Rosalie
She took no bull. A fearless firecracker. But a worry wart. When she loved, she loved. When she didn’t, they knew it — and she didn’t care.
Mom grew up during the depression, born around 1914, the oldest daughter, with three brothers. She saw her father for what he was not, a lazy artist who thought he was too good to have a real job. But I don’t think the family was on the dole. They got by with what they had as many did during the depression era.
In fact, I think the depression made her resourceful and her role with her younger brothers required her to accept responsibilities beyond her age. Combined, I think she carried those traits throughout her life.
She was blunt. She spoke her mind without hesitation. I remember the day I brought a girlfriend home. Mom looked at me and said, “Keep that thing zipped up” and to the girl, “Keep those knees together.” I was embarrassed but we got the message.
I learned to be stoic before I knew what it meant, not by what Rosalie did but what she didn’t do. She had a hard time dealing with things she could not control. It would consume her. And, although she seldom went to church, she seemed to rely on her Rosary Beads for hope. My brother said to me that she was beside herself while I was away in the army. While I never saw her concern — she seemed to keep it to herself — I was not surprised to learn of her concern.
Despite Rosalie’s external toughness if necessary, one could easily see she deeply cared for her family — all the men in her life including my brother, me, her three brothers, and later her three grandsons.
That love, however, did not easily extend to the wives. Sure, she would eventually come around with a somewhat reserved affection, but it was not to the same degree of intensity shown to her men. I think the women knew and accepted the limitation.
On the other hand, Rosalie could be at times almost hostile to my father’s side of the family — some more than others. She concocted ideas in her mind that some within my dad’s family were envious of his business success without recognizing the time and energy my father devoted to achieve it. While she seemed to be selective in her animosity, she was not afraid to give them the evil eye when she found it appropriate.
Rosalie’s family
I was too young to know my grandfather but I knew my grandmother, Rosalie’s mom. Her name was Miccalina. As far as I can remember the family lived on Wolcott Street in the Fair Haven section of New Haven. It was a second floor flat, a few garages in the backyard and behind the garages, a plot of land upon which grew strawberries, corn, and other things. I have vivid memories of grandma helping me plant a few rows of corn — jab little holes in the dirt, drop a seed in each and cover them up. When harvest time came I was proud as could be.
Rosalie would take my brother and me to grandma’s quite often. We must have taken the bus to get there but my memory of those bus rides is long gone now. Mom did not drive. I remember that dad would pick us up after work and bring us all home. Mom would sit with grandma in the kitchen while Johnny and I horsed around in the other room. I guess it was a living room, kind of dark. It had a piano and a couch upon which my brother and I would kick box. John, about two and a half years younger, had a pair of boots. They were either biker boots or cowboy boots but the heel of one hit me square in the head. Mom was not happy. She would yell a lot.
Grandma’s kitchen had a stove. It was big, old and black. There was an oven into which I would occasionally see Grandma place her feet. I presumed all grandmothers would put their feet in ovens.
She also had another stove, a more modern contraption that was used by my Uncle Louie to cook steaks. Thinking back on it now, I believe it was a gas stove. I remember seeing my uncle take the steak, place it between a folding wire grate and simply put the steak over the open flame. He would turn it over, while being held in place by the grate, to cook the other side. He would baste the steak with butter. The butter and the fat from the steak would drip and cause flare ups. I don’t remember eating his steak, but I’m sure he liked it.
My three uncles, Louie, Tony and Mike, did not live too far from Wolcott Street though Uncle Louie lived the farthest away in East Hartford. I remember on several occasions the entire family on my mother’s side would get together at Grandma’s, including my cousins. It was a big family. Many of my cousins were of the same general age.
I have one memory that seems more vivid than the others. I think it was made more vivid because my mother liked to talk about it. I’m quite sure the get together occurred over the weekend, perhaps a Saturday. We were at Grandma’s kitchen table eating macaroni and meatballs. I’m pretty sure that my cousins Robert and Cynthia were there along with Uncles Louie and Tony, my brother John, me and of course Grandma and Rosalie. I think Johnny was about four years old. Rosalie got a kick out of John-John’s lisp. Quite often she would call him John-John.
