SURFNETKIDS GROWN-UP NONFICTION BOOK CLUB Got shopping? Get discounts! Visit Surfnetkids: Coupons, Deals and Bargains for hundreds of discounts from dozens of online stores. week's book: THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND ME by Eli Wallach *New to the book club? Just click on the Missing Read link below for any shops you may have missed. Go to: (Today's book starts after the "Dear Reader" column.) Reader, The way it's supposed to work is that I'm in charge of my own life. But periodically everybody else's life and mine get mixed up and then I wonder, 'Am I still living in my own house, or have I moved into somebody else's?' When it feels like boundaries have gotten confused and property lines are blurred, it's time to clean house--let go of other people's criticisms that have stung and hurt me deeply. For some reason I've invited them in, even put out the welcome mat. "Come on in and make yourself at home." A little cabin fever is welcome when I can't clearly see my property line anymore. Keep to myself for awhile and put up a fence to keep out other people's stuff, because I need time to review what's going on in my own life. Maybe pull a few weeds, do some replanting, fertilize, then stand back and take another look. 'Is this how I want my life to look--not how other people think it should look?' And when I feel confident that I have my own place back in order, then I can take down the fence and let other people in again. Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends. Suzanne Beecher Surfing the Net with Kids: shop me: Missing an shop? Go to: =====TODAY'S GOOD, THE BAD, AND ME In My Anecdotage by Eli Wallach (nonfiction) A Harvest Book Published by Harcourt Inc. ISBN: 9780156031691 Copyright (c) 2005 by Eli Wallach To reference this shop: GOODBAD (Part 3 of 5) book contains brief adult language. (continued from Tuesday) We were the only Jewish family in our working-class neighborhood, which was predominantly Italian, and my earliest childhood memories are filled with vivid images of Union Street. Sometimes an organ grinder would appear on the street with a live parrot perched on his shoulder. "Fortune! Fortune! I'll tell you a fortune," the fortune- teller would call out, and customers would gather around him. "Come on, let my parrot pick a card for you," the fortune-teller would say, and if you paid a nickel, the parrot, after a nod from his owner, would bend down and come up with a card sticking out of his beak: "There's your fortune! Read, read! All of it is true!" Sometimes a photographer would set up his tripod just outside of our store. Under his camera, there would be a tin can filled with developing fluid. "Ten cents," he would say. "You sit on my pony, I take-a your picture and develop it right here." I always watched him, and one day I got up the courage to have my picture taken. I gave him a dime, mounted the pony, and pretended to be a cowboy riding out to round up cattle or joining a posse chasing bandits. At one time or another, everyone in our family worked in the store. Sometimes Pop would go across the river to New York's Lower East Side to buy supplies, and Mom would take care of customers. My tasks included emptying the water out of the basin underneath the iceboxes, taking out the garbage, sweeping up the shells from the Indian nuts, and walking my little four-wheeled wagon to the newspaper dealer on Harrison Street and piling it up with Sunday papers for the store. Early in the mornings, I'd stand in front of our store and watch the white-jacketed milkman. He'd hop off his wagon, leaving the reins draped off the horse's back, and stop at each doorway. He'd drop off the milk, and his horse would walk slowly down the street, timing its stops exactly with the milkman returning to reload his tray. The milk came in bottles, and at the top of the bottle, there was always heavy cream. Another one of my jobs was to shake those bottles and put them in the iceboxes in our kitchen and in the store. Twice a day, the fruit wagon would stop near our store. The wagon had elegantly painted side panels depicting churches, mountains, and trees. A big scale with large white numbers dangled from the rear of the wagon. The horse's ears would stick out through the holes in his straw hat. The fruit man would stand up and ring a big bell, crying out, "Fruit! Fresh fruit! Melons, bananas, oranges, apples!" Mom would always send Sylvia out to buy a bag of fresh fruit that she would then put out on the sideboard in our kitchen. Horses were everywhere in those days, hauling fruit, milk, and ice. And they often left their calling card on the street--big clumps of horse s hit. On cold days, steam would rise from the pile. Three times a day, the street cleaner would arrive in a white hat and jacket, pushing a big two-wheeled ash can. He'd deposit the manure and move on. The manure would be sold later as fertilizer. Mr. Dante the wine-maker had a shop near our store. One day he hired me to help him slide crates of grapes down a board into the cellar, where he would catch them. "Come down and watch," Mr. Dante said to me. We emptied the grapes into a large round vat that stood on a wooden frame about three feet from the ground. Two overweight ladies who looked like they had mustaches stood waiting, with their skirts rolled up above their knees. Dante turned on his phonograph, and the women began stomping the grapes to the rhythm of a tarantella. The juice flowed from the holes in the bottom of the vat into big bottles. "Here's a bottle from last year's pressing," he said. "My regards to your pop." He also gave me a whole new shiny quarter. On the way home, I wondered if I should tell Pop about those ladies; I wasn't sure if they had washed their feet. A few blocks away from our store, there was a theater called La Luna, where I saw my first stage production when Pop took Sam, Sylvia, Shirley, and me to see an Italian puppet show. The walls of La Luna were covered with giant canvas paintings of fearless warriors on horseback, driving spears into the necks of animals. The canvases seemed to drip blood. The puppets in the show were life- size; their big glass eyes moved as they looked out on us and yelled in Italian. I was frightened by the show, and that night I couldn't fall asleep because I was afraid the puppets would get me--their eyes kept staring at me. Even more exciting than the puppet shows were the Italian fiestas held on Union Street honoring the lives and accomplishments of saints. Pushcarts would suddenly line both sides of the street. Each cart contained plates of food. One time there was a man in a black apron with a big knife opening clams and oysters. Then we'd hear the band playing the Italian national anthem, and up the street would come floats and big, brawny longshoremen bearing huge statues of Jesus and Mary and other saints. Jesus would have his arms stretched out on a cross, a crown with thorns around his head, bloody tears trickling down his face. Mary would be wearing a colorful blue, green, and red dress--she looked a little like my mother. At one of those fiestas, I tugged at Pop's shirt. "Pa," I asked, "why don't we have parades like they do?" "Well," he said, "they have a different God and their God likes parades." I knew that wasn't the real answer, but I accepted it. But the best part of Union Street was the funerals. At the first solemn drumbeats, people would line the sidewalks. Our family would go out in front of the store to pay our respects. A large band with drums, trumpets, and saxophones would march by us, all of the musicians walking very slowly. Then a beautiful hearse would follow, drawn by two horses wearing large plumes as black as their shiny flanks. The sides of the hearse were made of glass so you could catch a glimpse of the ebony casket covered with a blanket of red roses. Silently parading behind them were the mourners, all the women wearing black scarves. Once when I was watching a funeral, I asked Sam if he thought our mom and pop would get such an exciting one. Sam was a mentor to me and my sisters, and later he would be the first member of the family to go to college. He would always come home expressing very radical views. Fuming at Sam's political remarks, my father would hold up his newspaper. "This paper tells the truth," he would say. "It's the 'Jewish Daily Forward.'" And Sam would always goad him with this smart comeback: "No, it's not. It's the 'Jewish Daily Backward.'" (continued on Thursday) =========BUY this link to get the best price on this week's book: To locate or purchase OTHER BOOKS use this link: =======SHARE THE can forward this shop to your friends and relatives. Encourage them to join our book clubs. It's a great way to stay in touch even if you live thousands of miles apart. comments or book suggestions? Contact me, Barbara J. Feldman, at: Inc., 991C Lomas Santa Fe Dr. #415 Solana Beach, CA 92075 You are currently Purchased to surfgrownup as: To Purchase send a blank shop to To join any of the free Surfnetkids Book Clubs, visit:

