I was lucky. All three of my kids were beautiful, each in his or her unique way. I regret that I was so young when they arrived, I was 22 when Steve came along, 24 for Kathy and 27 when Mike arrived on the scene. Too young, too immature and too stupid.
The early day to day details are vague. not at all like their mother's who remembers the first fart, burb, barf and grunt uttered, as well as the day, year, time and probably the weather for those days.
I remember specifics: Steve's gawd awful diaper mess pile of mashed peas, carrots and dairy in a putrid yelllow green color. Kathy's sweet little barf on my face and, Michael ... ugh it was a gas attack.
Events and achievements make up most of my other memories.
With Steve it was his constant request for one more grounder, one more pop up and one more pitch that sticks with me. He was determined and stubborn as they come and a real whiz on a skateboard, cycle and on the ball diamond where he made me proud every time he played.
Kathy was a born to attract. When friends came over for a picnic, it's the picture of Kathy leading a pack of boys through the neighborhood, totally in control of whatever they were all up to that comes to my mind.
And Mike, as the youngest, it was often Kathy leading her little brother around, treating him as if he were her private doll to play with, kiss, hug and do whatever else little mothers aged 6 could think of to do with their little live 3 year old dolls. And Mike with his faithful companion Ginger who followed him to school and often waited for him outside the school. he took a lot of teasing and bullying from his older brother and a few of Steve's friends. It wouldn't happen when he got older. Play Hard, hit hard shoot hard
more .......
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Thursday, April 10, 2014
HAZ MAT-- WAZ DAT?
Hazadous Smazerous ... I' m certain the term HAZ MAT hadn't even been created back in the '50s. People back then had enough room in their brains to remember whole words, besides it takes too long to recreate what some of the abbreviated terms we use now actually mean. It's much simpler to remember the words. THWA or The hell with acronyms.
I do remember certain incidents in the past few years when entire schools or workplace had to be evacuated because someone accidently dropped a small container of mercury on the floor. That called for a mass evacuation of the premises, after which highly trained crews of EMS and HAZ MAT specialists, clad in special protective gear would enter the building and remove the mercury, and clean and sanitize the entire school building.
The kids were sent home for two or three days before the all clear was given. During it all, teams of TV reporters and cameramen lined up frantically outside the schools recording the throngs of grieving parents , there demanding the principals be fired head and a full explanation of how and why this horrible tragedy could have happened.
Turn the clock back sixty years, the dark ages I suppose. 7th grader William Fuller brings a house thermometer to school. He smashes the glass vial holding the mercury and silvery droplets of mercury quiver on the desk top. Willy announces to the boys sitting around him to watch this magical performance he is about to perform. He takes a copper penny and manages to get a drop of mercury on it. Then barehandedly, he rubs the element over the penny until magically the penny turns bright silver. Soon, half the boys in the class are using Willy's mercury to coat their pennies.
The next day, a good percentage of the boys in class have stripped their homes of any mercury thermometers . A three day rampage begins where anything that would accept the mercury would get a treatment, including fingernails and - get this - teeth. Yep it was a sight to behold, a dozen dopey 6th grade boys, their teeth, fingernails and whatever else was handy all standing in a classroom laughing at each other's silver plating.
The bright finish didn't last very long. Silver turned into an ugly black after several minutes. By the time the nun arrived to begin class, we stood there with a mouthful of black . If anything, we looked toothless. Sister Francis screamed to us to get our faces and mouths washed out quickly. We were given a bar of powerful soap to use , fels naphtha, the strongest, foulest product I had ever smelled. It could take the paint off a brush and the rust off a tarnished piece of steel. Sister was sure it would get rid of any traces of the mercury.
No HazMat, No reporters
Willy is dead, so is Ted. Stan too. 62 years later, I am still kicking ....but -- I do have a wart on my index finger where I rubbed the mercury over the penny. Back then who knew that the cure for mercury poisoning was fels naphtha soap. Damn those nuns were smart.
I do remember certain incidents in the past few years when entire schools or workplace had to be evacuated because someone accidently dropped a small container of mercury on the floor. That called for a mass evacuation of the premises, after which highly trained crews of EMS and HAZ MAT specialists, clad in special protective gear would enter the building and remove the mercury, and clean and sanitize the entire school building.
The kids were sent home for two or three days before the all clear was given. During it all, teams of TV reporters and cameramen lined up frantically outside the schools recording the throngs of grieving parents , there demanding the principals be fired head and a full explanation of how and why this horrible tragedy could have happened.
