Big Chooch Memoir & Diary Comics #5

Summer 2022

Memoir & Diary Comics

by Brian. J Kelley

No. 5

Big Chooch

My grandfather, John Brancato, showing off a nice flounder likely caught off the Jersey Shore. That Winston in his left hand inspired a comic later on in this issue of Big Chooch.

Big Chooch Comics #5; July, 2022.

Published by Brian J. Kelley. P.O. Box 193, Kemblesville, PA 19347. Write to me snail mail or email at bjk925@gmail.com. Visit me on IG bjk925 or on Twitter @RealBrianKelley. ©2022 Brian J. Kelley.

ISSN 2769-3198

To the Reader, This spring, I became a member of the Da Vinci Art Alliance (DVAA) on 7th and Catherine in Philadelphia. I like supporting an art organization in my old neighborhood offering “free exhibitions and programming for the community.”

From their website davinciartalliance.org: “...founded in 1931 by sixteen Italian immigrant artists and collectors at a timewhen immigrants were barred from major artistic, academic, and scientific institutions, DVAA was a creative refuge where members could show their work...”

In the late 70s, when my aunt had some decorating and minor renovations done on her rowhouse on 10th & Porter (formerly my great-grandparents home), a large charcoal sketch was revealed beneath the wallpaper in the upstairs middle bedroom.

My aunt did not know who might have done it. I remember she called her brothers. No one claimed it. The wallpaper was likely already in place by the time my aunts and uncles came to be.

There were photographs taken...now lost.

Who roughed out that floor to ceiling sketch on the original plaster of people walking with a cart and a donkey?

My great grandparents? A friend of theirs? Perhaps one of the original construction crew when the city erected those workman style rowhomes throughout Philadekphia?

Before the image was covered up with a new layer of wallpaper, I got to look at it. It amazed me. Thrilled me.

There is art everywhere...and artists everywhere. Many without much formal training, support or mentors,. armed with little but the joy of just making.

Here’s to continued success to organizations like DVAA! Note: This edition has been done with various grades of graphite pencil in lieu of ink.

Enjoy,

Aunts and neighbors sent me to Al’s Groceries on 10th & Porter.

Al did not use a cash register. many simply wrote him a check each month.

Al kept a credit log of the groceries Everyone bought in a hardback notebook and he hand-totalled it on a brown bag.

Monthly, Tony went house to house washing windows for a few bucks.

When he passed with a vegetable cart, Tony took Us around the block for pocket change.

Since he did not speak English, I thought Tony was “slow.”

He wasn’t stupid.

He was just Italian.

On 10th & Shunk, I could get my hair cut by Sammy or Arturo at the South Philadelphia Barber Shop.

Sammy taught cutting hair at a school on 11th and Tasker.

I would brace myself for a haircut since sammy only knew one way to cut hair. everyone left looking like Paulie Walnuts.

Credit: Thank you to Cousin Danielle and Uncle Danny to get me the right names of the barbers!

In 1972, my Uncle Joe Q. requested a family historiography from a mail order company. In it, a Quattrone coat of arms was included.

The document notes several times that it was drawn with the information available at the time and in no way represents individual family lineage. nevertheless, I’m told Uncle Joe loved this heraldry.

Credit: Thank you to Jeff Q. for sharing the heraldry.

Recently, cousin Fred sent me a book: The Amazing Story of the Tonelli Family in America, by John Tonelli.

I connected with the fact that many Tonelli’s never knew their extended families spread out across America.

I never knew my grandfather, a Brancato. I never knew his brothers Tommy or Sammy, his sister francis or his mother or father.

For all of the family dinners and holidays, I never connected with a Brancato until recently when my mom and a Brancato cousin, Maria, found one another on Facebook.

when i was 7 years old i wedged a toe in a bath spigot.

On a daily basis, extended Family was always around. a phalanx of Italian aunts, uncles and cousins seemed within shouting distance to bail me out of a jam, to babysit...or to feed me.

Here, Aunt Helen ran across the street to save the day...and then have italian cookies, coffee and cigarettes in the kitchen to laugh about it.

My Uncle Joe B. kissed everyone hello or goodbye (male or female, young and old). when he kissed me, his scruff felt like tiny little needles on my face.

Oh, how it hurt my soft skin.

I just as clearly recall him saying “I love you” to everyone individually...a lot...and, as a kid, that stuck.

I’d never seen or heard men say “I love you” until Uncle Joe B.

Ever have someone in your family called “uncle” or an “aunt” even though they were a cousin or even a family friend?

My “Uncle” Bobby was a teen idol, a legendary Philly icon, who recently passed away.

