The Quiet Monument
It’s the only thing left. Even the corner is gone. Ruocco’s Market never left my thoughts, though that too was taken by eminent domain. Yet, somehow Mayor Richard C. Lee and his Redevelopment Agency decided to let the fire hydrant stay, and it’s still there today — my quiet monument to my childhood.
Working with dad
Ruocco’s Market was located at 111 Greene Street on the corner of Greene and Hamilton, on the edge of New Haven’s Little Italy. My home was located at 654 Orange Street on the corner of Edwards and Orange, a quaint neighborhood not far from Yale University. My dad’s commute took a few minutes..
For fun, Jimmy would occasionally drive home through an underpass and blow the horn — the echo made my brother, John, and me laugh — dad too. He’d generally take the underpass route when John and I were in the car. I’m not certain but I believe the underpass was for the railroad tracks; the cement pillars were closely placed and massive, as I remember. When it was only me in the car, dad just wanted to get home so we skipped the echo chamber. It was more fun when Johnny was with us.
Unlike me, John was too little to be of any help in the store. He was two and a half years my junior and needed to be babysat. The store demanded attention and babysitting was not on the list. There were too many things in the store that were not able to be baby-proofed. Such things included a machine for slicing cold cuts, a bandsaw for cutting steaks and chops as well as dozens of knives of all sizes and every one razor sharp. I knew my limits, my baby brother didn’t yet know his.
Ruocco’s Market was a second home to me. It was my mother’s idea that I should work at the store starting from age eight. I suspect that Dad initially tolerated my presence though I think he grew to accept it and after a few years even welcomed me. At the store I stayed out of trouble. That made mom happy which was icing on the cake for both of my mother and me. My work there simply became part of my routine.
From the smell, you would think you might be entering a saw mill, not the corner grocery store and meat market. The aroma came from the saw dust spread over the floor behind the meat counter. I never understood why they kept bags of the stuff and spread it on the floor — perhaps to keep the floor clean as you can tell when you swept it up. We’d change the saw dust every so often spreading just enough so you felt it under your shoes.
As the afternoons rolled around I was given the job to lower the awning. It gave shade to the sun that poured over Greene Street starting at around 11 o’clock. I watched my dad do it and I learned how to spin the crank with one hand. It seemed like the awning would just roll off the runner. I became a pro. Later, at the end of the day, you needed two hands to crank the awning back up. I remember the awning was a weathered shade of maroon with just a few rips here and there. It probably dated back well before my time.
As the years went by I was given more responsibilities. One of them had to do with making sandwiches for anyone who wanted them. I’d consider myself an expert. Fresh Italian bread — half loaf stuffed with whatever they wanted. I would eat them myself so I knew how to make them taste good. For example the typical ham and cheese would start with the ham sliced so thin you could see through it. The shavings would be piled high like ribbons. Then you’d add the tomato and lettuce never shredded, always fresh leaves directly from the iceberg head. I’d add a little salt, pepper and then smother it with olive oil including directly on the bread. Perfecto!!! Fifty cents, please
Chemical reaction
The meat counter was bowed — more like worn down — in the middle. It was there for years. I presume my grandfather, whom I do not remember, used it. The baskets under the counter were there to keep the fat trimmings from the steaks and pork chops, as well as the bones. At the end of the day the baskets were dragged to the meat freezer. As I watched my dad and Uncle Pat trim and bone the meat, they would fling the scraps under the counter without looking. They knew which basket was which.
At the end of each day after the store was closed we’d have to clean the counter. It was a project. First the scraper, essentially a wired brush attached to a wooden handle. With both hands you’d scrape forward with plenty of elbow grease and then in reverse without bearing down. It was the forward motion that acted like a plane which caused the bow in the middle as it shaved the wood from the butcher block. The idea was simple — to clean the counter.
One day my quest for excellence backfired. After scraping the counter the next step was to degrease the block with ammonia. The ammonia would be applied with a soft bristled brush and rubbed into the wood to remove the remnants of the fats and other stuff one would expect to be left behind after a day of trimming and boning beef, pork and chicken. But that day my young mind told me to do a really good job and disinfect the counter by adding a splash of bleach. At that instant fumes could be seen rising from the counter and the smell was beyond intense. I think it was my uncle who yelled “Out!!!” and we all headed for the door and the fresh air. The door was left open to air the place out. No one said another word.
