bronx history – The Bronx We Knew

A Bronx Fourth of July

The explosions started early, a wake-up call to all who still slept that the commemoration of America’s declaration of independence from Great Britain had begun. Reverberating up and down Westervelt Avenue and rousing neighbors on nearby streets, those booms and blasts of celebration echoed the sounds of the battles fought on this terrain in the British-occupied Bronx some 200 years earlier.

Not that the battles fought here had any significant effect on the course of the Revolutionary War. One story we often heard in the classroom characterizes the futility of our forebears’ efforts. It told of a group of rebel colonists who devised a plan of attack. Dragging a cannon to the top of the hill on the Kingsbridge Road (later named Gun Hill Road), near the banks of the Bronx River, they launched a cannonball on British troops stationed below. The effort, though valiant and well-intentioned, was of little consequence to their red-coated targets.

This area of the northern Bronx was called Neutral Ground since neither side held full control. That made it difficult to know which side a civilian was on. As a result, local residents endured constant raids on their property from bands of guerillas on the American side as well as from Redcoats, Hessians, and Tories.

But even back then, long before the outcome of the American Revolution could have been known, the colonists celebrated every fourth of July with fireworks. In a letter dated July 3, 1776, John Adams directed Americans to celebrate the Fourth with “pomp and parade…bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forever more.” Philadelphia started us off, holding the first fireworks display on July 4, 1777.

Personal possession of fireworks was illegal in New York City, yet some families on the block acquired enough of an arsenal to set off a non-stop barrage that lasted from morning to midnight. At a frantic pace the older kids and teenagers lit the fuses, apparently unconcerned about running out of ammunition. With one match they would set off whole packages of string fireworks at a time. The furious, rapid-fire bang-bang-banging went on for minutes as paper wrappers leaped and flew across the pavement. When it seemed that a particular string of firecrackers had been spent, the budding pyrotechnicians would approach for a closer look, only to be unnerved by a leftover bang or two that, had there been a little less patience, might have cost them some fingers.

Firecrackers were loud, but cherry bombs were deafening. To make them even louder, the kids set them off inside metal garbage cans, causing a reaction in the pit of the stomach similar to a physical punch. Add to that the whiz-bang of the bottle rockets, and the ear-splitting cacophony was complete.

Young kids waved sparklers lit by a supervising adult. Cracker balls afforded them another way to participate safely in the fun. When thrown forcefully to the ground, these little red balls that resembled Trix cereal would explode with satisfying snaps.

By afternoon the air was hazy with smoke, and redolent with the spicy scent of gunpowder. Toward evening, charcoal from backyard barbecue grills added more smoke and smoldering scents to the air.

At dusk, people in cities and towns across America piled into cars or used public transportation to get to fireworks shows organized by local businesses or municipalities. But residents of Westervelt Avenue did not have to fight traffic or crowds. Armed with lawn chairs, couch pillows, mosquito repellent, cold drinks, and ice cream from the Mister Softee truck, they made their way to their front stoops, settled in, and waited to be dazzled.

Once darkness fell, families on the eastern side of the street brought out their nighttime arsenal, a load that appeared as abundant as the noisemaking bombs of the daylight hours. Their displays were supplemented by the equally elaborate show from Kingsland Avenue beyond. Gazing skyward, swatting mosquitoes here and there, we had front row seats to a spectacular show that lasted for hours. Now the fireworks that had been set off simply for noise took a back seat to the blazing explosions of color that we had waited for all day.

The ground show was a pale forerunner: Roman candles pumped out continuous bursts of light; tentacles of fire shot from the whizzing spinners as onlookers scrambled out of the way; fountains spewed sizzling sparks. But the sky show brought audible gasps from the crowd as rockets shimmered skyward, exploded into starbursts that filled the sky, then melted into streamers of red, white, silver, green, gold, and blue that rained down upon the rooftops.

As eleven o’clock approached, the pace of the rocket launchings slowed and soon stopped. Cramped from sitting for hours with heads upturned, we headed inside. But the teenagers, along with a few adults, were not finished. Rapid-fire blasts of firecrackers started all over again, even at the midnight hour, perhaps in an attempt to use up all the leftovers.

We fell asleep as we had awakened, to the sounds of celebration eerily similar to the sounds of the Revolution itself.

The next morning, tattered remnants littered the street. Red wrappers from rockets and bombs fluttered across the pavement, along with the blue-and-white checkered firecracker papers.

Another Fourth of July was over. We knew that next year’s Independence Day would be celebrated in exactly the same way, as this one had been a repeat of so many before.

St. Patrick’s Day in New York

In my neighborhood in the northeast Bronx, St. Patrick’s Day meant corned beef and cabbage for dinner, no matter what your ethnicity. Afterward, neighbors would gather to celebrate the patron saint of the Archdiocese of New York with Irish coffee and buttered wedges of Irish soda bread. Those of us with no Irish blood might not don the ubiquitous “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” button, but we celebrated the day just as enthusiastically.

It was a cultural celebration rather than a religious one. At Holy Rosary School back in the 1960s, the arrival of March would find each grade in the midst of rehearsals for the St. Patrick’s Day plays. The lower grades might put on short skits related to St. Patrick or Ireland, but the upper grades collaborated on full-length musicals such as My Fair Lady or The King and I. Freed from the daily drudgery of classwork to memorize lines, stand still for costume fittings, practice singing the musical score, and take part in rehearsals, we felt a new excitement about school. The approach of St. Patrick’s Day also meant that spring was near, and summer vacation not far behind. Spirits started to rise, life in general felt happier.

