Alias John
Anecdotes of an Ex-Orphan
by
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There were no razor wire fences around the home to keep us in, only a 6’ hedge. There was a State Police Barracks to the north where people came to take their driving test. To the south was "Woodside Park" an amusement park where people came to play. To the east was the Philadelphia Psychiatric Center, where people came to find themselves and to the west, the Methodist Home for the Aged, where people came to die. I tried to escape twice but I came back voluntarily both times because I couldn't figure out where to go. Don't get me wrong it wasn’t anything like Steve McQueen’s experience in "The Great Escape". When I got back from my great escapes they acted as if I had never left. I was certainly happy not to be punished but it almost felt like an insult. In time, the Superintendent, Miss Bosanko retired and was replaced by Mr. H. Daryl Stone. Miss Bosanko was a very dignified gray haired lady who gave the impression that she would be more comfortable having tea with her relatives in the south of England. Mr. Stone was in his thirty's. His hair was cut close enough to pass a military inspection. I can’t watch a Steven Seagal movie without seeing H. Daryl Stone, except for the age difference, they could easily be mistaken for twins. He was built like a football player, actually he was a former defensive end for Lockhaven College, a small school in upstate Pennsylvania. This changing of the guard was equivalent in sports terms to swapping Connie Mack for Bobby Knight. Mr. Stone had the Bobby Knight approach to discipline. If the threat of violence wasn’t enough to do the trick, he would resort to violence. He would call a meeting of the Bennett Cottage boys whenever some of us had done something so bad and the house-parent on duty was unable to deal with us. The calling of such a meeting meant that someone or more of us was going to "get it" and I was usually among of the chosen. On one such occasion, some of the guys had talked back to Mrs. Barr in what she perceived as a threatening way. Actually, what they had said, that was so threatening, was "no". It was a "mutiny on the Bennett", cottage that is. I don’t remember what they had been told to do nor does it matter. But for once I wasn’t involved. We were all told to sit in the living room and wait for Mr. Stone. While we sat there waiting for him we talked and laughed and joked around. It helped to cut the tension. Mr. Stone was big and strong. He must have weighed 245 pounds and every bit of that which wasn’t bone, was muscle. When he arrived he walked straight over to where I was sitting and began to shout. He went on and on about how he wouldn’t permit such "impudence." Impudence was one of those grown-up words like impertinence or insolence, when you heard them you knew you were in deep shit. Restrictions and other punishments were handed out to all the guilty parties. Then he turned to me and let loose with a right hand across my face. To say I was surprised would be tantamount to calling the cosmos, considerable. I was flabbergasted. I had been feeling pretty smug about the prospect of getting through one of these sessions unscathed. Somehow I managed to analyze my optimum responses in an instant. Hitting back was clearly a bad idea although it did cross my mind. What response would really piss him off but at the same time not encourage further violence? "I know - I just won’t show anything, no pain, no anger, no expression at all. I’ll act as if my body is somewhere else." Great plan. But in the nano-second it took me to formulate that plan, Mr. Stone started speaking and one pregnant pause after he finished, everyone, including myself, started to giggle. "That is for sliding under me at home plate", he said. Oh well, so much for not encouraging further violence. After a second slap I managed to control any desire to giggle. It is said that if you travel out into space fast enough and with a telescope that is powerful enough, you can actually look back and see things that happened years before. Fortunately for me, I don’t have to make that trip in order to relive that event. All I need to do is close my eyes and I can enjoy it over and over and over again. Let me explain the giggles. I mentioned that we had our own baseball field. Well, we had enough kids to put together a full team whenever we wanted. We played a lot of ball. We even played teams from "the outside". Every year, Mr. Stone would try to find another team to beat us. You may be thinking that I'm being a little paranoid when I say that and I can appreciate why one might make that assumption. Still, every time he found a team, he would always play on their side, never once did he profess any interest in playing with our team, not once. We were pretty good in those days and we knew our field like no one else could. Beating us at our own game on our own field wasn't easy. That's not to say we won every game because we didn't. This particular year Mr. Stone went across the street to the State Police barracks and convinced them to throw together a team to play us. They were every bit as big as you might imagine. I was playing center field and Mr. Stone was batting. The score was tied two to two and it was the top of the seventh inning. For some reason, we were only playing a seven-inning game. There were two outs and Mr. Stone hit a long fly ball to right center. I had him figured to pull the ball and had him shaded toward left. I took off as fast as I could. Our outfield wasn’t flat or level. It was more like a golf course than an outfield and as I ran, the ball appeared to bounce up and down in the air. Every time one of my feet would hit the ground, the ball would move. It was moving so