SUBSTITUTE TEACHERS

I received my elementary education at the Bigelow School off West Fourth St in Southie. We were taught by a staff of dedicated teachers who were determined that we receive the best education that the City of Boston could provide. It provided me the basis of an education that took me to the Graduate level in college. This story is not about them; rather it is about substitute teachers.

The majority of substitute teachers we saw came just to maintain decorum during the class period. We were told to use the time as a “study period.” There were two substitute teachers however that stand out in my mind.

The first was a recently returned soldier from WWII. He told us of his exploits while in Italy including the time he spent in Rome before mustering out. He described a church that was huge with a towering Rotunda and magnificent altar, of museums containing sculptures and paintings, and of a chapel where God was painted on the ceiling. Of course he was describing the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel. I hung on every word spoken. I will eternally be grateful to him for exposing a world outside of my very limited knowledge as a young boy.

The second substitute teacher was a recent graduate from college. She came to teach the Music class we had once a week. She brought with her music scores of songs sung during the Civil War period. With her back to us at the piano we sang songs like The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Dixie, When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again etc. When she passed out the song Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground, we all kind of snickered. Without a word spoken between us we bellowed out “My Ass is in the Cold, Cold Ground.” Every time the refrain returned we upped the volume a little bit until the final refrain where we screamed as loud as 12 year old mischievous boys can, “My Ass is in the Cold, Cold Ground”

That is the memory of 70 years ago at the old Bigelow School.

THE JUKEBOX

Before there were smartphones where you can produce music instantly with a click of a button there was the Jukebox. In the Restaurant I worked as a teenager- that is what we had for entertainment. My father and Uncle were part owners of Joe’s Spa in the 1950’s. I had just graduated from High School and was desperate for spending money before attending college. They allowed me to work as much as I wanted and that is how I was able to work the night shift on Saturday evening with my Father and open on Sunday morning with my uncle.

For those of you who were around in Southie in the 1950’s you know that Joe’s Spa was the only game in town. The “Blue Laws” were in effect which meant all of the bars closed Saturday at midnight. By 12:15 A.M. everybody ended up at the Spa. It was absolute bedlam.

 Back to the Jukebox. Before the first sandwich was served the music started. Now there were at least 50 -45 rpm discs loaded for play(100songs), but everyone wanted the latest hits for their enjoyment. Among the songs popular then and the ones that have been stuck in my mind ever since -were Tennessee Waltz and I Went to Your Wedding by Patti Page. Cry by Johnny Ray, Mona Lisa by Nat King Cole, Goodnight Irene by the Weavers, Because of You by Tony Bennett, You Belong to Me by Jo Stafford, Wheel of Fortune by Kay Starr, Why Don’t You Believe Me by Joni James, Oh My Papa by Eddie Fisher, Mule Train by Frankie Laine, and Sixteen Tons by Ernie Ford. There were others as well but these were the ones played over and over and over again all night long.

The last thing I did before closing on the Saturday shift was to pull the plug on the Jukebox. When I returned on Sunday the first thing I did was to plug in the Jukebox. You guessed it. Even though there were few customers in the early morning Sunday shift the music played for several hours- the same songs over and over and over again. Today whenever those songs hit the airwaves I get nostalgia of the simpler time in my life.

THANKSGIVING

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite Holidays. As a child I remember the hustle and bustle of my parents and of my uncle and aunt in preparation for the day. The feast of turkey and the numerous side dishes were a gluttons delight. Memories of those joyous occasions will remain with me forever. Eventually my siblings and I married and moved out of Southie to the surrounding suburbs. My sister went further into the State of Maine. We all tried to stay in touch but with growing children and our responsibilities as adults- that wasn’t easy.

 However, there was one day when we all returned as a family to our parents’ home and that of course was Thanksgiving. Our parents continued with the preparations of the meal until they no longer do so physically. But that wasn’t a deterrent. The slack was taken up by everyone and we continued the tradition. I recall when the number of us grew so large that we had tables set up from the front of the house to the back. Adults sat in the more formal dining room and the children at extension tables.

Eventually our parents passed and the annual trek to Southie ended.  We started our own traditions with our own grandchildren. The memories of our annual gatherings in Southie at Thanksgiving have always had a special place in my heart and that is why I consider it one of my favorite holidays. 