During my high school years in the 1970s, St. Patrick’s Day meant marching up Fifth Avenue in the annual parade.

For this special occasion the student body of my all-girls school wore the dress uniform—a blue and white pleated skirt, white shirt, and white woolen blazer, a step up from the solid blue-gray skirt and jacket for every day. One year, those of us designated to carry the school banner at the head of our unit later learned from excited family, friends, and neighbors that the television camera caught clear sight of us.

Another year, the cheerleading team marched as a group. Our school windbreakers provided the extra layer we needed over our short-sleeve, short-skirt cheerleading outfits, and skin-toned tights covered our legs, but the brisk walk and the strengthening sun kept us warm enough despite the wind and 45- to 50-degree temperatures. We marched with hands holding pom-poms on hips, but when we approached the reviewing stand (“Eyes left!”) and then St. Patrick’s Cathedral (“Eyes right!”), where Cardinal Cooke stood watching, we went into a brief, pom-pom tossing routine.

A hired bus drove us into Manhattan in the morning, dropping us off on East 44th Street near its intersection with Fifth Avenue. There we waited until the parade stepped off at noon, joining the line of march when the organizers called us into position. With the near-springtime sun high overhead, we marched to cheers and drunken jeers, surrounded by the whine of bagpipes and the wind-driven scent of pretzels steaming at street-corner stands, until the sun slanted sharply from the west and we turned right onto East 82nd Street.

The buildings cast long deep shadows up there, where the crowd was sparse and the surroundings subdued, so unlike the crazed, party-time atmosphere further south. We found our bus waiting, doors wide open, and clambered aboard. Starving and thoroughly worn out, we flopped into the comfortable seats for the ride back to the Bronx and to Jahn’s, a popular eatery and ice cream shop on Fordham Road.

In later years, riding the Number 5 Lexington Avenue Express into Grand Central Terminal revealed more quirks of this particular day in New York City. Neon-green oases had sprung up overnight all over the main concourse—flower carts crammed with buckets and buckets of bright green carnations. Commuters wore the green carnations in their lapels or carried them in bundles. Even the stodgiest, most serious among them (whom you had sized up by sight from the daily commute) accessorized their business attire with green plastic bowler hats, bright green ties, and those enormous “I’m Irish” buttons. Others carried green balloons and green-frosted cupcakes and plush leprechauns on a stick.

Out on the street spirits were high, as were many of the revelers who came into the city to celebrate the day by glancing at the parade, then hitting the pubs.

From his post on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Cardinal Cooke, Archbishop of New York from 1968 to 1983, caught an eyeful. Troubled enough by the sight of inebriated adults, he was even more disturbed by the obnoxious behavior of masses of drunken teens. This prompted him to start speaking out before the big day, reminding New Yorkers that St. Patrick’s Day is a feast day that honors a saint, not a raucous spring festival like Mardi Gras. He urged New Yorkers to appreciate the religious meaning of the day while celebrating its cultural richness.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Mrs. O’Brien’s Irish Soda Bread
(from Anna O’Brien of Ireland and the Bronx)

4 cups flour
4 tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
Pinch baking soda
½ cup (1 stick) butter, softened
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup raisins
1 Tbsp caraway seeds
2 eggs
1½ cups milk

Preheat oven to 350º. Grease and flour one 9″ round cake pan.

Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and baking soda.

Add butter, blending in with fingertips.

Stir in sugar, raisins, and caraway seeds.

Beat eggs and milk together. Add to dry mixture.

Mix with a fork until completely moist.

Press mixture into prepared pan.

Bake for 1½ hours.

Ed and Millie

Ed and Millie never fought. I came to this conclusion about my neighbors on Westervelt Avenue as I swirled a piece of my waffle into a pool of maple syrup and watched, for the hundredth time, as Ed backed his dark blue Pontiac out of the garage and up his driveway onto the driveway behind his.

On school days my breakfast time coincided with Ed’s departure for work. From my place at the kitchen table, I’d watch as Ed then rolled the car forward and began the turn onto the access road that would exit onto Mace Avenue. There at the turn he would pause, smile in the direction of his kitchen window, and wave. I never saw him fail to do this.

He and Millie must never fight, because if they had just had an argument would he still wave and smile?

Ed and Millie, at this point, had passed middle age by a fair distance, but they were so active and energetic that no one considered them old. Ed, however, liked to say he was “as old as Methuselah.”

Millie, petite and slender, had alabaster skin that crinkled into networks of deep lines. Her silver-gray eyes matched her hair. Ed’s gray hair was all but gone at the top. A tall and sturdy man, he had laugh lines etched into his face and blue-gray eyes that smiled behind wire-framed glasses. His neat-as-a-pin appearance, even while wearing work clothes, gave him a dignified aspect.

Like other stay-at-home wives of the 1960s, Millie had a daily routine. One day a week, soon after the wave from the window, she would leave the house by the back door with her collapsible shopping cart for the short walk to Eastchester Road and the Associated Food Store. An hour later she would return, towing the cart crammed with brown grocery bags.

On other mornings I’d see her in the backyard hanging the wash on the freestanding clothesline. When I was very young and confined to my fenced-in backyard, she would sing out across our side-by-side driveways: “I love you, a bushel and a peck,” and I’d sing back, “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” This would be our standard greeting for years to come, and Millie would often add that she loved me before I was born.

