The Girl Who Killed Santa Claus

Uncle Mommy & Tommy

Thanksgiving morning, 1961. Mom woke me quietly and whispered, “Rory is sick. If you wake him up before you leave, you’re not going either.”

I nodded my head yes. I felt bad that my brother wouldn’t see the parade, but I was happy to go with Dad alone. It was much easier having a good time with Dad when it was just the two of us. This was my first Macy’s parade and I didn’t want one of Dad’s bad moods blowing it.

At nine o’clock, we slipped out the door. We met Dad’s friend Richie Kovarik and his daughter, Deborah, inside Loftus Tavern a few blocks away. The four of us were going together. Richie was talking to Jack, the bar’s owner, over coffee. Deborah sat on a barstool sipping a Coke and sucking a cube of ice with the hole in the middle. She was a year older than I was, stuck up, and knew everything.

Debbie Kovarik

I hated her guts.
Richie greeted us. “Hi, Bob. Where’s Rory?”
“He’s sick. We’ll catch up later at my mother’s for dinner. Hi, Deborah, you look so pretty and grown up.”
With a wide phony smile she said, “Thank you, Mr. Pryor.”
I almost vomited.
Saying goodbye to Jack, we went out the bar’s side door, smack into a vicious cold wind. A Checker cab was just turning off York Avenue heading west on 85th Street. “Cabby!" yelled Dad and we piled in.

Checker taxi cab

Despite plenty of room to sit alongside our fathers, Deborah and I naturally sat on the round pull-up seats that faced them. That’s because for adults a Checker cab was transportation, but for kids it was an amusement ride and the bouncy pull-up seats were why. It was better than most rides, in fact, because there was nothing to strap you in. Deborah and I didn’t acknowledge each other. The cab made it nonstop from York Avenue to Fifth Avenue through a swirl of green and yellow lights. My head slapped the roof several times. The driver impressed me. Crossing Fifth Avenue, we dove into the Transverse through Central Park. 

flip up seats in Checker taxi

“You’re in second grade, right?” Deborah asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m in third grade,” she said, pleased as punch.
She knew what grade I was in. She continued talking while looking out her window. I tried ignoring her.
“What are you getting for Christmas?” she asked.
That was a dirty trick. It’s nearly impossible for a kid to stay silent when this subject comes up.
“Things,” I said.


"Huh?"

“I’m getting a bike and an Erector set.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
“What did you ask for?” Deborah pressed on.
“I’m still deciding. I have a list.”
“What’s on the list?”
“Lots of stuff.”
“Oh, come on, name a few things.”
“That’s between me and Santa.”
“WHAT?” she said.
“It’s between me and Santa.”
“Well, good luck, dummy, because there ain’t no Santa.”
Despite my lingering hope, I worried it was true. I wanted her dead.
I tried to recover. “I know there’s no Santa, stupid.”
“No you didn’t, but you do now.” Her eyebrows arched up and down.
“I play along for my brother. It makes him feel good. He’s just a kid.”
“Still believe in the Easter Bunny?” she said.
“Oh crap, him too?” I thought, then said, “No, of course not.”
I never realized until that moment how much detail there was on the stone blocks lining the underpasses through Central Park. The road was twisted and bumpy. My forehead banged repeatedly against the window’s glass. It felt good. It took my mind off the other pain. Silently staring out, I saw the glitter of the granite and the chiseled cuts where they sliced the stone to make the blocks. I imagined Deborah’s head being dragged across that rock as we drove back and forth through the park. Kaput!
“Johnny, leave us off on the near corner of 86th Street and Central Park West.” Dad’s voice broke my dream of vengeance.
The driver aimed for the curb. The air was frigid. I barely noticed. Normally, I would’ve run ahead toward the action, but my heart remained behind on the cab’s pull-up seat. I took Dad’s hand, even though I didn’t feel like a little boy anymore. We walked south to 77th Street in formation. Dad squeezed my hand. I weakly squeezed back.
“I don’t think we’re staying too long,” Dad said to Richie. “I think Tommy’s got something, too.”
We stood inside the park’s wall on the rocks. This allowed us to see the parade over the sidewalk crowd. Only because Dad announced the balloon names as they passed by, do I remember they included Underdog, Popeye, and Bullwinkle J. Moose from Frostbite Falls, Minnesota.

