___________________________________________________________________

The anticipation of seeing their new home dulled by the last hour’s scary, snowy, windblown drive, off the highway now and into the city, loosening her tight hold on Michael, Marsha’s level of expectancy once again buoyed. “How far now, Mitchie?”

“Actually,” glancing at her, “we’re pretty close.”

Snow was beginning to build on the streets when, within a few minutes, turning left, the Ford steered off East Memorial Drive onto Wisconsin Avenue, then slowly went about a mile.

Stopping, rolling his fog-cast window down, “We’re here!”

Leaning forward, Marsha looked past her husband, to the opposite side of the street.

Covering the entire block were a number of near-identical, U-shaped clusters of two-story, wood-frame structures containing four doorways each. The sign in front read ‘WISCONSIN VILLAS’.

Book 2#5: Hillbilly Home

Rolling the window up, driving on a moment, stopping at the juncture of a driveway, “That’s ours,”he said,  pointing through Marsha’s window to the unit on the left side of the building at the far end of the court. Turning into the driveway the Ford went to the end, made a wide right turn and, not being too great at parking a trailer—actually being lousy at parking a trailer—rather than parking in the singular space alongside the yard he parked horizontally at the end of the shallow yard, switching the motor off, turning to his wife and child, “We’re home,” Mitchell said.

Carrying Michael so he didn’t get his stockinged feet wet, they entered through the back door into the kitchen.

Immediately noticing the, new looking, built in oven and stove, “Oh, I like those!” Marsha said. “But there’s no refrigerator.”

“Sorry, honey. But I only saw it the one time and liked it so much I guess I forgot to tell you.”

Mentally measuring the small—although larger than any they’d previously lived in—but workable kitchen, visually placing their table and chairs. “So we’ll buy a refrigerator. It’ll be nice having our own for a change.” Walking into the L-shaped living room, visually placing their furniture there also. “Carpeting nice,” she said, looking into the half toilet.

“Yeah, the agent said carpet’s only about a year old.”

“We’ll have to put a gate down here.” Starting up the carpeted steps, “and one up here, too.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said, “I mentioned that to the agent and she said it’ll be okay to put gates up.”

Though in the three years of their marriage they had lived in four different apartments— outside of Lakeside which they’d never thought of as ‘home’— this was the first time they would have…

…“Our own bedroom!” Marsha said, looking into one, then the other like-sized bedroom that, separated by the bathroom, were on opposite ends of the hallway.

“So, you like it?”

“Yes,” she answered.  “I do like it.”

His eyes glancing upward, thinking, Thank you! 

 “Really, Mitchie,” reiterating,  “I do like this place, very much!”

“I’m really glad, Marcie!

“We can figure where to put all the stuff from the trailer later, but it’s still early enough so if you’ll give me a hand shlepping the stuff into the house, we’ll have time to find someplace to buy a refrigerator and, if they’ll loan us a hand cart, we can get it back here before we get rid of the trailer.”

“Don’t know how we’d get it out of the trailer; but, yeah, sure, Mitch, and we’d better find a phone to let everyone know we got here okay.”

                                                         ****

Wanting to beat Saturday’s forecast of ‘the possibility of snow’, utilizing Lawrence once again, this time with the help of Walter, along with some help from Morton, the small enclosed trailer had been packed the day before and—sleeping in the house in Skokie—they had been on their way by eight a.m.. Even with slowing due to worsening driving conditions, they had arrived at Wisconsin Villas at 12:45 p.m.

                                                         ****

“Hello!”

Starting down the stairs, “Yeah, hi!”

Wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and what appeared to be a vest made of deerskin, the man held the hand of a little girl in a snowsuit. “Hi!” The man—about the same age as Mitchell—said in what Marsha and Mitchell would later learn was an Appalachian accent, “Sorry to jus’ be walkin’ in, but the door was open… I’m Hugh Ivy.” Holding his hand forward, “An’ this here’s Rebecca.” Nudging the girl with his hip, “Becky, say hello to the people.”

Her eyes cast downward, “Hello,” Rebecca said shyly.

“Hi,” shaking hands, “I’m Mitch Lipensky and this is my wife, Marsha, and the little guy’s Michael.”

“How old’s he?”

“Twenty-two months,” Marsha replied. “Come on, Mikey,” pulling him forward, “say hello to Becky… How old’s your daughter?”

“Nearing three… At’s okay, Mike,” ruffling the little boy’s hair. “The two a’you’ll be great pals.

