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Authors: John Paul Godges
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killed, the Di Gregorios dumped it into a vat of hot water and lye, making it easier to scrape off the hair. Then they cut out the hams, loins, and pork chops destined for natural refrigeration. Then they cleaned out the intestines. They ground the liver, seasoned it with pepper and garlic, and stuffed the newly spiced liver meat into the cleansed intestines to make the sausage. Then they fried the skin and some of the fat into snacks, called “cracklins,” and they cooked down the rest of the fat to make lard. Finally, Slavic neighbors came over with their pails to collect the blood and lungs for making a spread.
“ We used everything but the squeal!” Ralph boasted.
Then Maria took the leftover lard from the previous year’s pig, mixed the lard with lye, and melted the gooey concoction, bubbling on the cook stove, into soap. When the soap cooled and hardened, she and Serafino cut the slabs into bars with a knife.
The family ate wild jack rabbits brought home by Serafino. Unlike other men from Lehigh Row, Serafino never hunted the rabbits, because no guns were allowed in his home after the accident. While the other men felled their prey with shotguns from afar, Serafino simply collected the hapless bunnies that had been hit by trains and lay alongside the tracks not far from Lehigh Row. “Sometimes,” said Ida, “he came home with the biggest jack rabbits.”
Occasionally, Maria broke the neck of a chicken from the chicken coop. The exceptional treat of a roasted chicken cacciatore went a long way at the dinner table. Each member of the Di Gregorio family had his or her assigned part of the bird. Bessie always got the neck and head, her favorite part. Ida always got a wing. Ralph, the only boy, always got a breast. There were just enough wings, breasts, thighs, drumsticks, and spinal cavities on one bird to serve nine people. If there was ever a spare thigh, great anticipation awaited the announcement of whom would be awarded the tiny tender “filet” tucked into the corner of the thigh. The decision, of course, was left to the parents. No organ or tissue went to waste: liver, gizzards, kidneys, veins, or cartilage. As long as they lived, the Di Gregorios could never imagine disposing of any blessed chicken, pig, or cow bone until it had been respectfully “cleaned.”
Serafino and Maria filled Christmas stockings, which were just regular socks, with apples, walnuts, pecans, Brazil nuts, and hard candies. On one exceptionally bright Christmas morning, Ida awakened and ran to her sock. She opened it to find, in addition to the usual goodies, a truly exotic indulgence: a California tangerine. In the dead of a Midwestern Depression winter, the shockingly orange and tartly sweet fruit that peeled so easily made for a giddy childhood treat.
During winter, some families on Lehigh Row didn’t have enough money to buy coal to heat their homes and to keep from freezing at night. Kids walked along the nearby train tracks, hoping to stuff their gunnysacks with scraps of coal that had fallen off the trains and onto the tracks. But sometimes even the tracks were bereft of scraps.
Meanwhile, huge chunks of coal rolled alluringly past Lehigh Row aboard the flatbed rail cars that were headed for somewhere far away. Cruelly, the huge chunks never slid off. They were too big and heavy, some as big as ripe pumpkins. Grown men who worked for the railroad could barely wrap their arms around the biggest chunks and plop them onto the flatbed cars. But the bigger the chunk, the bigger the prize.
People from Lehigh Row resorted to desperate measures to gather coal for their potbelly stoves. Some of the men and boys, mostly the wiry teenage boys, devised a daring maneuver. On a frosty morning, the 13-year-old Ralph joined the older boys and a few men who were stalking a coal train as it idled at a roundhouse just south of Lehigh Row. Because of the proximity of the roundhouse to the neighborhood, the trains could pick up only
“ We used everything but the squeal!” Ralph boasted.
Then Maria took the leftover lard from the previous year’s pig, mixed the lard with lye, and melted the gooey concoction, bubbling on the cook stove, into soap. When the soap cooled and hardened, she and Serafino cut the slabs into bars with a knife.
The family ate wild jack rabbits brought home by Serafino. Unlike other men from Lehigh Row, Serafino never hunted the rabbits, because no guns were allowed in his home after the accident. While the other men felled their prey with shotguns from afar, Serafino simply collected the hapless bunnies that had been hit by trains and lay alongside the tracks not far from Lehigh Row. “Sometimes,” said Ida, “he came home with the biggest jack rabbits.”
Occasionally, Maria broke the neck of a chicken from the chicken coop. The exceptional treat of a roasted chicken cacciatore went a long way at the dinner table. Each member of the Di Gregorio family had his or her assigned part of the bird. Bessie always got the neck and head, her favorite part. Ida always got a wing. Ralph, the only boy, always got a breast. There were just enough wings, breasts, thighs, drumsticks, and spinal cavities on one bird to serve nine people. If there was ever a spare thigh, great anticipation awaited the announcement of whom would be awarded the tiny tender “filet” tucked into the corner of the thigh. The decision, of course, was left to the parents. No organ or tissue went to waste: liver, gizzards, kidneys, veins, or cartilage. As long as they lived, the Di Gregorios could never imagine disposing of any blessed chicken, pig, or cow bone until it had been respectfully “cleaned.”
Serafino and Maria filled Christmas stockings, which were just regular socks, with apples, walnuts, pecans, Brazil nuts, and hard candies. On one exceptionally bright Christmas morning, Ida awakened and ran to her sock. She opened it to find, in addition to the usual goodies, a truly exotic indulgence: a California tangerine. In the dead of a Midwestern Depression winter, the shockingly orange and tartly sweet fruit that peeled so easily made for a giddy childhood treat.
During winter, some families on Lehigh Row didn’t have enough money to buy coal to heat their homes and to keep from freezing at night. Kids walked along the nearby train tracks, hoping to stuff their gunnysacks with scraps of coal that had fallen off the trains and onto the tracks. But sometimes even the tracks were bereft of scraps.
Meanwhile, huge chunks of coal rolled alluringly past Lehigh Row aboard the flatbed rail cars that were headed for somewhere far away. Cruelly, the huge chunks never slid off. They were too big and heavy, some as big as ripe pumpkins. Grown men who worked for the railroad could barely wrap their arms around the biggest chunks and plop them onto the flatbed cars. But the bigger the chunk, the bigger the prize.
People from Lehigh Row resorted to desperate measures to gather coal for their potbelly stoves. Some of the men and boys, mostly the wiry teenage boys, devised a daring maneuver. On a frosty morning, the 13-year-old Ralph joined the older boys and a few men who were stalking a coal train as it idled at a roundhouse just south of Lehigh Row. Because of the proximity of the roundhouse to the neighborhood, the trains could pick up only
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