A Kid in the Great Depression
by Lou Tyrrell
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Published by
LHDJ Content, Inc.
300 East 34th Street, Ste. 27D
New York, NY 10016
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Copyright 2011 by Lou Tyrrell
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Smashwords Edition
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This book is dedicated to my
sister Gen, and her son, Barry.
Genevieve Fialk, who took care of me through
the hard times and let me share her bedroom.
Gen, now 91 years young lives a happy life
at Daughter’s of Israel Nursing Home,
West Orange, New Jersey under the watchful
eye of my favorite nephew Barry Fialk.
God bless them both.
Chapter 1
I was born, so said Mr. Dickens in his “David Copperfield.” The problem was I was born too late. Twenty-seven minutes too late to arrive on New Years day. It was day two of 1925. I don’t remember a thing. 1926 is also pretty hazy but things began to clear by Christmas of 1927. I had a Christmas stocking hanging on the mantle over the fireplace. My big sister, Gen, gave me a little chocolate Santa Claus sticking out of my stocking. I stood in front of the fire sucking on it. My hand was chocolate, my chin was chocolate and my bright white shirt was growing brown spots all down the front.
My Dad laughed, picked me up and carried me to the big Christmas tree that filled the corner of the room. “Let’s see what Santa Claus has brought you, Bruz.” He said sliding a huge green and red package out on the carpet. “This is yours. Come on, open it.” My mother and sister crowded around as I tore the pretty paper open. I saw silver handlebars. “OOOH,” I said.
“Hurry up, Bruz, I can’t wait.” My father urged. I kept tearing. A shiny red tricycle appeared, sparkling amongst the pile of shredded wrapping paper. “Bikey, Bikey!” I screamed, jumping on the black seat, pedaling off into the dining room. My mother, father and big sister smiling down on me, proud of what their little Bruzzilah could do.
I have a big brother named Jay. He isn’t there in my memory picture. He’s nearly fourteen years older than me. He’s almost a man. He was probably playing baseball in the park. He played ball anytime he could get a game. My mother named me Louis, after her father. Jay hated the name. “Let’s call him ‘Brother,’” he said, “Anything’s better than Louis. Hey, kid, let me hear you say Brother.”
I looked up at my brother Jay who was half a head taller than my father. “Bruzzy.” I said. And from that moment on I was Bruzzy. Kindergarten, I was Bruzzy, Grammar School I was Bruzzy, Bruzzy in Junior High,
Not until my second year in high school, when we moved to New York, did I become Lou.
I rode my Christmas present up and down the sidewalk outside our house on Pacific Avenue in Glendale. California, in 1927, was wide-open spaces. A wonderland populated by few people with very good weather. The rains came in February; the humidity was usually very low. In 1927 there were fewer people in the whole state than now live in Los Angeles County. There was no place better for a little boy to grow up.
My mom held my hand on the front porch as we waved goodbye to my dad who was off to work. He waved back from the open cabin in his old Ford truck. “Why don’t you ride Bikey while I straighten up, Bruz. The garage door is open.” I nodded and ran up the driveway.
I pulled the bike through the open door of the garage, sat on the seat, held my legs straight out and coasted down the driveway. I took a deep breath when the inside wheel lifted off the ground as I turned onto the sidewalk. I zoomed over the bump where a big tree root had cracked the walk, sailed past Tarpley’s Newspaper and Candy Store, looped around at the corner and flew into the return trip. I could do this for hours, my little legs pushing the pedals round and round as the multi colored houses sailed by. Ladies watched me from their porches, the mailman dodged past laughing while Mr. Tarpley stood on the stairs in front of his store waving each time I passed by.
I was speeding right along when Mr. Tarpley yelled, “Hey, Bruz pull over for minute.” I put my shoes on the sidewalk and slid to a stop right in front of the store. It wasn’t a real store. There weren’t any stores on Pacific Avenue. It was the basement of his house. They had dug away the ground, put a window and door in the basement wall and the store was born. “Don’t you need a rest, Bruz, you’ve been at that for more than an hour. I could offer you a cold drink or maybe some candy.”
“Candy, candy, prease.” I said jumping off the trike, doing the steps sideways so my little legs reached, following Mr.Tarpley into his store.
He took down a big glass container filled with balls of candy. Red balls. Green balls. Yellow, purple, all the colors of the rainbow. “They’re brand new, Bruz, they call them Jawbreakers, you can’t chew them, you have to suck them, interested?” I shook my head yes. “Can I have a yellow one?” He held out the candy, “Take what you like. Don’t chew. Suck.”
“Uh huh.” I took a yellow one and put it in my mouth. It didn’t fit. It was too big. I opened my mouth as far as I could, wiggled it around and slid it in between my teeth. My mouth was full, fuller than I had ever felt. I couldn’t spit it out! Terrified, I ran for my mother leaving bikey alone in front of the store. I ran up the street trying to yell Mommy but nothing came out.
My mother was sitting on the front porch crocheting, the long bedspread covering her lap. She saw me coming and put her work aside. I ran across the lawn and she came down the stairs. I pointed to my mouth and garbled something she didn’t understand. She grabbed me by my shoulders and sat me on the top step. “Relax, Bruzzilah, there’s nothing wrong with you, just relax, suck on your candy.” She spoke so softly and so confidently I could feel the terror melting away. She rubbed my neck, “just relax, sweetheart, suck your candy.” “No like candy.” I muttered.