Whatever Millie’s workload for the day, she would complete enough of it by early afternoon for a stretch of free time for herself. This she typically spent in the living room, specifically in the elbow of the sectional sofa where various projects and pastimes awaited her attention. Beside her sat her knitting bag stuffed with colorful yarn, knitting needles jutting out like TV antenna ears. Neatly arranged on the coffee table within easy reach lay the Daily News, a book of crossword puzzles, two sharpened pencils, the TV Guide, a box of tissues, and a box of assorted chocolates that never seemed to have more than a few pieces missing. It was a scene of organized clutter in an immaculate room.

An item we did not possess also had a place on the coffee table—the television remote control. This latest bit of technology—along with their color TV, an anniversary gift from their children and grandchildren—set Ed and Millie apart from their neighbors. When a glance at the clock showed it was time for As the World Turns, Millie would reach for the remote. Never one for idle hands, her fingers worked the knitting needles as she watched her program, the afghan-in-progress draping her knees and cascading to the floor.

The male member of the household set his mark upon this room as well. Spread across the fireplace mantel, nose to tail, stood Ed’s herd of brass horses. A set of antlers hung over the archway that separated the living room from the dining room. On the side table beside his armchair Ed kept his particular things, including another brass horse and a box of Kleenex Man Size tissues.

Later in the afternoon Millie plucked the laundry off the clothesline and then started dinner. She might also take on a baking project. Modern woman of the 1960s that she was, Millie embraced convenience. Taking advantage of cake mixes and refrigerated dough, she rarely baked from scratch. But whether it was a wedge of chocolate cake or a half-dozen cinnamon buns, she frequently shared those desserts with us.

Sometimes I’d get advance notice, if Millie happened to see me coming home from school. As if she couldn’t keep the surprise to herself any longer, she’d call out, “I’ll be ticking your bell later.”

I knew what that meant. And when 5:00 rolled around and our doorbell “ticked,” there stood Millie holding out a plate of something fresh from the oven, sheathed with plastic wrap stretched to shiny smoothness. When she placed her offering into my happy little hands, warmth penetrated the plate, spread across my palms, and projected comfort that went beyond the appeal to the sweet tooth. This unexpected gift spoke of a caring neighbor who wanted to share not just a treat, but the joy that accompanies life’s little surprises.

On summer evenings, as the aroma of after-dinner coffee seeped through their windows, Ed, with shirtsleeves rolled up, would come out to hose down his lawn. As soon as he shut off the water, coiled up the hose, and sat down on the stoop, the neighborhood kids would converge on him, sprawling at his feet or dangling near his head from the iron railings. His playful sense of humor sent us into gales of laughter, as he had a never-ending supply of jokes just right for the youngest among us. (“When I get up in the morning I wash my teeth and brush my face.”)

Saturday evenings were different. At 7:20 sharp, Ed, dressed in suit and tie, would back the Pontiac out of the driveway and make a solitary trip to Holy Rosary Church, where he served as an usher at the 7:30 Mass.

It troubled us when he was diagnosed with cancer of the larynx, and we endured his absence while he recovered from surgery that replaced his voice box with a mechanical one. After that, our evenings with him dwindled down. But he never failed to smile at us, and he never failed to wave.

Keeping Watch

Peering furtively through your window like Gladys Kravitz to spy on your neighbors is typically frowned upon. On Westervelt Avenue in the 1960s and ’70s, no one peeked from behind their curtains like this. No, they came outside and openly watched whenever something of interest was going on. This behavior was accepted and often even expected.

Some events were “come out and look” invitations in themselves. For instance, one Saturday afternoon a water main broke. It was part of a new line that led to the house of our neighbor two doors down. Surrounding neighbors gathered in commiseration while others watched from windows, porches, and stoops as water rushed up through the sewer grates and flooded the curb. People from down the block came too, curiosity aroused at the sight of a small river coursing through the street. The crowd sustained their watch for the entire time it took for the city to be notified and the water turned off. Then, excitement over, the watchers returned to their ho-hum ordinary day.

Sometimes the watchers were welcomed; in fact, it would have been disappointing if no one had come out to create a spur-of-the-moment honor guard of sorts.

The sight of a limousine pulling up to a house on a Friday evening in May meant one thing—the senior prom. Word of a limousine on the block spread instantly, bringing the neighbors out: one still clutching a dinner napkin, another wiping hands on a dishtowel. Kids wearing cookie crumbs and milk moustaches came running, along with teenage girls waving fingernails wet with polish or with half their hair done up in rollers.

All eyes focused on the young man in the stiff components of a tuxedo unfolding legs and arms from the dark recesses of the back seat while grasping a small white florist’s box. They watched as he climbed the stoop and pressed the doorbell, then disappeared inside. And then they waited out there in the street, waited and watched, watched and waited, until, after an unbearably long time, the couple emerged.

In her gown, the girl appeared as we had never seen her before—not in a school uniform, not in shorts or jeans, not even in a Sunday skirt. This typical teenager was unrecognizable in her formal dress and skinny high heels, her hair and makeup specially done up.

Often two or three other couples would then climb out of the limousine for a group photo. The boys looked good all spiffed up in their tuxedos, hair slicked back or at least controlled and tidy. But the girls in their pastel gowns of taffeta and tulle created a beautiful array. On their wrists or at their shoulders, a spray of pink roses or a delicate white orchid breathed life into the glamour.

Picture-taking over, the couples would duck back into the limo, taking great care not to rumple their finery. Slowly the limousine would roll away, shrugging off the hovering boys who had hung around solely to gawk at the car.

