By: Frank W. Santucci, La Nostra Voce
Located on the top, flat part of Verona, Penn. — running parallel to the main street, about one-half mile away — was Second Street where I grew up. The topography made it special, but more notably, it was all of the hustle and bustle in this mixed Italian, German, Croatian, Irish and Polish neighborhood that made it shine.
As youngsters, we put up a basketball backboard and net on the streetlight right in front of my family home. We played all day, and with the streetlight, we would play long into the night too. Boys came from all over. All I had to do was provide the ball and drinking water. At times, cars on the road waited until a play was over, some even parked their cars and joined in.
This article first appeared in La Nostra Voce, ISDA’s 28-page monthly newspaper, which chronicles Italian life, culture and traditions. Make the ISDA pledge and subscribe today.
Everyone in the 800 block of Second Street knew one another. The weekends were fantastic, albeit a little noisy, but there were never any problems. We took our turns playing. In the winter we played some weird form of hockey with a tin can smashed and fashioned into a puck. Our hockey sticks were tree branches with another branch at the end. Imagine the capital letter L with an extra-long handle. This tin can puck never seemed to go where we aimed.
The youth claimed the streets, and the parents and neighbors claimed the porches. The porches provided their haven and never offered any restrictions to us rowdy, young, cocky brats. Just no swearing, no smoking and be home when the streetlights came on.
Now don’t think that this great block belonged to only this bunch of carefree kids and teens. During those magical 1940s and ‘50s you could observe a daily migration of about six to eight women, not young, but obviously not old. They were being drawn to 845 Second St. almost daily around 2 p.m. for conversation and a cup of coffee. If you had been there you would have seen quite a variety of women at this always-welcoming residence. There was Sue from across the street, Louise from the corner house, Jane from three houses down, Jean lived next to Sue, Ollie was a gem, and Rose always had all the answers. Periodically a new face or two joined the crowd. This group met almost daily for an undetermined number of years. Caffeine wasn’t the only draw, the ladies always had their fill of pizzelle, pizza and homemade bread. Hearing their conversations was always confusing, but their daily java ritual made sense. These women cherished their friendships, and none of them worked outside of their homes. By 4 p.m. all the women were gone, cups washed and put away.
A change was in the making, unseen, but brewing. Another more educated and socially active woman — a Mrs. E. — had her eye on the women meeting daily. Mrs. E. wrote a little gossip column for the Verona Leader, our local paper. She would come into the house without even knocking, just as the others always did. It seems Mrs. E. had connections with the local bus and tour companies. One afternoon she suggested they take an 11-mile bus trip to tour the Vimco Pasta Company for only $5 per person. My mother never went anywhere without my dad. Now this was truly an alien activity. The group pondered about a week, and to my surprise, they all agreed to go. About 35 women in all, from Verona had signed up. The bus would pick them up at the St. Joseph Church parking lot on Second Street at 10 a.m. One thing absolutely necessary was the important guarantee that the bus would return to Verona by 4 p.m. – in order to prepare the 5 p.m. supper for unknowing husbands who were returning home from their respective places of work and business.
These women were like little school children boarding the bus. Most of them had never been in a large group outside of their family gatherings, weddings, baptisms, funerals, etc. We can only conjure what went on during the ride. They had a prepared lunch and a tour of the macaroni plant. They even brought home a group picture taken of about a hundred ladies, all wearing hats having their lunch. This tour was the epiphany for the coffee group. Mrs. E. now planned trips to other various small companies that summer and the next. After these successful excursions into the unknown world, it was time to broaden the scope, as Mrs. E. stated. This new plan was to see a stage play held at St. Vincent’s College in Latrobe, Penn. Surprisingly, my mother did not hesitate to make a commitment to go. Now here is this housewife, whose daily uniform was a house dress with an apron, transforming herself into an afternoon traveler. Her best dress making another trip in the middle of the week (an unheard of situation).
The trip took a little longer, the play lasted a little longer, meaning, heaven forbid, no 5 p.m. dinner at the Santucci household. Uh-oh, what happened? The husbands returned from work, but there was no smell of sauce or roast and the women were not home. When the liberated ladies returned, there were no apologies. My mother started dinner, just a little later than usual. My younger brother and sister and I were all a little hungry but excited to hear about the latest adventure. Eventually, the tours dried up.
As I recall, the wives were again at the house having coffee on a regular afternoon basis. I cannot say how long in years this went on, but one by one each lady left the scene. Two moved away, one got gravely ill, and one had to get a small job. Sadly, they disbanded. For many marvelous summers these Second Street beauties had created wonderful, everlasting memories for themselves.
All that was left was the sweet smell of coffee, and homemade bread and pastries.
Frank W. Santucci is an ISDA member and retired VA Nurse Practitioner from Verona, Penn.
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