My oldest son went to daycare at Cordi Marian, 1100 S. May Street in Little Italy for three years. They accepted all children provided they were potty trained. My son was hardly qualified, but they accepted him anyway. These three years were quite a learning experience for me because of series of unbelievable coincidences, the kind you couldn’t include in a novel or a movie. First of all, I learned that my aunt Concha also sent her son Peter there for daycare. Peter and David didn’t really know they were related because they had never met before. One day, I recognized my aunt Concha as she was leaving Cordi Marian with her son. Our sons soon became good friends and since Peter was a year older he kind of looked over my son to make sure he was fine.
Another surprise was that the nuns who taught at the school knew our family. In fact, the nuns were all from Mexico. So were all the lay teachers and teacher aids. All the parents liked the fact that the children were learning Spanish. Since most of the teachers spoke very little English, most of the children were speaking Spanish. One day, Sister Teresa, the principal, asked me how my father was. She knew my father by name. We talked a while and then she told me how she knew not only my father but also his brothers and sisters and their parents, my grandparents. Since my grandfather was a carpenter, he did some carpentry with his sons at Cordi Marian. Sister Teresa showed me some of the shelves and bookcases that they had made for the school. And three generations later, my son is using these cubby-hole shelves to store his backpack and blanket.
One day my father told me to me that his sister, Sor Ancilla, had come from her convent in Texas where she is Mother Superior. I go to Pilsen to pick up my father and I ask where we have to go to pick up my aunt. He asks me if I know how to get to 1100 S. May Street. Of course, I do! That’s were I take my son to daycare, I tell him. Well, I get there and sure enough, my aunt Sor Ancilla is staying at Cordi Marian for the weekend. What a coincidence! Or rather, what a series of coincidences that no one would believe if I wrote them into a novel.
I worked at Derby Foods, Inc., 3327 W. 47th Place, Chicago, IL 60632, for twelve years. I started working on the midnight shift two days before my eighteenth birthday, but Jessie who hired me told me to tell everyone I was eighteen so the factory wouldn’t get in trouble for violating federal child labor laws. The factory-made Peter Pan Peanut Butter and Derby Tamales. Occasionally, they put the generic “Giant” labels on the Peter Pan Peanut Butter jars that were shipped out east somewhere. Many people laughed when I told them I worked in a peanut butter factory. Now that I think back, it does sound kind of funny. Besides, how many people would admit to working in a peanut butter factory–I mean besides me. I worked there for twelve years in all, but not consecutively. I started on May 7, 1974, and worked continuously, not counting two layoffs, through May of 1978 when I went to Mexico on vacation for a month and didn’t come back to work on time from my vacation. I heard that I got fired, but I didn’t care. My mother was extremely upset because I had the dream job that she had always wanted. She couldn’t get it, so she did everything in her power for me to get it. When I returned from Mexico, I went to the unemployment office and filed a claim because I had heard that I was laid off again. Well, I started receiving unemployment insurance checks which led me to believe that I was laid off and not fired. I never actually talked directly to Jessie or anyone else from Derby Foods to find out what my actual job status was. On August 23, 1978, I enlisted into the United States Marine Corps, mainly because my unemployment benefits would soon end because I would be called back to work and I didn’t want to work at Derby Foods anymore. While I was in the Marines, my mother had talked to Jessie at Derby Foods about me getting my job back–the job I never even wanted in the first place! I soon received a letter from Derby Foods stating that I could have my job back when I was honorably discharged from the Marines. My mother called me up to congratulate me even before I received the letter, which I immediately threw away upon receiving it.
When I returned to Chicago in July of 1981 after being honorably discharged from the Marines, my mother wanted to know what I had done with the letter, so I could take it to Derby Foods and get my old job back. I told her that I couldn’t find it. I really didn’t want to work there anymore, but I didn’t want to go to college at that point in my life either. In September, my life savings from the Marine Corps had been spent in a mere two months. I didn’t have all that much money because I pretty much earned about minimum wage working for Uncle Sam. Well, I had found my own apartment near Marquette Park at 3006 W. 64th Street and I had to pay the rent somehow. My mother was upset that I wouldn’t live with her in her house, but she would go to my new apartment every day to clean, bring me used furniture, and unpack my things. I started working at Derby Foods again in September. As luck would have it, I didn’t lose any of my seniority or benefits while in the Marines because of federal laws. In fact, the fiscal year for the factory started on November 1, so I worked about three weeks and then I had to take a three-week vacation before the fiscal year ended or I would lose all that vacation time. I was kind of glad I went back to Derby Foods. Of course, before I took my vacation time, Jessie asked me if I was going to Mexico again. Everyone was worried that I wouldn’t return. I told them that I planned to stay home and read books for three whole weeks. This worried them even more because no one at Derby Foods ever read any books.
I met all kinds of people at Derby Foods, from different Chicago neighborhoods. When I first started working there, everyone treated me nicely because I was so young. They all told me to finish high school so I wouldn’t have to work there all my life like they did. It was very good advice, but I couldn’t work full-time and go to high school full-time. I told my mother that I wanted to graduate from high school, but I couldn’t study and go to work at the same time. I would get home at 7:30 a.m. from working the midnight shift and then I’d have to go to school. Most days I couldn’t stay awake in school. Eventually, I dropped out of school. But I did get my GED thanks to my first wife who was so embarrassed being married to a high school dropout. I’m glad she made me take the GED test or my life would have turned out so differently. Some of my co-workers at the factory told me they were disappointed that I didn’t graduate.