Turn the clock back sixty years, the dark ages I suppose. 7th grader William Fuller brings a house thermometer to school. He smashes the glass vial holding the mercury and silvery droplets of mercury quiver on the desk top. Willy announces to the boys sitting around him to watch this magical performance he is about to perform. He takes a copper penny and manages to get a drop of mercury on it. Then barehandedly, he rubs the element over the penny until magically the penny turns bright silver. Soon, half the boys in the class are using Willy's mercury to coat their pennies.
The next day, a good percentage of the boys in class have stripped their homes of any mercury thermometers . A three day rampage begins where anything that would accept the mercury would get a treatment, including fingernails and - get this - teeth. Yep it was a sight to behold, a dozen dopey 6th grade boys, their teeth, fingernails and whatever else was handy all standing in a classroom laughing at each other's silver plating.
The bright finish didn't last very long. Silver turned into an ugly black after several minutes. By the time the nun arrived to begin class, we stood there with a mouthful of black . If anything, we looked toothless. Sister Francis screamed to us to get our faces and mouths washed out quickly. We were given a bar of powerful soap to use , fels naphtha, the strongest, foulest product I had ever smelled. It could take the paint off a brush and the rust off a tarnished piece of steel. Sister was sure it would get rid of any traces of the mercury.
No HazMat, No reporters
Willy is dead, so is Ted. Stan too. 62 years later, I am still kicking ....but -- I do have a wart on my index finger where I rubbed the mercury over the penny. Back then who knew that the cure for mercury poisoning was fels naphtha soap. Damn those nuns were smart.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Killin 'Chickens
I don't often tell this sadistic tale, but it played a roll during the formative period of my life. My family was deeply involved in the slaughter of thousands of innocent chickens. In fact, they were a very efficient, well oiled killing machine, made up of professionals who struck fear into the heart of every unfortunate chicken they ever encountered. Where my grandma did tread, chickens were dead. She was legend
The art of chicken killing was lead by Busia Kramarczyk, the innocent appearing former nun-candidate. As a young woman, she left a promising career as a nun, to become one of the most formidable and feared chicken killers on Detroit's tough west side. Clyde's Bonnie had nothing on Grandma who was admired within her circle as both an accomplished killer of chickens and as the top chicken plucker and pin feather singing expert in the neighborhood.
For the uninformed, singing means to singe and has no musical implication. It refers to the act of holding a chicken carcass over an open flame to burn off the delicate feathers left after plucking.
When grandma plucked and singed a chicken, that chicken stayed plucked and singed for good. He knew his goose was cooked.
This dark event took place every Friday evening behind the shuttered windows and locked doors of Busia's headquarters, in the back rooms of the family grocery on Waldo. The entire neighborhood went into lockdown mode as the knives were lithely sharpened by the lady's skilled hands.
As the oldest male child in the family, it was expected that I should play a role in the secret doings of the K-Clan. And so it was, one evening shortly after my 10th birthday, I prepared to accept my role.
The macabre scene was set. Grandma K entered the shadowy room with her ritual knife and a sharpening steel in hand. Our clan gathered and soon the first victim was dragged into the room screeching and cackling as it entered. The chicken was bound at the feet with heavy twine. The creature stared with glazed eyes at the figures gathered around him in the killing chamber. We all glared back. There would be no mercy shown- no reprieve - not tonight.
Say your prayers you fowl creature, uttered Busia, prepare to meet your maker, as we all glared back at Chicken Little.
It made not a single squawk. He knew his fate was sealed. He had admitted that he was a bad egg. There was no chickening out on for this bold feathered prisoner. This bird was definitely not a chickenshit punk. Just before the sharp knife slid across his neck, he looked up and saw the ghostly apparition of his nemesis, the colonel himself, all the way from his home in Kentucky where he made the best fried chicken in the land
Busia took hold of the chicken and softly administered the kiss of death on the chicken's cheek before handing him and her sharpened knife to Uncle John. He sat positioned with his legs on either side of a large bucket. With one quick motion of that gleaming razor-sharp ritual knife, John slit the throat of Mr. Little from ear to ear. Then in one swift motion held the chicken's headless neck over the bucket to catch the drippings. Up until then, I never knew chickens had ears ... I still wonder if they have lips.
It was my first taste of blood, literally and figuratively. The chicken's blood spurted from the neck wound and splashed across my face. Czarnina I blurted. No son, my dad said, Czarnina is made from duck blood, not chicken blood. I could see that I had a lot to learn.
