1955

Life seemed to change in a big way every ten years for me. Something major would occur that marked a turning point in my life and stayed with me.

1955 was the year when someone asked my father: “Is that your kid?” and he was starting to answer “Yes” instead of “Why?”

Mom was coming to the realization that I was growing and started to buy bigger and heavier wooden spoons. She was happy and I was happy for her.

Around the end of the year, about a week before Christmas, we moved from Brooklyn and headed out to the burbs. I was going to be among the countrified, the genteel, the trees and birds and lawns that typified life on Long Island. My parents wanted to turn me into a sissy, not a boy from Brooklyn anymore.

We moved one Saturday evening and as I rode the Long Island Railroad train out to the country from the Atlantic Avenue station in Brooklyn, I watched the city fade away, and with it all I knew. I was going to a strange place, with strange people, and worse, a strange school. I was not happy.

As the train sped away, I could see the grimy, filthy brick and stone buildings, the congested traffic, the thousands of people milling about, the parked cars on the streets, the garbage cans with their deformed lids, and I was going to miss it all, as it faded into the gloom of evening and distance!

Beside my Mom was my baby sister, just a year old and learning to talk, not only fluently, but also - worse still, rapidly! My two other sisters were already out in the new place with my Dad who had to go in early. They could already talk fast, and I knew the odds against me were even greater now.

As we arrived at the Patchogue Railroad Station, we fell out of the train and into my aunt’s car, where she drove us into the still of the night, and the darkness of a strange new home.

As we entered the new house, Dad was relieved of total command as Mom took over. I was warned (precautionary as Mom would say) and given a place to sleep for the night.

The next morning two of my worse fears were confirmed.

1)   My sisters were still there

B)  We really had moved!

Dad had to go back to the city that Monday because he still worked on Canal Street in NYC, for the NY Laboratory and Supply Company, and so I was looked to do a little exploring.

“Joseph, stop teasing your sisters, I need you to find a grocery store.”

“Where am I gonna find a store Ma?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t need you now would I? And while you’re out there, see if you can find a church.”

Out I go into the undeveloped and foreign neighborhood of Hagerman, East Patchogue, or one of those places, and start down the street toward what I hope is civilization of some sort.

Not the Original Church

I was amazed by the lack of civilization, and quickly became worried that there was no TV in the area! All I could actually see was trees, dried winter grass, and old worn out gas stations, with big signs on them. After making the only turn heading west, I decided I would walk a while, and after no luck, would retrace my steps. I was missing Curiale’s and Butlers deli markets! Not even a Spinner’s in the area, this was the boondocks! My feet were starting to hurt when I finally came across a place that looked interesting. “Gene’s Supermarket”, the sign said, and I went in.

There standing behind the counter was this nasty looking old lady who eyed me suspiciously. I went to the bread section and got a loaf of sliced bread, and quart of milk and I think some baloney and mayo. She eyed me in her pink flowered cotton apron, watching my every move. Barely standing with her grey head over the counter. She must have thought that I was going to rob her. I was a stranger, probably one of ‘those city kids’.

No smile was emanating from the lady. No acknowledgment that I was a customer, and no trust that I was honest. Feeling very alone and strange, I placed the groceries on the counter and waited for her to tally it all up. Still no smile from grandma, as she rang me up. I tried smiling, but was greeted with a stone and stern face, and almost hostility. Paying her, I was about to leave, when I had an idea.

Me: “Do you know where the church is?”

Momma Mean: “What church?”

Me: “ Catholic church.” I replied timidly.

Momma mean: “Oh! Sure! St. Joseph The Worker, right across the street on this side of the road, honey!” She was now smiling! I had made a friend.

Thanking her, I told her how happy my mother was going to be!

When I returned home, Mom asked how I did.

“Oh, fine, the store is nearly in Brooklyn!”

“Did you find a church?” she asked.

“Yup! They knew I was coming so they named it after me; St. Joseph the something or other.”

“Yes, they did, didn’t they!”