| Author: | Robert A. Semenza | ISBN: | 9781469122496 |
| Publisher: | Xlibris US | Publication: | March 22, 2007 |
| Imprint: | Xlibris US | Language: | English |
| Author: | Robert A. Semenza |
| ISBN: | 9781469122496 |
| Publisher: | Xlibris US |
| Publication: | March 22, 2007 |
| Imprint: | Xlibris US |
| Language: | English |
Robert Semenza has always considered himself fortunate to have been brought up in what may have been, in his mind, the last best of all timesan era that spanned only a little more than a decade and a half, from the early forties to the midfifties, from World War II to the Korean police action, from FDR to Harry [the buck stops here] Truman to Ike. He was even more blessed to be raised in an environment where he was surrounded by a wealth of love and warmth from our parents and a seemingly unlimited number of relatives and piasians; however, the adults in our lives were there only when we needed themsort of a Charlie Brown type of existence but without his anxiety.
He felt that all his wonderful memories would be lost forever and wanted to preserve them for the generations to follow. His tale is told in a self-effacing way and from the perspective of a young boy being raised in the West, a neighborhood in New Rochelle, New York; of Italians and colored people (you never called them blacks or African Americans unless you were prepared for a fight); and the rest of civilization, referred to simply as the Americans.It tells of his Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn type of youthful adventures and mishaps centered around a cast of colorful and unforgettable characters that roamed the streets of the West, from the likes of the Goat Man, who would proudly parade his goats down Union Avenue and whose route was undeniably marked by a trail of small round soft black pellets, which the goats expelled as they merrily strolled to their noonday repast [presumably to make more pellets]to the Iron Horse to Louie Chicken Breast, and to a whole host of other characters. As he explains, they were just there and accepted as they were, except that they, like everyone else in the neighborhood, had a nickname, which was generally linked to their physical appearance, which, in each case, was obvious. He has attempted the impossible task of trying to list all of these nicknameshis nickname was Chestythe reader will learn why.
His personal memories transport the reader back to that time and to his boyish recollections of his family, the school, the church, the Boys Club, the games they invented, and the special joys brought by each season of the year.
Robert Semenza has always considered himself fortunate to have been brought up in what may have been, in his mind, the last best of all timesan era that spanned only a little more than a decade and a half, from the early forties to the midfifties, from World War II to the Korean police action, from FDR to Harry [the buck stops here] Truman to Ike. He was even more blessed to be raised in an environment where he was surrounded by a wealth of love and warmth from our parents and a seemingly unlimited number of relatives and piasians; however, the adults in our lives were there only when we needed themsort of a Charlie Brown type of existence but without his anxiety.
He felt that all his wonderful memories would be lost forever and wanted to preserve them for the generations to follow. His tale is told in a self-effacing way and from the perspective of a young boy being raised in the West, a neighborhood in New Rochelle, New York; of Italians and colored people (you never called them blacks or African Americans unless you were prepared for a fight); and the rest of civilization, referred to simply as the Americans.It tells of his Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn type of youthful adventures and mishaps centered around a cast of colorful and unforgettable characters that roamed the streets of the West, from the likes of the Goat Man, who would proudly parade his goats down Union Avenue and whose route was undeniably marked by a trail of small round soft black pellets, which the goats expelled as they merrily strolled to their noonday repast [presumably to make more pellets]to the Iron Horse to Louie Chicken Breast, and to a whole host of other characters. As he explains, they were just there and accepted as they were, except that they, like everyone else in the neighborhood, had a nickname, which was generally linked to their physical appearance, which, in each case, was obvious. He has attempted the impossible task of trying to list all of these nicknameshis nickname was Chestythe reader will learn why.
His personal memories transport the reader back to that time and to his boyish recollections of his family, the school, the church, the Boys Club, the games they invented, and the special joys brought by each season of the year.
