Mission: Ciccarelli’s (Chic’s) Corner Store
Pop’s Surprise
Have you ever viewed anything like the image above? That is a picture of Altoona, PA, c1945-1955, taken from a window of the old Victoria Hotel at the corner of 9th Avenue and 15th Street, looking east, toward 12th Street bridge..
In this particular picture, you can’t see it, but at the end of the block, on the corner of 13th Street and 9th Avenues, is where Ciccarelli’s Corner Store was located way back through the 1950’s and early 60’s.
Now, I turned five years old at the beginning of 1957, and for achieving that milestone, My grandfather, whom we called Pop, bought me my first car. It was a sweet little coup, fire engine red, rear wheel drive with a dual-pedal engine that made it fly like Superman!
It was a beautiful one-seater with a small windshield, glass-free for safety purposes. The roof was open, no roll bars, and if I wanted to take a girl on a date, well, she had to ride on the hood, but other than that, that little car was cherry!
Learning To Drive
That morning I was out of bed early. Mom was in the kitchen, as usual with her coffee and cigarette in hand. I sat down to what we called back then, “coffee soup.” You may have heard of it, especially if you’re from Pennsylvania. It’s a concoction of sliced bread on a plate, doused with hot coffee, some condensed milk, and covered with sugar. A recipe that kept me fed on several occasions during my service at sea with the U.S. Navy.
It was either coffee soup or the Puffed Wheat. You may remember those huge bags you could buy for less than a dollar. It was what it sounded like, and a mouthful of it dissolved like cotton candy as it was chewed, making it easy to kill three bowls of it covered with powdered milk and small truck load of sugar! (Sugar makes the medicine go down, don’t you know).
That morning, Pop came in dressed as always in the only suit he owned. (If you’ve ever seen Otis on the Andy Griffith Show, then you have seen the basics of what Pop looked like, and he was often just as drunk. But I’m digressing.) Oddly, he came in the back door from the yard, poured some coffee, sat down beside me and flipped open the newspaper he always kept tucked into his inside coat pocket.
Pop worked his crossword puzzle while I finished eating. When he was sure I was done, he said: “I forgot something on the back porch, go get it for me!” I took a drink of coffee out of Mom’s cup and went to the porch.
Sitting there on the porch was a 1940s, Murray’s pedal car. Pop said it turned up at the Salvation Army store on 8th Avenue, across the alley from our house and he snagged it. By the time it came to me, it had survived the war years and it looked the part, but it evaded the scrap-heaps instead of becoming a part of a bomber or fighter plane.
Pop took me into the newly paved bakery parking lot next to our house for my first driving lesson. Of course, I’d watched Mickey and Minnie dozens of times driving their little car that looked very similar to mine, so I had the basics down, and looked forward to my many travels.
Looking down at the pavement slip past me as I sped along, watching the hard rubber wheels as they followed the motion of the steering wheel, which for some reason was so fascinating that, during that first spin around the lot, I fell in love with driving!
My Murry’s coup was the only gift that I can recall from my young childhood, and it gave me a sense of freedom like nothing else ever could. I was free to fly! Even if it was, most often, around in circles. Still, my imagination took me to many fun places.
Temptation Overtakes Me
Every morning, out of bed early and out the door. Rain or shine, well, light rain or shine, I was driving somewhere. Around the corner, down to the alleyway, then turn and speed back as fast as my legs could pump the pedals. My favorite drive, however, was the big open parking lot where the bakery trucks parked. It had new blacktop and imaginary roads I could drive while I watched the wheels follow the commands of my hands.
The rule, of course, was always stay close to home, and never go into the street! But then, what was the use in having a car if I couldn’t go anywhere?
One particular afternoon, I had a nickle in my pocket and I asked Mom to take me Ciccarelli’s for ice cream, but she said no. She only went to the store when she needed cigarettes, and I had no idea when that might be.
Ciccarelli’s was a full two blocks away from my house because there was no 14th Street cutting through those blocks. So…sitting there in front of our house with my engine running and my pocket full of (a) coin, I contemplated: ‘Can I make it there and back before they even know I’m gone?’
Executing the Plan
Feet planted firmly on the pedals, I glanced at the front door of the house; ‘Nope, nobody there!’
Looking behind me, ‘Nope, still nobody.” The street was silent, no cars passing; straight ahead was chocolate and crunchy cone while I sat here full of desire.
I did a trial run! Looking up and down the sidewalk, I peddled past the bakery parking lot, past the first two houses, drop my Flintstones breaks to the ground, spun around and pedaled back.
Still, there was nobody! Nobody on the sidewalk; still nobody on the street. Back and forth, back and forth for several minutes while mustering courage, when, finally, I sped off in the direction of California!
Past the bakery truck parking lot and the houses beyond. Past Servello’s, where my friend Eddie lived, fully expecting to hear my mother’s voice and any second. Grappling with my fear I pushed on, boldly going where no one, at age 5, driving a nifty red sports car, had ever gone before!
