THE HILL IN PROVIDENCE AMARCORD

From the pen of a man, born and raised on Federal Hill in Providence.

Buongiorno amici:

I am continuing the feature of “Little Italy” across this great land to spotlight the enormous adjustments and obstacles endured by those who crossed the ocean and their relatives. About a year ago, I came across the writings below, shared by a resident of Federal Hill. I never met Mr. Mottola, and since he is no longer with us, paying tribute to him in my newsletter seems morally perfect.

Vincent writes:

Just a little over a year ago, my niece was kind enough to send me a copy of the published edition of Federal Hill, with pictures depicting some of the places of yesteryear. I was delighted to have received the copy, and I dare say, it brought back many fond memories. Yet, it lacked so much of the places and periods of importance in the history of “The Hill, “as it was affectionately called when I lived there as a boy. Federal Hill was not just a suburb of Providence; and it was "Little Italy"...a haven for a majority of immigrant Italians, mostly from the southern part of Italy. My parents were members of this select group, helping The Hill become an engaged and vibrant community. They experienced the aftermath of World War I, which brought hardship to many, the “Great Depression” of the thirties, and the difficulty of learning another language. There were also petty gangsters to contend with. The devastation of World War II brought sorrow to many that had lost sons, relatives, and friends. It was also a war that broke family ties in their native Italy. Yet, despite these trials and tribulations, these resourceful masses (who came in droves from a foreign country they once called home) eked out a budding neighborhood, lending their trades and talents to this plot of land they affectionately called "The Hill" their new adopted homeland. Their determination, blessed with their raw and experienced talent, helped America become the nation it is today.

Let me try to tell you about The Hill I knew through the eyes and ears of a youngster growing up in this particular era.... a bit of nostalgia if you will. I was born on February 26, 1930, in the middle of the “Great Depression.” My family and I lived on Diamond Street, which was not too far from The Hill. Like most poverty-stricken families of that period, my parents couldn't afford the luxury of a hospital, so my birth took place at home. I was the last child born to parents who already were faced with the welfare of five other children, two boys, and three girls, but, then, most families of those days were large in number as it seemed to fit the pattern of mentality that existed during that period; it was believed that unity in numbers brought strength to the family. Perhaps their concept of having a large family had a good point, and I might add it also helped feed and maintain the household when more bodies joined the workforce!

My father brought his boyhood trade with him from Italy.... he was a barber. Those skills earned him some spending money; cutting the hair of some of those fellow passengers bound for America.... this was the start of his industrious career. At the time of my entrance into this “New World,“ my parents happened to own the three-tenement house we were living in, but our home was soon lost for a lack of mortgage payments. Relatives, who could ill afford to contribute rent money, occupied two of the flats, as work was unavailable to earn any kind of income in those days of the “Great Depression.” Our move to The Hill was inevitable! Strange as it may seem, my first recollection of my surroundings, family, relatives, and friends, occurred when I was about three years old. We were living in a rented flat on Penn Street that still had gas fixtures coming out of the walls in every room so as to emit light. I can't actually say whether we depended on these fixtures for light or not, but I vividly recall them being present.

My father was working at his trade as a barber, and the older siblings who were not attending school worked at either the Providence Base Works, located at the opposite end of the city on Atwells Avenue towards Onyville and the Providence Lumber Company situated on Harrison Street. One or two may have been employed at Coro & Rosenberg’s, the largest producers of costume jewelry of its time. In those days, “Coro's” was a God sent to many because they were one of the few companies that were hiring people during those difficult times.

Just about every sibling of our family had worked at this costume jewelry manufacturing company at one time or another, including myself! I'm not sure what the reason was for not staying on Penn Street. I seem to think that the house was not large enough to house eight people. In any event, I do recall leaving there midway through 1933, moving to the Hill itself and to the corner house above the grocery/butcher store on Atwells Avenue and Piedmont Street. We lived right next door to the Federal Hill House, home of Boy Scout Troop 99, and a place for other youthful activities. In later years, I spent some of my time at the FHH, as it was sometimes called, learning to box and spar in the gym on the second floor, under the tutelage of my brother-in-law. Our rented flat was located in a busy section of the Hill, which featured such places as Smith's Tavern; this place was a landmark in its day, being well known for its good Italian food and cheer!