“My wife, Val—Valerie—sent us over… She’d’a come, too, ’cept’in we got us a new baby an’ she’s ‘tendin’ to it, but she sent Becky’n me over to say hello an’ to see if I can give you a hand,” jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “unlodin’ that thing.”

“Yeah, thanks, thank’s a lot!” Mitchell said. “Matter of fact, Marcie’n’me were just talking about that… Also we need a refrigerator.”

“Tell you what…” Patting her on the behind, Hugh propelled his daughter towards Michael. “You go on an’ play with that little boy now!”

Returning his attention to Mitchell. “You’n’me’ll unload that thing,” again motioning over his shoulder, “an’ the three’a’us’ll… Val’ll keep an eye on the kid, if you want, an’ I’ll take the two’a’ya to a place on ‘Jefferson’ I know that’s got all kinds’a ’pliances, an’ they’ll load it onto the U-haul an’ you’n’me’ll haul it back here so leastways you’ll have the fridge today.” Abruptly turning his attention to Marsha, “Guess you’ll need to get to a ‘A’n’P’, too, eh?”

Not knowing many…hell, not knowing any ‘hillbillies’, not quite sure what to make of Hugh Ivy, thinking that somehow his dialect had to be a put-on… “Thanks, again, Hugh,” Marsha said. “We can certainly use the help, and I do have to get to a store and I’d love to have the refrigerator today.”

                                                        ****

Unwilling to leave her son with a woman she’d just met, sitting in the back with Michael on her lap, “What do you do, Hugh?”

Turning, Hugh Ivy looked at Marsha. Accustomed to fuller bodied, lighter complexioned women, harboring minimal prejudice—not knowing many, hell, not knowing any—thinking they might be ‘Jews’, not quite sure if he liked this woman’s particular type of beauty, “I work over at ‘Cat’…”

“ ‘Caterpillar Tractor’?”

“Yeah, I’m a foreman in one’a the machine shops.”

Impressed, “Really!” Mitchell said. “You’re kind’a young to be a foreman, ain’t’ch’ya?”

“Nah. I been workin’ ’round ‘quipment all my life… What’a you do, Mitch?”

“I’m a salesman. I sell envelopes.”

Not impressed, Hugh simply said, “Oh.”

                                                                               ****

At Central Appliance Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky purchased a harvest gold ‘Philco’ refrigerator, which they hadn’t expected to buy, along with something they were looking forward to buying: a double bed.

Because they were making more money then they’d been making and their rent was far less than they’d been paying, and because they would rather use the extra money from their moving allowance for groceries and, maybe, for something they hadn’t the money to do in, so it seemed, ages—going out for dinner and, when they find a baby-sitter, to a movie—adding this day’s purchases of $12 a month to their E-Z Credit, gave them a grand total of set monthly payments—less the seven dollars a month for the pots and pans that had been paid off—of $174.78, which in itself was not too bad, but what they did not expect, in addition to electricity, that they’d paid while living in the apartment on  Winchester, were the monthly payments for gas and water.

May 23, 1959

“God, that’s awful!”

“Jesus, ’Pinsky, ain’t’j’ya never hooked a ‘crawler’ afore?”

“No, Hugh! Where I come from we step on ’em.”

“Aw, look’a this fat ol’ thing.” Holding the thick, four-inch-long, brownish-gray, frantically wiggling worm a few inches from Mitchell’s face—who flinched backward—a moment, then, oozing a muddy, greenish-gray red tinged fluid, impaling it three times on the barbed hook, leaving an inch of its writhing tail (or head) dangling,

turning from the other two men, Bobby-Joe—yes, really—‘Bobby Joe’ stepped to the river bank and with a flick of his wrist, the pole snapping over his head, the hissing sound of the glistening, barely-seen thread of eight-pound test monofilament fishing line, weighed with hook, worm and sinker, whipped out of the ‘Shakespeare’ reel, snaked through the air and fell with a distant sounding, barely-seen splash into the slightly rippling water of the Illinois River.

“Go on, ’Pinsky, you can do it!”

“Yaght!” Distastefully holding it between his thumb and index finger, poising the point of the hook beneath its underside (or topside) he touched it to the worm that, feeling the point, squirmed all the harder. Now, tightening his fingers on the slimy, squirming thing he closed his eyes, but wisely thinking he’d hook himself rather than the worm, opening his eyes, “Oy!” Mitchell forced the hook through.

“Yeah, ’Pinsky, you’re a fuckin’ hero! Do it again.”

