20170220 (horse)

Couldn't find a good image for "horsedrawn junk wagon" so I'm settling for
"priest and nun, 1950s."

“The most expensive thing you

Will ever do is sign your name, 

So you might as well learn how

To do it right,” Sister Camilla

Said, on practically my first day

Of grade one at Our Lady of 

Czestochowa Elementary 

School one drear September 

Day of 1949. To her knowledge

The good second generation

American Catholics of our

Little Polish enclave did not

Divorce so she couldn’t conceive

How saying “I do” would be 

More expensive than signing for

A mortgage. Mortgage? We had

No idea what she meant. Nor 

Had we any foreknowledge 

About the outcomes of our

Marital gambles. At that time

In our childhoods there were

Only four figures having roles

In our lives: Mom, Dad, the Sister

Who was our teacher at school,

And the “paper-ex” man, the 

Aged itinerant Jew who drove a 

Horse and wagon with large 

Wooden wheels, clickety-clacking

Down our brick street monthly

In good times and bad. What he

Was calling out was, “Paper, 

Rags,” but between the repetition

And his thick accent it came 

Out “paperegs,” or some phonetic

Variant. The allure for youngsters

Was the horse, of course, rather

Unkempt but shiny in some parts

Not covered by his specially

Devised raincoat for winter trips,

Or obscured by leather panels

Hanging off his harness in the 

Summers. He was so unlike the

Steeds of early television serials,

Hopalong Cassidy’s Topper or

Lone Ranger’s Silver, his face

Bore a look of long reservation

To his plight. Often, because of 

His blinders, he couldn’t see 

Us even when the driver gave 

Us some oats or carrot pieces to

Offer him while our moms 

Brought old clothes and bundled

Newspapers to the street for him

To throw on the wagon. Actually

The fourth figure was the horse

Not the man. Other than these

Were the various neighbors,

Aunts, uncles, milkman, postman

Who fleshed out supernumeraries

Of my early school age. However 

Central a figure he became later, 

In my early life, the priest was 

Only a vaguely tinted blur 

(Before they diagnosed my

Extreme myopia) moving about

The front of the church early 

Sunday mornings. I wish in

Many ways things would have

Stayed that way.

c. 2017, J.S.Manista