Underdog Thanksgiving @ 1961


This is the second story of three, the finale appears tomorrow





Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 136 Amazon five star reviews out of 136 authentic reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

Over The River & Through The Potatoes

Around one o'clock, Dad and I got back from the parade to my grandparents apartment for Thanksgiving dinner. Dad’s Mom, and Pop Rode, Nan and Pop Cuckoo to me, always cooked our bird. Mom’s parents did Easter’s lamb roast. At the kitchen table, Mom and Nan were snapping ends off a few pounds of string beans and throwing them into a spaghetti pot. Rory and Pop were in the living room watching Babes in Toyland.
“Hi, all, I thought we were eating at one?” Dad said.
“The bird’s got a way to go – maybe another hour,” Nan said.
Mom mouthed to Dad a silent, “No way.”
I was a first class Mom lip reader.
Dad walked to the oven and opened the front.
“Jesus Christ, who are you feeding?”
“Shut your mouth,” Nan said.
“That prehistoric beast is the same size as Rory,” Dad said.
​“Mind your business.”
Mom whispered to me, “Rory is smaller.”
“We’ll eat tomorrow,” Dad said.

“Another hour. Go inside and be useful.” Nan said, waving Dad away. “Get two folding chairs and bring my bag. I forgot something and need you to go to the store.”
Dad eyed me up and down. He wanted to send me but he thought I was getting sick. Resigned, Dad exhaled loudly, ensuring everyone in the balcony knew he was leaving the stage. Being at Nan’s cheered me up. Everything was big. She was big. Pop was big. The coffee cups were big. At her house, I could drink anything I wanted, when I wanted. Dad returned from the front room to the kitchen with Nan’s pocketbook. I could see his arm muscles working hard, lifting the heavy bag.
“Here you go. What do you need?” Dad said.
“Go down to Parker’s and get me a pound of butter.” 

Dad walked to the fridge, opened the door and stuck his head in it. “You have a full pound.”
“I need six sticks for the mashed potatoes.”
“We’re six people! That’s a quarter pound of butter per person. Are you trying to stop our hearts with a single meal?”

1582 YorkAve Parkers Grocery @1940

“I’m making mashed potatoes for the week and it’s none of your business. Get the butter.”
“And the thirty pound bird?”
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s twenty-six pounds.”
“Oh, only twenty-six. Let’s see, more than four pounds per person, that should cover our meat provision for our sea voyage.”
I was curious. Would Nan slap him or not? I was pulling for a slap. She seemed close. Instead, she stared him down. He wisely took the money and went to the store. I joined Rory and Pop in the living room to watch the end of the movie. Dad came back and stayed in the kitchen with Nan and Mom.
More than an hour passed.
“I’m starving. How much longer?” Dad said.
“I’ll take a look,” answered Nan.
I got up and watched through the doorway. Nan opened the oven and took the turkey out with her arms firmly hanging onto both pan handles. From behind, she looked like a Russian weightlifter. She placed the pan on the counter and checked the thermometer. Dad was right behind her.
“What does it say?” Dad said.
“135 degrees,” Nan said.
“Forget it, put it back in.”
“No, it’s done.”
“You’re nuts.”
“It’s fine, look?”
Nan sliced into the meat. It was pink like a flower.
“Meat should be 175 degrees,” Dad said. “That bird just stopped breathing.”
“That’s it. Let’s go.”
Nan said and moved the enormous pan toward the table. Dad met her halfway across the kitchen floor and began guiding her back toward the oven. They both had their hands on the pan’s handles. A turkey dance!
“Give it to me,” Dad said.
“Leave me alone. Start mashing the potatoes,” Nan said.
“Give it to me!”
He tugged. She tugged. The pan didn’t know what to do.
The pan flipped over. The gravy soared and the turkey smacked the floor. Nan was a mess. Dad’s shirt, slacks and new dress shoes with the little pinholes were no better. Stunned, Nan and Dad stared down at the the bird on the linoleum. Nan spoke first. “Ah shit, I’m lying down,” And she did.
She passed through the living room. Me frozen in the doorway and Pop with Rory on his lap. They watched like two wide mouth bass. I wish I could’ve taken a picture. Pop and Mom exchanged places. She joined Rory watching TV. Pop went to the kitchen and began to help Dad. They put the bird back in the pan with a couple of cups of water to replace the irreplaceable gravy and put the pan back in the oven. Pop gave Dad one of his extra large guinea tee shirts. Pop’s pants didn't fit Dad, so he gave Dad a pair of his giant boxer shorts. Dad wore Pop’s boxer shorts over his boxer shorts – that went nicely with his dark socks and skinny legs. I saw Mom peek in, point at Dad and start to laugh.
Sometime much later, Pop announced, “OK, everything is ready.”
He went into the front room and brought Nan back. She returned to the kitchen and took over as if nothing had happened.
“Bob, carve the meat.”
Dad grabbed the knife and did as he was told. This relieved everyone. The table comfortably sat six people yet with the large amount of food on it, it was hard to see each other. Everyone was scary polite. Late in the meal, Dad looked at the bucket of mashed potatoes and said, “You know from this angle I can see a goat circling the top of Potato Mountain.”
We all laughed except Nan. But she didn’t hit him. The storm passed and Rory and I started looking forward to our favorite Thanksgiving ritual – Pop watching. He was a gentle Smokey the bear and never yelled at us. After the meal, he drank two short glasses of Ballantine Ale, wiped his mouth carefully with his linen napkin, and said, “Thank you, excuse me.” 

