I missed noting an important date in the September jottings, the anniversary of our first night in this our home. It was six years ago on September 24th, 1997. We had been by the house earlier checking on the work that was done and June remembers even doing a bit of vacuuming. But the movers didn’t arrive until the 24th with our bed so we stayed until then in Rich and Shirley McSorley’s home. In the newspaper recently there was a picture of a couple walking on the beach away from the camera holding hands, the article mentioned that they were recent retirees and new residents of Florida. They commented, “We still feel like were on vacation!” This was often our thought over the past six years. Living where there is water seemingly everywhere; where there is a beach and green all the time is what we associated in the past with “vacation”. June still likes to recall how after one of our trips north as we crossed the bridge from Tampa to St.Petersburg, she could say with a bit of wonder, “We’re home!” The years however have slowly diminished that feeling and we know more and more that this is our home. We now have a circle of friends, activities, etc. and with Michael and his family moving down, it is certain that this will be so until at least I head for that final home of rest. So it’s six down and Lord willing, many more to go.
Another event that September marked was the beginning of these writings as “Jottings” now some ten years ago. 1992 marked a turning point in my life. I was retired from the Court position. I had given up booze. The office on 431 Rhawn Street was no longer under the ownership of the lady I had rented it from for nearly 20 years. She died and her granddaughter who had visions of turning it into more profitable place now owned it. Further she with the aid of a lawyer believed I had unduly influenced her grandmother in accepting a low rental for the bar next door. I left the property in ’94 and eventually defended a suit against myself with success, thanks to my then new associate John Malone. I spent the next few years as part of his office on Oxford Avenue. I thought of what urged me to begin these notes. I think originally I had planned it as a family letter, something my father had done for years. Then I wrote accounts of some incidents. One was of the trip to bury our Bishop brother in the Sulu Islands, which my sister Marge and I made in 1970. Another was a story of my representation of a defendant in a publicly aired trial for murder, the murder of In-Oh-Ho, then a Korean student at the University of Pennsylvania. I found I liked the composing and the compliments, but then I also recalled that I had been writing most of my adult life. I had letters to compose daily in practice. I had briefs to compose and memorandum of studies in preparation for such briefs. So now that those formal matters were laid to rest the idea of creating by pen was still appealing and so jottings came to be.
The thought of beaches reminded me in a dream of our home in Sea Isle City, New Jersey. It was where we spent the summers. We would leave shortly after schools closed and return only when they were about to open. We (my Mother and Father) owned a house that was somewhat like some of the mansions I see here in the Bay area. The big differences are that here they are of stone or stucco with many adornments and usually only two stories. In Sea Isle we had a three-story A-frame house of wood covered, roof to sides, with slate shingles . Slate shingles are no longer around as far as I can ascertain. The shingles were slate plates of about 10 inches square. They were affixed to the sides of the house by nails. It gave our home an ashy like look but they were never replaced in the years we were there. The property was owned from around 1918 to 1952. The house was three stories high and sat on 45th street, with the # 11, as it’s address. The sides of A-frame faced north and south. There was but one house between the beach and ours. There was a porch that was about 8 feet off the ground and it ran around the house from the street, the front, to the rear. The beach side of the house was where the porch proceeded along. Under the porch there was a six-foot wide area of dirt. A lattice works of wood extended from the porch floor to the ground hiding that area. That six-foot wide area was great place for playing in and it was out of the sun. We often did so even burying things there as part of our games. I remember after a funeral of one our aunts or cousins, that my sisters Rosemary and Anne and I conducted our own funeral in that place. The ground floor entrance was in the rear of the property where there was also another stairway to the porch. In the ground floor was a cellar in which potatoes and other vegetables were stored, a toilet and two stone sinks, washing machine, and in its far corner a large unenclosed shower for use after being on the beach. It was the only shower in the house. The front door to the house was a double door and you entered into a large room with a fireplace to your left. It had, in the place where you would put the wood, a gas heater. I remember only seeing it used once during a cool northeasterner. What you first saw upon entering was a railing directly in front of you about three feet away. The railing ran from a platform down three steps to the living room floor.
