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| The victim window in St. Joseph's Church |
Here's a great old Yorkville story written by my friend, Denny Ferado with photos. It primarily takes place on 87th Street in front of St. Joseph's.
Dominick and The Madonna
Dennis John Ferado
When my grandfather, Samuel Ferado, married my grandmother,
Mary Buondiconti, in 1907 he already had one child, Victoria, from a previous
marriage. Two-year old Victoria’s
mother had passed away. In the years that followed, Mary gave birth to
eight children: Salvatore, Dominick (my father), Albert and then twin
boys, William & George. George died young and three years later in 1917
Mary had another baby boy who she also named George. In due course she
birthed two girls, Annetta and then Vivian, the baby. Grandma Mary passed
on February 3, 1922 and subsequently little George died May 7th, 3 months and 4
days later, of what they called a broken heart. Grandma might have over
compensated for her first loss because George missed his mother too much to
care about living.
The three youngest children were placed in an orphanage in
upstate New York
and the older boys were kept home to look for work. The burden of raising
a family fell directly onto the sturdy shoulders of their older half-sister,
Victoria, who at the fledging age of 16 would become surrogate mother to four
wild boys; uncle Willy came back home after two years at the orphanage.
My dad was twelve when he landed his first full time
position at a chocolate factory right here in New York City. His main activity
consisted of dipping cherries into a gigantic vat of hot seething
chocolate. It so happened that my father’s very favorite joy in life was
eating chocolate covered cherries. The entire first week on the job he
subsisted on nothing other than this one food. A six day week with twelve
hour days demanded the consumption of an uncountable number of cherries.
For the rest of his life he could not look at a chocolate covered cherry
without gagging. However, for the rest of his life he would never be
without a job. During the Prohibition years, 1923 to 1928, he was a
bell-hop at the Empire Hotel, still standing at 44 West 63rd Street where he, two other
bell-hops and an elevator operator, made bathtub gin and sold it to the hotel
guests. Through the Great Depression into 1930s he worked delivering milk
in large metal cans with a horse and wagon. He made the papers when he
was chased by the police while speeding through Central
Park. One paper wrote it up with the by-line: “Ben Hur
captured after furious chase through Central Park.”
He was a printer for a couple of years and worked in the Puck building at 295 Lafayette Street
at the corner of Mulberry and Houston
Street and during WW II he was a welder at the
Brooklyn Navy Yard.
It was in 1930 when my parents first met at a dance on East 86th Street
between 1st and 2nd Avenues. Pop showed me the building one day, it was
on the downtown side of 86th
Street, an old brownstone with a big set of brown
steps leading up into it. There was a large plate glass window alongside
the entryway at the top of the steps where, from the street, you could watch
the dancers. My father’s older brother, by one year, Salvatore, met a
girl (my future aunt Kitty) who had a friend, Marg, and both girls would be at
the dance. Kitty’s friend, a classmate from Saint Joseph’s, was my mom, Margie Stein, she
was 16. The dance hall had several ethnic groups mixed in but consisted
mainly of Irish kids from Yorkville--Kitty and Marg’s friends
There were some tough crowds that hung around in Yorkville
back then. My Dad’s family was from Canal Street and Sullivan Street and they were
Italian. A fight quickly ensued that lasted for some time until my
father, unwillingly, exited the dance hall through the plate glass window onto
the 86th Street
sidewalk. Luckily, he had gone through feet first and landed in a
standing position breaking an ankle and needing stitches in several
places. Salvatore was luckier; he went tumbling down the brown flight of
steps. Both brothers were taken to hospital in an ambulance and stitched
up while they put a splint on my father’s ankle. After that brawl everything
was okay and the Yorkville gang never bothered the brothers again. The
two Italian guys had put up such a good fight while being greatly outnumbered
(they were later informed) that their reputation had grown and they were
greeted with respect after that gruesome incident. Eventually, Salvatore and
Dominick married the two girls from Yorkville.
Leaping forward sixteen years to 1946 we find Dominick and
Marg firmly rooted in Yorkville and the proud parents of three little
Yorkvillites: George age 13, myself, age 4 and baby Margie age 1.
Vividly, I recall the stickball games which took place on East 87th Street
between York Avenue
and 1st Avenue.
One particular Saturday afternoon the guys were playing stickball. Home
base was right outside my ground floor window at 411 East 87th Street. The players
hit east towards York Avenue
so I could watch the batters all day long right in front of me. Some of
the older crowd were: the Feeley brothers, Danny Kean, Joe Driscoll,
Willy Malockawitz, Guinea Beans, Joe Steixner, etc. The younger ones, my
brother’s friends were: Killer Cain, Joe Wolfinger, Cosmo Verni, Johnny
Hubbert, Rudy Kaminsky, Bobo, Jeep Malockawitz, Georgie Fluger, etc. Joe Steixner
was the biggest man I had ever seen in my life, bigger even than Big Joe
Driscoll. Joe Steixner always seemed to come up from behind and shock
me. He’d snatch me off the concrete and throw me so high into the air,
head over heels; I thought I would land on someone’s first floor
fire-escape. I’d come back down, but my stomach would linger, and then
he’d catch me by the ankles--my face 2 inches from smashing into the
concrete. Whenever that happened I usually couldn’t speak for an hour
afterwards. When my father came down the street after work there was
always a spot for him to play on one or the other team, whichever group had the
street that day; meaning if the older crowd wasn’t playing the younger crowd
could. They were all out this day, the older crowd was waiting for the
younger guys to finish then they would play their game next.
