The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

"We laaaast mooney in 1944," declares Uncle Frank. "It's roit tharrr ahn th' tax faaaarm." "Are ye SURE we're spoosta foile a joint retaaarn?" frowns Ma. "Yearr was aaaahlmoost ovarr boi th' toime we got married. Oi wish ye'd moind ye ooon business an' leave me t'moine. Oi been dooin' thim faaarms evaars since Mistarr Lieb retoired, an' Oi ain't in prison yet." "Trooost an expaaart," boasts Uncle Frank. "Whaaar warrr ye laast noit?" injects Ma. "Oh," ohs Uncle Frank. "Oi went ovarrr t'Bensonharrst, helped Sally with haaarrr taxes." Ma glares hard. "Ye BETTAAAAAAR NAAAAAHT have..." "Ev'rything was paaaaarfectly aboov baaard," reassures Uncle Frank. "Oi merely pointed oot a few -- dedooctions." "Oi got one choild in a prison camp," warns Ma. "Oi doon't want th' oothar woon goin' t' Alcatraz." "That'd nevarrr happen," argues Uncle Frank. "Ye surrrre a' that?" demands Ma. "Oi AM," affirms Uncle Frank "They doon't SEND women t' Alcatraz!"

I've often thought that Ma must have a big stash of cash or bonds that she bought with that cash, as she runs a small but active bookmaking business, which brings in a lot of profit that she, for sure, doesn't declare. She lives a very modest lifestyle, so what does she do with her money?

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"Master Brown is a fine clean-cut lad," declares Mr. Rickey. "A choice specimen of wholesome Brooklyn youth." "Yes sir," eyerolls Mr. Parrott. "Keep him away," warns Mr. Rickey, "from -- ah -- you know.." "Yes sir," sighs Mr. Parrott...



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"Hmph," hmphs Gypsy. "You could do better.""Hmph," hmphs Gypsy. "You could do better.""Hmph," hmphs Gypsy. "You could do better."

June must have listened to her sister as she and George never married.

BTW, the Nicoll story is so perfectly Page Four. Nothing spectacular, just a good walking in and catching people, who shouldn't be, naked. It happens a lot in the 1940s.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I imagine Ma has her money stashed in all sorts of arrangements, and I suspect that she might also be helping to finance certain of Uncle Frank's enterprises. Maybe after the war, she can buy him a new truck.

She's also sort of a prisoner of her desire to keep Sally oblivious to what's really going on. Should she ever start flouncing around in a fox stole LIKE SOME PEOPLE, tongues would wag, so she does her best to live just as she did twenty-five years ago to remain below suspicion. The distractions of the war have helped her in that respect, but postwar? Who knows??

 

[Fading Fast]

I imagine Ma has her money stashed in all sorts of arrangements, and I suspect that she might also be helping to finance certain of Uncle Frank's enterprises. Maybe after the war, she can buy him a new truck.

She's also sort of a prisoner of her desire to keep Sally oblivious to what's really going on. Should she ever start flouncing around in a fox stole LIKE SOME PEOPLE, tongues would wag, so she does her best to live just as she did twenty-five years ago to remain below suspicion. The distractions of the war have helped her in that respect, but postwar? Who knows??

It's not really comparable, but my grandmother ran a small biz that was nearly bankrupt throughout the Depression and just scrapped by until after the war. In the 1950s, it did okay, but she continued to live in the same run-down tenement she had always lived in, while driving the same beat-up old car. She was far from rich - far from - but she could have afforded to live a bit better, but she never did. I understand why because I knew her well. The Depression scarred people in ways that succeeding generations (and it's not their fault) can't understand if they didn't - like I did - at least really truly know some people who lived through it.

And heck, at least they'll be money for Leonora's college tuition.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And add to all that what Ma must've gone thru when her first husband "disappeared" in 1918. Two kids, alone in a city that must've still seemed foreign to her in a lot of ways. Uncle Frank came along at just the right time to help her get thru that, but no doubt there is part of her that will never fully trust anyone again. A lot of things have combined to make the young Irish farm girl of 1905 into what she is forty years later, much of which she has, no doubt, not revealed to anyone...

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Good!" proclaims Ma. "That Baaarton Tookas has th' roit oidear! Goo aftar th' killars an' the bandits, an' leave honest bookmakarrs aloon." "Who's that again?" replies Uncle Frank, absently picking at a substance on his plate that might pass in dim light for corned beef. "Baaarton Tookas," repeats Ma. "Taaaaarkus," corrects Uncle Frank. "That's what Oi said," snaps Ma. "No ye didn't," insists Uncle Frank. "Ye said Baarton Tookas. *Tookas.*" "Yarrrr daft," dismisses Ma. "Oi'm no sooch thing," declares Uncle Frank. "Ye said Tookas! That's naaaht a man's name, that means, ahhh, in th' Jewish toongue, it means -- ah -- ye hoind end. Ye boom." "Oi knoo what a tookas is," contends Ma. "Soomtoimes Oi think Oi'm livin' with woon. Boot Oi did NAAAHT say Baaaarton Tookas! Noo shoot oop an' eatcharr soopar. "Ye did too," snickers Uncle Frank, thru a mouthful of corned beef. "Good ol' Baaaaaarton Tookas....")

