WITH LOVE FROM THE BACK OF THE YARDS OF CHICAGO

“The baby is darling, Alice. Thought you said he was a tumor?”

“I did not say he was a tumor.”

“Yes, you did. You said Doctor Levy thought you had a tumor. You better not say that too loud, as Doctor Levy is in the kitchen, and he might get mad, Irene.”

“Alice, the old fart is too kind to get mad at anyone.”

“Irene, you have one big loud mouth.”

“Oh, kiss my bootie, Alice.”

“Now, dammit, Irene, look what you’ve done. You have scared the baby, and you’ve made him cry.”

“Shit, no I didn’t, little sister-in-law, the baby looked at your ugly damn boobs. That’s why you have to give him a bottle instead of boob, as you scare the hell out of him.”

“Irene, why don’t you take a long walk off a short pier?”

“You know, Alice, you’re a pain in my keister, so I am going into the front room and visit with the men. See ya!!”

Well, the years went on in the Back of the Yards in Chicago, and I was to find I had some loving aunts who talked like sailors and a mother who was Captain Bly herself.

Grandma, from Dad’s side of the family, was bedridden and could hardly speak English. She had a smell about her that was sometimes repugnant. She would grab onto you and say “Dame Boshie, Dame Boshie,” and pull closer to hug you. The harder you pulled away, the firmer she pulled back. Her bed was located on the second floor by the front window in her house which was across from ours. She could look out onto the street. Next door to the house, which I was later to find out was hers, there was a trucking company. On the other side of the house was a tavern. Across the street from the tavern was a restaurant. Next to this restaurant was Siegelwellars Slaughter House, where cattle were slaughtered. Further down the street, to the Southeast, was the famous Chicago Stockyards. This was my playground. My playground had cattle pens, sheep pens, pig pens, railroad tracks, empty slaughter house buildings, and coal hills that were city blocks long and two to three stories high. The empty slaughter houses in the stockyards were intriguing mysteries and soon became, in my early teens, places to play mommy and daddy with neighborhood ladies. The smells of this place would drive the people out during the hot and humid days in the great city of Chicago’s Back of the Yards.

When the weather was hot, one never failed to see cattle blood, urine, pig blood, bladder and bowel fluids, and sheep bile running down the gutters of the cobblestone street we lived on.

Blowflies (horseflies) bigger than the tip of a grown man’s thumb would be buzzing around so much that protection had to be given to the babies and small children as they played outside.

Sidewalks were cracked with dirt pushing up through the cracks. The dirt in front of most of the homes was there to decorate the street with trees and grass, but hardly any of this happened as there seemed to be animal grease from all the blood and animal oils that had penetrated this dirt, and nothing would grow. The dirt was as black as black could be, but it was always slippery on top until you dug down a few inches to get through it. During the rains, rainbows appeared on the top of these dirt patches, and many children were drawn to these decorations. We took sticks and poked the oil-like substance to disperse the rainbow images in many directions. Our clothes would show our playful efforts. Sometimes during the rains, cattle would be driven up our street from Drovers Bank on the corner of West 47th and Ashland Avenue