Dr. Smith
My life started in 1920, and almost ended at my birth. I was delivered by forceps, which took the skin off my left cheek and cut an opening above my right eyebrow. Because of my poor condition, I was baptized by the nurse in the old Staten Island Hospital (Smith Infirmary) on Castleton Avenue. Then, my life seemed threatened again when my mother was made aware that I was not receiving enough nourishment when she was nursing me. Her sister, Emma, a practical nurse, told mom that I was starving. Once I was started on formula in a bottle, I thrived.
My mother and father moved briefly to Saybrook, Connecticut where my father’s family lived. Then it was back to Staten Island (New York) again. When I was about three, I lived on Victory Boulevard above Cannon Avenue. I was quite the handful to care for. It was there I decided the pet canary needed to take a bath. Somehow, I managed to grab the poor bird and washed him most thoroughly. He didn’t survive! I almost got into trouble by dousing myself with a rather expensive ointment that was being used on me for impetigo. Guess I thought that if a little was good for me, all of it at once all over my whole body, including my hair, would make me better quicker.
At this location, my mother would let me outside to play on the sidewalk. Getting to know me better, she fastened me to the railing by a rope so I couldn’t wander off or go into the street. My grandmother Ferguson lived on Meredith Avenue, so I often played in her fenced yard with my cousin Blair, who was 10 months older than I. We decided Grandmother needed kindling wood for the kitchen stove. There was a chopping block in the backyard with an axe embedded in it, as was common practice at this time. Blair managed to pry the axe loose and I, ever helpful, held the wood for him. Next thing I knew I was running to Grandma with my right index finger hanging by a thread. Grandmother pushed the two ends of the finger together, wrapped it in a clean men’s handkerchief and sent for Dr. Smith.
In his opinion, he thought the finger should have been removed. In Grandmother’s opinion, the finger should have been sewn back on. She prevailed! Dr. Smith used five metal clips around that tiny finger. Afterwards, whenever he saw me, which became very often as I grew, he would say “Let me see that finger. You can really move it quite well.” He was very proud of the way it healed, but Grandma and I knew it was her insistence that kept my finger on my hand that day.
The town I lived in, Travis, went under various names over the last hundred years or so. It was once known as Long Neck and then Linoleumville because of the factory at the end of Victory Boulevard.
My father started a business in Travis near Crabb’s Lane. He had cars towed to his home, and from these cars, he made working models or sold parts salvaged from the wrecks of other cars. We lived in a small house consisting of four rooms. Then my Grandmother in Connecticut died. My Grandfather, my uncles Walter (Buster) and Hubert, my Aunt Gladys plus Teddy, the dog, all came to live with us. I started Kindergarten in P.S. 26.
Then we moved to a larger house on Vedder Avenue. Although the house was much larger, we were still crowded. Some of my mother’s family were out of work because of the depression. Therefore, our home became their home until they could start over. At one time, 11 members of the combined family lived in a house with three bedrooms, an outhouse down the lane, two house dogs that couldn’t stand the sight of each other, and one wild dog chained in the yard. The two house dogs, Teddy and Donnie, would not go anywhere near Walter, the wild one. To feed Walter, his dish had to be retrieved with a broom. The bowl was then filled and pushed back into his reach. He had a six-foot heavy chain, and he was so fast, he could catch and kill rats that lived nearby. He also managed to catch the neighbors’ prized hens. He consumed the entire chicken, feathers, bones, and all. My dad felt sorry for him because it was so cold one winter day, so he put Walter inside the garage instead of under it. Walter showed his appreciation by tearing up the tire inner tubes, seats for cars, and anything else he could reach.
My dad’s junk yard was a great playground for us. The cars were dumped all around upside down on their roofs or sideways on their doors. We climbed in and out of them at will. One day in particular we chose a car that was lying on its passenger side. The other kids, being taller than I, had no problem letting themselves down into the driver’s seat. I was short and needed some place to put a foot. I tried to get perched on the windshield, which was broken. Of course, my foot slipped and the broken windshield penetrated my right ankle. Once again, Dr. Smith was there to clamp me back together.
Another time, the game was “King of the Mountain”. I lost the game and hit my head on a rock on the way down. Another visit by Dr. Smith and another clamp was put on my body. By this time, I was enrolled in P.S. 22 in Graniteville, Staten Island. There I encountered childhood diseases and had to sample them all as they came along, including scarlet fever, measles, chicken pox, whooping cough and ringworm. Dr. Smith made so many visits to our home, my dad used to say, “Every time I turn into the driveway, I meet him coming out!”
Did I mention that we had a brook in the back of the property? I regularly fell into said brook, by accident or design. Also, where the Bayonne Bridge[1] extension roadway is now, the area was always filled in with water. When it froze, we could slip and slide all the way up to Willowbrook Park.
My father found a new venture when he bought a fishing boat. The junk yard got sold and the boat replaced it. We moved to Ruth Avenue. We had money. I was able to have dancing and piano lessons. Now I was in P.S. 30 in Westerleigh, Staten Island.
The money disappeared so we moved to Lake Avenue in Mariners Harbor. All the relatives, except one, had moved on with their lives. My grandfather had remarried. Gladys stayed with her father. Teddy, the dog, decided he liked the Vedder Avenue address and ran back there every time he could. Finally, the new owner said he wanted him to stay there so Teddy left us.
[1] Bayonne Bridge connects Bayonne, New Jersey with Staten Island, New York. It was built in 1928-1931 according to Wikipedia.