Suddenly that zombie chicken, headless but somehow energized, was determined to take revenge by attacking my grandmother. I jumped out from the protection of my father's sheltering body and lurched at the crazed fowl. I almost missed him but somehow managed to grab hold of a leg err.. drumstick, and brought his cold dead body to a dead stop. "Good work boyczyk", said Busia.
The slaughtering commenced. It was apparent that I was the designated chicken catcher. I had passed the initiation. The dead chicken bodies had been tossed into the bathtub after each assassination where they awaited a their final fate. Huge kettles sat on the antique gas range in the kitchen. The water was boiling over. One by one the decapitated bodies were tossed into the pot for a minute or so then pulled out. The plucking frenzy began.
Feathers flew and the smell of wet chicken feathers permeated the room. After the last body had been plucked, the naked bodies awaited their final assault. One final step awaited them. The kettles came off the stove and the flames were left burning. One by one, busia deftly rotated the bodies over the flame and singed off the light layering of soft feathers that remained on the bare chicken flesh.
It gave me goose bumps. The smell of burning feathers was horrendous. Each naked chicken body was gently washed, dried then finally wrapped in butcher paper, then neatly stacked where they would lie in state in the big walk-in cooler in the store.
They began arriving early Saturday morning to claim their bodies. The people had no regard for what had transpired the night before. They were concerned only about the dead chicken bodies that awaited them in the walk in. A line formed as each body was weighed then priced, before handing it over to the crazed customers. On average each brought in less than a dollar and a half. Life is cheap.
When the store closed, I walked over to Busia and quietly asked: "Why do we do this, week after week - slaughtering these innocent creatures. Why? Why? She looked at me, smiled softly and said, "people gotta eat". Made sense to me. l couldn't wait until next week. Go wash up boyczyk and I'll fix you a nice chicken sandwich.
But after a few months of this chikenening experience, I realized that I never really enjoyed eating or killin' chickens. I thought about becoming a vegan but never lost my blood lust. I took to slaughtering beets, which when cut give off a blood red liquid that seems to sooth my need to kill.
The art of chicken killing was lead by Busia Kramarczyk, the innocent appearing former nun-candidate. As a young woman, she left a promising career as a nun, to become one of the most formidable and feared chicken killers on Detroit's tough west side. Clyde's Bonnie had nothing on Grandma who was admired within her circle as both an accomplished killer of chickens and as the top chicken plucker and pin feather singing expert in the neighborhood.
For the uninformed, singing means to singe and has no musical implication. It refers to the act of holding a chicken carcass over an open flame to burn off the delicate feathers left after plucking.
When grandma plucked and singed a chicken, that chicken stayed plucked and singed for good. He knew his goose was cooked.
This dark event took place every Friday evening behind the shuttered windows and locked doors of Busia's headquarters, in the back rooms of the family grocery on Waldo. The entire neighborhood went into lockdown mode as the knives were lithely sharpened by the lady's skilled hands.
As the oldest male child in the family, it was expected that I should play a role in the secret doings of the K-Clan. And so it was, one evening shortly after my 10th birthday, I prepared to accept my role.
The macabre scene was set. Grandma K entered the shadowy room with her ritual knife and a sharpening steel in hand. Our clan gathered and soon the first victim was dragged into the room screeching and cackling as it entered. The chicken was bound at the feet with heavy twine. The creature stared with glazed eyes at the figures gathered around him in the killing chamber. We all glared back. There would be no mercy shown- no reprieve - not tonight.
Say your prayers you fowl creature, uttered Busia, prepare to meet your maker, as we all glared back at Chicken Little.
It made not a single squawk. He knew his fate was sealed. He had admitted that he was a bad egg. There was no chickening out on for this bold feathered prisoner. This bird was definitely not a chickenshit punk. Just before the sharp knife slid across his neck, he looked up and saw the ghostly apparition of his nemesis, the colonel himself, all the way from his home in Kentucky where he made the best fried chicken in the land
Busia took hold of the chicken and softly administered the kiss of death on the chicken's cheek before handing him and her sharpened knife to Uncle John. He sat positioned with his legs on either side of a large bucket. With one quick motion of that gleaming razor-sharp ritual knife, John slit the throat of Mr. Little from ear to ear. Then in one swift motion held the chicken's headless neck over the bucket to catch the drippings. Up until then, I never knew chickens had ears ... I still wonder if they have lips.
It was my first taste of blood, literally and figuratively. The chicken's blood spurted from the neck wound and splashed across my face. Czarnina I blurted. No son, my dad said, Czarnina is made from duck blood, not chicken blood. I could see that I had a lot to learn.
