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The world was at
war in the 1940’s. Most of Stamford’s strong, vibrant young men were
either fighting overseas. Or in training to go there. Or working important
jobs in vital war industries.
I was about 11
years old and had a job, delivering newspapers for my father’s candy store.
It was late
December and, while everyone was worrying about our boys serving in Europe
and the Pacific, we civilians were anticipating the Christmas/Hanukkah
gift-giving holidays.
No one was more
patriotic than blue collar families in Stamford, CT. We sadly sent our sons
off to war. We accepted sugar, gasoline and meat rationing. We saved fat,
tin cans and tin foil. And we turned out in great numbers for War Bond
drives. Our ladies rolled bandages and our men became air raid wardens,
aircraft spotters and auxiliary policemen.
Defense plants paid
our men and women workers top wages. Local businesses got by with limited
inventory, shortages and priorities.
Whenever a request
for merchandise couldn’t be filled, the wise-guy answer was: there’s a war
on, moron.
My newspaper
delivery route started after public school and before Hebrew school. I’d
come home to our apartment over the candy store, demolish milk and cookies
and put my newspapers in order.
Everyone ordered
The Advocate, our local daily. Others ordered New York City afternoon
newspapers.
My route began
directly across the street from our store, at Mrs. McDonald’s apartment.
She was a tiny lady with a big brogue and an even bigger heart.
She invited me
inside, reached into a tiny change purse and handed me a fifty-cent piece.
“I really wanted to wrap it with fine holiday ribbons,” she said with a
smile. It was good to see her smile since Tommy, her only son was sweating
out his draft board deferment.
(Mrs. McDonald used
to be my second stop until rich ol’ Mr. Hoyt, the banker, fell out of his
tree, getting some cuttings for his girlfriend.
His maiden sister
cancelled the delivery service, saying it wasn’t worth a nickel a week not
to cross the street to buy her newspaper.)
Mr. Convery, the
undertaker, came after Mrs. McDonald. He left me a dollar in an envelope
with my name written on it. (Dad felt queasy about Mr. Convery. “Tommy
looks at you like he’s measuring you for a coffin,” he said.)
Mrs. Thompson was
my daily challenge. She kept about 10 cats and only one litter box. I held
my breath as I left her paper on her porch, I turned left at the corner to
the Moore’s home. Dad called them “Grace and Tom”. I was taught that,
until I got older, I should respectfully call them “Mr. and Mrs. Moore.”
Tom was a Spanish-American War Veteran who read Hearst’s Journal-American.
He gave me two dollars and a handshake. Grace kissed me and wished me a
“Merry Jewish Christmas”.
Next was Mrs.
Murphy, an aged lady who never spoke to me. She lived with her
granddaughter, Jeanne, who used to be my babysitter. The balding old lady
always sat in her kitchen, behind an open bottle of Jamison’s Irish
Whiskey.
The Singletaries
came next. They were another two newspaper family. She loved The
Advocate because it printed news about her friends. He liked The
N.Y. Sun’s columnists.
I returned to West
Broad Street and walked into the office of Ray’s
Mobil service
station.
I appreciated their
air conditioning in the summer and the warmth in the winter. The
mechanics and pump jockeys liked me and kidded me. They collected five
dollars as my Christmas gift.
After Ray’s, I
walked the longest stretch on my route, about a quarter mile to Miss Jo
Hanrahan, who lived with her politician brother in a pleasant white house
with black shutters. John left my gift with my Dad in the store. (I’m sure
he sought a favor from dad.)
As a schoolboy, the
most cash I ever carried was milk money.
Now I was loaded at
gift-giving time. So after I delivered my last paper, I “skipped” Hebrew
School and headed straight into our town’s main shopping area, beautifully
decorated in holly and ivy—plus some slushy residue.
My first stop was
The Squire Shop where I bought my dad a hideous Gold-tone tie clip
with a three-engine airplane design. When I gave it to him, I said, “I hope
you take your first airplane ride soon.”
I walked on to a
cut-rate drug store who wrapped gifts beautifully. I told the lady that I
wanted something very special for my best girl. She brought out a bottle of
Evening In Paris toilet water and said, with a sly grin, “your Mom should
love this. And, if not, she can return it.” (She did.)
Fast forward some
55 years. It’s Florida and we flew down for Dad’s jumbo 90th
birthday party. As we reminisced, I told stories about my happy boyhood,
including the tie clip incident.
“Excuse me,” dad
said as he walked into his bedroom and returned with a small, old gift box.
“Remember this?” he asked.
I looked at the tie
clip. “It’s as ugly as ever.”
“Sure it’s still
ugly,” Dad admitted. “But it has such beautiful memories and I wouldn’t
trade it for the world.”
Ron Gold
139 East Northfield Road
Livingston, NJ 07039
(973) 994-1941
outthinkreumes@aol.com |