Those of us still awaiting our proms could only imagine what the night ahead would be like—as magical as Cinderella’s ball, that much we knew.

Another event that drew neighbors from up and down the block was a wedding. Again, the signal was the limousine pulling up to the curb. Again, a crowd of neighbors, pressed together and jostling for the best view, would gather in the street outside the bride’s house. Showing great restraint, the watchers kept the sidewalk clear for the bride and her bridesmaids.

Women in the usual Saturday attire—housedresses or ragtag housecleaning clothes—stood with arms crossed. Kids often came to watch, but men—never. This fashion event and lump-in-the-throat moment of nostalgia and sentimentality was a woman’s thing, for the great-grandmothers to the youngest observers.

Boys gathered too, but again because of the limousine, not to fill their eyes with the rare sight of ordinary people dressed like royalty, or to reflect on the passage of time as this young woman, only yesterday a kid popping tar bubbles in the street, ventured off into marriage. The boys turned wheelies on their bikes as they pestered the driver with questions, left dirty handprints on the limo (which the driver patiently polished off), and begged for an inside view before the driver shooed them away.

Excitement grew when the bridesmaids stepped out of the house in a burst of color—typically shades of blue or pink—flowing chiffon, and floral bouquets with trailing ribbons. They processed like ethereal beings to the limousine, signaling that the star of the show was not far behind. Then the bride emerged, a vision in white satin, escorted by her father. As they paused for a photo, it was clear that the crowd felt only warmth and happiness for the bride, judging from the discreet wipe of a tear, murmured endearments, and a backdrop of oohs and aahs. But one of the women came dangerously close to heckling at one of these watches, yelling out in her angry-crow voice, “Sure, she’s happy now, the bride. Just wait. She’ll see.”

Heads turned…or shook in disbelief. The girl standing next to me whispered fiercely, “Just because she’s unhappy doesn’t mean everyone is. I’m going to have a happy marriage.”

Another event brought the people outside, but this kind of watch was a somber and respectful one. It was the local custom when someone passed away. On the morning of the funeral, immediately following the church service, neighbors kept a silent vigil as the funeral procession drove slowly passed the deceased person’s house, a last farewell. The cortege then moved on to the cemetery and the final resting place.

On Summer Nights

When the August sun slid behind the rooftops to the west, the heat of late afternoon simmered down and Westervelt Avenue roiled up.

The highlight of those after-dinner daylight hours was the arrival of the Mister Softee truck. The first notes from its music box, barely audible as the truck turned in from Mace Avenue, sent kids hurtling home for money and any other family member craving a quintessential summer treat.

Each evening Mister Softee stopped at our end of Westervelt Avenue, the end closer to Allerton Avenue and most densely populated with kids. The truck’s engine idled and the music box played in a continuous loop until, finally, the ice cream man silenced it, too late though to divert the earworm that would crawl out unexpectedly down through the decades. The idling engine was a grumbling monster for the better part of an hour, until the long line of customers dwindled and the truck lumbered toward Allerton.

Then, with ice cream cones, sundaes, floats, and parfaits consumed, the kids returned with ear-splitting enthusiasm to their various groups under the sycamores and ginkgoes to play touch football, ride their bikes, pop tar bubbles, or jump rope.

About once every minute and a half, jets approaching LaGuardia Airport flew so low over our heads that each airline’s name or logo could easily be seen. Each deafening intrusion drowned out the evening news on TV and forced all of us below into shouted conversations.

As daylight diminished, the atmosphere would start to change. Street games ended, the shrieks and shouts trailed off, and kids went inside to do other things. The roar of jet engines ceased as planes switched to nighttime routes away from residential areas. The streetlights flickered on, the long summer dusk turned to night, and other groups came out—nocturnal gatherings that operated independently, yet companionably in the sense that each was well aware of the others’ presence. To keep moths and other insects away, porch and stoop lights had to be off. The streetlights scattered all the silvery illumination we needed anyway.

Under one of the streetlights, a cluster of teenage boys occupied the street where the younger kids had played earlier. They leaned against parked cars or paced back and forth in the middle of the street, relinquishing just enough turf to let traffic go by. Some drivers crept cautiously through the bunch of boys, who, resenting the inconvenience, were in no rush to get out of the way. Other drivers bullied their way through. Those were the ones you could hear when they were still a block away, their stereo music pounding louder and harder as they approached and trailing stomach-throbbing bass beats as they passed.

On our side of the street, where most houses still had only the landing of the stoop and no real porch, an older couple set out their lawn chairs and waited for a breeze. Quietly they sat in the snug dark space under the awning, but an occasional cough, the slap of a hand fending off a mosquito, or the glint of the streetlight on their aluminum chairs reminded us they were there.

Many nights our stoop served as a gathering place. Friends from down the block and across the street dropped by, some of them old classmates from Holy Rosary now dispersed to various high schools, others lifelong friends from the block. For hours we discussed school and teachers, track and football practice, Orchard Beach vs. Jones Beach, driver’s ed, cars, and whether or not to send out for a pizza. If we spotted a toad on the lawn someone always tried and always failed to catch it. Or we tried to pick up a ghost crab from the countless number that covered the street and sidewalk one strange time, but no one wanted to feel a defensive pinch.

Sometimes Robert stopped by on the way home from his summer job at Rossi Pastry Shop on Gun Hill Road, bringing with him the wonderful aroma of Italian cookies that wafted from every thread of his bakery whites. Apparently he was not oblivious to our sudden cravings for cookies whenever he joined us. One night we watched him approach in the darkness. He was easy to spot as his white clothing reflected the streetlights, but that night they also reflected another object—a small white bakery box dangling from his hand.