​He lifted himself from the table, then walked from his kitchen chair to his living room chair. Once Rory and I heard “Swoosh,” Pop’s bottom sinking into the plastic, we started counting backward, “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1…”
We peeked into the living room. Pop was sawing wood. Rory and I stared at him.

While Pop slept, a cartoon came on with two poor kids who go to bed with nothing to eat. They dream, people come and bring them goodies and music starts to play. Rory and I stood behind Pop’s chair on each side of his head and softly sung along with the cartoon song into his ears:
"Meet me tonight in dreamland, under the silvery moon.
Meet me tonight in dreamland, where love’s sweet roses bloom.
Come with the love light gleaming, in your dear eyes of blue.
Meet me in dreamland, Sweet dreamy dreamland,
There let my dreams come true."
Our singing didn’t wake him. Pop had a stretched out snore with three different sounds. Nan had a toy piano with eight color coded keys. You could play a full octave of tones. It came with a color-coded music book with classics like “Pop Goes the Weasel,” “Roll Out the Barrel” and “This Old Man.” Rory was pretty good on the thing – he played “Jingle Bells” with ease. He went over to the piano.

In between Pop's snores he’d hit a key. It sounded pretty good. Rory played around a bit until he located a couple of notes to harmonize with Pop’s snoring. Not wanting to be left out, not having Rory’s natural musical talent, I improvised. Nan’s toilet door made a creaking sound when you opened or closed it. I went over to the door and opened it a smidge to try to join the band. I found a funky “eek” and added it to the mix. Leaning over, looking back into the living room, I could see Rory. Once we made eye contact, it was easy to locate our rhythm.
We riffed, “Snore, piano key, eek; snore, piano key, eek.”
Our tune had a hook as Dad loved to say.
Mom threw a sponge at my head. I ducked. The band played on.
Sponge two was in the air.
I avoided it by doing the cha-cha.

“I will kill you both. Keep it up, I’ll kill you both dead."
Noticing Mom was out of sponges, and the next airborne item could be a spoon or fork, Rory and I left the airwaves.
Later on, Pauline and Charlie Hannah came over and started playing Pokeno with Nan and Pop. Dad and Mom moved to the sink area. I sat on the washing machine right next to them. Mom picked up a dish and started scrubbing it. Dad squeezed too much dish soap into the water, then started playing with the faucet’s screws.
“Let’s get this over with, you’re moping.”
“Not true. The secret is a long hot soak. Then the grease slides itself off.” Dad said and continued to play with the faucet.
“The secret is you’re full of shit and have a bony ass,” Mom said.
Nan got up came over to the sink and said “Leave the kids here – you can pick them up in the morning.”
She helped them gather their things and threw them out of the house.
Rory and I conked out together on one bed. The playful noise coming from the card game in the kitchen was the kind of yelling we could sleep through. The last thing on my mind as I drifted off was Santa’s sleigh flying over the 59th Street Bridge up York Avenue heading towards my house.

59th Street Bridge

Son Of A Son Of A Sailor

Dad&cousins@1946@500 E. 84st.

February 1941, on a Saturday morning, my father woke up and found his father drinking coffee alone in the kitchen with only the bare winter light coming in through the backyard window. My grandmother and uncle had left for work. Dad, 11, talked baseball with his Dad while eating three bowls of cereal. My 40 year old grandfather, ill with Potts Disease, a late stage Tuberculosis, told his son he needed to rest and suggested Dad go out and play. Dad got dressed took his mother’s scarf on his father’s suggestion, then he got a long hug and a wet kiss from his father and a good bye in his ear, twice.