“I gave him a jawbreaker, it’s too big for his mouth, Sorry, Mrs. Tyrrell. Here’s his bike,” Tarpley called from the edge of the lawn.
“Fine, Mr. Tarpley, he’ll be just fine in a moment. Are you sucking, Boobalah?” I nodded. I could feel the candy getting smaller. My Mom wasn’t scared at all so I just kept sucking. Suddenly I spit it out and it bounced onto the lawn. “I don’t like lemon, Mommy, it was a pretty yellow ball, but it was lemon, Mommy, and I couldn’t pit it out.”
“Well it’s out now, right there on the lawn. Next time you look at candy take a purple one. That’s grape and you love grape.” You go down and beg Mr. Tarpleys pardon, you scared him; after he was nice enough to give you candy.
Then, come home and we’ll have a nice lunch.” She bent over, kissed me, mussed my hair, climbed the stairs and started to push her work into a bag. I walked to Tarpley’s thinking I had a wonderful mother; there wasn’t another mother like her in the whole world.
Chapter 2
My father was born in a small town called Monroe in Pennsylvania on April Ninth, 1880. He graduated from high school when he was eighteen. His family were show people who traveled with light opera companies. For some unknown reason he joined the circus as a maintenance man. They called them roustabouts. They schlepped the ropes, drove stakes into the ground, dug holes for poles, dragged canvas and put up the tents. My dad was special, very handy with tools and kept all the circus equipment running.
Blood being thicker than water, he couldn’t ignore his show biz background, learned the art of slack wire walking and did his act at every show, after putting up the tent and fixing the door on the tiger’s cage, of course. He was 22 when the circus landed in Jersey City for a two week run. He remembered his Uncle Dave lived there. He got a bus to Journal Square where Dave lived in a fancy apartment house. He walked up three flights and knocked on the door. It opened. “What the hell are you doing in the circus? That’s the bottom rung of show business, Kid, even vaudeville is better, Your father can’t stand the Tyrrell name in such a low class business, now come on in, sit down and Belle will make some coffee.” He stepped back, smiling as his nephew shuffled into the room. Before the visit was over twenty-two year old Bill Tyrrell joined his Uncle Dave’s roofing business. He gave two weeks notice to the circus and bid a fond farewell to his slack wire career.
“Take me with you, Bill, I’m sick of this job. Maybe if I hang around here in the roofing business I can get back in my dad’s good graces.” The guys were sitting around a fire chewing the rag after the last show. Tommy Manville had run away from home and joined the circus. He and Bill had been friends for nearly a year. “What the hell, if I can learn the business why can’t you. Let me work it out with my uncle.” In less than a month Manville and Tyrrell lived in a one-bedroom walkup and went to work each day with the Dave Tyrrell Roofers. Within five years Bill and Tommy were experts, each with his own crew, while poor Uncle Dave was bed-ridden with some strange rare illness.
“You want to do the Linden job or the one in Ridgefield Park?” Bill asked Tommy sitting at the kitchen table in their fancy three-bedroom apartment, one floor down from Uncle Dave. “Let’s toss for it, Bill, Ridgefield Park is closer to home.”
“Call!” My father said, as he flipped a quarter into the air, slapping his hand over it as it hit the table.”
“Heads!” Tommy called. Bill lifted his hand, “Tails, you lose!”
“I always lose.” Tommy complained.
“Ridgefield Park is a nice town,” my father thought as his men unloaded a ladder and laid it against the front corner of the roof. It was a big house, he thought, wealthy people must live here. It was painted dark blue with white shutters at the windows; it had a wide lawn with squares of slate making a path to the big front porch. Two white rocking chairs moved in the warm breeze as the screen door flew open and a golden Springer Spaniel came bounding down the steps, sniffing around Bill’s shoes.
“Wait, Beauty, wait for me!’ a voice called out as the door swung open revealing a lovely young lady in a gold sweater and skirt, her red hair piled on top of her head. She was wearing white tennis shoes. Bill was struck by lightning. “Hey Bill!” His crew chanted, “The ladder is ready, the job is waiting!” “Son-of-a-bitch,” Bill thought as he dragged himself away to go to work. The lovely young thing hooked a leash to Beauty’s collar and strolled off up the road.
Bill climbed the ladder, joined his men to figure out the problems of the job. He checked the angles of the roof, the chimneys at each end then returned to the ground just as the lovely thing returned. “Good morning, Miss,” My father stuttered, “Could you tell your father the roofers are here?”
“Sure, he’s in the kitchen. It’s in the back of the house. He wouldn’t know you were here.” She took her dog and went in. Bill Tyrrell’s mouth watered as he watched her walk away.
An instant later she led a tall red haired man down the front steps. They approached Bill and he stuck out his hand.
“Lockman. Louis Lockman. You the boss?”
“Yes sir, Bill Tyrrell’s the name.” He shook the customer’s hand. “We’d like to start right away, if that’s okay with you.”
“You see any problems?”
“No, sir. Simple, straight forward.” Bill smiled. The lovely young thing stared at him.
“Well, any problems, just tell Dottie here, she’ll find me. Oh excuse me, Mr. Tyrrell this is my daughter, Dorothy Lockman.”
Bill and Dorothy were married two years later.