Codes
The market sold everything one would expect to find in a grocery and meat market. There were canned goods, dry goods, fruits and vegetables, ice cream and dairy products — things one would usually need at home. We’d take phone orders and if asked, deliver the orders to our customers. However, we would stop taking phone orders after closing time — except for the wives of the brothers. Each wife was given a code, either one ring or two rings. At this point I don’t know who had which code but it worked. For example, if my mom called after hours she would hear the ring code at her end and then hang up. My father would know it was my mother. He would call her back, get the order, pack it up and eventually bring it home.
I recall the code was an evolution. Before the code, we’d lock the door at closing but let customers come in after hours. I thought the practice served two purposes: to maintain a friendly relationship with the community and to never pass up a sale. I don’t know that for sure as the practice was never explained. However the practice had a tendency to delay our nightly departure to home.
I noticed after several months that my mother would complain about my father’s hours. His day was too long and I could sense that mom worried about his health. Dad was exhausted when he finally came home. As a compromise the code was borne. But still my mom was not happy. She was one who was not easily pleased. After months of nagging, eventually instead of working six days a week my father took Wednesday’s off. Mom was, of course, not totally satisfied, but the five day work week and the code gave her less to complain about.
Rosalie
Which brings me to my mom’s influence on me and work. Rosalie was the oldest of her three brothers. I learned at some point that her marriage to dad was her second. She had two other men in her life, her father and her first husband. While she never talked about her first husband she despised her father. In so many words she would describe her dad as a lazy artist who thought he was too important to have a real job. That apparent hatred caused her to demand that I start working in the store with my father at age eight. Accordingly, every day after school dad would drive home in the late afternoon and bring me back to the store. I’d stay there until day’s end. It kept me out of trouble, taught me the value of work, and relieved my mother of worry.
I was quite young when I realized that my father was not in perfect health. He would visit the VA hospital every now and then. At one point I remember mom, with my younger brother and me in tow, getting on a bus, being dropped off at the bottom of a hill and the three of us trekking up to visit dad who was recuperating from exploratory surgery. For us kids, climbing that hill was not a problem, but for mom it was a different story. Rosalie walked with a limp ever since I could remember. Some years later I was told that it was the result of an injury to which she had never sought medical attention. I suspect she had a broken hip and it never really healed. The climb up that hill to see my dad in the hospital must have been painful for her. But she did it presumably out of love.
Which says something else about Rosalie. She was not a party animal, especially with my father’s brothers and cousins. She tolerated them but made sure that they knew they were only tolerated — some more than others. Whether right or wrong she felt that some took advantage of my father’s good nature or they were envious. Mom’s hostility, at times, produced a degree of tension in the household. When Rosalie’s attitude got too intense, Jimmy would keep his mouth shut and let her calm down. My father was not only smart with money, he also knew that an argument with Rosalie would be unwinnable.
Mom loved her kids to an extreme. She was a little woman and grew up in the depression era and World War Two. She made her own clothes and to some degree her shoes. I remember the time when she had to go to a wedding. She took her old shoes, applied glue all over them and added silver sparkles. They left the sparkles everywhere she went.
Over protective was an understatement. It had to be fourth grade where the teacher grabbed me by the shirt, picked me up and slammed me into the wall. I can’t recall what I did to deserve that but I remember mom going with me to school the next day and confronting the teacher, who was a rather tall big boned woman. Mom, just walked up to her and, in so many words, threatened to knock her block off if she ever put her hands on me again. It was fun to watch the little woman put that teacher in her place. On the other hand I was embarrassed because I felt Mom was always fighting my battles.
Sundays
Actually both parents, Jimmy and Rosalie, had their ailments. Mom had the limp and Dad had multiple issues including a busted appendix and a bum knee. There might have been other things wrong as well, but Jimmy’s knee became a novelty. I was very young when I would watch my dad lay in bed, lift up his right leg and then drop his foot. It would fall just a bit until it came to an abrupt stop, as if the hinge in his knee seemed to freeze the fall of his foot. See dad was drafted into the US Army at the start of World War Two. He told the story that he broke his leg during basic training and the doctors at Walter Reed had to insert some kind of bolt in his knee to allow it to mend. They never took the bolt out, so nearly every Sunday morning my brother and I would ask my dad to do that weird thing with his knee just for fun. Dad would perform and we all would laugh.