It was on that platform, set against the beachside wall, that we performed each summer for our father’s birthday. There was a piano in the living room which sat against the wall under the stairs. The stairs rose from the platform along the wall to the second floor. The next room on the first floor was adorned with a breakfront, a small altar and in front of it a kneeling bench meant for our use when praying (usually as I recall only Dad used it when he was there and we recited the rosary – all 15 decades). To the right off of that room towards the beach was the dining room. It was large and had an oil clothed covered table of about 12 feet long and 3 feet wide. The room had three windows next to one another arched and facing the beach. It had a door on the side next to the windows, which went out to the porch, but we only used it for allowing the sea breezes to fly into the dining room. The house of our neighbors the Tivani’s blocked any direct view. But we could look to either side of their house and see the water and boardwalk. Beyond the dining room was a large kitchen with a cupboard immediately to the right and a large stove. In the kitchen to your right were three doors. One for each of the stairways one to the second floor and the other to the cellar (It never became a ‘basement’ since it had maybe two lights with one bulb in each). The third door led to small pantry with shelves and a refrigerator. From the kitchen was a back door on to the porch and the stairs to the back yard. The back yard was used mostly for drying clothes and I never remember playing there in the weeds at all. My room most of my life in Sea Isle was on the third floor to the right of the stairs. It was small compared the other two rooms on that floor but was high enough to look over our neighbors house and see the beach, water, and boardwalk. The front room was more like a dormitory with three double beds. Directly across from my room in the rear was another bedroom usually occupied by Catherine Dempsey who was our live-in Nanny for years, although I never recall her being referred to that way. She was just another member of the family who for some reason, never explained to the children, came to live with us and help Mom. The second floor front had the master bedroom with bath. Down the hall on either side were two more bedrooms and one at the end of that hall. The last room next to the one at the end of the hall was another bath and dirty clothes closet. The bathrooms were precisely that, i.e., no showers were found in them or in our home in Philadelphia. Looking back reminds me how fortunate we were and how very well off we were.
One summer Jack Lukens, whose brother Bob would later marry my sister Anne, and I and with one other friend whose name now escapes me painted that house. It meant painting largely the porch, stairs, window frames, and trellis running along under the porch. We were three college students and we got $21 a week, or $7 each. I recall we spent only a modest amount of time in June and part of July painting and the rest of time visiting Myhre’s Hotel Bar, the beach and boardwalk. It all came to an end in July when my Father arrived for the birthday celebration and informed me that if we didn’t get moving the deal was off. When he returned on August 15 for the Feast of the Assumption we had nearly finished. It was probably the summer of 1950 since we graduated in 1951 and were off to new lives somewhere else. One incident that still remains with me is that on one of our visits to Myhre’s we found ourselves out of money. Jack offered to play the piano, which sat behind the bar on a platform. It was a weeknight and no entertainment ever occurred on such nights. He proceeded to go up and play “Little Brown Jug” while my friend (whose name I can’t recall) and I spread the word that he would play requests for beers for himself and his soul mates. After the ‘Little Brown Jug” rendition he got a request and we got beers. I think it was “Stardust”. Jack jumped right in and began playing. Strangely enough it sounded like “Little Brown Jug”. The requesting party thought so too but we assured him it was “Stardust” and his hearing needed bit of adjustment. Unfortunately our explanation fell on deaf ears and the beers disappeared. Jack returned to the bar completely baffled at the poor reception so we decided to leave. By writing all this about something that existed 50 years ago I am led to affirm that as you grow older the memory of things long ago come easier than what you did two days ago! C’est la vive! The author of an article in the AARP magazine lamenting the loss of the Latin Mass, had this to say about such remembrances: “I always reckoned that remembrances of things past would be more officially eye-moistening, peaks in the cream of youth…no.. Oddly its something that even 40 years ago was considered ancient and reactionary by my mates, the quintessence of the dead hand of history.” A house doesn’t seem to qualify either as a “peak in the cream of youth” but I remembered it. Until next time Pax Tecum!