Pop could run like the wind and often when he stepped up to
the plate he’d get a hit and I’d watch him run the bases with blinding speed. I
was so proud of him because everyone liked my dad and they all called him Mr.
Ferado. He had shoe-polish-black hair which he parted down the middle and
when he ran his hair would fly out from both sides of his head like
wings. If I put my right cheek flat against our window pane and looked
east I could see down to where first and third bases were but I’d lose him when
he ran to second base. I was young and I thought he was too fast.
The first time I saw him run to second base and out of my field of vision I
thought I’d never see him again.
I had just got to the window to watch unaware that my father
had joined them. When I saw him stepping up to home plate I got all
excited. Our window was open about an inch, mom kept it down because I
fancied climbing out and running down 87th Street towards York Ave., once in my
birthday suit, I don’t know why. I was all wired up seeing my dad but
couldn’t pull the window up any higher. Just as the ball was approaching home
plate and dad had already started his swing, I bent low, stuck my mouth through
the one inch open space of the window and screamed:
“DADDY” He turned toward the sound of my voice and the
cat stick (broomstick minus the straw broom) flew out of his hands and
spear-headed straight across 87th
Street and through the church’s stained glass
window of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus in her arms. In a flash
you would never have known there had been a stickball game going on--only a few
puffs of dust remained floating on the air on a, now, forsaken street.
My parents were married in Saint Joseph’s Church in 1931 by Monsignor
Bruder, Monsignor Rothloff’s predecessor. Monsignor Rothloff was on a
first name basis with dad and they made a deal. Pop would pay for the
broken window in installments of $2.00 a week for the rest of his life and for
the rest of his children’s lives until whomever of us passes last. At
that time the debt would be eliminated. The conversation went something
like this:
“As God is my judge I swear to Jeeesus, Father Rothloff,
I’lll pay the church the entire amount for the broken window if it takes me
forever.” Looking skyward with upturned palms, he continued, “I will not
rest, Father, until this is done.
“You should not take the name of God in vain Dominick, and
please refrain from swearing!”
“Excuse me father, I forgot,” Dad said, as he glanced at his
shoes. Putting a hand on my father’s shoulder the priest smiled and spoke
softly:
“I know you’re an honest man, Dominick, and I know how hard
you work. You’re oldest boy, George; just graduated from Saint Joseph’s, little
Dennis is living it up in kindergarten and that darling little girl, what’s her
name?”
“Margaret.”
“Yes, Margaret. I trust she’ll be entering
kindergarten at Saint Joseph’s
School when she comes of age?” I looked up at my father and he was
nodding in agreement. “I see you there in church on Sundays,
sometimes--well, you’re always there on holidays anyway--with your family. Yes,
a good Yorkville family. Its people like you and Mrs. Ferado that make
our parish what it is, one big family. We stick together and we help one
another. I believe you’ll do the right thing because you’re a good
man.” But you should try to get to Sunday mass more often. Still
nodding dad said:
“You bet Monsignor. (Dad would bet on anything) Thank
you for having faith in me” Pumping the padre’s hand he added, “And thank
you for being so understanding Monsignor. I’ll see you next Friday with
my first payment.” Dad walked up the steps of our building where my
mother waited for him holding my little sister in her arms with me at her side
hanging onto her apron and knowing, somehow, I was responsible for all of
this. As he came closer I noticed beads of sweat had accumulated across
my father’s forehead. The price of that stained glass window could have
kept any Yorkville family of five in food for a couple of years. He
stepped in between mom and myself and put his arms around the both of us and
pulled us close to him.
“Thanks again, Monsignor.” Father Rothloff turned and
saw the Ferados waving at him. He gave us a smile and a short wave and
must have thought what a perfect picture they make--he’ll pay up. He
turned and began to walk up the church steps. Dad picked me up in his
arms, kissed me on the cheek, looked into my eyes and with a big smile on his
face said: “Let’s go inside son and we’ll have a little chat. The
Monsignor stopped before entering the church, turned and shouted from the top
step effectively causing the four of us to turn and look at him:
“Oh, Dominick!. The next time you play stickball with
the boys kindly make certain that they fashion home plate down by the
Sanitation Department and not in front of the church!”
My father made his payments on time every Friday night for
the next several weeks. Then it all seemed to have been forgotten by
everyone. Poor Pop always worked two jobs so he could own a car and take
us places, feed us, get us the things we needed and have a few bucks for the
ponies. It didn’t always work out that way but he sure tried.
I’ll never stop missing him.
Dennis John Ferado Copyright 2012.
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| The author on 413 East 87th Street stoop ~ 2012 |
Dad on the far left, hand on hip about 1922 when he was 12
and began working in a chocolate factory. Salvatore in the back, Albert
the little guy a, Vivian is the little and Anetta (Ann) far right. With my
great grandfather, their maternal grandfather, Domenico Buondiconti.
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| Dad about 1929 when he drove a horse and wagon. Age 20. |
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| Dad, 68 in 1977, still looking good. |