“Hey Bruz, I’ve got to go check on a job up in the hills, you want to come along?” I was watching the chickens scratching for their breakfast but there was no way I’d miss the chance to ride in the truck with my father. “Sure Dad!” I yelled running over to grab his big hand. The old Ford didn’t have a self-starter. It had a crank. You stuck it in the hole at the base of the radiator and spun it to start the engine. My Dad put me in charge of the choke. This was not an easy job. It demanded good eye-hand coordination. My dad spun the crank, the engine coughed, “Now!” He yelled. “Choke it!” I pulled the lever on the steering column and the engine coughed; caught and rumbled into life. “Good work, Son. You can choke for me anytime,” he laughed, shoving the crank into its place under the seat, climbing up behind the wheel. I sat straight up, proud of my father’s compliment. He drove out of the driveway turned right and headed for the hills.
We drove up pretty streets, past Hoover High where my brother was a junior and into the rich neighborhood of Glendale. Beautiful homes, one right after the other, no poor people here. Times were good and houses were popping up everywhere. People loved California. They would come for a visit and never go home. The more people the better the future of the roofing business.
It was a long low ranch style house that angled up into a second floor and went deep into the property. A big house built for big shots. The exterior was complete, they were working on the interior and dad was going to put on a red tile roof. Hundred pound barrels of tar were lined up behind a machine that melted the tar and kept it at the proper temperature for application. Stack after stack of red Spanish tile hid behind a wall of tarpaper rolls guarding the easily breakable tiles. “Stand over there by the tiles, Bruz, I’ve got to go up on the roof and see how we’re doing.” My dad lifted me down to the ground and we walked up the rise. I stopped by the tiles and he walked over to a keg of tar. He grabbed each end of the keg, swung it up on his shoulder and walked over to the front porch.
He put the keg on the ground, stepped up on the barrel, took hold of the roof with his right hand and pulled himself up. He put his left hand on the roof and pushed himself erect. I was mesmerized. My dad was a giant. He didn’t need a ladder, just a keg of tar.
A big man came to the kegs of tar. He picked up an axe, rolled a keg free, set his feet and cut the keg in half, cut the halves in quarters and kicked the wood splinters into the fire. He put four pieces of tar on a metal shelf that dropped the tar into a big pot that bubbled big black bubbles making a blub, blub noise. I saw my dad walking down the roof of the front porch, he kneeled down, grabbed the edge, hung himself off the roof and dropped to the ground. “My dad can fly,” I thought, “My dad can do anything.” A tinkling bell filled the neighborhood. The Good Humor man was coming along. “Hey, Bruz, come on, let’s get some ice cream!” I ran over and grabbed his big hand looking at him in awe.
We sat in the truck. One of his roofers was handling the crank and my father stole my choke job. We took a bite of our Good Humors while the engine turned over. We were half way home when my father threw his ice cream stick out on the street, I still had a couple of bites to go. I savored the last bites, licked off the little chocolate on the stick and noticed some writing. “What’s this say?” I held the stick out. He looked away from the road. “Free Good Humor.” He said looking back at the road, “You get a free Good Humor, I didn’t even look at my stick.” He stopped the truck. He turned it around and we drove back and found his stick.
He got out, picked up the stick and got back in. He looked at his stick. “Nope, No luck. Bruzzy, you’re the lucky one in this family.”
Chapter 3
My dad had just got home from work, he came in the front door and my mom ran out of the kitchen to kiss him. “You’re home early, darling. Is there something wrong?” She brushed some tar off his shoulder and put it in her apron pocket.
“Nothing, same shit. We ran out of tile and it would take longer to get it from Burbank than we had left of the workday, so we came home. No big deal. But I can sure use my big chair.” My dad had his own chair. Big. Overstuffed. It had a big square ottoman for his legs. We weren’t told not to sit in it, but none of us had the nerve to sit in our father’s chair. It was his. We all respected that. He walked over to his chair, lowered his tired body into it, swinging his legs up on the ottoman, he leaned back, breathed deeply and said to no one, “There’s no place like home.”
I was sitting across the room playing with alphabet blocks trying to spell the words my big sister was teaching me. At the moment I was working on CAT, which we didn’t have. The back door crashed open and Jay came bounding out of the kitchen. “Hi, everyone, I hit a home run! It rolled all the way up to the gym, I really caught the son-of a-bitch…”
“Watch the language, son, your little brother’s in the room.” Jay was being quietly reprimanded.
“You curse in front of him all the time, what’s the difference?” “Oh, Oh,” I thought, “Big mistake arguing with my father.” They always seemed on the verge of a fight. I was sure Dad had the advantage.
“All right, Jay, I don’t want any back talk. I’ve had a hard day. I’d like to be playing ball too. You’ll find out very soon what responsibility means, now take your bat and glove to your room. Supper will be ready soon.”
“Yes sir.” Jay answered, “Sorry I talked back. Sorry, Bruz, I shouldn’t curse in front of you.” Suddenly Mom appeared in the room, “Oh, Jay, Darling, did you have a nice game?”
“I hit a home run.”
“Isn’t that wonderful. You’re a terrific player. Now go get yourself ready for supper the ham is almost ready.” She watched him go up the stairs. “Bill, you should get that tar off your hands before supper, why don’t you use the sink in the laundry, there’s some turpentine in there.” She leaned down and kissed his thin graying hair.
