REST IN PEACE

Stretched for about 300 feet down the block of row houses where I lived, were a variety of car

models lined along the curb. These automobiles or machines, as my dad called them, belonged to the men of the neighborhood because most of the women didn’t drive; well, with the exception of Evie Payne’s mom, who lived next door to us. Mrs. Payne also had a job, something equally unusual back in the 1950’s.

There weren’t many trees on Montague Street anymore. I believe it might have been Hurricane Hazel back in 1954 that erased our tree lined street description from any future real estate brochures.

With most of the trees gone, if we kids saw a random squirrel, it was like an unexpected trip to

the zoo, or a UFO sighting. We’d get all excited, yelling to everyone within hearing distance,

“Hey, come-ear, we just saw a squirrel! Our exuberance scared the poor creature, forcing it to

scurry towards any form of protection it could find.

Around Easter time, we kids would walk “up the avenue” to Woolworth’s or Kressage’ s 5&10 to check out the brood of baby chicks that showed up there every spring. We were mesmerized as we stood crowded together in the chick aisle, our feet firmly planted on the planked wooden floor, elbowing each other in order to get a closer look at the unfortunate little birds enclosed in the big glass display box that stood atop the counter; bright overhead lights keeping their tiny pastel dyed bodies warm. I’m glad that such treatment isn’t permitted anymore, but back then, for the Montague Street gang it rallied a level of excitement equal to a neighborhood field trip. In the summer we would repeat our expedition up Frankford Avenue, only then it would be to see the turtles.

One time between chick and turtle seasons, it just so happened that both the Catholic and Public schools were closed on the same day. That almost never happened, but the “Publics” as we Catholic kids called them, would be around to play with. Evie, my next-door neighbor was a “public,”

My grandfather had passed away that year. His was the first funeral that my sister, Ronnie and I had ever attended. I was somewhat captivated by the solemnity and theatrical tone of the entire ritual; the wake, the Mass, the escorted procession of the black draped casket down the center aisle of the church, and squeezed into the drama, there I was, 10-year-old me, walking closely behind the casket, holding my father’s hand, eyes down cast, the oldest child of the oldest son.

During my close observation of Irish Catholic mourning, I concluded that death was a pretty

serious situation, not just for the deceased, but for those of us left behind. We weren’t permitted to watch our newly purchased TV; the hands of the living room clock now were permanently pointing to grandpop’s time of death, and my mother was getting her black dress out of the closet to send to the cleaners.

Sitting on the front steps shared by our family and Evie’s, she and I were having a conversation about what to do on our day off from school. Some of the other neighborhood kids saw us, and joined in. Our assembled group was made up mostly of girls, but also Patsy Rooney’s little 5 year old brother Francis who tagged along. It was her turn to watch him. Suggestions for what we should play were being thrown out for discussion. “Let’s play army” was offered for approval. Ours was an army that never went into battle. The Montague Street brigade mostly marched. We all loved our turn at being the commander who got to shout orders of “march” and “holt”… but no one felt like marching up and down the long driveway today. “Let’s play office!” “No, we played that on Saturday.” “How about school? Let’s play school!” A loud, unanimous “NO”, shot quickly from the committee. Why would anyone want to play school when we had a day off.

“I know,” I shouted…”let’s play funeral!!!”

Of course, it only seemed fair, since it was my idea, that I should get to be the star of the show, the key player… The corpse.

Everyone agreed. I suppose because they had never played funeral before they didn’t know what to expect and would need direction, so they gave me the lead.

“First off, we needed a place for the corpse to be laid out” I said. The phrase, lie in repose would have been more appropriate, but that word had not yet made its way into my vocabulary..

My grandfather was “laid out” in the living room of my grandparents’ large home. We would

need a parlor!

On Montague Street, we never played inside each other’s homes unless it was someone’s

birthday party. Our games were all played in the street, or in the alley between the rows of

houses, or on our porches.

My sister Ronnie suggested our porch. Well, I just couldn’t be laid out with a casket made of two porch chairs! No, we needed something much more suitable.

As mentioned before, Evie’s mother worked and wouldn’t be home until long after the funeral

was over. “So, Evie,” I said, “why not have it in your living room?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m not supposed to have anyone in when my parents are at work.”

“Well, I guess we can’t play funeral then” I said to the assembled group of would-be mourners, deliberately using a tone meant to give Evie a feeling of… it’s all your fault our day is ruined.

“Ok” Evie said,” but we have to be careful not to touch anything and be sure that the cat doesn’t get out of the cellar, because he’s not allowed to go near the bird cage.” She added, “and you can’t eat anything!” I never thought of food, but what’s a good funeral without eats.

So, we all walked down the street and around to the back alley to reach the rear of Evie’s house and her backdoor. The youngest of Patsy Rooney’s 5 little brothers, trailing behind. After Evie unlocked the door, we entered her dark basement and proceeded up the cellar stairs to the door that opened into the dining room.

It felt weird. All still and quiet. I’d never been in a house where there were no adults around

somewhere. Casting feelings aside, I gave instructions about how this funeral was to happen.

There were six of us, counting little Francis Rooney. They would be the mourners and parade in from their assembled place in the kitchen, continue through the small dining room into the living room where my “casket”, the couch, would be along the wall to the right of the room. Me, the solemn corpse, lying stretched out with my hands folded at my waist. It would have been perfect to have a rosary between my fingers, but Evie wasn’t Catholic, so no rosaries in her house, and none of us made a habit of carrying the holy beads with us to play.

While sitting in my grandparents’ large home at my grandfather’s Irish wake, I took note that

people frowned and cried in the living room, in the dining room, they helped themselves to the sandwiches from the table, but by the time they got to the kitchen, and had sipped mixed drinks from a bar set up in the breakfast room, their mood brightened. Frowns gone.

Giving detailed instructions, I said, “So, you have to walk in a straight line from the kitchen and when you get to me, you have to stand looking down and pretend that you’re crying, then go back in the kitchen and pretend that you’re having a party.” “Oh, and Evie, do you have a blanket, because after you all see me the first time, you have to pretend it’s the next day and you have to come back, cover me with a blanket, face and all, cry some more, and then the funeral is over.” Evie went upstairs and took a blanket from her bed, and we proceeded with the funeral.

Everything went as planned until from under my covered head, I heard, “Hey, Evie, your mom’s home. She just parked her car in the driveway.” I could hear everyone running out the front door. I couldn’t get out from under my shroud fast enough to escape before Mrs. Payne reached the dining room after running up the cellar stairs. She glared directly at me. I was now totally resurrected, sitting up on her couch, but still tangled in Evie’s blanket. I was at a total loss for words and my eyes were probably bulging out of their sockets.

I don’t remember exactly what Mrs. Payne said to me, it was like I couldn’t hear her but could

see her lips moving and somehow for the first time, noticed that she wore her hair in really tight curls and her big glasses were sliding down her nose.

We all got in trouble and had to apologize to Mrs. Payne for being in her house while she was at work, and Evie wasn’t allowed to come out to play with us for a week.

What we didn’t know was why Evie got such a long prison term. Well, it seems little Francis

Rooney left the dining room door open when we first went into the house and the cat had gotten upstairs from the cellar. After the funeral was abruptly ended, the kitty apparently came out of hiding and knocked over the bird cage.

We probably all should have chipped in to buy Mrs. Payne a new parakeet. I wonder if they ever had parakeet season at the 5&10.

We never played funeral again.