From the porch across the street, muffled murmurings drifted from the shadows. The voices rose and fell and crackled into laughter. Some of the neighborhood women had gathered there, as usual. The dark porch revealed only silhouettes. Though the front door was open and yellowish light from the hallway spilled outside, it was a dim illumination. But from the brightness of the kitchen at the other end of the hallway came the sound of clattering dishes, then footfalls along the hallway as the hostess brought out a tray. She set the tray on the porch table, and as she sat the plastic chair cushion reacted with a hissss…. Soon the night air carried the smell of coffee, mingled with the scent of cigarette smoke, across the street to us.

Sometime between 11 pm and midnight the boys in the street would scatter for home. The stoop couple would fold up their chairs and retire for the night.

The front-porch group of women across the street would start to break up. With rattling of coffee cups, the friends would help clean up until one by one the dark figures descended the porch steps, flip-flops slapping against the cement. A speck of orange glowing in someone’s hand briefly moved to her mouth, then flew in a sparking trajectory to the street.

Conversation on our stoop would begin to wind down. High-pitched whining around our ears, and pinpricks at our ankles and elbows that erupted into itchy welts, persuaded us to call it a night, too.

Up in my room, before pulling down the window shade, I always paused to take one last look at the night. The cars below, parked tightly along both sides of the street, were polished to a high gloss by the streetlights. Over the rooftops ahead an object brighter than the evening star grew larger as it got closer. The plane then banked southward, revealing the green light at its wingtip. At this late hour the sounds that never stop could not be drowned out: the low growl of that plane on its nighttime flight path, the gasp of airbrakes as the Allerton Avenue bus pulled away from its stop, and the persistent trilling of the tree crickets.

Our Father Richard

In June of 1972, Father Richard Guastella arrived at Holy Rosary Church for his first assignment as a parish priest.

Curiosity about a new priest always ran high, beginning the moment we heard that one of our resident priests would be leaving. But it rose to new levels when we learned that our new priest would indeed be a new priest. When the entrance procession emerged from the sacristy at his first Sunday Mass with us, all eyes sought him out.

After Mass, a welcoming cluster of eager parishioners clasped his hand and smothered him with questions. As they broke off into the after-Mass chatter groups, one phrase was consistently repeated: “He’s so young.”

Most priests fresh out of the seminary are young, but Father Richard had an appearance of extreme youthfulness. His hair accounted for some of that. In keeping with the times, Father Richard wore his hair long enough to cover his ears and graze his Roman collar—unlike the older priests who wore conventional clippered cuts. Eventually he grew a beard, as many men did in the 1970s.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). Perhaps this quality, too, enhanced his youthful aura, along with his request to be called Father Richard rather than Father Guastella. This kind of informality with a priest was unheard of at the time.

If his youth and informality were the initial draw, it was the substance of his being that cemented his relationships. His youthful aspect belied what was underneath—maturity, wisdom, and a perceptiveness more often seen in those with many years of life’s experience behind them.

Parishioners of every generation responded to this approachable priest who seemed to effortlessly build rapport with them. He was the priest most frequently requested for weddings, funerals, and baptisms. Families invited him into their homes for meals, for conversations, for pastoral visits, for friendly visits. In the heart of Holy Rosary, Father Richard clearly held a special place.

As a good friend to my family, Father Richard gave us guidance and support on everyday matters as well as moral conflicts. With his usual serenity, he helped us meet and manage the milestones of life, whether joyous or sorrowful. As my parish advisor while I wrote the history of Holy Rosary Parish for their 50th Anniversary, Father Richard provided not only information and insight, but encouragement as well.

Father Richard left Holy Rosary in June of 1980 to become Vocation Director for the Archdiocese of New York. A few years later my family left the Bronx too, but we all met back at Holy Rosary in the spring of 1983 when Father Richard baptized the new baby in our family.

Within a few years Father Richard was working as a parish priest again, eventually being assigned to Staten Island and another church called Holy Rosary. While serving as pastor there, he rose to the rank of monsignor. Despite the new title, he still wanted to be called Father Richard. Later he was named pastor of the Church of St. Clare.

In 2012, Father Richard celebrated the 40th anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood. We traveled to Staten Island to attend the festivities at St. Clare’s, seeing him for the first time since that family baptism in 1983. His beard was gone, his haircut clippered and conventional. But he still looked like young Father Richard to us.

On Holy Thursday, April 9, 2020, while still serving as pastor of St. Clare’s, Father Richard succumbed to the plague of our day, COVID-19. By ministering to the sick, he gave his life so that souls could be saved.

In Memoriam ✙ Reverend Monsignor Richard Guastella

Holy Rosary Church

In February of 1925, when Father James Winters showed up in this far corner of New York City to establish a parish, he became a pastor without a church. In words attributed to him, he arrived “with a valise and no place to hang my hat.” But a local family gave him a place to hang his hat—and to unpack that valise—when they offered him a spare room.

For four months, “church” was the basement of another local home, until a prefabricated wooden structure could be hammered into place on Eastchester Road near its intersection with Gun Hill Road. By the end of that summer a Tudor-style rectory had been erected beside the church, providing a home for Father Winters and other priests who would be assigned to the growing parish.