("Wou'ja LIKE ta SWING onna STAWRRRR.." croons Alice. "Carry MOONbeams home inna JAWRRR..." "Eh," ehs Sally. "T'at pitcheh was awright, I guess. Crawsby, he was OK. T'at ot'eh guy t'ough, he bugged me. You know, one played t'ot'eh Faw'teh." "Barry Fitzgeral'," inserts Alice. "Yeh," nods Sally. "T'at guy. I hate in a pitcheh, guy puts awn one'a t'em phony Irish accents, y'know. Anytime in a pitcheh ya got a cawp awr a pries', an' it's awl 'sure an' begorrah,' an' awlat junk. Nobody tawks like t'at." "I neveh hoid nobody," eyerolls Alice. "Awrmos'as bad," declares Sally, "as'em phonies tryin'a soun' like Brooklyn!" "Yeh," nods Alice. "We'ht'eygettatstuff?")

("Whooozis guy t'ink he is?" snorts Bink Scanlan.....)

(Look, Mr. Holmes, if you're going to tell Van Lingle Mungo stories, tell, you know, the good ones. You know the kind.)

(I mean, at least it's a plot we haven't seen before...)

(I spent all last week going on job interviews AND THIS NEVER HAPPEND TO ME ONCE.)

(Fish in a barrel.)

(He knows she's there from the constant gasps.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG is missing the point...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

6 foot 3? Watch out, Lois DeFee!

Well, I hope he got dressed first.

"The 'Modern Farmer Program?' But you're neither!"

You really aren't very good at this, are you?

Skeez is really putting on some beef, isn't he?

The thing about being Andy Gump is that people can ALWAYS see you coming.

Terry, you idiot, KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN.

"Paprika?"

So many good ideas fail the proof-of-concept.

So much for "Mister."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"Uh oh," gulps Sally. "Look 'eeh." "I tol'ya nawt t'bring'at papeh t'woik," warns Alice. "Ya gonna get in trouble." ""Yeh, yeh, whateveh," dismisses Sally. "But look heeh -- t' Sevent' Awrmy. Attackin' fr'm t' Sout'. T'at's Joe." "Oh," ohs Alice, glancing at the headline. "Whassis 'Speedway?' Zat like up in Hawrlem, up t'eh by t' Poleh Grouns?" "Neh," nehs Sally. "'S a big, you know, highway. Like t' Belt Pawrkway, on'y biggeh." "You ain' gotta worry, Sal," reassures Alice. "Joe ain' gonna have nut'n'a do wit'tat." "I ain' had but one letteh fr'm 'im since 'ee got shawt," notes Sally. "Who knows what's goin' awn?" "Well, you oughn'a worry 'bout none'a t'is," insists Alice. "Joe don' even know howta drive..."

 

[Fading Fast]

An audible sigh of relief can be heard from Valley Stream Long Island.

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As Lizzie says, "movies on paper."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ohhhhh harrrrr we goo again," eyerolls Ma, as Uncle Frank ceremoniously descends the stairs into the store. "Aaaaaahll dressed oop in ye foinery." "Ye may hoot an' jeer as ye please," sniffs Uncle Frank, plucking a mothball from the pocket of his kelly-green jacket and flicking it over the counter and into the wastebasket. "Oi wear with proide t'unifaaaarm oov th' Friendly Soons'a Saint Patrick." "An' yarr goin' to maaaarch oop Fifth Avenaaar in alll yaaaar gloory," headshakes Ma. "In a skaaaart." "As Oi explain t' ye every yarrr," continues Uncle Frank, "this is a kilt. Th' gaaaarment o' Gaelic noobility, froom which, Oi take pains t'remoind ye, Oi am descended. Th' Learys o' Coonty Caaaark are a prood people, rich in laaands and cattle, and Oi am prood t'represent me heritage in th' parade." "Pool oop ye saaacks, ye laaardship," snickers Ma. "Oi don't knoo aboot no cattle, boot thoose are moity soooory-lookin' calves.")

(Coming Events...)

T
(Trouble again in the Lichty home?)

