a black cat crossed in front of him. I wonder if Cannibal could be thought of as a black cat. Actually heâs dark brown but somebody could easily make a mistake and see him as black.
Now I have to figure where I can keep Cannibal. If he keeps improving the way he is, heâll be wandering all over the cellar and heâs sure to start making cat noises, meowing or growling or yowling or maybe purring. Heâll also start making messes, the way cats always do. I still havenât heard him make any noise except the hissing he made at me when he was dying on his feet; but he could start making noises if he gets better. My mom would die if she knew I had an alley cat in our cellar. I havenât even thought about the flea part. I wonder if I already have fleas.
I rig up a place for Cannibal behind the big furnace. Itâs almost impossible to see back there and the furnace gets so hot you canât touch the sides so nobodyâs going to sneak back there. We just started the furnace last week when it began getting colder and we bank it down at night.
Last year, Dad taught me how to bank down our furnace, getting it to burn slowly and not use up much coal. This was after I learned how to sieve out the clinkers. In the morning, itâs my job now, before school, to start up the furnace again. First, I shake down the ashes with a handle on the side, then I put in one shovelful of real coal. Over top of that, I spread a half shovelful of my clinkers. That way it gets started fast and then slows down as it gets to the clinkers. Sometimes I think I might be saving the same clinkers over and over, but thereâs no way to know.
One thing I do know is Iâve got to tell my parents about Cannibal. I want to keep him if he lives through everything, but I canât do it if they wonât let me. When youâre ten years old you can only do what your parents will let you.
I want to have an excuse to stay down in the cellar, so I decide to shine shoes even though it isnât Saturday. My dadâs made a little portable shoebox you can sit on. It has a lid so when you open it, thereâs a place to put a shoe on, with little twist things on each side that are adjustable to hold the shoe tight.
My dad made this box when he was fired from J.I. and couldnât get any job, not even with the WPA. We were on relief but all we got was cornmeal, rice, and once some Spam. We ate an awful lot of cornmeal muffins.
Dad made this box and went down outside the train station at Sixty-ninth Street and sometimes at Sixty-third Street to shine shoes. He told me he never made more than two dollars any day and sometimes heâd only be able to charge a nickel a shine. There were a lot of other men trying to shine shoes around there, and sometimes theyâd get into fights about customers. Sometimes the police would come down from the municipal building up the hill and chase them all away.
But then Dad got a job working with the WPA. Heâd walk to a place past Sixty-ninth Street, up on Westchester Pike, where they were fixing the streets. Heâd walk all the way there and all the way back. He used to cut out cardboard or wooden soles for his shoes and tie them on to save shoe leather, also to keep his feet warm. Dad told me it was the coldest winter he remembers. I was too young to know; all I remember is the blankets we got from relief. We called them Indian blankets, like Indian givers.
When I was seven, my dad showed me how to shine shoes. After that, shining shoes on Saturday for church Sunday morning was my job. Even when we were building porches, after we came in Iâd do the shoes. Sometimes Dad would stay on to help me when he wasnât too tired.
Laurelâs are easy. Theyâre Mary Janes, patent leather, and I just brush them off, then rub Vaseline in to make them shine. Momâs are white and brown in summer. Theyâre hard; you have to whiten the white part and shine the brown
Now I have to figure where I can keep Cannibal. If he keeps improving the way he is, heâll be wandering all over the cellar and heâs sure to start making cat noises, meowing or growling or yowling or maybe purring. Heâll also start making messes, the way cats always do. I still havenât heard him make any noise except the hissing he made at me when he was dying on his feet; but he could start making noises if he gets better. My mom would die if she knew I had an alley cat in our cellar. I havenât even thought about the flea part. I wonder if I already have fleas.
I rig up a place for Cannibal behind the big furnace. Itâs almost impossible to see back there and the furnace gets so hot you canât touch the sides so nobodyâs going to sneak back there. We just started the furnace last week when it began getting colder and we bank it down at night.
Last year, Dad taught me how to bank down our furnace, getting it to burn slowly and not use up much coal. This was after I learned how to sieve out the clinkers. In the morning, itâs my job now, before school, to start up the furnace again. First, I shake down the ashes with a handle on the side, then I put in one shovelful of real coal. Over top of that, I spread a half shovelful of my clinkers. That way it gets started fast and then slows down as it gets to the clinkers. Sometimes I think I might be saving the same clinkers over and over, but thereâs no way to know.
One thing I do know is Iâve got to tell my parents about Cannibal. I want to keep him if he lives through everything, but I canât do it if they wonât let me. When youâre ten years old you can only do what your parents will let you.
I want to have an excuse to stay down in the cellar, so I decide to shine shoes even though it isnât Saturday. My dadâs made a little portable shoebox you can sit on. It has a lid so when you open it, thereâs a place to put a shoe on, with little twist things on each side that are adjustable to hold the shoe tight.
My dad made this box when he was fired from J.I. and couldnât get any job, not even with the WPA. We were on relief but all we got was cornmeal, rice, and once some Spam. We ate an awful lot of cornmeal muffins.
Dad made this box and went down outside the train station at Sixty-ninth Street and sometimes at Sixty-third Street to shine shoes. He told me he never made more than two dollars any day and sometimes heâd only be able to charge a nickel a shine. There were a lot of other men trying to shine shoes around there, and sometimes theyâd get into fights about customers. Sometimes the police would come down from the municipal building up the hill and chase them all away.
But then Dad got a job working with the WPA. Heâd walk to a place past Sixty-ninth Street, up on Westchester Pike, where they were fixing the streets. Heâd walk all the way there and all the way back. He used to cut out cardboard or wooden soles for his shoes and tie them on to save shoe leather, also to keep his feet warm. Dad told me it was the coldest winter he remembers. I was too young to know; all I remember is the blankets we got from relief. We called them Indian blankets, like Indian givers.
When I was seven, my dad showed me how to shine shoes. After that, shining shoes on Saturday for church Sunday morning was my job. Even when we were building porches, after we came in Iâd do the shoes. Sometimes Dad would stay on to help me when he wasnât too tired.
Laurelâs are easy. Theyâre Mary Janes, patent leather, and I just brush them off, then rub Vaseline in to make them shine. Momâs are white and brown in summer. Theyâre hard; you have to whiten the white part and shine the brown
Similar Books
