Read Online Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir by Doris Kearns Goodwin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Doris Kearns Goodwin
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For our mothers, these neighborhood stores supplied all the goods they needed in the course of an ordinary day, and provided a common meeting place where neighbors could talk, trade advice, and gossip as they relaxed over an ice-cream soda or a cup of coffee.
The soda fountain at the corner drugstore, where I helped Doc Schimmenti make ice-cream sodas for the triumphant Little League team.
The sign in St. James Pharmacy, appropriately located on St. James Place, promised “prescription services, reliability, Breyers ice cream, and prompt delivery.” But owner “Doc” James Schimmenti gave much more than the advertisement promised. Fastidiously dressed in a white jacket with a white short-sleeved dress shirt, bow tie, and dark pants, Doc was neighborhood nurse and doctor combined. If one of us scraped a knee, he would bandage the cut. If someone got a splinter, he would extract it. When he printed prescription labels, he put his home number on the front so that his customers could call at any hour if they had a question or needed a refill. He was known to deliver as far away as Garden City and as late as 3 a.m. Even on holidays, he was always available. He was so beloved in our neighborhood that we affectionately joked that the store was named for him—St. James—rather than the street on which it stood.
On entering the drugstore, one encountered an old fashioned soda fountain on the right, with six black stools that twirled around. To the left of the door there were greeting cards and a small bookshelf that held the lending library where my mother rented current best-sellers. On cold winter days, I could come in to warm myself on the grate which heated the store before venturing out again.Two wrought-iron tables with matching chairs were usually occupied by people drinking sodas and waiting for their prescriptions. The shelves held cigarettes and cosmetics; the counter at the center of the store contained a dazzling display of penny candy. In the rear of the store, Doc ground the powders, poured the syrups, and counted pills to fill prescriptions.
Doc, his wife, Josephine, and the four children who made up his close-knit Italian family worked in the store, tending the fountain, unpacking cartons, or operating the register. On nights when the Little League team that Doc sponsored was playing, the entire family was pressed into action. Doc had promised his players that, whenever they won a game, and they won regularly, he would open the drugstore and treat them all to free ice-cream sodas.
Early one evening, I walked past the store just as the triumphant team was filing in. Doc beckoned me over, and asked me if I might help with the crowd of ballplayers. Unsure of my abilities, but unwilling to miss this splendid opportunity, I walked to the soda fountain with an air of pretended confidence. With Doc guiding me, I pulled the long handle that drew the carbonated water, pushed the short one to add the syrup, and mixed in the cold milk. Finally, with a metal scoop dipped in steamy hot water to soften the hard ice cream, I added two scoops of vanilla or chocolate ice cream and a dab of fresh whipped cream. After the first few sodas, Doc, satisfied, moved away, and I was on my own. My nervous uncertainty drained away as I saw the sodas being swiftly consumed without complaint. I made eighteen sodas that night, handing each one over to one of the boys with a smiling “Here you are,” in imitation of Doc Schimmenti himself. When the boys left, I raced home gleefully, holding the dollar I had been given for my work. “And he even paid me,” I said to my fatherthat night as I recounted my exploits in soda-by-soda detail.
The butcher shop next to the drugstore, home to my baseball rivals Max and Joe, boasted the best cuts of meat and the freshest vegetables in the entire area. Max, taller and thinner than Joe, was never without his ragged Giant cap as he stooped over the butcher block whistling opera tunes while he
The soda fountain at the corner drugstore, where I helped Doc Schimmenti make ice-cream sodas for the triumphant Little League team.
The sign in St. James Pharmacy, appropriately located on St. James Place, promised “prescription services, reliability, Breyers ice cream, and prompt delivery.” But owner “Doc” James Schimmenti gave much more than the advertisement promised. Fastidiously dressed in a white jacket with a white short-sleeved dress shirt, bow tie, and dark pants, Doc was neighborhood nurse and doctor combined. If one of us scraped a knee, he would bandage the cut. If someone got a splinter, he would extract it. When he printed prescription labels, he put his home number on the front so that his customers could call at any hour if they had a question or needed a refill. He was known to deliver as far away as Garden City and as late as 3 a.m. Even on holidays, he was always available. He was so beloved in our neighborhood that we affectionately joked that the store was named for him—St. James—rather than the street on which it stood.
On entering the drugstore, one encountered an old fashioned soda fountain on the right, with six black stools that twirled around. To the left of the door there were greeting cards and a small bookshelf that held the lending library where my mother rented current best-sellers. On cold winter days, I could come in to warm myself on the grate which heated the store before venturing out again.Two wrought-iron tables with matching chairs were usually occupied by people drinking sodas and waiting for their prescriptions. The shelves held cigarettes and cosmetics; the counter at the center of the store contained a dazzling display of penny candy. In the rear of the store, Doc ground the powders, poured the syrups, and counted pills to fill prescriptions.
Doc, his wife, Josephine, and the four children who made up his close-knit Italian family worked in the store, tending the fountain, unpacking cartons, or operating the register. On nights when the Little League team that Doc sponsored was playing, the entire family was pressed into action. Doc had promised his players that, whenever they won a game, and they won regularly, he would open the drugstore and treat them all to free ice-cream sodas.
Early one evening, I walked past the store just as the triumphant team was filing in. Doc beckoned me over, and asked me if I might help with the crowd of ballplayers. Unsure of my abilities, but unwilling to miss this splendid opportunity, I walked to the soda fountain with an air of pretended confidence. With Doc guiding me, I pulled the long handle that drew the carbonated water, pushed the short one to add the syrup, and mixed in the cold milk. Finally, with a metal scoop dipped in steamy hot water to soften the hard ice cream, I added two scoops of vanilla or chocolate ice cream and a dab of fresh whipped cream. After the first few sodas, Doc, satisfied, moved away, and I was on my own. My nervous uncertainty drained away as I saw the sodas being swiftly consumed without complaint. I made eighteen sodas that night, handing each one over to one of the boys with a smiling “Here you are,” in imitation of Doc Schimmenti himself. When the boys left, I raced home gleefully, holding the dollar I had been given for my work. “And he even paid me,” I said to my fatherthat night as I recounted my exploits in soda-by-soda detail.
The butcher shop next to the drugstore, home to my baseball rivals Max and Joe, boasted the best cuts of meat and the freshest vegetables in the entire area. Max, taller and thinner than Joe, was never without his ragged Giant cap as he stooped over the butcher block whistling opera tunes while he
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