I am who I am and I know what I see
Until that day when I cease to be
My shadow I cast, upon this earth
Until the final day, I recall my birth
Life is pleasant if you make it so
Life is over before you know
Little time for tears and stress
The time is now for happiness
~ Gemini Joe ~
I
was born on June 10, 1929, the year of the Great Depression. What a time that was. I was the last thing anybody needed around. I never knew the day. I’m guessing I was born on a Sunday. Don’t ask me why. That would be more like me, because at that time on Sunday, we couldn’t get an ambulance to take my mom to the hospital. Maybe it was even Blue Monday. Is that negative thinking?
I was named after my father, Joseph. Joseph Frank Finno, but everyone called me Joey so we wouldn’t get confused. They found I had a heart murmur and chronic bronchitis. My family sort of favored me, but I hoped they didn’t feel sorry for me, because I did pretty good. I’ve always had a breathing problem, but I managed to get through it, until later years when it caught up with me. I just had to deal with it, but my mom and dad took me to every doctor they could.
Once, a little old woman told my mom, “Bring Joey to the sulfur creek. It will help him.”
I will always remember that. When I couldn’t get my breath, my mom and dad would take me in the car and bring me to this little creek over by Coney Island. The property was a sewage dump. It smelled like rotten eggs, but I would get past the breathing attacks.
On the way home, my dad would drive around with the car window open and I would stick my head out. Then I was okay.
In Brooklyn, they had these “cold water flats.” Like railroad cars, you had to go through each room to get to the end. The bathroom was in the hallway, and we had to share it with other families in the building. To keep the lights on, we fed quarters to the meter. One quarter bought two hours of electricity. The service man from Con Ed came every month to collect the coins. We had kerosene heat and that wasn’t too good for my breathing, but what could they do? It was the only heat there. The warmest place was the kitchen, because my mom would start a fire in the coal-burning stove, and light the little gas heater that was under the hot water reservoir.
Whenever Mom was cooking at the stove, Dad would wink at us and sneak up behind her. He’d hug her and kiss her neck, but she would turn around and hit him with a spaghetti stick.
We all laughed.
My mom and dad loved each other very much. I was very happy to see that.
Every Tuesday, the bakery wagons unloaded their day-old bread. As soon as the wagon appeared, people crowded into the store, pushing and shoving to get their share. Mom bought it for a penny a loaf. It was hard bread, but she knew what to do with it. She wrapped the bread in damp dishtowels overnight. Like magic, the next day it was soft. She cut it lengthwise and put some oil, garlic, and a little parsley then warmed it in the coal-burning stove. Boy that was a good breakfast let me tell you. I miss that. It was very good.
At times when we had it made, we had graham crackers and I used to crush them in the milk. That was my cereal. Now I am looking at rows of cereal in the stores. All kinds of cereal, it even talks to you, some of it.
I only had graham crackers or Uneeda biscuits to crush. That was something. Those were hard times, but I think they were good times too.
Whenever the food was running low, Mom would pull out all the leftovers, which weren’t too much. My dad knew what was coming and when we sat down at the table, he said, “I wonder what the poor people are eating.”
My sister said, “Probably the same thing we are.” Only she could get away with this.