Sundays had their own rituals. Saint Joseph’s church was only a half block away. Mom would never go so the three of us attended. We’d all dress in our Sunday church-going attire to include my father’s fedora. My brother, John had his own kid’s fedora and overcoat and sometimes his cowboy double sixshooter, which was, back then, completely politically correct. I don’t remember having a hat. After church the activity would include yard work depending on the weather — trimming the hedges, mowing the lawn, deep cleaning the kitchen which my father liked to do.
I also remember going with my dad back to the store on Sunday to count money. Johnny generally stayed home. Perhaps he was too young or needed to be monitored too much for my father as he needed to concentrate on the bookkeeping. Between my uncle and my dad, Jimmy was the finance master. While he told me to count the change in the cash register, dad wrote things in his log. Those money counting trips to the store only took an hour or two, so we were back home and back to the chores at hand which would include preparing the afternoon meal, a joint effort generally between both mom and dad.
Sunday dinners were a big deal and more times than not other members of the family would show up. I remember Uncle Louie and occasionally extended family from my father’s side, but mostly it was my mother’s side who would stop by.
Dad’s humor
Jimmy never finished high school. In fact he had to quit Columbus School after eighth grade to go to work with his father at the market. During the depression, everyone pitched in as expected. Yet, despite the hardships, Jimmy maintained a sense of humor. If he was asked how tall he was, he always replied, “four thirteen.” His whole family (six brothers and one sister) was short in stature, except his brother Gerry, which we still can’t figure out but we like to have fun and speculate.
To me, my father’s face expressed kindness — a gentle disposition with a deeply receding hairline. He generally wore light colored short sleeve shirts and khaki work pants. If the weather warranted, he would wear a buttoned down sweater vest, and if necessary a short coat. His work shoes were black. The thing that struck me was his thumb nail — long and strong to help separate meat from bone and chicken skin from breasts and thighs. His thumb seemed to be just another butcher’s tool like a mallet or a steel. He also wore a brace around his mid section — a beige colored belt about eight inches wide — presumably having something to do with a medical condition. I also remember him nursing a drain from his waist seemingly associated with his surgery. Yet, despite his medical problems his humor shined through.
I recall the day I was stacking canned goods on one of the shelves in the store. Finding a lack of room to place the peas, I said, “Dad, there’s no room on the shelf.” My father looked at me, pointed to the back room and said with absolute certainty, “Go behind the door and get the shelf stretcher.” He waited for my response but he didn’t have to wait long. Somehow within seconds I knew there was no shelf stretcher and I also knew that it was okay for me to make an executive decision and move things around on the shelf to make room for the peas. What impressed me the most was not the joke but rather knowing that he gave me the confidence I needed to get the job done.
One day behind the meat counter I was convinced he realized that giving me that freedom came with some risk. I remember asking him if he let me cut some meat. My requests went unanswered for weeks until one day out of nowhere he said, “Come here.” He gave me this long-bladed knife and said to cut these strips of pork fat into smaller pieces. He demonstrated. I was perhaps nine years old. The strips of pork fat came from the trimmings of the day’s pork chops. He reached down under the counter and pulled from one of the baskets a pile of fat strips. The knife was like a long razor blade, skinny and it came to a point sharp. The wooden handle was black trimmed with steel strips embedded in the wood. I thought the blade had to be thinned after years of grinding on the belt sharpener. He reminded me not to press down and to let the knife do the cutting. He also reminded me to keep my fingers on my left hand away from the blade by curling them under my knuckles. For years I had watched him do exactly that. Today I see professionals apply the same technique on TV cooking shows. So there I was next to my dad cutting pork fat and thinking that this was too easy and wondering when he would let me graduate to trim real meat. I don’t know if I stepped a little to my right or he stepped a little to his left but that long skinny point on that knife poked my dad in his arm. As blood dripped down his arm he simply said, “Next time keep the knife pointed down when you’re not using it.” I was more than embarrassed, yet that lesson stayed with me for life.
