Out In The 1960s Night-The Old Man's See
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
The young man, a mere boy actually at fourteen, Daniel Patrick Riley III (Daniel III)to give him a name, sat at the kitchen window and watched the old man dragging himself haltingly across the old ball field to his favored spot in in the front window of Harry's Variety situated just across the street from the field. The old man, see, Daniel Patrick Riley, Senior (Daniel, Senior, Riley, Junior, for the interested, although he plays no part in this story, was busy making do at his work location up in Adamsville Center working as a welder at the shipyard) had suffered a debilitating stroke a couple of years before and so the lame walk (and hanging useless arm), the seemingly taking forever walk across the ball field from his house, the very house that Daniel III was sitting in at the kitchen table watching him struggle at his almost daily task. Daniel, Senior hated, absolutely hated to stay in the house any more than he had to, else he would have to put up with Grandmother Riley's constant chatter. He much preferred the company of men, even if only the young corner boys who peopled the walls in front and to the side of Harry's Variety. In any case Daniel, Senior was given every deference by one and all at that locale, even by king hell king corner boy leader Red Riley (Daniel, Senior's grand- nephew) a man not known to defer to anyone, not for long anyway (Daniel III had seen him waylay a guy with a whipsaw chain, a tough looking guy, just because he was a corner boy from the wrong corner, Jesus).
Daniel III as he watch his grandfather make those final stumbling steps on the curb at Sagamore Street wondered to himself the stories the old man had to tell, tell about old North Adamsville, about the field he had just crossed (called Welcome Young Field, no, not because it welcomed the young, although it did that, did that pretty well he thought, but because some long ago guy gave the town the land to build the park and the town, as towns did in those days, named the place after him and that was his name). He wondered, for instance, how the old man felt, all Irish proud, all rumor had it old IRA proud too although the details of that connection were very sketchy, very touchy in fact, about one of their own, Jack Kennedy, making it all the way to the White House just a few months back. The old man had married old, had his children old, and thus he was remote from them and more remote from his grandchildren so questions to him, or about him, were filtered through Grandmother Riley, or not answered.
Daniel, Senior had been born in that very house that he had just come from and which Daniel III had been sitting at watching him do his daily exertions. Thus, Daniel III was sure that the old man had plenty he could tell about what was what, and who was who in the neighborhood. See Daniel III was, and was not ashamed to admit it, something of a know-it-all or wanted to be a know- it- all and so it bothered him that Daniel, Senior was not accessible. He had his own very short list of experiences and remembrances about the area, and stuff that he had learned about from others (including Ma and Grandma) but he wanted to know what it was like when the Irish first started pushing out of the cold- water flats over in Dorchester and South Boston and moving into the small single homes that dotted the neighborhood or into the cold- water flats that also dotted the area as well.
But mainly this day Daniel III was concentrated, as was his wont, when he came over from his own home in South Adamsville with his two brothers to stay with his grandparents at the beginning of summer vacation, on the "history" of that old ball field. He knew that in a few days that something called the North Adamsville Sons of Hibernia, which rumor had it his grandfather had helped start back in the late 1930s, was organizing the annual Fourth of July celebration where they kicked out the jams (sorry, his schoolboy expression of the moment). That was where he and his brothers has traditionally loaded up, loaded up like crazy on the twice daily hand-out of soda and ice cream (and stashed a ton of it in grandpa's old ice box and kept going back for more, whoa!). It was also where he had won his first road race ( a snappy victory against older boys) and had , ah, kissed his first serious kiss (not first kiss, okay, just first serious kiss) the previous year when he was smitten by Mary Shea, who lived across from his grandparents, at the nighttime dance held in the converted tennis courts.
