St. Louis Catholic Church was a landmark while we were growing up. It often served as a progress marker - much like the furlong stripes painted on the poles at the horse racing track at the Fairgrounds - that we used when we journeyed to the swimming pool at Taylor Park. The church itself was a beautiful and imposing structure, with its twin bell towers, and it seemed to overshadow the tiny Greek Orthodox Church directly across the street. Saint Looey’s, as we called it, was an integral part of that West Johnson Street neighborhood, that included the Lutheran Home for the Aged, the Badger Liquor Company, Giddings and Lewis, and of course (who could forget?), the Paradise Grocery store.
How often we saw Father Panayotis walking on the sidewalk in front of the Greek church on the west side of Macy Street, or sitting on that bench in front of the Paradise Grocery talking with his parishioners. He, too, would notice the imposing Catholic church across the street, it’s high towers shielding the morning sunlight in an almost imperfect way, as he paced back and forth during his meditations. And many times he could be seen standing there on the sidewalk, his arms thrust into the sleeves of his riasa, the stove pipe hat on his head, looking wistfully at St. Looey’s Church.
We seldom walked on the sidewalk in front of St. Looey’s. Generally, we crossed the street after we had walked past the Hinn Coal Company buildings, and then we continued our journey on the west side of Macy Street. We, too, often saw St. Louis Church from the same perspective as Father Panayotis: its towers raking the pale blue sky, the sunlight glinting between the crosses. Indeed, the Second Coming itself would pass through those towers, some thought, like a long field goal at Fruth Memorial Field.
We would remember the last days at the Paradise Grocery as well: the shelves were bare, the room was dimly lit. An old woman, clutching at the threads of her black shawl, sat behind the counter like a tiny bird. It was she who would demand to see “da picture card” when someone attempted to buy beer from her. She would stand there and shake her finger, saying, “Letta me see da picture card,” with a voice cracked and calloused with age. She viewed each one of us with skepticism and with a lack of trust. “No picture card. No beer!” she warned, as we entered the store. And even were we to go in there and buy a few rolls of toilet paper, she should stand behind the counter with her arms folded across her chest, with the word no slowly forming on her lips out of pure reflexive spite.
But in many respects, it was only the sale of beer in the evening after 9 p.m. that kept the Paradise Grocery Store open. One by one the cars would come and park in front of the store. From the cluster of three or four young men in the car, one would be chosen to go inside to attempt to buy a case of beer. If he was 18 years or older, he would smile when the old woman asked to see the picture card: he knew she couldn’t challenge him because he was of age. If he was under 18 years of age, often his raw nervousness entered the store well before he did, and she always seemed to sense that. He would buy no beer from her. She would say, “You baby!” And then pointing at the door, she would add, “No beer! Out!” He would slink out of the store and return to the car like a furtive mouse being harried by a cat. Then one by one, the young men would decide who would go back into the store to try again. Often, the youngest man in the group was the one who was successful in buying the case of beer, less for his powers of persuasion and more for his charm, because he looked at her and smiled as he brought the case of beer to the counter. She could see at once that he wasn’t wearing the tattered uniform of fear. She wouldn’t even ask him for “da picture card.” Instead, she would ring up the sale on that old brass cash register and hold her hand off to the side, waiting for him to put his money in her hand. “Six dollar fifty.”
How often we saw Father Panayotis walking on the sidewalk in front of the Greek church on the west side of Macy Street, or sitting on that bench in front of the Paradise Grocery talking with his parishioners. He, too, would notice the imposing Catholic church across the street, it’s high towers shielding the morning sunlight in an almost imperfect way, as he paced back and forth during his meditations. And many times he could be seen standing there on the sidewalk, his arms thrust into the sleeves of his riasa, the stove pipe hat on his head, looking wistfully at St. Looey’s Church.
We seldom walked on the sidewalk in front of St. Looey’s. Generally, we crossed the street after we had walked past the Hinn Coal Company buildings, and then we continued our journey on the west side of Macy Street. We, too, often saw St. Louis Church from the same perspective as Father Panayotis: its towers raking the pale blue sky, the sunlight glinting between the crosses. Indeed, the Second Coming itself would pass through those towers, some thought, like a long field goal at Fruth Memorial Field.
We would remember the last days at the Paradise Grocery as well: the shelves were bare, the room was dimly lit. An old woman, clutching at the threads of her black shawl, sat behind the counter like a tiny bird. It was she who would demand to see “da picture card” when someone attempted to buy beer from her. She would stand there and shake her finger, saying, “Letta me see da picture card,” with a voice cracked and calloused with age. She viewed each one of us with skepticism and with a lack of trust. “No picture card. No beer!” she warned, as we entered the store. And even were we to go in there and buy a few rolls of toilet paper, she should stand behind the counter with her arms folded across her chest, with the word no slowly forming on her lips out of pure reflexive spite.
But in many respects, it was only the sale of beer in the evening after 9 p.m. that kept the Paradise Grocery Store open. One by one the cars would come and park in front of the store. From the cluster of three or four young men in the car, one would be chosen to go inside to attempt to buy a case of beer. If he was 18 years or older, he would smile when the old woman asked to see the picture card: he knew she couldn’t challenge him because he was of age. If he was under 18 years of age, often his raw nervousness entered the store well before he did, and she always seemed to sense that. He would buy no beer from her. She would say, “You baby!” And then pointing at the door, she would add, “No beer! Out!” He would slink out of the store and return to the car like a furtive mouse being harried by a cat. Then one by one, the young men would decide who would go back into the store to try again. Often, the youngest man in the group was the one who was successful in buying the case of beer, less for his powers of persuasion and more for his charm, because he looked at her and smiled as he brought the case of beer to the counter. She could see at once that he wasn’t wearing the tattered uniform of fear. She wouldn’t even ask him for “da picture card.” Instead, she would ring up the sale on that old brass cash register and hold her hand off to the side, waiting for him to put his money in her hand. “Six dollar fifty.”
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