About 1982, I was laid off again for nine months. Everyone told me I should complain to Derby Foods because a certain Peter was still working and didn’t get laid off even though he had less seniority than me. Whoever made up the list of people to be laid off didn’t include my time in the Marines for my seniority, so it appeared that I had less time on the job than Peter. I actually didn’t mind being laid off for those nine months! I did a lot of reading and writing back then. My mother would call me up every day to tell me to call Derby Foods and tell them that I had more seniority than Peter. I told her that I liked being laid off. That I liked not working and getting paid for it. She just didn’t understand. I worked there until September of 1986 when the factory shifted its operations to Sylvester, Georgia, but didn’t take any employees with them. Like I would have moved to Georgia just to work for Derby Foods! Thus ended my illustrious career as a manual laborer at the peanut butter factory.
When I was little, I wasn’t sure how long I would live. I was a healthy boy, so I’m not sure why I always wondered about my longevity. Of course, being a Catholic, I was always reminded not to commit any mortal sins because if I died suddenly and unexpectedly, I would immediately go to hell.
And now that I think about it, I could die at any moment. I could some day walk out onto Halsted Street and get hit by a bus. I only say this because I was once almost hit by a bus on Halsted Street. In fact, it was just the other day. I was thinking about many things other than paying attention to crossing the street. I’m still not sure why I didn’t see the bus.
When my uncle Joseph “Pepe” Rodriguez died in Viet Nam, I was sure that I would never live to see twenty-one. I was sure I, too, would be drafted and die in Viet Nam. So I always considered all the years beyond twenty-one bonus years.
My mother died when she was fifty-one, and now that I’m fifty-one, eight months old, I have lived longer than her. I have always been an optimist and I realize I’m lucky to have lived to be this old. I actually like having gray hair, particularly because I have a full head of hair. I can still run six miles everyday, when I have time. I’m not rich, but I’m not starving either. Since I didn’t get drafted to go to Viet Nam, I’ve had all these bonus years that I haven’t always used very wisely. However, I realize that I’m lucky to be alive! The way I see it now, all the years that I live beyond fifty-one will be bonus “bonus years.”
There was a time when I wanted to live to be a hundred, mainly because 100 is a nice big round number. Now, I’d rather continue living the happy life that I now have without thinking about how much time I have left. I am ever the optimist!
Picasso Sculpture, Daley Center, Chicago, Illinois
Today, I read the The Chicago Way by Tom McNamee in the Chicago Sun-Times in which he talks about jokes that work only in Chicago. Well, I would like to share some of those jokes with you, my fellow Chicagoans. He starts out with “Noel, Noel … So I took the bus.” I remember hearing a different version of this joke at Holy Cross School told by a nun: “Some Christmas carolers are under the El tracks downtown singing, “Noel, Noel …” Along comes a drunk and tells them, “Then take a bus!”
My friend Vito Vitkauskas wrote this Chicago joke that I used to use in my comedy routine: I once broke my arm in three places. Halsted, Lincoln, and Fullerton.
Ken Green, in today’s Sun-Times, wrote two funny haikus, or as he calls them, Chi-kus:
The CTA bus a very rare animal moves in packs of three
In my house we vote Even my uncle votes May he rest in peace
Here are some of the other jokes printed in the column:
How many Chicagoans does it take to park a car? Seven. One behind the wheel and six to rearrange the kitchen chairs.
Why is Chicago known as the city that works? Because whatever the problem–a parking ticket or a murder indictment–it can be fixed.
We all know why the chicken crossed the road, but why did the lady duck cross Walton Place? To get to the Drake.
I heard Mayor Daley has a plan to get crime off the streets. Yeah, he’s going to widen the sidewalks.
For the finest Chinese Food, you must go to Bridgeport on Chicago’s south side. Wing Yip Chop Suey, 537 W. 26th Street, 312.326.2822, is a cozy, family-owned Chinese carry-out restaurant. If you dine in, don’t expect a fancy ambiance. In fact, don’t even ask to use their public restroom. They don’t have one!
I have eaten at this Bridgeport establishment since the early 1980s, but I’m not sure what it was called back then because I don’t remember the restaurant ever having a sign outside with its name on it. This place doesn’t look like much from the outside–or the inside, now that I think of it–but the food is delicious and they serve generous portions for a more than reasonable price.
As you wait for your food, you may read the Chicago Tribune or Sun-Times that someone left behind after reading it. The carry-out customers are Bridgeport residents and people who work in the neighborhood. Everyone in Wing Yip is very friendly. People often meet other acquaintances, friends, or family members by surprise when they go there. But strangers greet each other, too. The loyal customers love this place so much that anyone who patronizes Wing Yip has something in common with all other customers who walk in. So it’s not that unusual for total strangers to greet each other and start up a conversation.
As a police officer, I used to like to eat lunch there because everyone respected the police there and I would meet other police officers whom I hadn’t seen in years. This is also a great police restaurant because the service is fast and cheap. I sometimes go out of my way just to eat there now that I’m a retired police officer. I like the fact that they know me by name because I’ve spent so much time in there over the years. If you go there, you just may see me sitting in the corner doing the crossword puzzle.
Chicago USA 