Thomas Pryor @Mt. Loretto Orphanage

After my father left, my grandfather pushed himself up from the table, grabbed a bunch of towels and stuck them under the door and the windows. He pulled a chair over to the oven, stuck his head in it and killed himself. My father found his father dead an hour later and ran and get a cop.

T. Pryor S. I. Orphanage intake-card @1909

Today is Dad’s birthday, if he were here he’d be 93 and he’d still be expecting a call a day and a kiss on the lips, hello and goodbye. When I was young I didn’t understand his strong grip on Rory and my life. He was a suffocating son of a bitch but I guess he wanted to make sure we didn’t leave him.


Lucky for me, he was the most interesting pain in the ass I’ve ever known, and I miss him each day. His artistic and mechanical talent was boundless, barely owning an education (his early schooling were movies and the big bands at the Paramount) he read everything and could talk any subject intelligently. He knew every joke ever told, and told them well, over and over again.

Most of all he was a sailor, in his heart and in his soul. No conversation was ever far away from a reference to the sea, the Navy, the Merchant Marines, or his three trips around the world. Dad joined the Navy on his 17th birthday in 1946 after a failed attempt the previous year to get in before the war ended. After two years in the Navy he spent three more in the Merchant Marines.

1947 U.S.S. Mindoro carrier

If Dad didn’t meet Mom, he would have made a career at sea. He loved us dearly but never lost his yearning. My brother and I often heard, “if it wasn’t for you I’d be on the ocean.” He told me his father’s fondest wish was to be a sailor. Maybe in his heart that’s what my grandfather was. Being a sailor must have been a dreamy place to go to when he was a boy in the Staten Island orphanage, Mount Loretto at the end of Hyland Blvd. and later when the disease sent him upstate to Tuberculosis Sanatoriums for seven of his last ten years. Maybe my Dad wanted to finish his Dad’s dream. For five years, he got the chance

That makes me a Son of a Son of a Sailor.

On way to Bear Mt. 1963

Losers Lounge @ Talking Heads @ The New City Winery.

2021.9.11. Losers Lounge @ Talking Heads @ the new City Winery on the Hudson. The early show was excellent. A pleasure to see my favorite live music gang again. Here is a link to a full album of show photos. A few shots are below. Their next show is a tribute to George Harrison in December at Joe's Pub.

Someone Left The Cake Out In The Rain

Seeing all the kids in caps and gowns in June reminded me of my St. Stephen's 8th grade graduation in 1968 and old Yorkville school memories.

My mother was a St. Joseph girl, but fell in love with St. Stephen’s church and married my father there in 1952. This led to Rory and my enrollment. I met Sister Beatrice in 1st grade in 1960. She was a hands-on teacher who taught us to sing Hungarian folk songs and let each child express their individuality. That was progressive for the time. Sister Beatrice always had chalk dust on her backside from leaning against the board. She constantly flipped a piece of chalk like a coin. She never dropped it. She played punch ball with us in the street at lunchtime. After she smacked a ball under a car she’d lift her heavy black skirt so she could run fast down to first base. Instead of chasing the ball I admired her big nun shoes that I thought would be perfect for kicking a football.

Sister Mercedes

My middle years at the school were traditional 1960s teaching and mostly boring, but 8th grade was special thanks to Sister Mercedes. No teacher in my lifetime ever got me better. She threatened me, she punished me, she encouraged me, she laughed at me and she loved me. Sister Mercedes was blessed with an acute understanding of children. Having her as my last St. Stephen’s teacher set a standard for the qualities I expected and needed from future mentors. I didn’t always get it, but I recognized the type of person I was looking for.When I was too excited, Sister Mercedes invited me into the convent to clean and help with dinner preparation for the nuns. I was clumsy and my jobs were simplified, I vacuumed, “not near the lamps!” and I took the ends off a large bowl of string beans. One day, Sister Mercedes was sitting there watching me and I could see she was thinking something through, and then she said, “Thomas, instead of using your mouth so much, why don’t you use that left hand of yours and write down what you have to say.” She knew, she could see - good intuitive teachers understand different types of kids - in high school, in college, gravitate to mentors that get you, encourage you and keep you in line at the same time.

Towards the end of the year, Sister Mercedes put her hand firmly on my shoulder and said, "You're the smartest idiot I've ever taught."