{Image Attribution courtesy via Vincent B. Mottola's Facebook page}

My brother-in-law was also employed at Smith’s Tavern as a bartender and was deemed “The master of mixed drinks in all of New England” by his fellow bartenders within the state. A loan company was across the alley from Smith’s on the same side of Atwells Avenue. There was also the Empire Furniture store, DiPippo's Music Store, and a host of other entities that lined both sides of Atwells Avenue. To a four-year-old, this was a bustling beehive.... a real metropolis!

I liked the move to our new house location because of the many activities that took place on busy Atwells Avenue. Our house had a porch that faced the Federal Hill House. I rather enjoyed being able to hear the hustle and bustle of the kids participating in some of the activities that went on at the FHH from that porch.

Piedmont Street itself, was mostly a nice and quiet residential street, and a good place for me to ride my red tricycle, one of the few playthings I recall ever owning, although, to this day I can't recall where it came from. The flat we lived in was roomy enough for three girls to occupy one bedroom, three boys together in a second bedroom, and my parents in the third bedroom. It also included a bathroom, kitchen, and dining room that was attached to the living room, which faced the colorful activities of Atwells Avenue. Viewing the daily events that occurred from the widow of our living room was exciting, to say the least!

It wasn't long after we had moved into the flat on Piedmont Street that I recall standing against the rail of the porch, leaning over to see the kids enjoying themselves through the windows of FHH, which faced the porch side of our house. I suddenly turned to reenter the doorway to the house when I fearfully encountered a monstrous rat in front of the door leading into the house; he stood there staring at me, as I froze in my tracks. I let out a death-curdling scream, which surprised me and the cat-sized rodent, causing the creature to scramble as fast as its legs would allow. I ran into the arms of my mother, who came racing through that doorway, wondering what had happened. Unfortunately, the place was infested with rats. The creepy rodents lived behind the plaster walls of our bedroom at night; we were fearful they might break through any minute.

Shortly after that, we had another hair-raising episode; this was “the straw that broke the camel's back“... (as the saying goes)...causing my parents to make yet another move. This incident involved a gas and ammonia leak that had the families living in the house scrambling to safety. I recall a big Irish Fireman picking me up, wrapping me in a blanket, and carrying me down the stairs, and out of the house... I was still in my undershorts, as pajamas were rare back in those days! I mentioned that the Fireman was of Irish descent because most Firemen and Policemen in those days were of Irish origin; some still had the pleasant, musical brogue of the "motherland" which to this day, I thoroughly enjoy hearing and quite often imitate with great pleasure for Irish friends.
This last incident, culminated by the nightly rat brigade, saw our family move further down toward the city.... a whole three blocks, and to the third floor flat of 9 America Street, which was situated behind the fire station on Atwells Avenue, known as "The Barn" back in those days. The building that housed the firehouse and the "Comfort Station" situated at the rear, was located on the corner of Atwells Avenue and America Street.

The Comfort Station accommodated men only, if I'm not mistaken, and it was also a place for an individual to shower. Above the Comfort Station was the headquarters of the Roco Bagalia, (not sure of the spelling), American Legion Post. The “Post” was to become a meeting place for me when, as a boy scout, I volunteered as a “messenger” for the air raid wardens during World War II. This move to America Street was to be another great adventure… a memorable beginning of my life that will forever be embedded in my storage of memories. I was to meet the owners of this new abode, and their brood of eight boys and five girls. The three younger boys were to become my best friends for the next nine years.