He loved to visit his brothers and cousins during his free time on Sundays. The visits were generally unannounced. One day he brought Johnny and me to Uncle Freddie’s house. Freddie and Jimmy were close in age. No one was home at the time. The back door was unlocked and the three of us walked in. Dad for some reason took the kitchen chairs and turned them all upside down. He then took several dishes out of the cabinets and placed them all over the table and counters. Finally he found a piece of paper and wrote “Kilroy was here.” Johnny and I laughed and laughed and then we got back in the car and went home. The deed was done.
Anticipating Saturdays
Friday nights we stayed late. Jimmy and his brother, Pat, were busy in anticipation of Saturday’s shoppers. They would be cutting steaks, grinding beef, preparing the chops, chicken and Italian sausage. Soon after locking the door and pulling the shade the phone call was made to either Sally’s or Pepe’s for the evening dinner. The pizza shops were not far from the store on Wooster Street. I never heard them described as pizza. Instead the question was, “What do you want on the abeetz.” In New Haven pizza was “apizza” which translated to the local dialect and sounded like “abeetz.” The toppings on the pies varied except during lent, when they were fixed just with “muz”, onions, garlic or peppers. Generally, one of the helpers who worked in the store would pick the pies up and bring them back, at which point everyone stopped working for a few minutes to eat.
When Saturdays rolled around I went with my dad to the store and stayed all day. I don’t recall ever a day when I complained. Nearly every minute on Saturdays was fun for me. The comings and goings were non stop. The shoppers not only included those from the neighborhood but also many friends and relatives. Some of the customers were rather interesting.
Characters
I remember, for example, Louie Long. His real name probably was Longobardi. He was a member of the Italian social club across the street which I suspected was used to play pinochle and just socialize. I never went into the “lodge” as they called it, and although I never saw the cops raid the place, something tells me the attraction might have been some low level gambling as I would occasionally overhear something about “numbers” now and then.
Then there was comare (pronounced “ah coomod.” I always thought of her as an aunt though I still am not sure of her family connection. It’s possible that she was a godmother to someone in the family. A striking woman nonetheless. She was rather short but stout, in her late 60s. She wore black leather shoes that resembled the shoes one would see worn by an old nun. Comare spoke in a forceful aggressive voice with heavy Italian and broken English. I remember being told to follow her home and carry her bag of groceries up what seemed to be three flights of fire escape stairs.
Get Vincent Ruocco’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
If I was lucky the baker, Ollie, would come by the store early with Italian bread fresh right out of his oven. Uncle Pat might take a loaf, slice it open and smear some butter on the inside. He’d cut a piece from one of the ends and hand it to me. Nothing could be better — freshly baked hot Italian bread and butter. So good.
Ollie sponsored my confirmation. I remember him as a sweet friendly gentleman — never frowning and dedicated to his craft. My dad would on occasion take Johnny and me to his home in Hamden. I remember his driveway was seemingly dug out of his front yard with walls made of brick. You walk up some stairs to his front door. I barely remember his wife — I think her name was Josephine — and I think they had two daughters who were older than me. Dad also loved to visit his friends, and with Ollie, Johnny and I felt the need to behave. No horsing around.
I have vague thoughts of Saint John Street — nothing concrete though I think they stem from a lingering curiosity. I can’t tell you why it stayed with me. Maybe it was someone who lived there, or something that happened. My mind’s eye sees me looking down the street from the store to the next corner where Saint John Street intersects, and wondering what’s there on that street. It’s there in my memory without explanation, the way certain things are. If I had to guess, it could have been where Camare lived up the fire escape or where Ollie had his bakery. I was too young to walk there by myself and, to my knowledge, I had no reason to go. The store was my place and I needed nothing more.
Music
Once a week I had my music lesson at Sal’s. His shop wasn’t too far from the store so after the lesson I would end up at the store. I don’t remember how I got to the lesson or the store, but I remember both very well. I was taking drum lessons after the dentist said I had to give up the clarinet. The mouthpiece seemed to fight the objective of my dentist and the braces that I had to wear. I hated those braces and the dentist too.