“Yes, my love.” My father put both his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself up, he grabbed his wife, hugged her, kissing the top of her red head. “I love you.” He said and walked from the room. There was no doubt my father was in love with his wife and his wife returned the favor. Their bedroom was off limits and if it was really necessary to disturb them in their room, the rule was to knock and wait for permission to come in. That was the one unbreakable rule of the Tyrrell household.
I was learning a lot about personalities sitting there playing with my blocks. There was some problem between my brother and my father that I didn’t understand but I knew I would find the answer someday. Right now I was busy memorizing D-O-G, I knew Gen would be testing me very soon. I had to be prepared. I heard her voice and looked up. She was standing in the archway between the living and dining rooms. “Bruz, dinner is almost ready, don’t you think you ought to wash your hands and face before sitting at the dining room table? You’d make Momma very proud if she didn’t have to tell you.” I put the blocks in the box, the box in the coat closet, went upstairs to wash my hands and face. Why was everyone in this house smarter than me? It just wasn’t fair.
Dad sat at the head of the table, my mother at the foot, opposite the kitchen door; Jay was on her left and Gen sat next to dad. I had the whole side of the table to myself. I sat on a fat pillow so I could reach my plate. I had my own little silver service, a little spoon, a little fork and a little knife. I was an important person to have his own silver. My sister filled the water glasses with iced tea while my mother put a big baked ham in the middle of the table.
She brought in a tray of sweet potatoes and Gen delivered a bowl of beets. My father stood up and took a long knife and a big fork and carved slice after slice off the ham.
“Jay, please pass me your mother’s plate.” Jay put the plate next to my father.
My father put meat, potatoes and beets, artistically arranged on the plate, a sprig of parsley in the center and asked Jay to pass it to Mom.
“May I have your plate, Jay, please?” My father asked.
“I don’t want any beets, please, dad. I hate pickled beets.” Handing his plate to his father.
“They’re your mother’s pickled beets. They’re delicious. She worked a whole week canning those beets last year. Just for us.”
“Bill! He doesn’t want any beets. Just give him ham and potatoes. Gen go slice up a tomato for your brother.” My dad didn’t say a thing, Genevieve got up quietly and went into the kitchen. Jay sat looking at the tablecloth until his father handed him his plate with a sprig of parsley in the center. My father fixed my sister’s plate, then put a piece of ham, a small sweet potato and some beets on my plate, reached over and cut up my food and dropped a spring of parsley in the center. He made his own plate. Gen brought Jay’s tomatoes, my father tasted his ham and dinner was underway. I tasted the beets. They were very good. What was Jay’s problem?
Dinner was delicious. We were enjoying my mothers marvelous cooking. “I got a job.” Jay said spearing a slice of tomato. “When I graduate, I can go to work for J. J. Newberry, I start in the stock room, but they start everybody there, I could work myself up to be president. How about that?”
“That’s wonderful, Son. Where would you work?” My father asked haltingly.
“L.A., but I can walk up to Brand Boulevard and catch the trolley, it’s no big deal.”
“Well, perhaps you should hear your father’s and my news and see how it might affect your plans. We’ve bought a new house, just over on Lake Street. It will be ready in two months, so you should check out how you get to L.A. from there.”
“I was hoping you would come in with me when you graduated, Son, I have a very good business and it could be yours someday. I wish you’d think about that.” My dad was practically begging.
“I don’t want to be a roofer, Dad. I hate tar all over me and the dirt and dust. I want to dress in a suit, with a tie and polished shoes. I don’t want to be a laborer;
I want to work in a store. Serve people. A nice clean store.” Jay looked straight at his father as he made his speech, I had a feeling he had practiced it many times.
“Well, you think about it. Find out how you get to L.A. from Lake Street, maybe you’ll see some advantage to getting your hands dirty.” He forked a piece of sweet potato into his mouth and sipped some iced tea.
“Jay-wah, baby, you do with your life what you want to do, we each get our chance and this is yours. You want to be a stock clerk in L.A.? Be a stock clerk and I’ll love you just as much. Your father and I will help you in any way we can. We just want to see you happy. Now, anyone for hot apple pie and vanilla ice cream?”
Chapter 4
The sun streamed in the wide window above the sink where my mother was preparing my favorite breakfast. Sugar toast! Toasted rye bread spread with butter and covered with sugar put under the flame in the broiler until the sugar was melted, speckled brown and crispy. I loved it with a big glass of cold milk, right out of the icebox. “Bruzzy, you and I have a lot of work to do. We have to be out of this house by the fifteenth of December, a little more than two months. You will be in charge of counting the animals, so we can figure out what we’ll do with the ones we can’t eat.” I giggled. I thought my mom was funny. “While you’re working on that I’ll gather everything we can throw out and put it in the garage. When I’m finished we’ll call the junkman and he will take it all away. That will save your father moving it to Lake Street. Would you like to do that? I waggled my head up and down. My mouth full of sugar toast made talking impossible.
I ran out to the chicken coop. I saw all the chickens, stretching their legs, spreading their wings, getting ready for a busy day scratching up their food. My dad threw a few handfuls of corn into the coop before he went to work and I was responsible for filling the mash feeders every afternoon. Mom thought I was too little for such a big responsibility, but so far I have never missed a day. The ducks stayed off by themselves. There were only three waddling around the coop, the others had gone into mom’s blue roasting pan. I remember the day I climbed up into my father’s big old truck and we drove through the hills past Eagle Rock and into Pasadena. My father knew a farmer there who supplied fertilized duck eggs. He bargained the price and finally settled for two-dozen eggs.