From our third-floor apartment porch, you could see the intersection of Atwells Avenue and Acorn Street. Directly across the street from our flat, was the rear entrance of a bakery, which became a beeline for my two-for-five cent morning breakfast fare. I can still taste those doughnuts I savored; fond memories of just the way I liked them, and I was able to buy them before they got filled with jelly… still warm from the oven! Just before approaching the front side of the bakery store, around the corner of America St. and onto Atwells Ave., stood a Haberdashery, the bakery shop, (both names slip my mind).

Frank's Barber Shop was also located next to the bakery and it was where my father was employed at that particular time. Across the street from the bakery, at the corner of Acorn St. and Atwells Ave., was Vincent's clothing store at that time, and it may still remain there for all I know. I was well familiar with this location because one of the suites above Vincent's was where the family dentist had her "butcher extraction" chair. This is where my sister had the wrong tooth pulled from her mouth... need I say more?

If you think I was fascinated by watching the activities of the FHH, you can imagine how intrigued I really became watching the activities through the windows of Gussippi Verdi's Pool Emporium located above the Haberdashery on the corner of Atwells Avenue and America Street, from our third-floor porch. We kids in the neighborhood soon nicknamed the place, “Joe Green's Pool Room”... the English version of Giuseppe Verdi‘s Pool Emporium.

As thirteen-year-olds, my friends and I were to spend some of our playtimes at the pool hall during the war, when the majority of "older guys" were serving in Uncle Sam's Armed Forces, and the pool hall needed to enhance its business. Prior to those years, thirteen-year-olds weren't allowed within ten feet of the stairway that led up to the pool hall. Don't get me wrong.... this was not a place for hoodlums; one had to maintain strict discipline... no smoking, no booze allowed and no profanity was to be heard... at least not within hearing range of the owner. The place had some of the best pool tables in all of New England, and at one time, I got to see the great “Willie H.” perform in an exhibition match.

It was also the place where I learned to "bank shots,” master the art of the cue ball’s gravity and do trick shots, yet, not allowed to "hustle" anyone! Thank God my parents never knew I frequented the hall! One could “shoot pool” for five cents, and of course, like all inflated prices during the war, the price for a game of pool rose to ten cents a game. Believe it or not, Joe Green's Pool Room was a real honest-to-goodness landmark during that period. Looking from that same porch of 9 America St., one could see the America St. Grade School, where I started first grade. Prior to that, I attended kindergarten at Atwells Ave. The school is located somewhere around Dean Street on Atwells Avenue. I can't say that living practically across from the America St. School was a great advantage for me; I happened to be late most mornings.

Although I must admit, I loved the school and the dedicated teachers. This landmark was to become a great hangout for us kids fortunate to have lived nearby. To begin with, the school had a slanted concrete ledge around the brick wall of the entire school, which became the center of attraction for those of us who tried “scaling” and walking the ledge completely around the building... not all of us made it, no matter how often one tried. Second, the school had a handball court... well, sort of a homemade court at the rear of the building, which became the arena for many battling contests in which you either won with pride or lost tearfully! Fortunately for me, being smaller than most of my fellow playmates, I was able to get to those missile-like balls that came ricocheting off the wall, just barely off the ground, with much greater ease than the taller boys. As a result of this innate ability to hit low balls, I was usually picked first to become someone’s partner in “doubles tournaments.”

The front school steps were also the congregating place where you either used the steps to play a game of throwing a tennis ball or a hard rubber ball against the steps without dropping the ball. The steps were also used as a place where we ate two-for-five cent crabs, discarding the crab shells on the school steps, which naturally attracted flies and stunk up the place. Of course, the latter made the old school janitor, (our tormentor and natural enemy back then), furious. He had to get out the hose and scrub down the steps on Saturday morning while cursing us in his native Italian language. You might say "crabbing" the steps were our way of seeking revenge against the janitor, who wouldn't allow us to scale the brick wall around the school.

