.

The most wonderful thing in the back yard, as far as my sister and I were concerned, was the

old faded blue playhouse. Dad thought it was unsafe from the time we moved in, but let it

stand. The playhouse floor was just dirt, but it had a least four windows in it. There were

two rooms, the one in the back was a few inches bigger than the front one. In summer, it was

very hot and even in the winter it was a little warm.

The playhouse had probably been painted white with baby-blue trim, but by the time we

lived there, it was all dingy and weather worn. I don't know who built it. It might have bee

our next door neighbor, Mr. Shellenberg, because he was very adept at making furniture.

Dad told us not to get too attached to it because it would have to be torn down since it was

so dilapidated. The door didn't close very well and the curtains on the windows were

tattered and faded, but we spent a lot of time in the playhouse either playing house or

card games at the red and white kiddie table. There were two matching red and white

kiddie-sized chairs reserved for Diane and Marsha, others would stand or sit on stools.

About the second or third summer we lived there, a violent storm just about tore the

playhouse apart. The roof caved in and the front door came off its hinges. Dad and one

of the neighbors tore the rest of it down and disposed of the wood somewhere. At my age disposal of splintered wood and other trash didn't concern me and I guess I wasn't very inquisitive. The strange thing was that in spite of all the time we spent in the playhouse, I don't remember missing it and in a few years I all but forgot it even existed. Children can be so fickle.

Barbara Bares Her Soul

While Aunt Barbara was attending St. Elizabeth Academy, my Aunt Rita was working as a

fashion coordinator of some sorts. She was putting together a fashion show and needed teenage

models for summer outfits. Since Barbara fit this description, Rita included her in the show.

A local newspaper was doing a story about the up-coming fashion show and included a picture

of the girls in their outfits. Unfortunately, the article also included the names of the schools

the models attended. Aunt Barbara was pictured in a pair of fifties-style shorts, not short-shorts, but definitely not Bermudas.

It is my guess that you can imagine what happened when one or more nuns read this story and

saw the picture that went with it. If the whole community read it at breakfast, we are talking

the biggest orange- juice spit-take in history.

Barb was reprimanded and humiliated before fellow students and was forbidden to take

part in the fashion show. The moral of this story: it is okay to bare your soul at SEA, as long

as you don't bare your legs.

Playing House

When I was about 6 and Aunt Barb about 12, we would play together, sometimes in Grandma

Santa's basement and sometimes in the attic. One of my favorite things to do was to play house.

When Barbara was a willing participant, she would help me get out kid-sized chairs and a table,

votive candles from church, dishes, napkins, silverware. We would make pretend food and tea.

Of course, there were dolls to join us. It was perfect. It was especially great when we did it in

the attic where nobody knew where we were. At 8 years old I still loved playing house, but at

14, Barb did not. Not only did she not enjoy playing house, she relished making me miserable.

She wold tell me she wanted to play. She would always say it with great enthusiasm. Then she

would tell me to hurry and get all the play things out. I dragged each plate, each cup, each doll,

out to the kiddie table. I would beg her to light the candles. Then, at the precise moment I was

ready to rejoice and Play House, Barbara would declare, "I don't feel like playing." I would gasp and start crying, but because we were in the attic, or the basement, no one could hear me. After watching me suffer for a few minutes, Barbara would say, "Don't be a baby!" A baby!

Was there anything worse that being called a baby when you are 8 years old?

My aunt also enjoyed making me miserable in other ways during her early- teen years.

There was the time she and a friend threatened to throw me down the clothes chute on the

second story out-side my grandmother's bedroom. They went so far as opening the little door and forcing my head into the opening. I grabbed onto the sides of the chute and screamed.

"You are such a baby! You couldn't fit through that tiny opening." Being called a baby and

being called too pudgy to fit through the opening. A double whammy.

