Friday, June 16, 2017


It was 1962, and I found a job on a farm, weeding and picking strawberries.  Not being a strawberry eater, this was an interesting job, pull them out of the ground and put them in a bushel and be paid. Nice simple job.

Then things got complicated. I tried one, it was delicious! I had to try another. Still delicious! One strawberry led to another and before you knew it, I was losing money.

But pick and eat I did, frantically making up for my loss, as I mowed down each of the long rows of strawberries, and making the Mancuso Farm profitable on my 10 cents a row labor. In 1962, 10 cents a row was good money if you weren't raising a family.

The next day was school and off I went. About mid-morning I went to study hall, where I was supposed to study. I studied a few young ladies when suddenly I was feeling kind of funny, almost faint. I report to Mr. Hanscomb, who sent me to the nurse's office and from their home.

Arriving home I found my mother busy spring cleaning, the windows wide open and the smell of pine in my nose. Having a bout of the shivers, I went to bed and then the fun began.

Laying on my bed, I noticed a red pimple that itched. Doing what any young all-American would do, I scratched it. Then another appeared, then two then three then all over my body! I figured I needed to find the mosquito before I died.

That afternoon found me in the doctor's office, where I was diagnosed with the hives. And where did I contact the hives??? Well, the good doctor suggested maybe it was something I ate, like strawberries.

The rumors circulated around the school that I had a blood disease, a rare one. Fortunately, no one arranged for a funeral Mass.


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