Johnny got the clarinet — a good thing as he made his living from the instrument. I taught him everything I learned in my six months of practice. After that he excelled beyond all expectations. He would practice for hours. He’d take one scale and construct experimental lines in different keys. Sometimes people would stop in front of the house on Orange Street just to listen. He moved to Europe after college, became a teacher in a conservatory in The Hague and performed and taught master classes throughout the Continent and Asia.
Deprived of the clarinet, my dad asked me what I wanted and gave me a choice: either the guitar or the drums. At that point sharps and flats were not my friends, so I chose the drums. Within no time I was learning my rudiments and I got to be pretty good with my paradiddles. So, after my lessons, with sticks in my hand I’d practice in the back room of the store on the cardboard boxes filled with canned goods. I think it drove my Uncle Pat nuts, but never once did he complain. Eventually, my dad bought me a drum set and it wasn’t long before I started gigging here and there. Occasionally my poor father was charged with the responsibility to pick me up after the gigs and bring me home — one am was the norm. I know now that that is what dad’s do.
Changes
I began to hear conversations about the Redevelopment Agency. At first, I didn’t know what it meant though I sensed change was coming and it was not good. As time passed I began to learn that it was a ruthless uncaring ruler that could not be fought or controlled. It was just ever-present like an evil king who took pleasure hurting his subjects. Nevertheless, I took things in stride. As a kid I knew that chores had to be done, shelves had to be stacked and empty bottles had to be moved into the garage in the back, a job that I did but did not like.
The bottles came from customers, emptied and sticky with soda or smelly beer. In other words it was a dirty job. Each one was sorted in their respective case and each case stacked on each other sometimes over my height. If required, the stacks had to be moved around to make room for more bottles, and that’s when I learned to use my handtruck. You had to use a special technique to accomplish the task which, with a little effort and a mistake or two when a stack would crash to the floor, I got the hang of it. Upon completion I was happy to get back to the store and wash my hands of the filthy remnants.
As time passed the folks from the neighborhood would begin to visit the store only on Saturdays. Over time the everyday customers were less white and more black. We remained busy, however. Everybody has to eat. And, as time went on the new customers became familiar friends.
Many friends but some not so much. I am not sure when it happened but my dad brought me in the back room to see the hole. Thieves had broken through the wall and left a big jagged hole. Plaster spewed all over and the remaining strips of lattice appeared ripped apart and left in pieces. I was too young to comprehend the loss. My father seemed to keep his sadness to himself. However, I was nevertheless impressed by the effort to make the hole despite its ugliness.
While I doubt there was a connection to the breakin, Pat and Jimmy had installed mirrors hung from the ceiling. You could stand anywhere in the store, look at a mirror and see the reflection of the whole aisle. I learned that the mirrors were used to monitor customer activity without being obvious. From time to time I would be called upon to use the mirrors to spot anyone — usually youngsters from the neighborhood — who might be shoplifting. Around this time the customer mix started to change and “leakage” became noticeable. The mirrors help mitigate the theft. I remember only one time when I caught a kid stuffing a package of Oreos under his jacket. Unable to recall if I was instructed or if I decided to take action on my own, I simply walked into the aisle and told the kid to put it back on the shelf. He complied. Nothing further was said and no further action was necessary.
It was certainly after dark when we heard the sirens of the fire trucks — definitely more than one. I don’t think I went to see the commotion alone, but when I got there I saw flames shooting out the windows of a brick building four or five stories high. Firefighters were climbing ladders and spraying water through the broken windows. I was led to understand that the building was abandoned and the fire was arson. While I could not say for sure, I presumed kids from the neighborhood had a hand in the fire. I recall worrying about the firefighters on those ladders and fearful that the flames would reach the wires hanging from the telephone poles just outside of the building. The fire that night just another sign that the end was near
It was a sunny day when the wreckers finally came. We stood outside the front door of the store and watched them demolish a house halfway down the next block on Greene Street. I remember the claw extending from a boom and biting off the entire front side of this wood framed three story building. I saw plumes of dust and I heard the growls of the diesel engine simply rip the house down to the ground. It was rather exciting to watch. I was just a boy and unable, at that moment, to see the future. Nevertheless, I could see the present and sensed it was not good. I didn’t know it was also not good for the creatures seldom seen.