Then there was the time my aunt, her friend, and I were swinging at a playground. They had

me on a swing and were turning the chains around and around and I thought it was fun. At

least, I thought t was fun until they put my wrist inside the chain, too. I said, "Don't, I have a

bump there on my wrist." They both looked and agreed there was a bump there. So, did

they let me go and hug me and say they were so sorry? No, they did not. They twisted it

harder on the bump. When I began crying, of course they said, "Don't be a baby."

I managed to last a few more years in spite of my aunt and by the time I was 10 and she was

16, she was more mellow and I followed her around like a puppy dog. She read a lot of

magazines, went to St. Elizabeth's and fell in love with my next door neighbor. By that time,

we had a swing set in my back yard and she was sweet enough to push me in hopes that

Billy Neithe would see her and think what a sweet girl. Only I knew the awful truth of what

a mean and wretched person my Aunt Barbara really was.

Paper Dolls

When we lived on Lafayette, Kolberg's Drug Store was across the street on 39th Street. Above

the drug store there was an apartment that Nancy and Rich lived in after they were first

married. Later, I think my Aunt Rita and her husband started out there, too.

My Aunt Barb and I would visit Nancy and she would always "make things" with me. I was

always asking people to make things with me. Nancy Ann was a great artist, not just in my

eyes, but a lot of other people, too. Many hot afternoons were spent in her apartment with

an oscillating fan on the kitchen counter while we "made things" on the kitchen table. My

favorite was making paper dolls. The ones Nancy made were much better than store-bought

ones. She would make dolls of Barbara and Rita, in addition to Patty Page and Margaret

Whiting. The dolls were made on heavy stock and the dresses were drawn on regular old

typing paper. She used paints and colored pencils for the outfits. She used pieces of floss to

use on hairdos, belts, and necklaces. She also made great shoes. I don't remember what they

were made of, but they stayed on while I played with them.

In addition to paper dolls, Nancy and I would draw flowers, and clouds and a hundred other

things, but my favorites were the dolls. Around four or five p.m., the magic would be put

on hold for another day. Barb and I would walk to her home up the street and Nancy would

start making dinner.

Sometimes, Barbara and I would go back to her house and try to duplicate the things we made

at Nancy's, but, somehow, it just wasn't the same.

Cafeteria Perks

As I wrote, Grandma Santa was the life of St. Margaret's Cafeteria. This, of course, resulted in

certain freebies for her grandchildren. One of best, we thought at first, were big cans of Mama's cookies and large crunchy pretzel rods. These cookies and rods were in big canisters with snap-on/off lids. They were like the ubiquitous holiday popcorn cans. We would sit in the sunroom and dig into the tin while watching the limited "prime time" programs of the fifties. One, night, I stuck my chubby little hand into the cookie tin and felt something move. I

screamed and looked in the tin. It was a roach. Needless to say, we no longer accepted these

perks. It would be wrong.

An altogether better perk was that the aforementioned "Tuesday Ladies," as a gesture of

affection for my grandmother, would bake a huge coconut lamb-shaped cake for us every

Easter. The cake was not flat like the one's of today. This one sat up-right on a bed of green

coconut. It always sat on the the large dining room buffet until after Easter dinner, when

it was moved to its place of honor on the table. The features of the 3-dimensional lamb were

made of pink and black jelly beans

It was always sad to see grandma cut into the cake but it was the best lamb I ever ate.

School Cafeteria

My Grandma Santa was something of a celebrity at St. Margaret of Scotland Parish. She was

in charge of the school cafeteria. Every day, a separate group of ladies would help in the

cafeteria and she would oversee the cooking, serving and clean-up. Grandma made the meals

she had started serving at home for a few hundred hungry kids every day. No wonder when she

cooked for 12 people on Sunday, it went like clock-work and was delicious. No matter how

many extra people showed up for dinner, Grandma made what she had stretch to feed us all.

