IN THE BEGINNING...

Both my parents were raised in the Bronx – one section all Irish, one German. They both belonged to the same Catholic Church.  The church would sponsor a dance every Saturday night so young single people could meet.  They set up a band in a large rec room and called the events “socials.”  This may have been the beginning of the CYO (Catholic Youth Organization).  My father loved to dance but my Mom wasn’t too good.  He taught her the basics as well as the latest craze – the Peabody.  I always thought the Peabody looked like a cross between a waltz and a fast 2-step.  They would glide all over the dance floor.  My Dad soon had the nickname of “The Flying Dutchman.”

After a few weeks of these socials, he asked my Mom if she would go out with him afterwards for an ice cream.  On this first “date,” my Dad asked her how old she was.  He was 24 and she was only 16, but she said she was 19.  She liked him and was afraid that he would take off if he knew how young she was.  My Dad came to the socials with a friend of his who had a car.  It was a Ford Model T Coupe with a rumble seat back by the trunk.  My Mom told me it was great riding in the rumble seat in the summer, but they froze in the winter.  

They had been dating for about 3 years when he asked her to marry him.  She said yes, but my Dad wanted to do it the right way and ask her father’s permission.  He went to her house and her father was down in his basement workshop.  He refused to come upstairs.  My Dad told me he couldn’t believe he had to go down to the basement to ask permission to marry this man’s eldest daughter.  My Grandfather looked at my Dad and asked why he was asking “permission.”  “If I disagree with your decision, you’ll just marry her anyway.”  Dad wanted to know why he disapproved of the marriage.  Her father said he had two reasons: my Dad wasn’t Irish and he was too old for his daughter.  My Dad said, “She’s 22 and I’m only 5 years older.”  Her father then dropped the bomb - she was 19, not 22.  

Well, she finally admitted her real age and told Dad it was because she loved him and was afraid she would lose him.  My Dad got his German up and he said he didn’t care what her father thought – they were getting married. 

They were married in 1935 – Dad a handsome groom and Mom made a beautiful bride.  Unfortunately her father never saw her.  He refused to come to the wedding.  

After the wedding, they moved to an apartment upstairs in my grandmother’s 3-story house (my Dad’s Mom).  I was born in 1937 and when they brought me home, my Mom went down to ask for some advice on taking care of a newborn.  My Grandmother was a tough old German lady and told my Mother that she had raised 12 children and she would not babysit or take care of another child.  My parents decided right then and there that they would save as much money as they could and buy a house so they could be on their own.  My mother’s Mom died when I was a year old and soon after she passed, my parents bought a brand new house in the Throggs Neck area of the Bronx, 2 blocks away from a school.  My sister was born in 1939 and we lived in this house until I was 6 years old.  When I was 3, my godfather bought me a ride-on fire engine for my birthday.  My Mom told me that I peddled that thing up and down the sidewalk for hours pretending to be a fireman.  Twenty-three years later, I became a professional firefighter and drove a huge fire truck.  Who knew???

When I was 6, I came home from school one day using Italian curse words.  My Dad heard me and told my Mom that it was time to move.  One of my Dad’s brothers said he knew of a house for sale in the suburbs.  The house was about 60 years old and in bad shape, but the price was reasonable.  My Mom went from a new home to “this old house” with a wood burning cook stove in the kitchen, an old, beat up kitchen sink, and only one bathroom.  She never forgave my Uncle for talking my Dad into buying that house.  

The first thing my Dad did was to throw out the stove and install a new gas stove.  The sink was moved to the basement.  The bathroom received a new toilet, sink, tub enclosure and a new floor.  The house was well built and even had a slate roof.  Over the years, my Dad worked on the house almost every weekend and rebuilt it into a beautiful home.  There was an empty lot next to our house.  When we were in the house about 2 years, my Dad went down to City Hall to find out who owned it.  The clerk told him the property was assessed at $2,500 but no one had paid the taxes on it for years.  It was coming up for tax sale soon.  My Dad had a great personality and people just naturally liked him.  The clerk told him he would let him know when it came up for sale. The fact that my Dad slipped him $20 didn’t hurt either.  One day the clerk called – my Dad went to the sale and bought the property for $435 cash.  

He came home and went to the next door neighbor and asked if he would be interested in buying half the lot which also adjoined his property.  The neighbor had been planting a garden on that property for years, but he said he didn’t want to pay for it.  So my Dad kept the entire lot for us.  The neighbor figured he could still put his garden there but my Dad had other ideas.  During the next winter, he put up a fence all along the lot lines and planted grass where the garden used to be.  He then planted a huge garden of his own on the back of the lot and an apple tree between our house and the neighbor’s.  When the neighbor saw what was happening, he asked why my Dad would plant grass.  “You can’t eat grass!” he said.  My Dad told him he had planted a big garden in the back, where it couldn’t be seen from the road.  He said he wanted a nice apple tree and a lawn between the houses.  The tree grew huge, the lawn kept me busy mowing it, and we always had fresh vegetables from his garden.