Grandma’s meatballs were a little different. They were about the size of a billiard ball. Embedded within, Grandma added pinoli nuts and raisins. My brother was a somewhat fussy eater. When he found pinolis and raisins in his meatball he began to flip them out with his fork, saying he did not want “this thit” in his meatball. No one complained about him flinging the discarded pinolis and raisins all over the place. Everyone was too busy laughing at his lisp-laden naughty word.
Rosalie and the church
Rosalie was not a church goer, yet she was a strong believer and maintained a close connection to Saint Joseph’s Church. The church was across the street about a half block down from the corner. It was not uncommon for her to wake me up early to serve the 6:00 AM mass. She ensured that I did what she expected — an altar boy, choirboy, CYO — though in the long run none of it would take root. Yet, as a youngster it became a strong part of my childhood.
At home we had a black and white TV — a portable one on a stand situated in the kitchen not far from my dad’s seat at the table. So, when I got a call from one of the priests inviting me over to the rectory to watch the Ice Capades on the color TV there, mom said it was okay for me to go, reminding me to be careful when crossing the street. Having, at that time, crossed the street many times without incident, it was no big deal.
I knocked on the rectory door and Father (I cannot remember his name) let me in. He was a tall man like a linebacker with light colored hair cut very short. We sat together on the couch in front of the big color TV. I thought it was odd because I only saw this priest when serving mass, but I concluded he was just as normal as every other man I knew, except he worked as a priest.
Everything seemed fine until it wasn’t. Let’s just say that he got too friendly. I guess I was old enough to know when to hightail it out of there before it went too far. I went home and told my mother what had happened.
The next day my mother and I walked toward the church and met Father DeCarlos on the sidewalk. He was the Italian priest in an otherwise Irish parish. I was not privy to the conversation, but after that I never saw Father WhatsHisName again.
Looking back on it now I think Rosalie was livid, but she kept her cool and did what she thought she should do, given the time and the protocol around in the 1950s. I really think she would have preferred to beat the hell out of that priest, but the church was in a different era back then.
Despite the incident she never gave up on the church. For example, I remember her baking desserts and having me deliver them to the nuns. And, every so often she would send me to deliver an envelope of cash to the priests as an offertory, perhaps no more than twenty dollars.
I’m told that in her later years the priests would remember her fondly during mass — the old porch lady on the corner.
Bus trips to downtown
The Orange Street bus line would run from East Rock all the way downtown. One of the bus stops was directly in front of our house. For fun or for errands Rosalie would climb on the bus with Johnny and me in tow. Unlike the big city buses, the Orange Street buses were noticeably smaller, same basic shape but smaller.
We had a crazy dog named Leeroy. My dad said that he named him after the mayor, Richard C. Lee. After we’d get on the bus it would drive away but Leeroy would chase the bus down Orange Street. I remember my mother standing on the steps of the bus with her umbrella trying to shoo Leeroy away. The driver would eventually close the door, Leeroy would give up and Rosalie would finally sit down.
I guess back then it was normal for dogs to go free. Poor Leeroy would after a year or two finally meet his demise. I don’t know if he was hit by a car or an Orange Street bus. I do remember that it was a sad day.
On some of those bus trips Rosalie would take us to the Green. Sometimes she would buy a bag of popcorn to feed the pigeons but I remember it was more fun for my brother and me to chase the pigeons. I got the feeling that people frowned on us chasing the pigeons but I never remember my mother telling us to stop. We were having fun and Rosalie enjoyed her kids having fun. If the people weren’t happy, they could go someplace else.
Binoculars and the frying pan
My father, Jimmy, was a gentle soul, hard worker and easy to get along with. He loved his family along with his brothers and his sister. There was Gerry, Freddie, Frank, Sally, Pasquale and his sister Katherine — seven kids including my dad. Rosalie kept her distance from dad’s family, which was, for her, not unexpected. My mother was rather choosy when it came to who she liked and who she didn’t. We all accepted her hostility toward whomever it was directed even though her logic may have been difficult or perhaps impossible to understand. She was decisive and not easily persuaded to change her mind.