Rory in my grad cap 6.16.68

My 8th grade St. Stephen’s June 16, 1968 graduation was ten days after the assassination of Robert Kennedy and two months after Martin Luther King’s death. There were riots in New York City neighborhoods. I remember it clearly. A very hot Sunday. After the ceremony, Mom and Dad played pinochle up Nan's on York Avenue with Pauline and Charlie Hannah. Nan had a bandanna around her neck to catch sweat and drank chilled ginger ale. “Cut the shit, cut the cards,” Nan said to Dad who was farting around. Rory wore my graduation cap, and then we ran out to put the fire hydrant on at the corner of 83rd Street and 1st Avenue. Mickey Mantle hit a homer against the Angels. George Chapman had sunburn on his back from Rockaway Beach. Unknowingly, I slapped George's back after Mantle's homer. Apology not accepted. Then I heard Richard Harris talk singing:


Someone left the cake out in the rain.
I don’t think that I can take it.
‘cause it took too long to bake it.
And I’ll never have that recipe again.
Oh, no! 

"MacArthur's Park," was on the radio and Rory bought a pound of Oreos with the 45 cents he clipped off Dad's dresser. Afterwards, we all sat on 403’s stoop and Herb Alpert crooned “This Guy’s In Love with You.” We considered these songs nuclear weapons for attracting girls.


The top 40 singles from June 16, 1968.

This Guy's In Love With You - Herb Alpert

The Horse - Cliff Nobles and Co.

MacArthurPark- Richard Harris

Yummy Yummy Yummy - Ohio Express

Look Of Love - Sergio Mendes

Mony Mony - Tommy James & The Shondells

Angel Of The Morning - Merilee Rush and the Turnabouts

Think - Aretha Franklin

Here Comes The Judge - Shorty Long

Reach Out Of The Darkness - Friend And Lover

Jumpin Jack Flash - Rolling Stones

Mrs. Robinson - Simon And Garfunkel

Grazing In The Grass - Hugh Masekela

Licking Stick-Licking Stick - James Brown

Lady Willpower - Gary Puckett and the Union Gap

I Love You – People

Tip-Toe Thru' The Tulips With Me - Tiny Tim

Indian Lake – Cowsills

Stoned Soul Picnic - 5th Dimension

I Could Never Love Another (After Loving You) – Temptations

How'd We Ever Get This Way - Andy Kim

She's A Heartbreaker - Gene Pitney

Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing - Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell

Good The Bad And The Ugly - Hugo Montenegro

(You Keep Me) Hangin On - Joe Simon

Choo Choo Train - Box Tops

Beautiful Morning – Rascals

Tighten Up - Archie Bell & The Drells

DW Washburn – Monkees

Never Give You Up - Jerry Butler

Man Without Love - Engelbert Humperdinck

Yester Love - Smokey Robinson & The Miracles

Folsom Prison Blues - Johnny Cash

Sky Pilot - Eric Burdon & The Animals

Like To Get To Know You - Spanky And Our Gang

Pictures Of Matchstick Men - Status Quo

Hurdy Gurdy Man – Donovan

Master Jack - Four Jacks And A Jill

Time For Living – Association

Face It Girl It's Over - Nancy Wilson

If you like my work check out my memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store or online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 135 Amazon five star reviews out of 135 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs. You can also purchase my photography portfolio, "River to River - New York Scenes From a Bicycle" on Amazon.

St. Stephen's 8th Grade Graduation program @ 6.16.68

Flam & Flam

My Uncle Jack and Aunt Anna were having marital problems in the late 1930s. Their fighting hit a new high in their East Harlem apartment when Aunt Anna found half her house money missing from the flour tin. She chased Uncle Jack out of the house with a ladle full of dog crap, down the stoop and up First Avenue to the entrance of the Willis Avenue Bridge. Jack ran to the Bronx using the roadway’s passing lane.

After catching his breath, Jack not wanting to waste a good trip to the Bronx, continued walking north up to Yankee Stadium where he caught a doubleheader with the Cleveland Indians. DiMaggio went 4 for 7 with two walks and five RBIs. Jack spent $2.75 of Anna’s house money on Franks, beer, a ticket, a pennant for the kid, a program and a five cent pencil to keep score.

When Jack got home, Anna had put a chair against the door locking him out. Unfortunately, she also locked out her son, John, who after begging his mother to no avail to let him in stayed with my grandparents on 104th Street in their new East River Houses, Housing Authority apartment.


After much consultation with everyone on their block, Jack and Anna decided to get professional help from Flam & Flam, a 106th Street law firm, famous in the neighborhood for resolving family crises when folks were broke. After discussing their plight with Freddy (the brains in the outfit) and telling him they had one dollar for a divorce, Freddy rocked back on the legs of the library surplus chair and thought it over, then he popped a hand off his bald head.