much that I really didn't see how I could catch it even if did I manage to catch up to it. I’m sure the whole process only took a matter of seconds, but for me everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. At the last possible moment I threw my glove in the general direction of the ball and to my shock and amazement, the ball fell into my glove. At first, no one, including myself, was sure I had the ball. Once the crowd realized I had caught it, they exploded. It must have been painful for his fragile ego to realize that it was me who made the catch and such a great catch at that. Considering his attachment to his image, it must also have been embarrassing for him to have so many of the kids who were under his charge, cheer for his misfortune and in front of his friends from across the street. It seems to be one of those unwritten rules in baseball that for some reason the person who makes the great play to end the inning, gets to lead off the next inning. The score still tied, it was the bottom of the seventh inning as I stepped up to the plate. If we score, we win, period. As I stepped into the batter’s box, someone yelled for me to hit a home run. Our field was so large that the only kind of home runs that were hit there were, inside-the-park home runs and I wasn’t much of a power hitter. In my entire "baseball career", I had only managed to hit one ball "out of the park" and that was at a different field. I remember as if it were yesterday afternoon. The ball disappeared over the hedge and I broke into a home-run trot. I sauntered around the bases as proud as a peacock. No sooner did I sit back down on the bench then someone informed me that it wasn't an automatic home run at that field. If they had managed to
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About the Book
Alias John
Alias John is intermittently amusing and poignant. Alias John is about coping and conquering with the adroitness of a skeptic in search of certainty. Alias John is about the orphan inside each of us, the orphan that will never relinquish his claim on part of our identity.
Alias John is about a journey.
Come, take a walk with Alias John.
About the Author
Grampa John Furman Currey was born on Friday, January 13th, 1893. He was the oldest of four children. His sister Edna and brothers, Raymond and Horace all lived at 928 Brown Street in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He was very close with his brothers and sister. Raymond was his half-brother but he never considered him anything less than his brother. His father was married twice, outliving both his wives. His family owned and operated a large horse stable located in 4th Street in Philadelphia. This stable housed horses and carriages for neighbors and visitors to use when they came to visit the city. At approximately eighteen years of age, he was drafted into the U.S. Army serving in the 312th Artillery Division and stationed in France during the height of World War I. While defending France from the Russians and Germans, chemical weapons were first used against his Company. He suffered gas poisoning resulting in the loss of 75% of his stomach. The pain from this would plague him for the rest of his life. Years later his children would often find him bending over a chair to ease the pain. After the war, using his GI benefits, he graduated from Mortuary school. He was employed by Yule’s Funeral Directors located near Front Street and Girard Avenue in Philadelphia. He also worked for HH Battles Florist Company located at 114 S. 12th Street (12th & Chestnut ) in Center City Philadelphia. He married Gladys Irene Norris on July 11th 1922 at Hancock Street AME Church in Philadelphia. They both lived on the same street and first met at the church. Each of their children was born at home by the assistance of a midwife. He would hold them as soon as they were born. His love for his children and his easy going ways would bless him with many wonderful years enjoying and loving each one of them. He found recreation and employment in simple family activities. He loved to sing – but only in the privacy of home. His favorite dessert was ice cream in a large scoop bowl. To his kids’ delight, a trip to the local ice cream store with his kids in hand was a must for him most every night. His favorite pastime was visiting the New Jersey shore. He would load up his late model Hudson, so large and long that two chairs could fit in the back of the car for additional seating, and take the family to the shore. He loved the ocean and fishing although every time he went fishing where, in addition to the fish, he would invariably hook his hand. His favorite time of year was Christmas. He loved to decorate the house and the Christmas tree, only a double balm evergreen, always waiting until Christmas eve, after all the children were fast asleep. He owned and operated a candy store from his home a 330 E. Thompson Street, selling penny candy, Breyers ice cream and other sundry items. The store also had pinball machines, providing recreation for the neighborhood youth. He was a kind and generous man. He would never turn away anyone who was in need or didn’t have all the money for their purchase at his store -- especially children. At the end of his favorite television show, "Strike It Rich", donations were requested for the poor. He would send $5.00 every week to help someone he would never know. Even though he lived during depressed economic times when no one had much in terms of material things, he instilled in his children the gift of giving by the example of his generous and caring ways. John Furman Currey died on Friday, July 22nd, 1955 at 62 years of age. July 22nd was the warmest day of that year. His legacy lives on with his family that he loved so much.