Suddenly that zombie chicken, headless but somehow energized, was determined to take revenge by attacking my grandmother. I jumped out from the protection of my father's sheltering body and lurched at the crazed fowl. I almost missed him but somehow managed to grab hold of a leg err.. drumstick, and brought his cold dead body to a dead stop. "Good work boyczyk", said Busia.
The slaughtering commenced. It was apparent that I was the designated chicken catcher. I had passed the initiation. The dead chicken bodies had been tossed into the bathtub after each assassination where they awaited a their final fate. Huge kettles sat on the antique gas range in the kitchen. The water was boiling over. One by one the decapitated bodies were tossed into the pot for a minute or so then pulled out. The plucking frenzy began.
Feathers flew and the smell of wet chicken feathers permeated the room. After the last body had been plucked, the naked bodies awaited their final assault. One final step awaited them. The kettles came off the stove and the flames were left burning. One by one, busia deftly rotated the bodies over the flame and singed off the light layering of soft feathers that remained on the bare chicken flesh.
It gave me goose bumps. The smell of burning feathers was horrendous. Each naked chicken body was gently washed, dried then finally wrapped in butcher paper, then neatly stacked where they would lie in state in the big walk-in cooler in the store.
They began arriving early Saturday morning to claim their bodies. The people had no regard for what had transpired the night before. They were concerned only about the dead chicken bodies that awaited them in the walk in. A line formed as each body was weighed then priced, before handing it over to the crazed customers. On average each brought in less than a dollar and a half. Life is cheap.
When the store closed, I walked over to Busia and quietly asked: "Why do we do this, week after week - slaughtering these innocent creatures. Why? Why? She looked at me, smiled softly and said, "people gotta eat". Made sense to me. l couldn't wait until next week. Go wash up boyczyk and I'll fix you a nice chicken sandwich.
But after a few months of this chikenening experience, I realized that I never really enjoyed eating or killin' chickens. I thought about becoming a vegan but never lost my blood lust. I took to slaughtering beets, which when cut give off a blood red liquid that seems to sooth my need to kill.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
The Tragedy Of Being Ernest
Oscar Wilde's play title 'The Importance of Being Earnest" always stuck in my head. It had nothing to do with his play, it was the title that got me going. It must have inspired my parents, my mother I'm sure, to hang that name on me. At least she took the a out of Earnest when the time came to have me baptized.
I hated, absolutely hated that stupid name -- and still do. What a dirty trick to play on a Polish kid from the west side of Detroit. My friends had names I would have killed for ... John, Mike, Ted, Chet, Jim, Tom, Pat etc. Somehow, Ernest was the wrong name in the wrong place and in the wrong time to work for me, especially when coupled with a ten letter long Polish last name that no one outside our west side ethnic ghetto could pronounce properly .
Hell, my brothers good solid names like Robert (Bob, Kenneth and Richard (Rick) names that were solid, relaxed, all American names --not at all like ERNEST. My folks meant well I suppose. They hoped to give me a one or two generation jump on other Polish kids by giving me a name they thought was a completely anglicized name. Instead they gave me a name I resented. It sounded so out of place and so sissified. It was hard to handle, especially when you added the caboose of a last name my family passed on to me. Ernest stunted my development and affected my personality/ It took over 65 years for me to accept it.
But some good came out of my experience with naming people and kids especially. My kids can be thankful that I learned a lesson and gave them names they could live with: Steve, Mike and Kathy.
So Mr Wilde, Ed and Zipper, thanks for nothing. Being Earnest was absolutely not important to me.
I hated, absolutely hated that stupid name -- and still do. What a dirty trick to play on a Polish kid from the west side of Detroit. My friends had names I would have killed for ... John, Mike, Ted, Chet, Jim, Tom, Pat etc. Somehow, Ernest was the wrong name in the wrong place and in the wrong time to work for me, especially when coupled with a ten letter long Polish last name that no one outside our west side ethnic ghetto could pronounce properly .
Hell, my brothers good solid names like Robert (Bob, Kenneth and Richard (Rick) names that were solid, relaxed, all American names --not at all like ERNEST. My folks meant well I suppose. They hoped to give me a one or two generation jump on other Polish kids by giving me a name they thought was a completely anglicized name. Instead they gave me a name I resented. It sounded so out of place and so sissified. It was hard to handle, especially when you added the caboose of a last name my family passed on to me. Ernest stunted my development and affected my personality/ It took over 65 years for me to accept it.
But some good came out of my experience with naming people and kids especially. My kids can be thankful that I learned a lesson and gave them names they could live with: Steve, Mike and Kathy.