I followed my dad into the garage where his incubator was set up on an old table in a back corner. He had me count as he placed the eggs around the lamp. “Well, Bruz. Now we wait. Pretty soon those eggs will crack open and we’ll have a bunch of baby ducks to look after. If you’re good, I’ll let you take care of them. Would you like that?”
I got so excited I couldn’t answer so I just shook my head. He laughed, mussed my blonde curls, scooped me into his arms and carried me into the house. I forgot all about the ducks. I was very busy keeping bikey happy, going for milk at Tarpley’s, helping my mother shop at the Grand Central Market and best of all riding with my father to the gas station on Sundays to fill up his old Ford truck.
Then one morning my bedroom door swung open, “Hey Bruz! You asleep? Come on, rise and shine, there’s something you have to see in the garage.” I jumped out of bed, put on my pants and shirt and ran barefoot down the stairs and outside where my dad stood by the garage door. I ran to the door. There, before my eyes was a bevy of little yellow ducks falling all over themselves. They were hissing and bumping around on a big blue double mattress on the floor of the garage. “How many, how many daddy?” I implored. “Count them, you can count.” “One, two…I can’t they don’t stay still. I don’t care how many I love them all.” My dad showed me a bag of special food and the three little bowls to put on the mattress. “You have to fill those bowls three times a day and you must keep water in the water bowl. Then in a few weeks they’ll be big enough to go in the coop where you can watch them grow.” He didn’t tell me they would be our Easter dinner.
I did as I was told. I took care of those little ducks, watched them grow day by day. Make their messes on the blue mattress. Finally we put sixteen ducks into the coop. And now as we were preparing to move I could count only three ducks. I didn’t bother my head about it.
I reported to my mother on my animal counting task. We had three ducks, five Rhode Island Red hens, two White leghorn hens and six Plymouth Rocks. My father had taught me well.
My mother swung the garage doors open. One door laid against the fence the other pushed into the back yard. The garage was crowded with junk. The big blue duck mattress was rolled up and tied leaning against the sidewall. There was an old icebox, the top door hanging open, a rusted lawn mower, a broken bamboo rake, piles of newspapers, magazines, some old books, many pairs of shoes, all sizes and a torn beach chair.
My mother shook her head as the tinkle of the junkman’s bell sounded in the neighborhood. “Junk Man! Junk Man!” Mr. Orzatti crooned, in his almost baritone voice. My mother waved her hand from the drive and Mr. Orzatti pulled his old buggy over to the curb. Climbed down from his perch and strolled up the driveway.
“You need the Junkman Missus?” in his broken English.
Take a look at the stuff in the garage, please.” My mother asked. I watched them standing in the middle of the doorway discussing items, making estimates, working hard on a deal. Finally they settled and Mr. Orzatti laid two dollars and two quarters in my mother’s hand. He walked down the driveway, got up on his wagon driving his scrawny white horse to push it up the drive. He piled all the junk, the icebox, the papers, all the shoes on top of the junk already on board. Then he laid the mattress on the top, climbed back on the wagon, tapped his horse and was gone. Peace returned to Pacific Avenue.
Not twenty minutes later mom opened the front door to a very upset junkman. “Lady, your mattress kept falling off my wagon so I unrolled it and it’s filthy. Such dirty people used that mattress. How could anyone sleep on such a mattress? I just don’t understand how people can live in such filth. I bought that stuff in good faith. That mattress is worthless. You owe me fifty cents.” Mom paid quietly. She never mentioned my father’s ducks.
Chapter 5
It was a big tan stucco house, two bay windows with brown shutters on the ground floor. It had a wide front porch and a glistening Spanish tile roof. We were standing in the double driveway looking at our new home. It was huge. It looked like a mansion to me. I looked up the drive and saw the two-car garage far behind the house and then a very deep back yard. My mother spoke to my sister and me. “Your dad is putting his business in the back yard, there’s room for all his trucks and all the materials he keeps in Burbank, so he will be home a lot more than he has been.”
The house fronted on a wide green lawn with hedges down each property line. The walk was off the drive and curved up to the front steps. Three steps up to the porch where we met an imposing front door. Much bigger to little me than the door at Pacific Avenue, I hoped we could afford a screen door so I wouldn’t have to face opening that giant gate. My mother pushed a key into the lock and the big door swung open without a problem. I felt much better.
“Oh Mom! This is beautiful!” My sister Gen exclaimed. “Look at the big foyer and the staircase and the ceiling so high.” My mom just smiled. “It’s a lovely house, children,” she said. “You’ll both love your rooms. We’ll be very happy here.” I followed the ladies into the huge space. They chattered in the foyer, chuckled in the dining room, laughed in the kitchen, complained in the laundry room, swooned in the living room and we hadn’t climbed the stairs yet. Upstairs was even better. The master bedroom had a bathroom right in through a door in the bedroom. You didn’t need to walk out in the hall. Which was good because there wasn’t any upstairs hall, just a balcony that ran around the whole downstairs space.
Gen’s bedroom was very big, twice the size of Pacific Avenue and Jay had a great corner room with windows looking out into the backyard. “Where do I get to sleep, Mom, there’s no rooms left, don’t I get a room!” I pouted.