("Plague take these newspapermen!" fumes Mr. Rickey. "Judas Priest! It does the ball club no good, no good mind you, to spread yon about the league the canard that Master Brown has a "scatter arm." "Well," shrugs Mr. Parrott, "remember last summer where he threw that ball into the seats behind first base and nearly hit Mrs. Mulvey in the head?" "Nonsense," dismisses Mr. Rickey. "Mrs. Mulvey is given to wearing hats of excess. The throw merely grazed the simulated songbird perched atop her crown." "They've given him a nickname," declares Mr. Parrott. "They call him 'Buckshot.'" "Ah!' enthuses Mr. Rickey. "He is an outdoorsy lad at that, given to health-giving tramps in the forest, faithful hunting hound at his side..." "No," admits Mr. Parrott, "it's because when he throws he might hit anything." "Ah," nods Mr. Rickey. "Send a message down to Mr. Durocher. Have him determine where Mr. Burr is seated at today's practice, and cause him to place Master Brown in direct range. Perhaps a well-placed throw will -- ah -- silence..." "Or he might hit Mrs. Mulvey again," warns Mr. Parrott. "No matter," declares Mr. Rickey. "See that she is issued one of those protective headpieces the players put inside their caps." "We need to order more of those," reminds Mr. Parrott. "We put them on the first basemen, and Tommy keeps..." "Judas Priest," sighs Mr. Rickey, his face disappearing into his palms..)

("Hey Sal," proposes Alice. "How bout t'night we go see t'at 'Meet Me In St. Louis" pitcheh. It's got some swell sawngs in it -- 'I t'ought to spend a jolly -- houeh awna trolley -- an' I lawst me hawrt right t'eh!"" "I eveh tell ya," chuckles Sally, "t'at's how Ma met Uncle Frank? Awna Rogehs Aveneh trolley. Me'n Mickey rushed 'im, made 'im give Ma his seat." "Y'see?" enthuses Alice. "True love!'" "Nah," demurs Sally. "I mean, took 'em twenny-five yeehs t'get married." "You bring Leonoreh, an' I'll get Siddy and Willie," continues Alice, "an'' we c'n make a reg'leh night of it. Oh -- wait. It's at Loew's Met." "I DIDN' GET BANNED FROM T"EH!" roars Sally. "T'ey jus' said I oughtn'ta run up an' yell at t' projecteh man t'run t'newsreel again so I could see if t'at guy in it was Joe. An' ney said I oughta go sleep it awff. I oughta sue'em, is what I oughta do, I ain' no rummy. BUT T"EY DIDN' BAN ME!" "Jus' t' same, " sighs Alice, "maybe y'could, I dunno, not weah ya glasses. Maybe putcha haeih up, maybe -- hey, you eveh consideh becomin' a blonde?" "It's on'y Loew's Orien'al I can't go in," mutters Sally. "An'nats a fleapit anyways, I mean, you know t'ey got t'is big rip inneh screen?")

(Nah, it's just cut up chicken feathers, but don't spoil the moment.)

(Annnnnnnnd we can see where this is going to go...)

(It's like they've done this all before...)

(Hey Mary, when you get done up there, can you come down here and sort this out?)

(I grew up in this neighborhood.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"The Proletarian Flophouse Fancy"= The Bum's Rush.

What do you think about a Greek?

He's waited years for this moment and now he can't even enjoy it.

I imagine Skeez knows *exactly* how long it's been.

He was dragged over a country road behind a speeding car and then he was set on fire. Sure you've got enough iodine?

HOLD COVINA YOUTH IN WILD RAMPAGE

You can observe a lot by watching.

"Actually, I don't want to move from this chair for the rest of my life..."

Are you sure those are the only options?

When did you have your last tetanus shot?

 

[Fading Fast]

"Pool oop ye saaacks, ye laaardship," snickers Ma. "Oi don't knoo aboot no cattle, boot thoose are moity soooory-lookin' calves."

Good one, Ma.

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...Oh -- wait. It's at Loew's Met." "I DIDN' GET BANNED FROM T"EH!" roars Sally. "T'ey jus' said I oughtn'ta run up an' yell at t' projecteh man t'run t'newsreel again so I could see if t'at guy in it was Joe. An' ney said I oughta go sleep it awff. I oughta sue'em, is what I oughta do, I ain' no rummy. BUT T"EY DIDN' BAN ME!" "Jus' t' same, " sighs Alice, "maybe y'could, I dunno, not weah ya glasses. Maybe putcha haeih up, maybe -- hey, you eveh consideh becomin' a blonde?" "It's on'y Loew's Orien'al I can't go in," mutters Sally. "An'nats a fleapit anyways, I mean, you know t'ey got t'is big rip inneh screen?"

I love Alice. And you have to love Sally's insane rationalization and defense.

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Annnnnnnnd we can see where this is going to go...

Yup.

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"The Proletarian Flophouse Fancy"= The Bum's Rush.

The wartime housing shortage is making management cocky. Add in price controls and they know they can rent that room ten times over. They'll come a day when they not only won't be so choosy, they'll be glad for any publicity. It is lesson number ten thousand that we've seen in this war how when supply and demand curves are artificially suppressed (not sayin' the intentions behind doing so are good or bad or it should or shouldn't happen in wartime), all sorts of funny things happen.

NYC, to this day, still has a lot of rent controlled/stabilized apartments (about 40% of the total market). The incentives and process of renting in that market are dramatically different than in the market-rate-apartments market – it's like two different worlds.

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A fun article all around, but this ⇧ was particularly enjoyable in a most snarky way.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And you just KNOW they have a whole folder full of ridiculous pictures of the Duke to use whenever his name comes up.