It can be said that Rosalie was overly protective of her men, including her husband Jimmy. She was quick to conclude, in her own mind, that some of my father’s brothers were prone to take advantage of Jimmy’s good nature and kind heart. And, she did not like it.
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I don’t know why, but my father had a pair of binoculars. They were quite large and housed in a leather case. I can’t remember who said what but somehow Rosalie discovered that Uncle Frank would be stopping by the house to borrow the binoculars.
That caused my mom to flip out. I watched her rant and rave back and forth in the kitchen — something about Frank better not attempt to take the binoculars. She was enraged.
When he finally came to the back door Rosalie grabbed a frying pan, opened the door, and threatened poor unsuspecting Uncle Frank with a bop on his head. I saw my uncle’s face through the partially opened door. His eyes seemed to pop out of his head and he backed away fearful that this crazy lady was about to get serious with the frying pan. My dad sensed the danger and found the words to calm mom down as Uncle Frank darted back to where he came.
I can’t remember what was said after Frank left, but I never heard Rosalie apologize to anyone. To the contrary, I think she was rather proud of the result. Uncle Frank never got the binoculars.
Rosalie’s corrective measures
My brother and I got in trouble quite often and Rosalie was not inclined to withhold punishment. Sometimes it was the strap, or the yard stick and sometimes her bare hands — whatever was readily available. However, as we got older we were too quick for her which made her take more creative ways to teach us a lesson. The trouble that we would get into was not serious but it nevertheless warranted corrective measures.
For the life of me I can’t remember what I did but I remember that she chased me out of the house while I was only in my underwear. It was winter and it was cold. Embarrassed and not dressed for the weather, I found a way to get into the garage and close the door.
She would not let me back in the house. I was therefore forced to mitigate my plight and I recruited Johnny’s help. I didn’t need to explain my predicament. He knew what had to be done.
I am sure Rosalie was fully aware of John’s wannabe covert mission. He went to the bedroom and delivered my shoes, socks, jeans, and jacket to my hideout in the garage. I think he made two or three trips over the course of a half an hour or so.
It wasn’t long after that that I was allowed back in the warm house and things went back to normal. Whatever I did wrong, was forgotten.
Years later there was an incident that caused my mother to take an alternative tack. I was a little older, perhaps nine or ten.
A friend and I stole a bicycle — a kid’s bike. We brought it down to the basement on Orange Street and to disguise the bike I painted it green with some old house paint that I had found. It was one ugly paint job. But despite the disguise Rosalie somehow determined that the bike was not mine.
Mom, instead of corporal punishment (I was too big) demanded that I go beyond simply returning the bike. She demanded that I confess the theft to Father DeCarlos. That, I recall, took some effort on my part. Actually, it was a good lesson.
The flop house
I don’t remember when it started but Rosalie somehow developed a following that extended all the way to Communist China.
Yale University is, of course, known internationally and just happens to be located in New Haven not far from Rosalie’s house. The house, as far as I can remember, was always a three family. We lived on the first floor with tenants on the second and third. I guess it was soon after my dad became ill that Rosalie took control of the place. In her search for tenants she contacted Yale to see if it needed housing for their students. Apparently there was a need and it blossomed from there.
At first it was a small introduction with only a couple of students, but the need grew by word of mouth. Virtually all of Rosalie’s tenants were of Chinese descent — Yale medical students. It seems that her place became known not only to current Yalies but to students back in China who planned to enroll in the school.
You would never think Rosalie was an entrepreneur, but she was, and she saw an opportunity to expand. To get more students she reconfigured the second floor, not on paper as an architect, but in her head. She hired people (I doubt they were licensed contractors) to construct partitions designed to increase the number of bedrooms on the second floor. There are laws on the books that limit the number of unrelated people that occupy a single apartment. But Rosalie, whether she was aware of the laws or not, had other ideas. I’m guessing that the two bedroom apartment was converted to accommodate five or six students. And, they all shared one kitchen and one bathroom.
I presume the Chinese government was paying Yale handsomely for tuition and found Rosalie’s rental charges to be a bargain. I believe she adjusted the charges to reflect the space limitations. In addition the rent included heat and electricity — to a point, however.