She smiled and took me by the hand. We walked out of Jay’s room onto the balcony, I saw a glass door at the head of the stairway. “Open that door, it’s a special room for our baby.” My mom pointed the way. I ran over and pulled the door open and was in a glassed in room that went halfway across the back of the house…it really was a porch but they had made it into a bedroom just for me. I was one happy little brother.
It was dinnertime on Pacific Avenue. My dad dished out my mother’s fabulous lamb stew and passed the bowls around. “We’re moving to Lake Street, this Saturday and Sunday.” My father said to the table. “My men and our three trucks will move us and we’ll sleep in Lake Street on Sunday night. I know you have ball games, Jay, and that’s all right, my guys are used to working together so you might just get in the way. Make sure you have all your stuff packed by Saturday except your Sunday clothes cause everything except beds and furniture will be moved on Saturday. Now let’s enjoy your mother’s stew.”
I heard the sound of trucks pulling up in front of the house. I ran out on the front porch and saw two Ford trucks exactly like my dad’s and six men in tar-spotted clothing climb out on the sidewalk. Things began to happen. Boxes piled up on the back of one truck and furniture started appearing on the other. I had to keep out of the way or I would be piled on the truck with the rest of the junk. Bikey traveled on the seat of dad’s chair and by noon both trucks were piled as high as they could be piled. My mother gave the men lunch and they headed off to Lake Street, about a twenty-minute drive. Mom drove our Essex out of the driveway and waved as she headed for the new house. Genevieve and I were left home alone. We spent the afternoon eating up all the fruit that was left in the icebox, sweeping up the empty rooms and waiting for our folks to come back. By suppertime Mom and Dad returned and fed us franks, baked beans and some of Mom’s canned peaches. Sunday morning, before the Examiner was dropped on our porch the trucks and men had returned. Pacific Avenue was fast emptying out. Jay helped. Carrying beds and pots and pans he became friends with all dad’s men, even rode on the back of a truck on the trip to the new house. Pacific Avenue was history; the Tyrrells now lived on Lake Street.
Everyone was working. Chairs moving around, carpets pulled here and there. Mom checking exactly where the dining room table should be. She was very happy. She had a new gas stove and a refrigerator. No more ice man. We had progressed. I ran for my room to escape the madness in the house. My room was peaceful, quiet. I could look over the backyard, watch a lovely brown horse graze in the fields beyond our fence. I could see a playground across the street. See kids playing in the schoolyard. My new room was great. I fell on my little bed and fell fast asleep.
My dad made his specialty for breakfast. We all sat in our new kitchen as he piled his Western omelet on our plates. The family was dead tired but it was Monday morning and here we were in a mansion and I was anxious to explore. I ran out into the back yard and discovered a new sandbox my dad had built, a big square with a seat that ran all around and piled full of white sand. Heaven. A few feet away from my sandbox was my dad’s new office. A little house about ten feet square. He would run his roofing business from there while I built sand castles in the sunshine.
The back yard was huge. The first third filled with kegs of tar, rolls of tarpaper and stack after stack of bright red Spanish tile. Then a sea of grass with beautiful flower beds on each side, fenced in by a 4 foot fence. It was ten times the size of our little triangular yard on Pacific Avenue. I would spend many happy days playing there.
I could hear yelling from the playground across the street where the School summer camp was in session. I walked to the fence to watch the kids. I wanted to join them. I skipped down the drive, ran around the corner sat on the curb and watched a game of kick ball in noisy progress. A tall man came out of the gate and walked to his car. “You look unhappy sitting there, young man, you want to play with the kids?” He called across the street.
“I can’t cross the street by myself.” He walked across the street. “Come, I’ll take you to the playground.” He grabbed my hand. He took me right into the play ground and left me standing watching the game. A boy kicked the ball and it came right to me. I caught it and threw it back. Another ball came to me. I caught it and threw it back.
A lady called out, “You want to play with us?” “Sure!” I yelled. The kids laughed. I was in the game. I was having a lot of fun when a loud bell rang out and the lady grabbed the ball. “Lunchtime, Kids,” She called, they all ran off into the building leaving me and the ball all alone.”
“Come, Bruzzy, let’s have lunch!” My mother was standing at the gate waiting for me. I ran to her. “Mommy, Mommy, I played kick ball with the kids and I kicked one right over everybody’s heads. It was a home run, I want to play some more. Can I play some more?”
“Come home, have some lunch and I’ll bring you back. You can play if they ask you.” She took my hand as we crossed the street.
“The man who crossed you knocked on the door. He told me you were in the playground. When I heard the lunch bell I came over to pick you up. You must have someone help you across the street, honey, or else you should find me and I’ll cross you. Just until you’re a little older, Okay?” Did anybody have a better mother? From that day on I practically lived in the schoolyard.
Chapter 6
Every morning when I opened my eyes I would stand by the window and watch the brown horse chewing his breakfast. I wanted to know that horse. He looked like a friend but he was in that lot and I was behind a wire fence. I’d have my breakfast and go to the playground and forget about my friend the horse. But the next morning I would see him and want to pet his shiny neck.