What he really wanted to know though was the whole story behind the creation of the ball field and the whole park. He already knew the Welcome Young part, or at least the official welcome young part but he wanted more. He had heard that the real reason for the ball park was that the three gin mills that lined Sagamore Street just up from Harry’s Variety (okay, okay he had watched too many film noir things of late), the Dublin Grille, The Irish Pub, and Matty’s had gotten together along with their patrons including his own father and his two uncles (Henry and Kevin) and petitioned the town to create a ball park so that the patrons, all male, all young family men or budding family men could have an excuse to be out a few nights a week in the spring and summer playing the national pastime with their fellows. Then stop in; conveniently stop into one of the gin mills to have a beer, or seven, before heading home to the wife and kiddies at about midnight or so. Here was the funny part though, his grandfather was the guy who was pushing for the construction and he didn’t drink liquor, hated it and was a lifelong tee-totaler.And would not allow liquor in the house so grandmother, when she wanted to entertain her sisters who all liked to drink as she did, had to go uptown to a place where “ladies were invited,” a place like the Red Feather and do their drinking there.
He had also heard that the reason that his grandfather pressed the issue was that he wanted his sons, if they had to drink that cursed liquor, to be near home when they fell on their faces. (The uncles lived at home and Daniel III and his family had lived a couple of blocks away up on Newbury Street then.)
Just like he wanted to know, know about how he got the whole damn neighborhood, even the non-Irish to vote overwhelming for Jack Kennedy from his stoop over at Harry’s. And about how Harry was “connected,” seriously connected, and never had to worry about a bust when he ran his “book” right out in the open (Daniel III had even seen the fabled book, filled with byzantine writing, lying right on the counter one time). Yah, Daniel III wanted to know all that stuff, and his grandfather‘s role in it.
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
The young man, a mere boy actually at fourteen, Daniel Patrick Riley III (Daniel III)to give him a name, sat at the kitchen window and watched the old man dragging himself haltingly across the old ball field to his favored spot in in the front window of Harry's Variety situated just across the street from the field. The old man, see, Daniel Patrick Riley, Senior (Daniel, Senior, Riley, Junior, for the interested, although he plays no part in this story, was busy making do at his work location up in Adamsville Center working as a welder at the shipyard) had suffered a debilitating stroke a couple of years before and so the lame walk (and hanging useless arm), the seemingly taking forever walk across the ball field from his house, the very house that Daniel III was sitting in at the kitchen table watching him struggle at his almost daily task. Daniel, Senior hated, absolutely hated to stay in the house any more than he had to, else he would have to put up with Grandmother Riley's constant chatter. He much preferred the company of men, even if only the young corner boys who peopled the walls in front and to the side of Harry's Variety. In any case Daniel, Senior was given every deference by one and all at that locale, even by king hell king corner boy leader Red Riley (Daniel, Senior's grand- nephew) a man not known to defer to anyone, not for long anyway (Daniel III had seen him waylay a guy with a whipsaw chain, a tough looking guy, just because he was a corner boy from the wrong corner, Jesus).
Daniel III as he watch his grandfather make those final stumbling steps on the curb at Sagamore Street wondered to himself the stories the old man had to tell, tell about old North Adamsville, about the field he had just crossed (called Welcome Young Field, no, not because it welcomed the young, although it did that, did that pretty well he thought, but because some long ago guy gave the town the land to build the park and the town, as towns did in those days, named the place after him and that was his name). He wondered, for instance, how the old man felt, all Irish proud, all rumor had it old IRA proud too although the details of that connection were very sketchy, very touchy in fact, about one of their own, Jack Kennedy, making it all the way to the White House just a few months back. The old man had married old, had his children old, and thus he was remote from them and more remote from his grandchildren so questions to him, or about him, were filtered through Grandmother Riley, or not answered.
Daniel, Senior had been born in that very house that he had just come from and which Daniel III had been sitting at watching him do his daily exertions. Thus, Daniel III was sure that the old man had plenty he could tell about what was what, and who was who in the neighborhood. See Daniel III was, and was not ashamed to admit it, something of a know-it-all or wanted to be a know- it- all and so it bothered him that Daniel, Senior was not accessible. He had his own very short list of experiences and remembrances about the area, and stuff that he had learned about from others (including Ma and Grandma) but he wanted to know what it was like when the Irish first started pushing out of the cold- water flats over in Dorchester and South Boston and moving into the small single homes that dotted the neighborhood or into the cold- water flats that also dotted the area as well.
