It happens several times a year. I get e-mail from disgruntled Niagarans who wonder why I bother to write about Niagara Falls while I live in Palm Beach, Fla. What could I possibly know about a city so far away? Why don't I mind my "own business"?
Good question. I always have the same answer. I was born and raised there. I still have family and close friends there; and most importantly, I left my heart there. Niagara Falls will always be "home" to me.
I enjoy writing about my childhood, growing up in a different era, when Niagara Falls, like much of the nation, was a simpler, less hostile place. It was a place where life's lessons could be learned in a friendlier, personal way than I see today. The whole city seemed to be interested in everyone's well being; neighbors knew each other and cared.
The winter wind brought more than snow to me and my best buddy, Tommy. It was like money from heaven. We both used to sit in our homes paying close attention to the radio and television weather forecasts, all the while praying for a blizzard. Snowstorms were sure money for us.
If we were lucky enough to get a good 10 inches during the Christmas holidays, we'd make a fortune one sidewalk at a time, and all we needed was a good shovel and a good pair of gloves. Learning which the better shovel was and which gloves not to wear was a lesson of its own, one that I had to learn the hard way.
Some of our best customers would pay us $5 just to get the snow off their sidewalks. Driveways were extra, sometimes a whole $5 extra. You could buy a lot of baseball cards and get a whole bunch of free bubble gum with that kind of money, not to mention the comic books and gadgets we could buy over on Pine Avenue at the hobby shops.
We had more balsa wood airplanes, plastic model cars, toy soldiers and Vikings than any kids we knew.
Oh yeah, we LOVED the weather man.
Some of our commercial customers were starting to abandon us. They were the biggest accounts, but not always the best paying, we learned. The Pine Avenue businesses were the toughest sell. There we had competition from the family-owned businesses -- kids who had to shovel the walks as part of their chores. We were also beginning to see something, which later on would doom us, the arrival of the snow blowers.
Of course, we had to do our own sidewalks at home, too. Both our moms also made sure that we took care of a few of the old ladies, childless widows mostly, and some with sick, old husbands who were to feeble, tired or "busy" to do it for themselves.
We also had to help out at the school sometimes when Mr. Dashineau needed help with the huge open paved parking area and playground that surrounded the Our Lady of the Rosary's school, church, rectory and convent. We were not allowed to take money for any of those required duties, and we could not venture out in search of fame and fortune until we got those priority projects done first.
If we were fortunate enough to have had our prayers answered, and get a big overnight snowstorm that closed the schools and snarled traffic the next morning, it was like hitting the jackpot. This was better than the lottery or finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow (which we actually attempted to do on several occasions); this was free money, all we had to do was shovel. What a concept!
As long as we could bend, scoop, turn and toss, we were in the money. We had our regular customers along a route that ran up and down both sides of the streets on Mackenna, Cudaback, Welch Avenue, 27th Street and East Falls Street.
The routine was simple. Get dressed, grab your gear and go.
Dressing, which was supervised by our moms, was probably the most tedious, time-consuming part of the process. At least two pairs of socks, thermal underwear, shirts, sweaters, corduroy pants, wool jacket, scarf, hat, ear muffs, boots and gloves. And not just any gloves; we needed but rarely had the right combination. The wrong gloves could, and often did, stop us in our tracks.
Grabbing the wrong shovel was another job buster. I used to depend on my dad's military-like precision and organizational disciplinary skills to assure that I had the right tools for the job. But the problem was, he did not allow me to take his tools away from the house, and that included shovels, of which he had a formidable collection of all kinds, sizes and shapes, all in their proper place, neatly arranged, their sharp metal edges shining like badges of honor, honed by hand to guarantee their dependable reliability. They were so well organized that it was impossible to take one out of the garage without it being noticed.
To make a long story short, I learned to call a spade a spade and to know the difference. Spades do not a good snow shovel make, but in my haste to escape with a shovel, it's the one I got. Big mistake!
Tommy and I got our prayers answered sometimes, especially when we were in harm's way and time was of the essence and there was not enough of it to get through a whole rosary or even an "Our Father." Sometimes all we had time for, before certain death, was "Oh God" or "Holy Shit!"
That day we both awoke, Tommy at his house on Welch Avenue and I in mine on Mackenna, to one of the biggest snowstorms in our lifetimes, and it was still coming down. The schools were closed and both Jimmy Thompson and Ramblin' Lou on WJJL, as well as Eddie Joe on WHLD, were reading off lists of more closings and predicting the end of the world as we knew it. It was a miracle, we agreed, shouting into the telephones at each other.
We were going to finish our chores, gear up and meet at Bucky's Bowling alley right there on Welch and 27th Street, right around the corner from both of us. That would be our first paying job of that great day, and as usual, Bucky would pay us off with free bowling games instead of cash.
I clicked the last fastener on my big black boots, headed for the garage and grabbed the spade.
| Niagara Falls Reporter | www.niagarafallsreporter.com | December 3 2002 |