One day, after many days of watching the horse, I went out into the back and walked to the fence. All the trucks, the roofers and my father had gone off to work and I was alone in the huge back yard. I looked through the wire. The horse was very close it seemed. I stuck my Ked into the wire, grabbed the fence to climb. Too big, the fence was too big I had to start higher. I looked around the yard and saw a milk carton leaning against my father’s office. I investigated. I dragged the wooden box to the fence. I stood it on end against the wire. I got my knee up on top of the box and pulled against the fence till I stood. I could reach the bar at the top of the fence, my shoe went into the wire and I pulled up again. I was climbing. Suddenly I was lying on the wobbly top bar. I got my foot over into the wire and got down to the ground. I sat down catching my breath; I was struck with the fact that I could climb a fence. Imagine that. Now I could go meet my friend, the horse. I trotted across the big pasture and stood near the horse. He whinnied and stamped his foot. “I’m your friend, horsey.“ I called and came a little closer. He threw his head in the air and stamped again. “I want to be your friend, don’t be scared, I’m your friend. Don’t you want a friend? You’re out here all by yourself all day. I could be your friend.” I was standing right next to him. I could see his sides heave as he breathed in and out. I put my hand on his smooth warm neck and his skin wiggled under my palm. “You see? I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your friend. I’m going to call you Brownie. You like that name Brownie?” I kept rubbing his neck and he grumbled deep in his throat.
He was tied to a long thin rope so he had lots of walking room. I could see the grass marked by his hooves where he traveled at the end of his tether. There was a big brown box with a step built right where he could walk. If I could get him to go there I could climb up on the box and get on his back. I decided to try. I took hold of the halter he was wearing and gave a little pull. That great big horse came right along. I walked him to the box, he stopped right along side of it. Boy, I thought I was pretty smart to get the horse to stand right where I wanted him to stand. I climbed the step and stood on the box. I petted the big animal on his back and he made noises in his throat. He stood absolutely still. I took hold of his mane and put my leg over his back and fell into a sitting position. The horse took a couple of steps to the side. I said, “Nice, Brownie, walk Brownie, take me for a little ride, Brownie.” What else could I say I had never seen a cowboy movie so I didn’t know what you said to get a horse moving? Brownie turned his head, looked at me and began walking at the end of his rope around a big circle. I was in seventh heaven. I was riding a horse. Brownie was my horse and I was riding him. He walked past the box three times and then he stopped right at the box. He turned, looked at me and shook his head. “End of the line.” I thought so I slid off his back on to the big brown box. Brownie stamped his foot a couple of times and went back to eating his grass. I patted his neck and whispered in his ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I walked back to the fence where the box was propped. On the wrong side! I looked up at the top of the fence. I was in trouble. The box was inside and I was outside. If I wanted over I had to climb. I stuck my foot in the wire and pulled myself up, stuck my other foot in wire and pulled up again and suddenly I was at the top, I threw my leg over and got my foot into the wire. I climbed down, past the box, right to the ground. I could climb a fence. I could ride a horse. I was a big boy!
I dreamed of the big brown horse that waited for me in the pasture behind our house. I jumped up in the morning and there he was eating his grass. I’ll bet he’s waiting for me. I ran down for breakfast. My dad was sitting at the table with my mother. They were talking.
“Your father is working in his office today, Bruz, so if you play in the sandbox don’t make a lot of noise.” She patted my hand. “I’m making some sugar toast for you than you can go out and play.”
“Can I go across the street to the schoolyard, Mom. Maybe there’s a ball game.”
“Eat your breakfast and I’ll cross you. I’ll come get you at lunchtime. Are you having lunch with us, dear? I have some chicken, I could make some sandwiches.”
“I’d love to, Darling. I have some billing to do and I need to order tile. Call me when you want to eat.” He got up, leaned over and kissed my mothers head, messed my hair and went out the back door.” No horseback riding today, I thought.
The sound of the trucks pulling out of the yard woke me the next morning. I looked out. The trucks were loaded with tar and roofing paper and tiles, looked like the start of a new job. I looked at the fence. I looked at Brownie. I was going riding.
Brownie saw me coming and walked over to the box. I was amazed. I walked over, “Hello Brownie, how’s my good friend this morning?” He grumbled in his throat and tossed his head. I petted his neck. He pushed me with his head towards the big box. He wanted me on his back. He liked me on his back. I got settled on his back and he walked past the box twice and started to trot. I bounced up and down but held tightly on his mane. He passed the box and walked again, stopping to let me off. He had given me his ride. I stayed a few minutes petting him and talking to him then
headed for the fence, he walked with me as far as his rope allowed. He whinnied and went back to eating grass. I did the fence. My Mom took me to the schoolyard.
Every morning for the rest of the week I rode Brownie till he put me off. Climbed the fence and spent the rest of the time at the schoolyard. It was a great life. I watched Jay-wah play ball in the schoolyard on Saturday. Sunday my dad packed us off to the beach. I slept in the car with my head in Gen’s lap on the way home, a perk for being the baby of the family.
My dad woke me Monday morning and sat down on my bed. I sat up and wondered if I was in trouble. “Mr. Carle, who lives behind us, told me you’ve been riding his horse. Is that true?”
“Yes sir, Brownie, he’s my friend. He likes me to ride on him. Do I have to stop?”
“The horse you call Brownie belongs to Mr. Carle’s daughter. She has gone to live with her grandmother back east and the horse is very lonely for her. Carle figured out you were riding him because the horse was suddenly happier even though his master was still off in New England. He would like you to keep being friendly with the horse while he’s still around. He said you could pick some free apricots as a reward.”
