The beginning . . . .

Now I’m sitting here wondering what to write about so I guess I’ll start at the beginning . . . .

Born in Chicago, one of eight: the sixth of eight to be exact, and only the second girl. Actually, I was also the last girl born to my parents. We had six boys and two girls; the two girls were born ten years apart.

As I mentioned, I was the sixth of eight but after the oldest five were born, there was a five year gap before my parents had more children. The gap was never explained but as a result I was the youngest of the oldest five . . . . and the oldest of the youngest three. So to be accurate, I am a middle child but also an oldest child. A shrink sure would have a lot of fun with me!

Did I mention we were Irish Catholic? Very Irish Catholic… and we lived in a very Irish Catholic neighborhood of Chicago. Those were in the days when there were very clear demarcations between ethic groups in Chicago. For example, the Irish in our neighborhood all lived south of 70th Street and the Italians all lived north of it. There was some cross over. My parents, for a while, lived in the Italian side of 70th street, but mainly because there was cheaper housing available there. They soon moved back to 73rd street and were surrounded by old-country or first generation Irish. But my mother liked to shop in the Italian grocery stores on 69th street because they had spices and cheeses the Irish stores didn’t carry and probably didn’t even know about. And as a kids we never missed the Feast of the Assumption at the Italian church, Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Mass was followed by a procession of men carrying a huge statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary on a float through the neighborhood. Old county Italians would stuff dollar bills and coins on the float with the BVM and the old ladies would raise their rosaries in prayer as she passed by.  The procession ended in the church parking lot where a garish, brightly lite, carnival was ready to go. The carnival would last all night with the adults talking or playing bingo and drinking wine or, in the case of the Irish, beer… while we kids ran wild.

But it wasn’t all rosy all the time between the two ethic groups. Both the Irish and Italians were tough, blue-collar, working class people. Our fathers were pipe fitters and laborers, street car drivers and stockyard workers. They came home from work bone-tired and dirty. The wealthier Irish – – police and firemen – – lived south of the tracks at 75th street.

The kids in our hood could be a little rough around the edges, as they say today. There were often fights between the “groups’ from both sides of 70th street. The 69th Street Loafers (Italian) and the Irish kids (they weren’t as organized as the Italians, I guess, because I don’t recall them having a name) would occasionally go at it with their fists. But the most anyone got hurt was black eye or diminished ego. After a time, knives became involved in some of the fights though. A vivid memory of mine is seeing my oldest brother, Joe (who at the time was studying to be a social worker) running out of the house to help intervene when he heard there was a fight at 70th street and a knife had been drawn. I guess he wanted to put his new found social work skills to work. But he was a smallish, skinny kid and my parents were terrified. All hell broke out in our house as they sent my other brothers after him. I don’t remember any more than that but I guess it all turned out okay as they all got up for school the next day.