“I’ve got it! A house divorce! It’s the rage in Philadelphia. When couples want out, but can’t afford it, the courts can grant a house divorce (no they can’t). You live together, but you’re not married (you are). You can tell everybody you’re divorced, but by a tiny technical thread you’re not really divorced. So I only have to charge you a dollar. Give me a dollar.”

Stingily, Jack gave Freddy Flam a house money dollar. Anna watched the money change hands thinking about kicking Jack’s ass right there in Flam & Flam’s office.

Anna buried Jack in Calvary Cemetery in Queens in 1978 after 13 years of conventional marriage and 37 years of house divorce thanks to Flam and Flam.

"Get A Mouser!"

Anne Pryor 1942

Sleeping in the front room of my Italian grandmother's apartment I dreamt Ann-Margret was in a blue bikini doing a shimmy dance humming, “Tommy, Oh, Tommy.”


The vision dissolved when I felt the vacuum cleaner suck my toe in. Above the roar of the machine, my grandmother’s voice. “Get up!”
She did not like you sleeping when she was awake.



1582 York Avenue 1940



Uncle Tom home from Europe 1945

It was 1972, mid-summer. I looked at the clock on the nightstand.
“It’s 8:15!”
“Get up!”
“Why?”
“There’s a mouse running around in the kitchen.”
I don’t believe I heard the end of that sentence while I was still in bed. I jumped up, grabbed my eyeglasses, a pair of dungaree shorts, and my sneakers and ran out the front door. From the top of the staircase, Nan yelled down to me at the bottom where I was tying my sneakers in the low light of the hall.



Hunter I.D. 1972

“Don’t come back without a mouser!”
“Huh?”
“A cat, a cat, bring back a cat.”


It was hot that Saturday and the streets of Yorkville were empty. "Where was I going to find a cat" I thought about walking up to the ASPCA on 92nd Street but I wanted a friend to go with me. The only place where there might be someone else up this early was Esquire Deli on 84th Street & York. Their sodas were ice-cold and Augie, the owner, made terrific hero sandwiches that my friends craved all the time. Including for breakfast.
I ran into the store through their open door -- the AC was broken -- and saw Eddie Hauser talking to Augie’s brother, Joey. Augie was at the slicing machine, making breakfast for Eddie.
I ran into the store through their open door -- the AC was broken. I saw Eddie Hauser talking to Augie’s brother, Joey. Augie was at the slicing machine, making breakfast for big Eddie.




Tom Mac, Esquire, 1970



Side note: If you asked Eddie for a sip of his soda, he'd put the bottle up his arm pit, give it a couple of deep spins, pull it out, and offer you a sip.

“Hey, guys!”
I got back three “Yo’s!”
I went straight to the soda fridge and pulled out a Mission Cream. Walking back to the fellows, I asked, “I need a cat. Anyone want to walk with me to the ASPCA?”
Augie said, “Yeah, I’ll go. But first go get some ice cream.”
“I don’t want ice cream.”
“Pick something out.”
I’m thinking Augie lost his mind from the heat, but, I went over to the ice cream case and found the glass top half way open. Looking in, I saw a cardboard box with five snow-white kittens.
“I don’t believe it!”
The three of them laughed their asses off. Eddie said, “Take one, take two!”
I never had a cat; this was scary business. One had a pink nose. I grabbed it. The kitten fit in the palm of my hand.
“Thanks!” I said, and ran back to Nan’s.“Jeez, that was quick.” It was hard to impress Nan with anything but this nearly did. The whole thing took 20 minutes.


Stymie & Sparky Lyle




Murray Parker



Nan was humming to herself as she stroked the ball of fur in her lap.
“Let’s call her Stymie,” I said. I loved Stymie from the Little Rascals TV show.
“OK, but he’s a she,” Nan said after a quick investigation under the hood.
The contented expression on Nan’s face gave me hope I might have a rare window inside the Honorable Anne Pryor Rode's head.
“Nan, when was the first time you fell in love?”
With no hesitation, she said, “Your grandfather, Tom.”
“Tell me.”
Nan walked across the linoleum floor to turn on the fan. She came back to the kitchen table, placed the tiny kitten on her lap and started the story. As always, her streetwise accent echoed Yorkville's history.

Aunt Mary & Nan 1945

Aunt Mary 1582 York 1978

Stymie & Sparky Lyle