So Mr Wilde, Ed and Zipper, thanks for nothing. Being Earnest was absolutely not important to me.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Balls said the Queen
When I was a kid, my dream was to catch a a baseball at a Tiger game. It started at old Briggs Stadium on Trumbull and Michigan Avenue sometime around 1946 or '47 when I saw my first game there with my dad. It didn't matter whether it was a foul ball or a long home run hit anywhere in the park. Admittedly, a home run would have been much more exciting. I thought I might improve my chances if I brought my glove, so I often did when I went to old Tiger stadium back in the 50s.
Catching an official big league baseball was every kid's dream. It never happened to me. Even when I tired of bringing my mitt in the 60s and through the 70s after I hit my 30s. I held out hope that a miracle would happen and a ball would land at my feet. I guess I did have a few close calls after that, but they never came to be. That was and still is one of the biggest disappointments in my life. A close second in the disappointment category was to never come home with a puck that my face had stopped at old Olympias Stadium.
I almost forgot this: One sunny afternoon when I had about given up hope, while seated in my handicap scooter in foul territory on the third base side of the field something very strange happened. My back was to the playing field. The crowd yelled out the traditional foul ball warning cry in my general direction. Heads Up, Heads up. I covered my head with my left hand, raised my right arm instinctively, then guess what? the ball landed in my backhand position, without me even taking a peek at it's trajectory. This may have been the best catch of my career. The crowd roared and my catch would have made the featured catch of the day prize on National TV. The only problem was that the catch happened at one of Erik's practice games at a field in Walled Lake. The worst part of the incident was that I couldn't even keep the baseball.
There was actually an incident in Florida that took place after Georgie and I had left a Spring training game ... Tampa vs somebody. Anyhow, we left in the bottom of the 8th. As we were walking to our car, someone fouled a ball over the back side of the stadium and we were able to retrieve it.
One day while at Mike and Angie's house, I stopped by Jack and Benny's room. They had a dozen or so major league balls laying all about the room. Balls given to them while they sat in the prime seats Michael was able to get gratis from a friend. The boys had become so accustomed to primo seats, they didn't love sitting in the seats commoners sat in.
Like people say, old folks live through the accomplishments of our kids and grandkids. They have assembled many balls that would easily make them better equipped than a queen, at least in the ball department. I am happy and like the queen, jealous of them and their balls.
Furthermore this generation of ball players never learned to tape a ball with white adhesive tape when the cover wore out, nor did they ever learn to repair a baseball bat that had been split by utilizing little nails and tape to hold the bat parts together.( it really didn't work too well).
I'm jealous.
Catching an official big league baseball was every kid's dream. It never happened to me. Even when I tired of bringing my mitt in the 60s and through the 70s after I hit my 30s. I held out hope that a miracle would happen and a ball would land at my feet. I guess I did have a few close calls after that, but they never came to be. That was and still is one of the biggest disappointments in my life. A close second in the disappointment category was to never come home with a puck that my face had stopped at old Olympias Stadium.
I almost forgot this: One sunny afternoon when I had about given up hope, while seated in my handicap scooter in foul territory on the third base side of the field something very strange happened. My back was to the playing field. The crowd yelled out the traditional foul ball warning cry in my general direction. Heads Up, Heads up. I covered my head with my left hand, raised my right arm instinctively, then guess what? the ball landed in my backhand position, without me even taking a peek at it's trajectory. This may have been the best catch of my career. The crowd roared and my catch would have made the featured catch of the day prize on National TV. The only problem was that the catch happened at one of Erik's practice games at a field in Walled Lake. The worst part of the incident was that I couldn't even keep the baseball.
There was actually an incident in Florida that took place after Georgie and I had left a Spring training game ... Tampa vs somebody. Anyhow, we left in the bottom of the 8th. As we were walking to our car, someone fouled a ball over the back side of the stadium and we were able to retrieve it.
One day while at Mike and Angie's house, I stopped by Jack and Benny's room. They had a dozen or so major league balls laying all about the room. Balls given to them while they sat in the prime seats Michael was able to get gratis from a friend. The boys had become so accustomed to primo seats, they didn't love sitting in the seats commoners sat in.
Like people say, old folks live through the accomplishments of our kids and grandkids. They have assembled many balls that would easily make them better equipped than a queen, at least in the ball department. I am happy and like the queen, jealous of them and their balls.
Furthermore this generation of ball players never learned to tape a ball with white adhesive tape when the cover wore out, nor did they ever learn to repair a baseball bat that had been split by utilizing little nails and tape to hold the bat parts together.( it really didn't work too well).
I'm jealous.
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