The church, known colloquially as the “temporary church,” might not have been considered an awe-inspiring edifice from the outside—or by outsiders. A quaint country church, it fit the bucolic character of its surroundings: The area had no streetlights or sidewalks, the unpaved roads were either dusty or muddy depending on the weather, and cows from nearby dairy farms wandered at will.

But stepping inside the church brought an awareness of candlelight, the warmth of polished wood offset by white plaster walls, the musky scent of incense, and the flickering of the sanctuary flame beside the tabernacle. Overhead, a timber roof truss filled the vaulted ceiling with its geometric pattern of beams. Four confessional boxes, two on each of the side walls, were of dark sturdy wood, like the pews. Instead of doors, red velvet curtains draped the three-compartment booths. The kneelers in the pews were covered in red as well. Red votives filled the candlestands on either side of the confessionals, casting a red-hued glow. Life-size statues of saints hovered in shadowy corners. Some stood beside the confessionals, while the traditional statues of the Blessed Mother and Saint Joseph resided in side-altar alcoves flanking the main altar. An enormous crucifix towered over the communion rail near St. Joseph’s altar.

Firmly planted in the minds of the early parishioners was the notion that this temporary structure met the immediate needs of the brand-new parish, but would be replaced in due course. By 1931 the parish had grown considerably, yet building a permanent church was still a dream out of reach. Fundraisers such as dinner-dances and bazaars could do only so much to reduce the debts incurred by building a church, a rectory, and a small school. Extending the church to accommodate thirty more pews was all the parish could afford.

Then the Depression took hold and the financial burden grew, lasting through the 1940s into the early 1950s. More pressing than a new church was the need for a new school, and that became the next project on the list. The temporary church soldiered on to the next decade.

On the evening of March 2, 1965—the day before Ash Wednesday—fire trucks with sirens screaming startled a couple of fifth graders leaving Vinnie’s candy store on Eastchester Road, several blocks south of the church. The trucks raced north toward Gun Hill Road; after a frenetic minute or two the din subsided. With vague wonderings about what, exactly, could be on fire, the kids made their way home to dinner and homework.

By morning the shocking news had spread: Those fire trucks had been racing to Holy Rosary Church. Flames had destroyed part of one confessional, but damage was minimal. After cordoning-off the space, fire officials approved the 40-year-old building for continued use. Many speculated that a votive from the candlestand had ignited the curtain of the confessional booth, but how that happened—or if indeed that happened—remained a mystery. As far as we knew, the cause of the fire was undetermined.

In October of that year, with long-standing debts paid off, the parish council launched the New Church Building Fund Campaign. Committee members paid evening visits to every home in the parish, hoping to secure enough pledges to get the latest building project started.

Late in the afternoon of February 25, 1966—two days after Ash Wednesday—a couple of sixth graders were working the pistachio nut machine outside Vinnie’s candy store. As a torrent of red-shelled nuts poured out, again they were startled by the screams of fire trucks racing north on Eastchester Road. It reminded them of a similar occurrence, one year ago almost to the day. Momentarily disturbed by the memory, they reflected on these uncharacteristic dramas on Eastchester Road, where nothing ever happened.

The next day, a stunned community learned the location of the fire—Holy Rosary Church. To the sorrow of the parish, the devastation was complete. Again, the public was told the cause was undetermined.

The shell and steeple remained, but the interior had been gutted. Black singe marks sullied the white exterior around the blackened windows that stared like horrified eyes. The eventual boarding up of the windows was akin to the closing of those eyes, but for many months the church remained standing, as lifeless as a corpse.

The auditorium of the new school building had long been used for extra Sunday services to alleviate the overcrowding in the church; now the auditorium, along with the large cafeteria one floor below, served as church space. Holy Rosary School had now become Holy Rosary Church as well.

About a year later, construction began on the new church. The steel frame went up. And then construction stopped. For months nothing happened. The view of the steel structure from our seventh-grade windows never changed. By March of 1968 things started picking up again. Our eighth-grade teacher, Sister Dorothy, remarked that the church would likely be completed by the end of that summer. It was not to be. More delays beset the project.

Once the steel framework was in place, it became clear that this building would bear no resemblance to the impressive structure, with its tall steeple and bell tower rising over the entryway, depicted on the Building Campaign poster. Those who belonged to the parish’s inner circle might have known or been consulted about the change in plans. Others speculated that the new construction timeline, truncated by the second fire, caused a financing problem that forced the project to be scaled back.

Finally, in September of 1969, Monsignor Brady, our pastor, opened the doors of the new church and invited us to have a look around. To say that the congregants were taken aback is one way to describe the reaction to this church that was so different from what we had been accustomed to.

“Cold” was a word that frequently came up. And, “It echoes like a cafeteria in here.”

The interior walls were of brick, like the outside walls. The floor-to-ceiling Resurrection mural behind the altar was of cast aluminum, shiny and metallic, as were the altar itself, the panels of the Stations of the Cross, the tabernacle table, and other wall panels. The layout conformed to changes that resulted from Vatican Two, with a central location for the altar and the placement of the tabernacle something for individual parishes to work out. No altar rail separated the sanctuary from the pews, no lifelike statues filled the empty corners. (“Where are the statues?” “What do you mean, there aren’t going to be any statues?”) No curtains shielded the confessionals; instead, sturdy doors enclosed each booth. In every aspect, it conformed to what was then known as a modern church.

In time, disappointed parishioners adjusted to the new atmosphere, eventually developing true affection for the place. After all, our little pocket of New York City had long ago evolved from rural to citified. Now, so had our church.