California, here I come!
“We can’t go over there. That’s California</strong>.” I said that once to my younger nephew as we stood on that corner looking west, toward the 12th Street bridge.</strong>
style=”padding-left: 40px;”>A year or so before that, my uncle Joe came to visit my Dad. Uncle Joe lived in California, and the first time that I saw him, he had come from the railroad station, across the 12th Street bridge and was walking east, toward our house. Coming from that direction, he told me, “I just came from California.”
le=”padding-left: 40px;”>>Well, I saw him cross that street, so to me, over there on the OTHER SIDE of 13th Street, must be California!</span>
Kicking the dual-pedal pistons into high gear, she must have developed at least 1/10,000 of a horsepower. Zooming along my teeth clacked together as the hard rubber wheels sped across the uneven bricks. Occasionally hitting a large bump, or pothole, of missing bricks, I had to climb out and lift the car over and then fight to bring the engine back up to speed again.
Each time I stalled I glanced back to see if Mom had caught me, but I was still in the clear. Flying past the neighbors’ houses, I was but a clattering smoke on the wind, a mere blur of metal and boy.
Having made it to Ciccarelli’s in a third of the time it took to walk, I again let the Fred Flintstone brakes drop, bringing me to a drifting halt in front of Chics’ store. Looking once again down 9th Avenue toward the long bridge that crossed the railroad tracks and led into town, I surveyed California for changes, wondering where Uncle Joe might be.
Feeling entitled by bravery, and still no sign of Mom, I went inside, I climbed up onto one of the round stools that was nailed to the floor. There was no back on them, just the round seat, and I spun around a couple times before Chic came to the counter.
Being no fool, Chic said, “le=”color: #666699;”>Let me see your money.</strong>” Too many times was he bamboozled by children with big eyes and no cash. I pulled a shiny Indian Head Nickel from my pocket and offered it up to him. He looked at me like I was a bird that accidentally flew in the door.
“<span style=”color: #666699;”><strong>Ice cream costs a dime,” Chic glared; I remained silent, holding the nickel in front of his face. “Do you have another nickel?” I shook my head. Pop gave me only one nickel. The only thing I had to offer were big sad eyes as my chocolate ice cream dream melted in my brain.
Still holding the nickel steadily aloft, finally, he made a cone with a somewhat smaller scoop of chocolate and handed it over while holding up two fingers while saying, “Next time, bring two nickels.</span>” He gently pinched the nickel from between my aching finger and thumb, and handed me the ice cream.
Standing several minutes on the stoop, I licked at the the lava-flow of rapidly melting chocolate, when I suddenly became aware that I had no idea how long I had been away from the house!
Betrayed By The Sodajerk
Thinking that Mom might be trying to find me, I dragged the front of the sports car around and pointed it toward home. Holding the ice-cream and driving at the same time was going to be interesting, but nothing will slow the chocolate ooze, so it had to be dealt with. Well, there was naught to do but try.
So I jumped in and placed both pistons on the pedals and fired up my two-stroke biological engine! Starting with a hard push on the right, I made a wide, circling turn at the corner and one-handedly tugged the wheel, pointing the car toward home. California was beginning to fade into the distant behind.
Left-right, left-right, left-right, left-right, the pistons fired back and forth as I once again bumped and jostled across the sidewalk’s uneven bricks. Ice-cream cone held high in my left hand, my teeth again clacking together as the hard rubber wheels negotiated each leap and drop across the tilted bricks, I attempted a few licks, painting my nose and eyebrows with chocolate</p>
<p>By the time I arrived back in front of the house, there was chocolate on my face, in my hair, and droplets running down my shirt. Lesson learned ‘FRIENDS DO LET FRIENDS LICK AND DRIVE!’ Beside that, licking and driving made it difficult to hold a steady speed.
Once stopped, it was difficult to let go of the steering wheel. Not because I didn’t want to, but my
hand was sticky with ice cream. I sat quietly chewing the final and most satisfying vestiges of the yellow cone, that gooey, yummy chocolate that melted into the bottom. It was like biting into a milkshake!
Once again, peddling back and forth in front of the house until I was bored, I finally returned the car to its’ garage in the backyard (some discarded lumber leaned against the rotting porch). I pushed the car under and covered it with an old rug, safely tucking it away from car thieves, vandals, and certain relatives that I knew would wreck it.</p>
Fortunately, by first constructing the garage, the chocolate drippings and other spots slowly but surely became camouflaged by the dirt that stuck f
ast to them while pulling and piling the old boards together. The grassless, dirt yard ensured that neither mom nor anyone else would be any the wiser regarding the adventure they’d missed, and there was not qualm of conscience to cause me to reveal it. My secret was secure!</p>
<p>Secure, that is, until a few days later when mom went for cigarettes and Chic, smilingly, commented on my fancy new car and told her that I owe him a nickel.</p>
A reckoning was afoot!
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