I was so happy I couldn’t answer. I just laughed out loud. “Oh boy, that’s great. I’ll ride him every day. I’ll be his best friend.”
“Well, son, you do what you want but Mr. Carle thinks three or four times a week would be good, so if I were you, I would do what he wants. You could walk down School Street and around the front of his house come up the drive to get to the horse. That way you wouldn’t have to cross any streets or climb any fences. What do you think?”
“Oh, I’ll climb the fence. It’s easy and Brownie can see me coming and feel as happy as me. I won’t hurt your fence, Daddy. I’ll take care.” My father laughed, stood up and messed my hair. Patted my head and left my room. I ran over to the window to look at my friend Brownie in the pasture behind our house. Over the weeks Brownie walked, trotted, cantered and finally galloped around the big circle. I was very comfortable hanging on to his mane, keeping my knees tight against his sides. I was in another world. Then one Sunday morning I looked out my window and Brownie was gone. And Mr. Carle was gone. New people were picking apricots in his orchard. New people. People who didn’t know me, didn’t talk with my dad and didn’t live in the house. They just picked the apricots. I didn’t ride again for several years, but that’s another story.
Chapter 7
Summer was over. School was about to start. Genevieve into the fifth grade. Jay, a senior in Hoover High would graduate in January. I wormed my way into being a guest student in Kindergarten. I was best at recess. Sandbox was my second best subject. But the teacher, who ran the summer camp, loved me. She liked having me around. I could sharpen pencils, clean the blackboard and sit quietly while she read stories. It was hard work but I loved school.
My mother became very involved in school politics. She ran bake sales, put together raffles she conned out of local businesspeople, held luncheons for special teachers, helped the principal with various jobs and Tyrrell became an important name at Franklin School.
Sandra Blaine lived in the house next door to us on Lake Street. She was in first grade. My dad and her father would chat across the hedge when dad was trimming it or mowing the lawn. Sandra’s dad was a lawyer who saw my father as potential business. Mr. Blaine, a very tall man had long grey hair. He looked mean to me.
I sat in the sandbox at recess filling a bucket with wet sand making a row of sand cakes when Sandra sat down on the sand box. “You have such a beautiful sandbox in your own backyard. Much nicer than this why do you play in this one?”
I thought that was a dumb question. How could a first grader be so dumb? “I’m here. My sand box is across the street.” I answered.
“I know that. Do you think I’m stupid? Why don’t I come over after school and we could play in your sandbox?” She said, being very friendly.
“Sure. Come over at four. I don’t have to go in till five-thirty.” She shook her head, smiled and ran away just as the bell ended recess. Sandra was head and shoulders taller than me. She was very pretty with long red-blonde curls framing a cupid face.
She came over every day after school and we played in the sand box or played catch with a beach ball. One day she brought some jacks and taught me how to pick them up while the ball was still in the air. She drew a Hop Scotch plan on the back walk and we hopped and hopped on many afternoons. Sandra was fun.
My dad was leaning on the door of his office watching me pile sand up and push it over. “Where’s your young lady friend today, Bruz?” He called out.
“She’s coming in a little while, she had to shop with her mom.” I answered filling a sand bucket. “I’m going across to Fred’s, tell your mother if she’s looking for me.” He walked down the driveway just as Sandra arrived. She looked like a cheerleader in a white sweater, a short blue skirt and high-topped sneakers. We played some two-man kick ball making short kicks back and forth when she threw the ball into the sandbox. “Where’s your dad, Bruz?” She asked.
“He went across the street to his friends house.” I answered. “Come on,” she said, “I’m going to teach you a new game. Come into the garage.” We walked past my father’s office and into the back door of the garage. The only light filtered through the small windows in the front overhead door. An old carpet was rolled up against the sidewall. Sandra sat down and patted the carpet next to her. “Sit here, Bruz, I’ll explain the game to you.” I sat next to her and waited for instructions. “Have you ever played ‘showing sights’ before?” She asked. I shook my head. “How do you play?” I asked.
“Well, I show you something,” she pulled up her sweater and showed her belly button. “And you show me something.” I pulled up my shirt and you could see my belly button. “That’s right, you’ve got the idea. Want to play?”
“Sure. Do you always get to go first? How do you win?”
“Let’s play a little while you’ll figure it out. It’s a simple game.” She pulled her panties down and showed me her privates. I wanted to run but I was frozen on the carpet. “Isn’t that pretty? Now, show me your pee-pee.”
I didn’t know what to do. I fumbled with the button on my shorts. It popped open. I wiggled them down.
“Are you kids in here?” My father came into the garage. He saw us on the carpet “Sandra, put yourself together and go on home.” She ran out of the garage. “Pull your pants up young man and go into the kitchen we need to talk. I’ll be right in.” He stalked out of the garage. I held my shorts up and ran out of the garage into the house. No one was around. I ran into the kitchen. My father was going to kill me for showing sights. I couldn’t stop to button my shorts, I needed to hide from my father.
I climbed under the sink and pulled the door closed behind me. It clicked. It was a big space. Only a box of soap and a small wastebasket was under there. I slid around behind the pipes and leaned against the back wall. I would be very quiet. Maybe they would never find me. In a few minutes I heard my father come in. “Bruz?” He called. I didn’t answer. I heard him walk away.