Glancing at Hugh, he poked the hook through again but, off center this time, it tore through the worm’s side. Trying again, breathing a sigh of relief, finally hooking his worm, Mitchell stepped to the river bank and, his thumb on the reel’s trigger—as he’d practiced on the driveway—his wrist flicked, the pole snapped, but…

“Uh, oh!” But when he had practiced on the driveway there were no overhanging trees.

                                                          ****

Opening the cooler, “’Pinsky, here!” tossing him  a can of beer, then the ‘church-key’.

Catching one then the other, “Thanks, Hugh.”

Punching into the top of the can with the sharp pointed can opener, a mist of beer sprayed onto the front of his T-shirt but at the moment not much caring what he smelled of, or like. Also, for the first time enjoying the company of these two men, to say nothing of the feel of the warmth of this late afternoon spring day and the quiet, buzzing solitude of this plush-lined niche of sandy soil on the edge of the river.

Reclining on the bare ground, his back supported by his elbows, the pole propped at an upward angle by a large rock, having absolutely nothing better to do than drink his beer—his third beer—and watch for the sharp bobbing of the tip of his pole that would signify that a fish had bitten. However truly not caring if he didn’t catch any fish because, first off, Mitchell truly did not care.  Secondly, knowing what he would have to do if he was unlucky enough to catch a fish, or, God forbid, ‘fishes’, even though he had…

…In his best ‘American Indian Brave’s’ voice, Mitchell Lipensky had proclaimed to Marsha Lipensky: “Me go catch’em dinner!”

However, never a fish eater, Marsha Lipensky, in her best ‘Jewish-American Wife’s’ voice proclaimed to Mitchell Lipensky: “I ain’t eating nothing you catch, unless it’s a cow!”

But, alas…

“ ‘Pinsky!”

“Huh?” Sitting up, he looked a Bobby-Joe.

“Ya got’ch’ya a bite!”

“Oh, God!” Standing quickly, knocking the can of beer into the dirt and the pole off the rock, fumbling, Mitchell grabbed the pole.

 “’Pinsky!” Motioning with a sharp, upward jerking of his wrist, “Set the hook!” Hugh called.

“Yeah!” Doing as told, ‘almost’: Snapping his entire arm backward, seeing a slackening in the line, Mitchell hopefully thought he’d lost it… But suddenly, the pole arching, the clutch in the reel allowing yards of line to play out as the fish ran with the bait.

A few feet to his right, “Ya got it!” Bobby-Joe yelled.

Thinking he was asking, “I don’t know!” Mitchell said, then, “I got it?” he questioned.

“Yeah! Ya got it! Start reelin’ ’er in!”

“Holy shit! I caught a fish!” Cranking the handle, expecting more resistance… One moment the thrashing catfish was seen in the murky-green water and the next was flopping on the sandy soil at water’s edge. “What do I do now?”

“Take it off the fuckin’ hook!”

“How?”

“With your teeth, asshole! Use your hands!”

“My hands?”

“Yeah, your hands!” Bobby Joe said. “Use your hands!”

He reached to it, drew back, then, holding the fish somewhat immobile by stepping on its tail, hesitantly reaching to it again, “Jesus! It bit me!” Mitchell’s palm punctured by a sharp fin, “The fucker bit me!”

Amused by this ‘city boy’s’ ineptness, giggling, “It didn’t bite’j’ya,” Bobby-Joe said informatively. “It prick’d’j’ya.”

“Oh, okay.” Feeling the pain in the palm of his hand, watching his blood drip onto the soil, wondering, Should I ask ’em if I ought to get a tetanus shot? But knowing the ridicule he’d receive if he even mentioned a tetanus shot, wrapping his hand in his handkerchief, “So how in the hell am I supposed to do it?”

“God, ya’all Yankees are dumber’n shit!” Walking over, stepping on it, holding the fish behind its needle-sharp fins with one hand as, grasping the shank of the hook with his other, twisting it, pulling it from the underside of the mouth of the 1-1/4–pound fish, then pushing his finger through, holding it through its gill, Bobby-Joe threaded the steel-tipped end of the stringer through the catfish’s mouth and gill. “Okay, ’Pinsky!” Weighing the end of the stringer with a large rock, he dropped the fish back into the water where it thrashed weakly. Motioning to the white carry-out cardboard box containing squirming night crawlers, “Bait your hook!”

Looking at his catch, “That is one ugly fish.”

“Nah,” Hugh said. “It’s a be-U-tiful fish! But’j’ya need a couple’a more for dinner. Bait your hook!”

To be continued