Grandma and her Tuesday Ladies did activities on Wednesday after school lunch. They were so titled because they worked on Tuesdays but met socially on Wednesdays. One of her Tuesday Ladies was Bertha Sommers. "Bert" and "Sant" had a lot of fun together. Bert had a slew of kids, one of her little boys was a real brat. Some Sundays, Grandma and I would pick up Bert and her bratty son to take them to Mass at St. Margaret's. One Sunday, Bert was trying to get her son ready while Grandma and I waited in the kitchen. Things in the other rooms were pretty quiet and then around the corner came the bratty kid with Bert Sommers right behind him. He was screaming, "I'm not going to Communion. You can't make me go to communion." Bert's reply, "You are so going to Communion even if I have to smack your rear end all the way down the aisle." Old Catholics will remember the "No food or drink after midnight if you're going to Communion" rule. He made a quick stop at the kitchen table and took a big finger- swipe of butter that was sitting on a silver butter dish. He stuffed the butter in his mouth and yelled, "Now I can't go to Communion." Mrs. Sommers turned beet red and reached out to whack him, but brat boy was much quicker and ran out the back door. He didn't come back in time to go to church, so we left without him. I always wondered what happened to brat boy after Bert Sommers got back from church.

Home Again

After starting out a little later than planned, we made it home in about four hours. This time

is way too short in my estimation, but Sally drives safely if not slowly. Poor Levi had one

rough hour out of four, so that wasn't too bad. He is such a joy. His sweet little smile and

hearty laugh can break you up or make you weep. Ezra is also a joy, but in a whole different way.

He is smart, funny, cute, cuddly and all the best in life. As usual, we had a wonderful time in

St. Louis, but there's also a lot to be said about falling asleep in your own bed.

Lost Again

Today provided me with yet another day to get lost in my home town. We went to pick up

Italian Cookies at Missouri Bakery. That went fairly smoothly; I did miss the exit to I-44 from

I-55, but I recovered from that quite nicely. Although it meant a little change in the original

route, I did arrive at the designated street in a timely fashion (before they closed at noon). Diane saved me from the real disaster of going right by it. I was looking for the

old canopy over the door and front display glass. That was gone but later we discovered the cookies were just as delicious. The first part of our journey from the Hill to the Riverview was somewhat indirect, but still could not be classified as really being lost. Then it happened, before I realized it I was passing Sarah and then. Boyle. I knew these names. They were more mid-town than south bound. The situation was rapidly deteriorating and I was somewhere

in a light industrial area. I'll end this

part of the narrative bey simply stating that we got to Mom's place before anybody else did.

That's all that matters.

Lost In St. Louis

Of all the things to do when visiting St. Louis, I suppose getting lost is one of my favorites. It brings back fond memories of how I used to get lost when I lived here, about

30 years ago. In the past, I would regularly get lost in South St. Louis. I have branched out

and now can be seen taking the Jefferson Barracks, or even the Poplar Street Bridge, into

Illinois. Sometimes, if I am feeling lucky, I will venture into Clayton, or Kirkwood or Webster

Groves. And if it's memories I'm looking for, there is nothing better than getting lost in old

South St. Louis, where a tavern (not bar) on every corner makes it hard to distinguish one

street from another. Old stomping grounds include The Hill and St. Louis Hills, and now

includes Arnold. A special thrill causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand up when I try to find specific places in the Midtown area or Downtown. Of course, I could write a novella about Forest Park.

Today, I attempted to find Riverview Nursing Home. Every thing was going smoothly

until I tried to find Bates. By the time I reached Oseola I knew I had missed it. A strange

feeling came over me. I felt sure Bates was the street I passed five minutes ago with no street

sign. I went, as my mother-in-law used to say, "around Robin Hood's barn," and took a

leap of faith turning onto the unmarked avenue. After going a few miles, there was a sign

and it was Bates. The rest of the directions were so clear I was able to pull into a parking

space in a few more minutes.

Thank goodness my daughter drove this evening when we went down to see the City Market

and Mall area. As I sat there waiting for "the younger generation" to climb in and out of

metal structures and in and out of water falls, fountains and rippling puddles, I was able to

see the new Stadium right in front of me. I could hear the fireworks across the street and

the Arch was just to the east of where I sat. The north leg was reflecting blinding sunlight

as the surrounding area began to slip into sunset. What beauty. What happiness.