We played “kick the can;” hide-go-seek and “wild horse jump the fence” ... a back-breaking game at the front of the school! Later, during the war, the janitor became our friend and even allowed us, kids, to use the school shower on Saturday mornings. I think he mellowed because so many young men he once knew were losing their lives in both the Pacific and European wars. Perhaps he feared the last of us young men might also end up coming home in a body bag... the thoughts of many adults back then. There were playgrounds located on both sides of the school where we often played touch football. We always chose the playground that had its fence facing the Africa Street School, which was located around the corner from America St. on Africa Street. Africa Street School was an old wooden building where the older adult Italians went to learn to read, write and speak English a couple of evenings during the week.

Africa Street School was also a place for us first-generation American-born Italian kids to go to learn to read, write and speak Italian so we could converse properly with our Italian-born parents.

Actually, the transition of moving students from the Africa Street School to the America St. School was almost completed by the time I started first grade. This was another landmark in the history of The Hill. Africa St. School was also the place where I learned to play softball at the rear of the building. Home runs were always hit over the fence toward the America St. School side where we often played tag football.

  This was a game where a kid took his father's best shovel handle, or sidewalk broom handle, usually made of the finest hickory wood, and cut it to the length of a baseball bat. You then used the new thin bat to hit two to three-inch cut pieces from the same hickory handle. It's a wonder any of us didn't get our hides tanned by our fathers for ruining these hickory brooms and shovels. This is how we learned to "sharpen and hone" the eye while trying to hit fast or curve balls, especially when the projectile thrown at you was a mere piece of two inches of hickory wood. When we later played with real balls and real baseball bats, almost everyone who ever learned how to bat playing "stick ball,” became a darn good hitter.

We put our skills to practical use when we formed league teams...mostly softball in the summers of 1940 and 1941, playing teams that came from Mt. Pleasant, Olneyville, and other parts of the city. The majority of our team members came from America St., Federal St., Africa St., Sutton St., Kenyon St., and Atwells Ave.

by Vincent B. Mottola

Vincent B. Mottola, (85) born to Benedetto and Antonetta (Altamura) Mottola in Providence, Rhode Island, February 26, 1930, died on November 1, 2015. Vince was the youngest of six children, his mother having passed away when he was 13 years old. A proud Navy man, Vince played in the Navy band to kings and queens throughout the Mediterranean. He went on to study music at Northwestern University and soon after met the love of his life, Mary Jane Vonderhaar, to whom he had been married for 54 years. Vince’s passion for music led him to a career in the music field where he put his talent as a salesman to good use. Vince and Mary Jane moved to Crystal Lake, Illinois, and raised three children, Lynn (Rockwell), Mark, and Lisa (Mottola Hudon), proudly building his own home and living most contentedly on Oakwood Drive for 51 years. Vince was a devoted member of St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church, where he participated in the Knights of Columbus and sang in the church choir for over 30 years. Since his early days as a child, sneaking into Yankee Stadium through a hole in the left-field fence, he had enjoyed the sport of baseball, proudly organizing his own Crystal Lake team, Garbe’s Rangers. In later years, Vince discovered the joy of writing poetry, prose, and children’s books he spent hours on the endeavor. However, what Vince would most like to be remembered for was his pride and undying love for his family. He lived his life with Italian vigor vibrant and enthusiastic, yet loving and soft-hearted to the core. Vince is survived by his loving wife of 54 years, Mary Jane, and his children: Lynn (David) and their children: Amanda, Chad, and Luke of Flower Mound, TX; Mark (Ellen) and their children: Riley and Anna of Ridgefield, WA; and Lisa (Rick) and their children: Jessica, Shelby, and River of Crystal Lake, IL. Visitation will be Thursday, November 5th, from 4-8 pm at Davenport Family Funeral Home in Crystal Lake, IL, and a celebration mass will be held on Friday, November 6th, at 11:00 am at St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church in Crystal Lake, IL.

Thanks for reading. Eat safe! Ciao Chef W

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