PINNOCHIO

I remember the first motion picture I ever saw. It was around 1941 when I was at the impressionable age of 6. The movie was Pinocchio. There were 2 movie theaters in Southie at the time, the Broadway on West Broadway and the Strand on East Broadway. The movie was not shown at either theater. To see it you had to go downtown Boston which was an adventure by itself.

It was the golden age of Movie theaters and the lobbies to a 6 year old were a marvel to see. I entered a world previously  unknown to me. The Paramount (which was recently renovated by Emerson College) was where I saw the movie.

Unfortunately at my age I thought what I was about to see was real. The scene where Pinocchio was changing into a donkey was an earth shattering moment and for years I tried to live an exemplary life because I thought that could happen to me. As I said at the beginning I was at impressionable age.

LAMPLIGHTER

Many of you may find it hard to believe but when I lived on West Fifth St. in Southie in the late 1930’s the street was lit by gas lamps. The lamp had a pilot light that remained constantly on. At dusk a lamplighter would take a long pole and adjust the valve to provide full illumination. At day break he would reverse the procedure and adjust the valve to the pilot level.

Today the streets are lit by sodium vapor lamps that are so bright that it is hard to distinguish day from night. Of course from a safety point of view that is exactly what you want. But my memory of a street lit by gas lamps can’t be beat. The lamps were placed at intervals that provided just sufficient lighting overlap. When I stood and looked down my street from Dorchester St. I paint a picture in my mind of a darkened street with just enough illumination to make out the outline of the houses and street.

Like all good paintings they are worthy of saving.

JOE'S SPA EMPLOYMENT

Recently a friend posted a question asking what your first job was as a teenager. My response was “Worked a soda fountain making "frappes" milk shakes and dishing out ice cream sundaes and ice cream cones.” That was over 60 years ago. Since the restaurant was owned by Father and Uncle both families were employed there. The Restaurant was Joe’s Spa on West Broadway.

I worked full time during the summers but only on weekends when I was going to school. Today there are many fine restaurants in Southie and the choices quite varied. For those of you who lived in Southie in the Fifties your choices were limited. The only restaurant of considerable size was Joe’s Spa.

Back then the Blue Laws were in effect. That meant the bars were closed at 1:00 AM on Fridays and 12:00 AM on Saturday. A half hour after they closed all of the bar occupants ended up at Spa. It was the only time the reserve room in the back was open. It was utter chaos. Many nights all of the booths were occupied and there was standing room only. Our kitchen was closed but our sandwich station was open. That was where I ended up working.

Over the years when I mentioned I worked at the Spa people would tell me “that’s where I met my Spouse.” I am sure it was during those post bar meetings when everyone in Southie was gathered. I have fond memories of that time although I was working too hard to appreciate the social activities happening all around me.

BABE RUTH OUR NEIGHBORHOOD

As a youngster growing up on West Fifth Street in Southie I was subjected to a lot of stories about our neighborhood by the older boys. One story in particular stuck with me even as an adult. The story involved Babe Ruth. He supposedly once lived in our neighborhood and that his wife was buried in the cemetery surrounding the St. Augustine Chapel on West Sixth Street. Babe Ruth was the most revered baseball player of his era and because I thought I could play professional baseball, he was a major idol in my young life.

When I retired some 22 years ago I had time on my hands so I thought I would chase down this story. Many books have been written about the Babe, some factual, others were fiction. One book confirmed that his wife was buried in the Chapel cemetery. Had the Author done some serious research he would have learned that it was not true. Here are the facts.

Babe Ruth did live in our neighborhood. When he played for the Red Sox he fell in

love with Helen Woodford from West Fourth St. He moved to Silver St. to be near her. They married and lived for a while above Joes Spa on West Broadway and then later to the Eaton Hotel on Emerson St. When he played for the Yankees he became “the toast of the town” and their marriage unraveled. Helen moved back to Southie with their daughter Dorothy. Although separated, they never divorced.

Helen eventually moved in with a dentist in Watertown and tragically died there in a fire caused by frayed electrical wiring. She was waked out of her home on West Fourth St. Babe Ruth attended the wake and the funeral at Mount Cavalry Cemetery in Roslindale where she was buried. So at least part of the story was true. Babe at the Cemetery. Helen's Tombstone. With Helen and Dorothy