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Can’t Get to Heaven (continued from preceding page) bedroom suburb of Wauwatosa.
McKinley Boulevard had big homes built with Ger- man craftsmanship and ours was by then more than a half-century old. The neighborhood was in the heart of a city still booming with breweries and manufac- turers, loud factories and three shifts of workers.
Wauwatosa felt far removed from that world, a pasto- ral respite with ranch homes and wide, manicured laws on curving lanes and cul de sacs freed from the city grid of streets. There was so much green space
to be found in the splendor of Honey Creek Park-
way, whose sun-dappled waters wound through the neighborhood, and the endless parkland, lagoon and woods of the mostly undeveloped county grounds lo- cated just two blocks from our new home. I had never seen such perfect lawns. One neighbor—a Japanese American in this all-white neighborhood—had a perfect putting green in the backyard and was often there practicing.
There was a subtle snobbery at St. Jude’s that perme- ated the parish, beginning with the sermons of Monsignor Holleran, who gave the faithful the clear message this was a blessed and special place. I was ten years old and found everything thrilling, but was terrified that my new fourth grade classmates might expose me as an imposter, a ruffian from the city who didn’t understand their jokes and byplay. The com- ments of some kids about the neighborhood I came from—kind of dark there, wasn’t it?—let me know I didn’t belong.
But after a few nervous weeks of trying to fit in, I stepped up to bat with the bases loaded in a play- ground baseball game. Sports were a big deal in Wauwatosa, where the high school football games between Pius and Marquette high schools could lead to after-game brawls at Gille’s custard stand, the neighborhood hangout. I hit a high fly that somehow got over the head of the leftfielder. It might have been a fluke, but was a grand slam nonetheless, and I can still see the girls cheering and Susan Duffy, perhaps the cutest, with a pert nose, honey-blonde hair and unabashed eyes, yell- ing “way to go, Murphy!”
After that, I was aces with all the kids who counted at St. Jude’s. By seventh grade, I had lots of friends and doted on Susan, the first crush I ever had. Once, I confided to Pat Lawler and Doug Bowring that some people thought the St. Judeans were snobs. They might have suspected the “some people” was actually
me, but they were happy to explain the facts of life. We’re just cooler than other kids so they’re jealous, Lawler let me know.
I accepted the explanation as I accepted everything about the third and most wonderful home of my young life. My family’s moves now seemed a natural progression of rising toward Wauwatosa and pros- perity, which would be our permanent place in life.
St. Jude’s was our family’s favorite parish, where all three priests, Monsignor Holleran, Father Brady and Father Weiland seemed so impressive. I saw all three close-up after I became an altar boy. On early sum- mer mornings, Father Weiland, the youngest, tallest and thinnest of the three, walked around the lovely grounds of the parish, with his breviary in hand, stopping periodically to read from it. Father Brady, who looked pure Irish, was the family favorite and gave a memorable goodbye sermon after learning he would be transferred to another parish, breaking into tears in front of the congregation. It felt like he was being banished from paradise.
We moved to Wauwatosa partly to be closer to Pa’s latest venture, a clothing store called the Mirror Shop, located at the new “Times Square” shopping center on 76th and Capitol Drive. Irv Murphy, after all, was an expert in the business after his work
with Junior House, and so he sent out a letter to all those friends and business contacts who had ear- lier learned about Murphy’s tavern, with a tagline: ”The MIRROR SHOP Reflects Quality,” and this chatty come-on:
Murph has gone and done it again!
Everyone enjoyed his last venture. Now Murph has come up with something even better.
Murph has obtained the MIRROR SHOP! What a lucky guy!
Our MIRROR SHOP has merchandise of the latest styles and best quality at down-to-earth prices: for all gals— and children—and even the wee ones. AND you’ll fall in love with the styling and cuteness—just what you want.
The opening line was a classic, one we could use to comic effect any time Pa spilled his beer or tilted his rear end from his seat to fart, which always grossed us out. “Murph has gone and done it again!”
He had done it all right, moving with reckless bra-
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