Sardines, Peaches, and Onions

Yesterday, an elderly woman approached me and asked: “Would you like some cans of sardines and peaches? I have extras.” I politely replied, “No, thank you” and went on my merry way. These are strange times indeed, I thought. But it subsequently occurred to me that she probably received the goods from a food bank for senior citizens. My next-door neighbor was the recipient of some such thing not too long ago and it included cans of no-frills sardines, boxes of no-frills crackers, and the like. You might think it impossible to produce a bad can of peas, but the no-frills gang have found a way.

And now for something completely different: I just learned some sad news and it’s not about statue toppling and the trampling on fundamental free speech. My old grammar school, St. John’s in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge, is apparently shutting its doors for good. Seems that COVID-19 has done a number on the finances of the families who made the sacrifice to send their kids there. And, too, the virus has hit the purse of the Church hierarchy hard as well. The entire school—all eight grades—was in what I knew as St. John’s Middle School, which once upon a time housed only the seventh and eighth grades. That tells you how much the school’s enrollment had shrunk through the years. In my day we had several classes in each grade with forty or more students. The baby boom was the wind beneath its wings and the tuition was pretty reasonable when the Archdiocese of New York was awash in green. But that was then and this is now.

The school and church have been around for more than a century. When I was growing up, we were associated with our parish. “Oh, you’re from St. John’s”—that sort of thing. Everybody, it seemed, knew everybody else. The priests knew us. The nuns knew us. I was fortunate to have gone through grades one through eight in more civilized times, when corporal punishment was frowned upon and the nuns very literally kicked their habits. We received a pretty good education there. The depressing reality is that it’s no longer an option for the mostly minority families who were willing to pay the not inconsiderable tuition of today. By and large, the public school alternatives in New York City don't exactly cut the mustard. And if I may borrow from Lily Tomlin: “And that’s the truth!”

One last thing: I recently came upon an article about—yes—words with supposedly racist connotations like “master.” The real estate world is now looking into the phrase “master bedroom.” In fact, some real estate outfits are now referring to the “primary bedroom” instead. Colonial-style homes are next on the hit list. My biggest fear is that I Dream of Jeannie will fall victim to the cancel culture. Yes, Master. Alas, this is not an Onion story.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)