There was only one furnace for the entire house. It was oil-fired which sent steam to the radiators that were located on each floor. The system was governed by a single thermostat located on the first floor where Rosalie was in absolute control. The house was old, built around 1910 and was not insulated to modern standards. So, keeping the place comfortable in the cold of winter was expensive.
The penny-pincher landlady had a workaround — wear more sweaters. And that would go for the tenants from China as well. She simply refused to adjust the thermostat. When it got to be ridiculous, she might hear someone walking down the stairs from the second floor and then a knock on her back door. She could tell it was one of her tenants. During one of my visits I would hear the tenant, in a heavy Chinese accent, ask mom to raise the heat. In an angry voice, almost a yell, she would refuse and suggest more sweaters. Then she would close the door and that would be that.
No doctors
Ever since I have known her Rosalie had a limp. We think it was a broken hip from her childhood that was never allowed to heal. While I’m sure she was in pain, you’d never hear her complain. She just plowed through and made accommodations.
Rosalie would never sit down in a regular chair. Instead she would sit on the edge of a counter stool, an old dilapidated thing where the vinyl cover had been ripped and worn. The seat height was about thirty-five inches which allowed her to sit without bending her hip too much. If the stool was out of reach or otherwise not available, she would either pile pillows on the seat or sit on the arm rest of a couch or lounge chair. The idea was to avoid bending her hip.
If she had to climb stairs it would be by using one leg for each step. It was slow going but she managed.
As she got older her speed decreased and her gait became more labored. Instead of walking with the limp she would take a step and drag her other one across the floor. You’d hear the sound of the footfall and then a long shurrrrr. We got a kick out of the rhythm. It reminded us of a monster like Frankenstein or Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Despite her struggle she seldom asked for help.
When we were kids we had birds, mostly parakeets. Rosalie, with all her brashness, loved her pets. She liked to sit on the front porch, read her magazines and watch the world go by on Orange Street. To keep her company and to give the parakeet some variety she would take the bird with her to the porch. My son recently informed me that the bird’s name was Chipper and he laid an egg. It seems Chipper was, as they say, misgendered. Rosalie’s method would place the cage on the floor and push it and the bird from the kitchen to the front porch using the same rhythm — footfall and shurrrr. I’m quite sure by the time they both arrived at the front porch the bird must have been seasick. The return trip would involve the same — footfall and shrrrr. Chipper somehow managed to get through the ordeal.
Despite her ailing health she refused to leave her home. True to form Rosalie was stubborn like a mule but comfortable in her own world, as are most aged people. Along with her hip, her hearing was failing. We would check on her by telephone but we discovered that she couldn’t hear the ring. So, we bought her a device that flashed lights when the phone rang. Sometimes it worked and sometimes she didn’t see the lights and didn’t answer the phone. We worried.
One day we found her on the kitchen floor. She must have been there for hours. I can’t remember exactly now but I am pretty sure we had an ambulance bring her to the hospital which turned out to be something to laugh about.
Rosalie had no use for doctors and let’s just say that she was less than cooperative in the hospital. As was her way, if she didn’t like you, she’d let you know one way or the other. Sometimes she would simply let her behavior do the talking.
A day or two before she was discharged she was placed in an isolation room, presumably because of the possibility of tuberculosis, though she had no symptoms. I guess it was the hospital’s standard practice. My wife Karen and I were in the room when a young female doctor walked in. The doctor started to explain her thoughts about mom’s condition. At the moment I can’t remember what the doctor said but I remember Rosalie’s reaction like it was yesterday. It seems that the doctor thought my mother was too nuts to understand. She was talking to Karen and me as if my mother couldn’t hear. But Rosalie heard every word.
I looked at my mom and she looked at me and then she looked at the doctor. Rosalie raised her hand and began to move her fingers and her thumb in a motion like a crocodile chewing bubble gum. Rosalie’s silent gesture along with the expression on her face clearly indicated to all that, in her opinion, the young doctor had no idea what she was talking about.
Rosalie’s legacy
She lived for 96 years and she left a mark on those of us who knew her well. We have many more memories, too many to list here. However, virtually all of them are pleasant — some funny, some hilarious, and some so strange they’re hard to believe. I’m convinced the angels are laughing out loud.
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