Family Facts, "My God Parents"

My uncle A. was a roofer when I was small. I would occasionally see
him working in the neighberhood pulling up buckets of hot tar and rolls
of heavy tar paper. I'd wave. He was a perfectionist. I'm sure he
mucked with pride.

His helpers would yell at us kids to keep away from the rumbling, hot
kettle. I'll never forget the smell of tar. The tar sat in the back of
his truck in paper wrapped cylinders. The men would roll it off the
truck hoping in would crack when it hit the ground. The break was
glassy black; I was fascinated with the effect. The helper would
gingerly slide small chunks into the kettle at arms length. My aunt
always complained about the tar in her husband's clothing.
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Most families owned one car like us; dad would sometimes use it to
travel to "Robert Hall" at 69th street. He was their tailor. He wasn't
home when I had the accident.

Mom was in the kitchen and my brother and I were agruing, as usual. My
older sister, annoyed with the noise, shut the french door that
seperated the living room from the enclosed porch. I was standing in
the doorway. The door jam closed on the little finger of my left hand.
I screamed and opened the door.

In no time my pitch covered uncle was there with his truck. Mom held my
hand and we raced the the hospital. Traffic was backed up by "Holy
Cross Cemetary" and police car lights were flashing. My uncle drove the
double center line between both sides of the traffic. The police
stopped in front of him, saw the blood, and let him through.

I was about 5 years old. I got 6 stitches; I still have the scar.