When I learned of it, I thought about the occasional weekends I spent with my cousins Robert and Jennifer--his children.

Their father’s office was off-limits, but occasionally I would sneak away to peak at his drums and the gold, silver, and platinum records. adorning the walls.

RIP “Uncle” Bobby.

Cousin Fred told me about how his parents met.

Then Fred emailed me that he had made a mistake.

His Sister, Barbara, said the story was correct but he had the players reversed.

Credit: Thank you to cousins Fred and Barbara for getting the story straight! It was fun drawing the story from two perspectives.

I’m told the young uncle Nunce was a big flirt.

from left to right: My Uncle Nuncie Quattrone; unknown; my Aunt Lu; and unknown. Fred & Barbara (Nunce & Lu’s children) did some sleuthing to find out who the two unknowns might be...no luck so far. With the low pier in the background, I am making the leap and counting this as a photograph taken at the Jersey shore circa 1935.

I hung out with friends on the corner of 13th & Jackson and in the schoolyard of south Philadelphia high school (AKA “Southern”).

Several of my aunts and uncles went to southern in the ‘30s and 40s.

One night, Bruce, who would go on to be a professional boxer, knocked out a guy with one punch for walking by us with bruce’s ex.

WHat i remember most clearly though is how, at night, pooled blood is black.

my first high school, St. John Neumann,on 26th & Moore, was all boys when I attended in the ‘80s.

That building still stands but has been converted into a senior citizen center.

some guys bought and sold weed by handing off books. ten bucks in one dime bag in another.

slits cut into the hems of our dress pants could hide joints or small plastic bags.

Detention ran early in the morning.

So early that an hour gap sat between the end of detention and the start of school.

Father C. proctored at a lecturn and chain smoked.

When Father called your name into the microphone, it was for both attendance and to announce the number of days of detention left for you to serve.

Our cafeteria would be filled--a couple of hundred boys in detention each morning.

Not every kid I knew saw school as a place to find a mentor, guidance or a path to become a better you.

I grew up with guys with a “beat them” mentality. “them” didn’t just mean school. It could simply be some guys from another neighborhood.

Their only sin being an address.

“Beat them.”

The “beat them” mentality develops when and where there is an absence of trust.

And schools, in general, definitely struggle with trust.

Kids have long gone to school knowing they will judged by peers, teachers and admin... parents, right? how do you fall in love with anything (or anyone) who consistently points out your flaws?

I digress... the point is, as teenagers we rallied with the guys we did trust.

A small group of friends created a system for cheating on scantron tests.

We’d bore indentations in the answer pattern. they looked like teeth marks.

if you took the test first, you were the one responsible for making the pencil.

our school used a rotating schedule. week to week our classes were in a different order.

evidence was easily destroyed.

for lunch, as a sophomore, a guy who sat near me would buy two vanilla milkshakes.

He would chug one and then regurgitate it back into the styrofoam cup. then, he would find a sucker to drink it.

He’d say the lunch ladies gave him an extra milkshake for free. Which was believable.

The ladies often gave out extra helpings of food.

This was as nasty as it sounds.

We’re talking like a pint-sized cup.

Yeah...super gross.

Some guys were just plain shrewd.

After detention, we had to wait outside for 45 minutes irrespective of the weather-Part of the vision to make detention a miserable experience. Didn’t work. there was one classmate there every morning who didn’t even have detention.

He’d just wake up super early and pick up two huge bags of italian hoagies from Red’s Sandwich shop and sell them to us at a profit.

Italian hoagies for breakfast.

Credit: Thank you to Frank C. for awkening this memory.

our high school principal was a bit wacky, unorthodox and unpredictable.

And, In 1985, father l. made a mutually beneficial deal with me.

Here’s what happened...

One morning I was running late.

So I borrowed my aunt’s ‘71 dodge dart

and gunned it.

I tried to hard brake and slide into an empty space in the school lot.

everyone knew it was me...especially all of my teachers.

so i ran to a corner store and father kept his word.

Generations ago, family took a bus to wildwood, nj for vacations.

buses boarded at broad & snyder.

and in about 3 hours....

Credit: Wildwood Historical Society Quattrones stayed at The Cozy Inn (and other similar boarding homes) for many summers in Wildwood, NJ post WWII.

Working three summers in Wildwood was an education in all of the different ways some can order or treat servers...

The bartender on the receiving end of this drink order was my friend and beachouse-mate, Don.

at the shore, some would crab all day, some would find local tomatoes and pasta, and then prepare a crabs and spaghetti dinner back at the family boarding home they rented for the week. my uncle joe, the one who acquired the family crest, loved fishing and crabbing at grassy sound. that was his spot.