Reference:

Crehan, Rev. Peter M. “Recollections,” in Holy Rosary Parish, Bronx, New York. South Hackensack, N.J.: Custombook, Inc., Ecclesiastical Color Publishers, 1970.

Holy Rosary School Part 4

The Sisters of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary trace their roots back to their founding in Ireland in the late 1700s by a woman whose name every Holy Rosary School student would come to know: Nano Nagle. In the late 1800s a subset of the congregation arrived in New York City to teach the children of Irish immigrants. Establishing a motherhouse upstate in Newburgh, New York, they expanded their presence in the boroughs and beyond.

Many of the young women who joined the Order were natives of the upstate cities and towns. We students could detect their regional accents and when we spoke, they heard “accents” as well. It was not unusual for one of us to become the target of an impromptu speech drill, such as when someone said “trow” instead of “throw,” or “tree” instead of “three,” or when a careless reader said “wuz” (as in, “The Declaration of Independence wuz signed on…”) instead of “waaaas.”

We quickly picked up on their many sayings and quotes, regional or otherwise. They ranged from the classic (Honesty is the best policy); to the visually appealing (I don’t care if every other class is standing on their heads whistling Dixie, you will be on your best behavior at the assembly and You’re slower than molasses flowing downhill in January); to the demeaning (Do you even have a brain cell working? and You’re nothing but a willy-nilly wishbone fishbone jellyfish).

The Order’s association with Holy Rosary began in 1925. In February of that year, Father James Winters had been assigned to this remote region of the northeast Bronx to minister to the growing Catholic population here. By April, a group of neighborhood women had organized a Sunday school program, and that September two Presentation Sisters joined them, traveling over every Sunday from Our Lady of Solace in the Morris Park section.

Expansion of the transit lines around this time brought about a spike in housing construction and an influx of families of Irish, German, and Italian descent. These families, many of them Catholic, wanted more than just a Sunday-school faith experience for their children. With the church and rectory completed over the summer of 1925, the building of a school became the next urgent project.

But it would be more than a year before the Archdiocese of New York granted permission. In January of 1927 work began on a prefabricated structure situated behind the hastily built, “temporary,” prefabricated church. Holy Rosary School opened on September 12, 1927, with four classrooms—kindergarten, first, second, and third grades—and four Presentation Sisters.

As the neighborhood continued to grow, so did the school. Classrooms were added, and in September of 1930 more Presentation Sisters arrived. Holy Rosary School was now complete with eight grades. At its first graduation ceremony on June 27, 1932, the Archdiocese awarded diplomas to 33 eighth-grade students.

Transportation lines continued to expand into the northeast Bronx and the population continued to surge. Holy Rosary had just graduated its first class, yet already the school was inadequate. Besides the lack of space, wear and tear took its toll on a building with a limited life expectancy. Expansion was out of the question—much less construction of a whole new building—for the parish still had debts and these were the years of the Great Depression.

And so the decade of the 1930s passed, as well as the war and post-war years of the 1940s and early 1950s. The old school held up until debts were at last paid off and permission granted, in 1954, to construct a new building across Eastchester Road at its intersection with Arnow Avenue. Soon an impressive structure of orange brick began to rise above the neighborhood.

In the spring of 1956, the eighth graders picked up their desks and carried them across the street to the new building, moving themselves in and becoming the first class to graduate from the new school. The new Holy Rosary School was dedicated that June with the blessing of Cardinal Francis Spellman.

The main structure of this formidable building stood five stories high and as long as the length of two classrooms, with stairwells at either end. Sixteen classrooms and a kindergarten room, along with administration offices, comprised three stories, with the top two floors set aside for the Sisters’ living quarters. A gymnasium-auditorium with a full cafeteria one level below it comprised the wing of the building. The cafeteria level continued along the length of the main structure, a low-ceiling maze of small offices, storage areas, janitor’s rooms, boiler room, and maintenance areas. Off the cafeteria, just below the gym and accessible to it by a back staircase, an extensive locker room complete with a long bank of showers remained locked away. We students of the 1960s never used these spotless facilities for our simple gym classes; they were reserved for the student athletes who participated in the prestigious Catholic Girls High School Basketball and Cheerleading Tournaments, an annual event sponsored by Holy Rosary School.

Holy Rosary School, once a prefabricated country school with four classrooms, was now a neighborhood landmark.

Reference:

Crehan, Rev. Peter M. Holy Rosary Parish, Bronx, New York. South Hackensack, N.J.: Custombook, Inc., Ecclesiastical Color Publishers, 1970.

Holy Rosary School Part 3

We were not entirely oblivious to the fact that changes had begun to take place in the “upper sanctum.” There, we later learned, the thought creeping forward in some minds was: Imagine not being a nun.

During that pivotal summer of 1967, while we wondered whether Sister Mary Pauline or Sister Mary Judith would be our eighth-grade homeroom teacher (there were two classes for each grade) both Sisters left Holy Rosary. Presumably, they had been transferred to other schools served by their order, the Sisters of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. When school started that September, we found that our seventh-grade homeroom teacher, Sister Mary Laboure, had moved up a grade to fill one of those vacant spots. For unexplained reasons, she would now be known as Sister Mary. Sister Mary Eymard, who had taught seventh grade for generations, remained a seventh-grade homeroom teacher but would now be called Sister Mary Ellen. Sister Joan, new to the school, filled the other seventh-grade vacancy, and Sister Dorothy arrived to become our eighth-grade teacher.