Rats
Snowball, the store’s black lab, had spotted something running. I saw it too. It jumped into an old rusted fifty gallon drum and so did the dog. The drum wobbled violently back and forth and I heard what seemed to be muffled bangs from the inside. Then the drum abruptly stopped. Snowball jumped out with a rat draped from his jaws. He seemed proud. The demolition of the neighborhood was displacing rat nests.
That was not the first time that I saw a rat. The store was quiet at that point in the day when suddenly I saw my uncle through a can of tomatoes in the direction of one of the corners. My eyes focused on the corner and I realized he missed the rat. He picked up the can which was too dented to be placed back on the shelf. I presume he took it home that night.
Meals and entertainment
Actually it was rather common for dented cans and spotted fruit to find their way home. My father liked to keep the merchandise appealing to customers who were reluctant to part with their money for products that looked anything less than perfect.
At home little was wasted. A dented can only means a dented can, the stuff inside was always edible. You could tell the contents were bad if the can had a bulge — while we seldom saw bulge, if we did the whole thing would be discarded. As for the fruit, most of the time we simply lop off the bad part with a sharp knife and eat the good part. We accepted less than perfection and were thankful.
Meat was different. I don’t recall ever once that my dad brought home anything less than prime cuts. It mattered not, steaks, chops, chicken, ground beef — it was all good.
It seems that every Saturday night was steak night — generally T-bone or Porterhouse. The door on mom’s stove had a broiler attachment. The door would swing open like a regular door from left to right. A broiler attachment would be mounted on the door where the steaks were broiled. Drippings would flow through the top and then be collected in the pan. When done the steaks were placed on a serving dish from which we would all get served. After the steaks were on each of our plates, the broiler pan attachment would be removed from the stove door using towels or pot holders and turned sideways over each of our steaks. Mom called it the juice. One time over my plate she missed and poured some of the juice on me. It was hot but not so bad that I needed medical attention. She expressed overcompensated remorse.
The portable TV was on the stand in the kitchen. I remember Saturday night watching Lawrence Welk. It was almost a ritual. The music was not of my liking, but we never changed the channel out of respect for my parents. It was dinner time and TV was entertainment which also included other variety shows like the Jackie Gleason Show. We all got a charge out of his antics along with his routine guest character, “Crazy Goginheim.” It might have been Gleason’s show when I first heard the Count Basie Orchestra — Basie could really swing.
Occasionally, my parents would speak Italian when they did not want Johnny and me to hear the conversation. We understood only a few words here and there except for the swear words which stood apart like memorable notes among those that were otherwise gibberish. Yet, to hear that language now allows me to hear beauty from the spoken conversation.
Rosalie never liked it but she tolerated my father’s wine jug at the ready on the floor to the right of his seat at the table. He’d scoop it up by the glass finger ring near its spout as needed. I never kept count. Occasionally he would allow Johnny and me to have a sip, but no more.
While we had a grapevine in the back yard, it did not produce enough to make wine. I remember there was only one time when dad decided to embark on the process in earnest. The press was delivered and assembled in one room of the basement. There may have been more than one barrel placed in another room. Then, soon thereafter several crates of grapes were delivered and carried through the Bilco doors. They were stacked around the press. I think I was too young to remember the details of the process, though I remember the result — gallon jugs full of wine around the basement for perhaps years. I think dad gave most away to friends and relatives, and I don’t think he ever tried to make more.
Dad’s cars
The first car I remember my dad owned was a 1951 Plymouth station wagon — light blue, three speed on the column. It was built like a tank. My father’s car was parked in front of the store. I didn’t see the accident but someone hit the Plymouth from behind. It showed no damage, not even a scratch. The front end of the other guy’s car looked like it hit a tree.