But mainly this day Daniel III was concentrated, as was his wont, when he came over from his own home in South Adamsville with his two brothers to stay with his grandparents at the beginning of summer vacation, on the "history" of that old ball field. He knew that in a few days that something called the North Adamsville Sons of Hibernia, which rumor had it his grandfather had helped start back in the late 1930s, was organizing the annual Fourth of July celebration where they kicked out the jams (sorry, his schoolboy expression of the moment). That was where he and his brothers has traditionally loaded up, loaded up like crazy on the twice daily hand-out of soda and ice cream (and stashed a ton of it in grandpa's old ice box and kept going back for more, whoa!). It was also where he had won his first road race ( a snappy victory against older boys) and had , ah, kissed his first serious kiss (not first kiss, okay, just first serious kiss) the previous year when he was smitten by Mary Shea, who lived across from his grandparents, at the nighttime dance held in the converted tennis courts.
What he really wanted to know though was the whole story behind the creation of the ball field and the whole park. He already knew the Welcome Young part, or at least the official welcome young part but he wanted more. He had heard that the real reason for the ball park was that the three gin mills that lined Sagamore Street just up from Harry’s Variety (okay, okay he had watched too many film noir things of late), the Dublin Grille, The Irish Pub, and Matty’s had gotten together along with their patrons including his own father and his two uncles (Henry and Kevin) and petitioned the town to create a ball park so that the patrons, all male, all young family men or budding family men could have an excuse to be out a few nights a week in the spring and summer playing the national pastime with their fellows. Then stop in; conveniently stop into one of the gin mills to have a beer, or seven, before heading home to the wife and kiddies at about midnight or so. Here was the funny part though, his grandfather was the guy who was pushing for the construction and he didn’t drink liquor, hated it and was a lifelong tee-totaler.And would not allow liquor in the house so grandmother, when she wanted to entertain her sisters who all liked to drink as she did, had to go uptown to a place where “ladies were invited,” a place like the Red Feather and do their drinking there.
He had also heard that the reason that his grandfather pressed the issue was that he wanted his sons, if they had to drink that cursed liquor, to be near home when they fell on their faces. (The uncles lived at home and Daniel III and his family had lived a couple of blocks away up on Newbury Street then.)
Just like he wanted to know, know about how he got the whole damn neighborhood, even the non-Irish to vote overwhelming for Jack Kennedy from his stoop over at Harry’s. And about how Harry was “connected,” seriously connected, and never had to worry about a bust when he ran his “book” right out in the open (Daniel III had even seen the fabled book, filled with byzantine writing, lying right on the counter one time). Yah, Daniel III wanted to know all that stuff, and his grandfather‘s role in it.
Fast forward 2011-A old man, watched or unwatched he was not sure, and the watching part did not matter, did not matter like it did with that other old man a half century before had been watched, sat, memory sat, on an aluminum bleacher at the corner of Welcome Young Field on the Fourth Of July and wondered, wondered out loud, when the North Adamsville Sons of Hibernia stopped organizing the annual festivities. (Probably from the multi-hued of colors of those passing by him, black, Latinos, Asian, and white, Irish white he could tell, when the neighborhood “changed” or those old-timers died off or got cranky.) Wanted to know when the three gin mills (still film noir enthralled) closed up shop. (Probably the same as above.) Wanted to know about what ever happened to old “connected” Harry. Wanted to know why the park seemed smaller to his adult eye (and was actually smaller since a chuck of it had been chopped off when they expanded the Red Line subway to North Adamsville.) But he mainly wanted to know all that stuff that his grandfather never told him, and with another more dastardly stroke a couple of years after that last one never could. Yes, as he stood up and started to drag his own lame arthritic leg and ankle, remarkably like his own grandfather’s halting gait, back across the field in front of his grandparents’ house (long since sold off to strangers) he still really did want to know all that stuff, and his grandfather’s role in it.
No comments:
Post a Comment