Because of her obvious youth—apparent even to us 13-year-olds—and because of the simpler habit she wore, some thought Sister Dorothy was a novice; that is, a nun who was not yet fully professed. But that was not the case. Sister Dorothy wore what would later be known as a modified habit. This included the same ankle-length black dress the others wore—complete with the belt from which hung a set of keys and yards and yards of rosary beads—but with a small white collar in place of the rigid breastplate. Instead of white wrappings that enclosed the forehead and most of the head, Sister Dorothy wore a simple white headband to hold the waist-length black veil that did not shroud the shoulders but fell in gentle folds down her back. The headband could barely contain her cloud of wavy golden hair that kept inching its way out.

Sister Mary Louise wearing the traditional habit in 1965.

One Sunday in May, Sister Dorothy arrived at the 9:00 Mass dressed in a business suit of royal blue and a short black veil that grazed her shoulders. Boys as well as girls crowded around her to gawk. Never did any of us expect to see a nun outfitted this way. It was as inexplicable as the name change at the beginning of the school year. The other nuns soon followed her lead, and on graduation day, June 22, all were dressed in business-suit habits—some black, others in various shades of blue—and short black veils.

To us the changes we observed in our Sisters that school year of 1967-1968 were monumental. But they were only the first steps of what was to come. By the following year, when we as high school freshmen returned for a visit to our favorite teacher, we learned that several of the nuns had left the order entirely. The few that continued to hang on to their religious vocation eventually discarded the habit altogether.

Something was going on behind the scenes. But what that was, we did not know.

Sister Mary in the business suit habit (without the jacket), June 22, 1968.

Holy Rosary School Part 2

When the dismissal bell rang at 3:00 on the appointed day and the rest of the class stumbled in their haste to flee the building, Lisa, Michele, Julie, and I remained smugly behind, excited at the prospect of following Sister Dorothy up that final flight of stairs.

We took the staircase at the opposite end of the building from the frightening crucifix; on this shadowy landing a less frightening statue of the Blessed Mother stood beside the locked convent door. Jangling through her key ring, Sister Dorothy found the one that opened the secret portal. Cautiously and suddenly timid, we followed her into the convent.

The brightly lit kitchen and the bracing scent of pine cleaner welcomed us, dispelling the gloom of the landing. We glanced around. A long, sturdy table of pale, polished wood, with a large bowl of apples, oranges, and pears in the center, dominated the room. Light from ceiling fixtures spilled across the buffed floor and dissolved down a hallway of closed doors—the nuns’ bedrooms. With deep disappointment we learned we would not get to see them, but we understood. A long school day had just ended, and we imagined the sisters savoring some solitary moments in their sacred space.

Whatever else we saw of the living quarters, nothing made more of an impact than the sight that gripped us as we stepped onto the rooftop patio—their backyard in the sky.

Looking eastward over rooftops and roadways into the distance, we were captivated by the sight of the Hutchinson River and a network of creeks and inlets, peaceful and still, reflecting the blue-violet of the dusky sky. Low stratus clouds floated over the scene, drifting patches of deeper violet. Sage green marsh grasses turning autumn gold arched sideways, their muddy banks exposed by low tide.

Overarching this natural splendor stood a structural masterpiece: the Hutchinson River Parkway bridge. A section of the drawbridge was visible from my bedroom window, but from here at the top of the school we looked down on the breath-catching sight of its full expanse—seven spans, support columns, the control tower, and the yellow warning gates in their upright resting position. Beyond the bridge and the trees of Pelham Bay Park lay Eastchester Bay, Orchard Beach, and the open waters of Long Island Sound—but these were lost in the purple dusk and the distance.

Just south of the drawbridge, the towers of the New Haven Railroad trestle rose above the flat landscape like black steel filigree against the sky. On the New England Thruway and the Hutchinson River Parkway, two ribbons crossing each other and slicing through the marshes, cars caught shards of setting sunlight and shot them into our squinting eyes. All was hushed; the speeding cars made no sound as they slipped along the highways.

Although 205 acres of those marshlands had been filled in a decade earlier for a short-lived amusement park called Freedomland, a good part of the land once occupied by the Siwanoy people was still the habitat of wildlife, birds, and sea creatures. But we knew that construction of a sprawling apartment complex called Co-Op City had recently begun. More of the coastal waterways were being filled in, and the development would not stop with Co-Op City. The marshlands would eventually disappear under a shopping mall.

Later it occurred to me that the splendor we had been privileged to discover that afternoon was what the early residents of Westervelt Avenue had seen from their front doors every day, until the houses on the eastern side of the street were built. For me, seeing this vision from what, at the time, could have been the highest point in the northeast Bronx, was to discover a new facet of my borough’s character, another side to its asphalt personality.

And so our tour ended. What had started out as a quest to uncover the mysteries of convent life ended with another discovery. My friends and I walked home, descending Allerton Avenue in the twilight. We faced east, just as we had from much higher up, and though we looked for the beauty of the landscape, our street-level view ended where the New England Thruway met the horizon. Headlights and streetlights became silver sparks in the violet dusk, creating a different kind of beauty enhanced by the rising round moon hovering above.

Despite the strangeness of the walk home at this late hour, subdued without the usual crowd of other school kids, our spirits were high. We had spent the late afternoon in the private company of the teacher we loved. We had seen that mysterious place at the top of the school, something no other kid in the class had done. Now we could picture where the sisters graded our test papers, where they ate their meals, where they stepped outside for fresh air and sunshine.

I think each of us must have had the same fleeting thought as we headed home that afternoon: Imagine being a nun.