Eventually dad replaced the Plymouth with a 1958 Pontiac Star Chief. By the way, all the cars he owned were used. The Pontiac was a good looking station wagon — he always bought station wagons as they were good for carting merchandise to the store and making deliveries of customers’ orders. I recall that dad owned the Pontiac for years and he used it to teach me how to drive. I was perhaps thirteen years old and I could not wait to grow up. I’d pester my dad to take me out so I could drive the car, but this day he brushed me off even though he had made a promise. Undeterred, I found the keys and, by myself, I took the car for a ride around the block. Knowing it was wrong I wanted to get back home as quickly as possible so no one would find out. I raced to Livingston Street, turned right on Orange, right on Edwards, and finally right in the driveway. I parked the car exactly where I had started. As I walked back toward the house I saw my mother standing on the back porch swinging the dog chain. I am not sure but I think she missed when she swung it at me. Then my father came out and gave me one slap across my head. He, until then, never hit me. That one and only slap would never be forgotten. Words were left unsaid.
I recall it was a snowy Saturday when I helped my uncle load the ’58 station wagon with boxes of grocery orders to be delivered to customers. My uncle’s driving was a bit more aggressive than dad’s. Uncle Pat was much younger and quicker, rather macho I’d say. By the time we got to Peck Street the snow was more than a few inches high and it seemed as though the plows hadn’t arrived yet. Seemingly fearless, my uncle crashed through the drifts with the car with undeterred confidence. I was impressed. I guess the rest of the trip was uneventful because I don’t remember it.
Uncle Pat
The neighborhood was changing and questionable characters began to surface. Uncle Pat somehow got to know some of the newer folks by name. He showed no fear. I guess he thought that if he showed them respect they would reciprocate. All along as backup he carried a small pistol concealed around his ankle.
Uncle Pat was short like Jimmy but perhaps ten years younger. A cigar smoker — big ones as I recall. He wore a toupee, which was obvious, yet he didn’t seem to care that much. For fun he would adjust his two false teeth from his lower jaw to look like a rabbit. And, he could whistle like a bird or a piccolo. His melodies seemed effortless with flutters and tremolos.
One day we received a routine delivery of a complete hind of beef from the meat truck driver. The driver placed the hind on the counter, handed over the receipt, said his goodbyes and left to return to his truck. He no sooner left that he ran back in the store shouting in disbelief that somebody stole a hind from his truck. He apparently left the gates of his truck unlocked and the “boys” in the neighborhood decided to take advantage of the opportunity. I recall Uncle Pat without hesitation and draped with his apron sprung into action. He ran out of the store and within a few minutes walked back into the store balancing the stolen hind on his shoulder. A few chuckles later the truck driver now made whole, left for his next stop. To Uncle Pat, it was all in the day’s work as if routine.
Change had come
It seemed like the demolition process was like flesh eating bacteria. Every day another building would fall and each would get closer and closer to the store, until it was our turn.
Prior to the end, Dad was planning his next venture. He viewed a store in Cheshire, a 7–11 in Hamden and finally settled on a store in New Haven on Newhall Street. It was not the best location but it was a nice store. Meanwhile Uncle Pat bought a store in New Haven not far from Light House Point. I was not privy to the brothers’ discussions but I think my uncle’s store was too small to support two families. So, the brothers went their separate ways.
I am not sure how he did it but about this time dad broke his foot — the foot attached to the leg with the bum knee. He was then unable to work at his full capacity. I felt that that broken foot broke his heart. I started to see my father’s pain, the pain in his face. It caused the deal on Newhaul Street to fall apart.
I remember that after Ruocco’s Market was finally razed I took a brick from the rubble — a souvenir, a memento to my second home. I had every intent to keep that brick forever, but after many years, I lost it. Yet, the memory of that brick never left. It was a nice brick, painted yellow on one side, the outside of the building. And, I remember the pile from which it came, sprawled out on the sidewalk of Greene Street.
Years later and not too long ago I went back to 111 Greene Street. I wanted to feel the area as it was, but that wasn’t to be. It seems that Hamilton Street disappeared as did the corner of Greene and Hamilton. Not only was Ruocco’s Market gone, so too was the corner on which it stood for decades. That corner grocery store was no more. I felt a strange sense of emptiness as I stood there taking it all in. There were no people, no neighborhood, just a sterile spotless useless sidewalk, except for one thing that still stands, proud, strong and bright yellow — the fire hydrant — my quiet monument to life with Jimmy, Pat, Snowball, and all the customers of Ruocco’s Market.
© 2026 Vincent Ruocco. All rights reserved.