Credit: Thank you to Jeff Q. for sharing.

“Actually, part of me hated taking a job that way. Being dishonest. I just wanted to work.” from a Phone call with Michael Q. on 5/18/22

Credit: Thank you to Mike Q. for taking the time to talk.

1966 Cousin Michael struggled landing a job in Wildwood, NJ.

No one would hire him.

He was 15. there were laws.

So, he changed a “1” to a “0” on his birth certificate.

for one of my summer jobs in wildwood (1987-1989), i ran a different boardwalk game each night on morey’s pier. when it rained, we weren’t allowed to close or go home. people tend to flock to the boardwalk after a good rain. those nights waiting through storms were the worst. it happened so often i quit. i had plenty of other beach jobs.

Working on the boardwalk, I learned a lot about the games.

Like how to beat them. for example, even the slightest hairline crack in a ring deadens it. a cracked ring doesn’t bounce off of the glass jugs. you still had to toss it accurately, but if you did, it would most likely stay on the bottle neck for a win. i’d slip the cracked rings to friends who’d stop by to play.

As a barback at The Playpen, I lugged ice and cases of beer.

I also got to hear the house band, fury, again and again and again and again...and again and again and again. they were like Bon Jovi mated with david Bowie. they were really good, but we heard them so often it got to the point where our ears and brains didn’t hear them at all anymore.

*one of their covers: Strength, by The Alarm is forever seared into my hippocampus.

One time, we went to the beach as a family and rented a small boat to go crabbing in the bay. when we were returning the boat, we had a little accident.

I collected the money for bozo.

not the happy clown from t.v.

the brutal, crass boardwalk clown.

the bozo i worked with on Morey’s Pier was as much of a jackass out of character as he was in character. actually, he reminded me a bit of comedian andy kaufman in that regard. i was never really certain what was him and what was the character Angry bozo. people would try to physically assault bozo on a nightly basis, which made me a bouncer in addition to money collector.

And the thing is, I could not laugh at the people Bozo insulted...because they saw me as an extension of bozo and would want to punch me.

the beach can inspire a wide range of bad decisions.

at the end of freshman year at temple, I was excited to work in wildwood for the summer, but i was only 19 and the legal drinking age was 21.

a temple friend helped.

this fake i.d. worked all summer but it peeled apart like an onion.

so I devised a calculated risk. jersey still used photo and non-photo driver’s licenses.

more important, temple university made college I.D.s with a student’s face, signature and social security number.

a 21 year old friend let me get a temple ID with his info and my face.

I walked into the NJ state police with that I.D. and his non-photo license.

I was in and out in 10 minutes.

I had an all-access pass into any bar.

when i turned 21, i cut the fake i.d. into pieces.

Credit: Wildwood Historical Society The 7 Seas Cafe was just one of several Wildwood business that I have heard repeated in family stories. It was, for some Quattrones, a “go-to” place to meet up for sandwiches and cold drinks.

haunted houses always frightened me from a distance. sure, once inside i’d jump and scream, but that terror was temporary. You could walk on. the monster who leapt out from a dark corner would retreat back to the shadows. but the way these buildings would stare at me from a distance. in plain view. their silhouettes... just fired my imagination. and i’d feel that crackling energy lurking in its dark shadows... and that’s the kind of terror that sticks to me.

I was young when this place existed. but the best part, for me, wasn’t the collection of gory, disembowled wax figures inside, but the outside. the outside of the manor was alive with thunder and lightning and the sound of a steady and heavy rain was so realistic I’d look up searching for a storm that wasn’t there. i still love how atmospheric a haunted house could be...

Looking through photographs of family at the shore, my grandfather cups a Winston in quite a few.

I asked my mom about one of the photographs.

“I used to take his cigarettes out of the pack, one at a time, and poke holes in them with a toothpick to get him to stop smoking.

Oh yes, he was very mad!”

Credit: Thank you to mom for helping me with this one.

My oncologist called

could be anything

we’ll do another pet

if they are still there

we’re jumping ahead

two new spots lit up

on my july pet scan

maybe not cancer

you’re in the middle of treatment

or ultrasound

biopsy

could be nothing

on your neck

with a needle

So, what questions do you have?

My great-grandparents enjoying the beaches of Wildwood, NJ.

Brian Kelley is a middle school teacher and now a cartoonist. He is the author of the autobiographical comics series “Big Chooch Comics” and his work has most appeared online at “Hobart: another literary journal” and more recently at the website Graphic Medicine (graphicmedicine.org).

He lives in Chester County, Pennsylvania with his wife Karla and a menagerie of dogs and cats.