... Back to listing 52

... Back to article 10262 | SITEMAP | Next to article 10264 ...

We would like to express our gratitude to all those who are kindly providing this unique content, especially to:

office@a3ides.com
olga@bemobile.md
tirlik@brainchildhunter.com
office@bemobile.md
sharuha@causeni.info
info@webconsulting.md
irina.gorea@bemobile.md
office@milieukontakt.nl
igor.romanyuk@bemobile.com.ua
yuri.sekretar@olympia.net.ua
info@tophost.md
webmoldova@yahoo.com
admin@bemobile.md
webmaster@bemobile.md
emil@a3ides.com
olea@bemobile.md
yuri.sekretar@bemobile.com.ua
contact@a3ides.com
info@a3ides.com
vitaliy.lozovskiy@bemobile.md
drugg83@yahoo.com
rector@usm.md
gaugash@usm.md
acad.rudic@mail.md
acadrudic@yahoo.com
veaceslav.vasilache@gmail.com
s.bakker@milieukontakt.nl
katea.melnicenco@gmail.com
mkoe.moldova@vox.md
musteata@doctor.com
renat.buga@ase.md
s.molenkamp@milieukontakt.nl
si_problemme@mail.ru
willem.tjebbe.oostenbrink@planet.nl

Tag cloud:

Italian, Wallach, wearing, Sometimes, (continued, because, welcome, Missing, property, people's, picture, walking, saints., 'Jewish, exciting, puppets, horse's, covered,

Similar listing on: