It started with a light dime sized dusting of snow, followed by snowflakes the size of a quarter that grew in intensity, until they mimicked a Franklin Half Dollar. It was the first major snowstorm of the season, and it looked like a doozy. School or no school, the possibility of a day off made it difficult for Richie to study. Closing ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ for the umpteenth time, he looked out his bedroom window at the falling snow while still contemplating Boo Radley's huge impact on the character development of Jem and Scout. As the snowflakes fell, Richie’s confidence grew, knowing that he might be granted a respite from tomorrow’s English test. Leaving his bedroom for the family room, he found his parents glued to the 11 o’clock nightly news and its prediction of snow accumulations. Satisfied with the weatherman’s forecast, Richie headed down the hallway towards his bedroom to crash. Just before he entered his room, he swung a triumphant fist in the air and said to himself, “At last, a snow day." Later on, as his head hit the pillow, a faint smile appeared on his face as he closed his eyes and fell asleep, certain that school would be closed tomorrow, as well as most of the businesses in the Delaware Valley.
It wasn’t till mid-morning that nature's snow gun mercifully turned off the snowfall. Leaning against his shovel, he looked up the driveway back towards his house, admiring his work. Start to finish, shoveling nonstop, he completed his task in less than 55 minutes. He could have done it faster, but the snow was wet and heavy. The only outward concession to the backbreaking labor was the occasional stretching of his back and arms. He was in great shape, and he knew it. He would have preferred to sleep in this snowy morning, but the shoveling had to be done, especially with his Dad’s limitations; he wanted to be sure, in case of an emergency, that they could get a car out of the garage and onto the newly plowed streets.
His ranch style house was one of many in the Bosswicks section of Remington township. His family moved there in the mid-fifties as part of the great migration from the city to the suburbs. Like other post World War Two families, they were in search of the American dream: home ownership, a little space to call their own, and a better education for him and his sibling. Bosswicks was a smaller version of Levittown and was not to be confused with the custom homes in the adjacent Danbury community. In “The Wicks,” as the kids called it, you either had a ranch or a split-level, two choices, two floor plans, A or B. They had a brown-shingled rancher with a B floor plan.
He left the city in third grade, starting fourth grade in the suburbs. He went from the rigid structure of the Catholic school system to the laissez faire atmosphere of public school---where he thrived. Like a lot of suburban kids during the great ‘Philly Migration,’ life was good for he and his sister. He had his own bedroom, a hoop with a net over the garage, and a mini Connie Mack Stadium yard along the side of the house. This allowed him to pursue his athletic endeavors safely, eliminating the dangerous streets and alleys of Northeast Philly. The tradeoff was that he shoveled snow in the winter and cut the lawn in the summer.
“Richie, are you done?” his Mom yelled from the breezeway door, her voice cutting through the see-your-breath air. “I have lunch ready.” A nurse at one of the township’s hospitals, his mother was the glue that held the family together. At five feet seven inches tall, she was a mixture of Irish and English descent and was the one who gave him his competitive spirit. She tried never to miss any of his games, coordinating her work schedule so it coincided with whatever sport he was playing at the time.
Waving back, he held up five fingers, letting her know that he would be there in five minutes. At six feet two and a hundred and eighty five pounds, he was lean and lanky and a lot stronger than he looked. Still growing, there was a good chance that by the time he was a senior, he would be taller than his Old Man, who was just shy of six feet four inches. Before heading in, he looked up and down the street: it was a buzz of activity. Anyone who wanted to make a buck was roaming the neighborhood shoveling snow, usually in teams of three.
He entered through the enclosed breezeway door, took off his snow gear, and headed towards the kitchen at the back of the house. There he was greeted with a familiar sight, his Dad, off for the day, sitting at the kitchen table reading the morning paper, which Richie had retrieved for him from the snow. Grabbing a seat at the table, he observed his Dad, a decorated combat veteran who served during World War Two and fought in the Battle of the Bulge. Before his enlistment, he was a successful amateur boxer who made a point of teaching his only son the formal art of self-defense. Richie’s ‘Old Man’ was an accountant for one of the major accounting firms, taking advantage of the GI Bill after the war to get his degree. A man’s man, he was respected by his peers and known as an all-around good guy by both his friends and business associates. A quiet man, his easygoing nature hid a moral fiber that was based on faith and doing the right thing. An avid reader, Richard Sr., Dick to his friends, appeared relaxed, and to an outsider he looked like the perfect picture of health. However, a strong exterior hid a serious heart condition. His Dad’s first cardiac arrest happened in '56, a wake-up call for the entire family, especially for Richie, who was midway through fifth grade when death's inevitability suddenly appeared on his doorstep.
“Did you do the sidewalks,” asked the ‘Inquirer’ reader, a smug smile appearing on Dick’s rugged face? He knew his son all too well as he fired off his question, simultaneously pulling the paper down, revealing his face. Before shooting back an answer, the “Snow Shoveler” closely examined his Old Man. They both had amazing blue/green eyes, God awful protruding ears that stuck out like flaps, short cropped dirty blond hair, and large hands, which in his son’s case were great for palming and dunking a basketball. A link to their German heritage, each had ruddy complexions, and the subtle tendency of cocking their head to the right when they were asked a question or were listening to instructions.
“Yep,” he answered, having paid two elementary school kids almost nothing for the privilege of shoveling the walks alongside their local basketball hero.
Closing his paper, his Dad queried, “What are you going to do today...study?”
“Don’t you have an English test tomorrow? “his Mom interjected, entering the conversation while putting a ham and cheese sandwich with Charlie’s Chips in front of her son?
“It’s postponed,” he said, a credible evasion of the truth, though the look on both his questioners' faces appeared suspect. Avoiding eye contact, he got up from the table, opened the fridge, and grabbed a Coke, a reward for his shoveling endeavors.
“What are you going to do?” asked the parenting duo almost at the same time.
“Play some B-Ball,” first with a mouthful of food, and then again in a clearer voice.
“Isn’t practice cancelled?” his father stated, already knowing the answer to the question. “It is,” but Jimmy has the keys to the junior high gym. You know his Dad works for the township.” Then, before his father could respond, “We’re going to meet there around two.”
No one spoke for several minutes as collectively their focus shifted to their food, his parents eating theirs while Richie inhaled his. It was rare that they shared a daylight meal at the same time, since all three were constantly on the go. The one advantage of the B rancher's floor plan was that the kitchen was designed for family gatherings, allotting proportionally more space to this room than any of the others. The kitchen walls were decorated with a green and white flowered wall pattern, and the trim wood was painted yellow and white, which complemented the flat front maple wood cabinets that hung above and below the black Formica countertop. There was a utility room attached to the kitchen with a door that led to the back yard. All the appliances were brand new; they were his Dad’s Christmas gift to his Mom. However, the centerpiece of the kitchen and his Mom’s pride and joy was the yellow and green kitchen dinette set. It was the nurse’s Christmas gift to the de facto head of their household, and she earned it. The only empty chair of the four was his sister's, who was in her junior year in college. Richie liked the kitchen even before it was renovated and redecorated, but he would never tell that to his Mom. What mattered to him is what the kitchen represented. It was the social hub of the household, a place where they shared their life stories. It was where he could talk to his parents individually or collectively, and where they could talk to him honestly and straightforwardly.
When the last chip was finished and his Coke was empty, he got up from the table and started to put his plate in the sink, only to be asked another anticipated question and statement from his Dad. “How you getting there? You can’t drive a car in these conditions.”
He had his driver’s license for over a year, but he knew that there was no way that the Old Man was going to trust him with his pride and joy, a 1960, grey, four door Bonneville Pontiac, or his mother’s 1962, Ford Galaxie 500 Convertible. Not in this weather.
“Thumb it,” as he turned back from the sink and left the kitchen.
For a guy hitchhiking in the fifties and early sixties, thumbing was a major means of transportation, that is if you didn’t have your own wheels, or you couldn’t finagle the car keys from your parents.
Like a typical teenager, before he went anywhere, he glanced at the full-length mirror behind his sister’s bedroom door. Pleased, he looked like a ball player. He had chiseled features, a strong chin, a nose that was scooped with a turned-up tip, full lips, and a red wine stained birthmark under his right eye, which gave people the impression that he had recently been in a fight.
Minus those protruding ears, his friend’s thought that he looked a lot like “The King of Cool,” Steve McQueen. Perhaps, he thought, on his best day and the movie stars' worst. His body was well proportioned, though his arms were exceptionally long; a true advantage for a ball handling point guard. Around his neck hung a sterling silver cross crucifix pendant that his grandmother had given to him before she passed away; it was a constant reminder of his faith and his Nana. For practice with Jimmy, he wore a maroon and white T-shirt and grey shorts underneath a maroon sweatshirt with white piping. His outerwear, a Navy pea jacket that he wore almost everywhere, and instead of snow boots, he wore Chuck Taylor low tops. Impractical footwear for this type of weather, nevertheless, he thought they were cool.
Satisfied with "his look," he attempted to make his escape. Like the fleeing convict who goes over the wall only to be caught in the guard tower's spotlight, a female voice from the kitchen froze him in his tracks. “You’re not warm enough? “
With a well-worn NBA regulation indoor basketball under his arm, he shouted back, “Mom, I’m fine.”
“Change your shoes and wear a hat,” came the edict from the world’s foremost authority on colds as she spotted the Chuck Taylors through the kitchen door entrance.
Knowing that there was no sense in arguing with the “Home Warden, “ he yelled back, “Done,” as he kicked off his sneakers, tied them together, then threw them around his neck and replaced the Chuck Taylors with his snow boots. His fashion statement lost in the process. He then grabbed an Eagles wool skullcap, his basketball, and bolted from the house before his Dad remembered that he hadn’t replaced the fireplace logs from the night before.
STOP