The St. Joseph Home for Boys
The 2nd Short Story
Childhood Interrupted
"Childhood Interrupted"
ANDY JUNIOR'S CHILDHOOD STORIES
The St. Joseph Home for Boys
My 2nd Short Story
I hope you've had a chance to read my FIRST Short Story with the "INTRODUCTION" to my childhood and orphanage experiences.
Hello, everybody. Allow little Andy Junior to share his emotional experiences and historical perspectives from the eyes and heart of a young boy, during his stay in an orphanage and the years that followed.
It will be my pleasure to share with you several short stories which compile an extensive look at Andy Junior's life during the late 1950s, 1960s, 1970s and beyond. By reading these true stories from the eyes of a young child, growing to be a young man, you will relive some of the experiences many witnessed several decades ago.
The "St. Joseph Home for Boys" stood on the northwest corner of Blackstone St. and Van Buren St. in Jackson, Michigan for more than 50 years. The Felician Sisters out of Livonia, Michigan, purchased the mansion from a local banker in the early 1900s and cared for up to 50 boys in the orphanage between the early 1910s and late 1960s, before the building was unfortunately torn down.
In this short story, told from the eyes of a very young boy, you will discover the time when Andy Junior's fairly fun-filled childhood came to a screeching halt, and he learned that his life would be changed forevermore.
"Childhood Interrupted"
The days were getting colder while the snow piled higher all around our tiny house during our winter break from school at the turn of the new year. More than a week passed before I finally returned to kindergarten in 1960.
As it turned out, there was lots of snow at Warner Elementary as well. During recess, we rolled the cold, wet, white stuff into big balls and made several different snowmen.
When we finished our masterpieces, we used them for shields during our snowball fights. My hands were beet red and stinging from the cold, but that didn’t stop me.
I had so much fun during my morning classes. I hated when the teacher rang the bell to let us know it was time to hop on the bus. That meant I’d be heading home where things weren’t getting any better.
My mom and dad argued loud and long, whenever he returned from work. The yelling usually ended with my dad storming outside — slamming the door behind him.
My stomach felt worse when my parents fought. Fortunately, it didn’t burn as much after drinking the newer stuff our mom bought. It was still thick and gooey, but pink and tasted way better. It helped quite a bit, but the pain never totally went away.
For a long time, each day repeated the cycle: have fun at school, wait until our dad got home for an argument to start, drink the pink gunk, then have a tough time sleeping. By now, I was sure this was NOT normal.
Around lunchtime, after a wonderful time at class, the big yellow bus with a bird painted on each side dropped us off at our driveways. I couldn’t wait to tell Mama about the new fairy tale the teacher read to us that day. I galloped through the thick snow like a wild stallion and swung open the door.
I stopped in my tracks. Something’s wrong.
Mama’s eyes were red and swollen again, and she held a gray suitcase in each hand with Little Brother and Baby Sister at her side. “We’re leaving, Junior. If you’ve got to go to the bathroom, do it now and get in the car. We’ll be leaving shortly.
I couldn’t believe my ears. “But, Mama, I….”
“No buts! We’re leaving! Do your business and get in the station wagon.”
**********
PAUSE IN THE STORY for a comment about life back in those days:
Things were quite different during the first half of the 1900s. I'm sure my parents both went through a lot of turmoil about what to do with us kids. When our parents decided to divorce in 1960, our mom tried her best to care for us on her own, but it was very difficult for women to find decent jobs in those days that paid enough to properly take care of 3 very young children (sister 2, brother 4 and me 5). There were no daycare centers where parents could drop off kids before work and picked them up at the end of the day. Those types of childcare facilities came many years later.
After a few months, our mom finally had to give up custody to our dad who worked quite a bit of overtime to survive. Babcia (Polish for grandma), who was approaching her 70s, agreed to take care of our sister, but she could not handle all 3 of us little kids.
**********
BACK TO THE STORY after our mom returned us to Tata (Polish for dad), and they were about to share their decision with us kids:
Once we arrived at our old Quonset home in the middle of the afternoon, us kids were told to sit at the kitchen table. Our dad had that grumpy look about him while Mama appeared sad.
She placed a plate of oatmeal and raisin cookies in the center of the table and poured milk in each of our tin cups. “Here you go. Eat up while Tata and I tell you something. It’s very important, so listen good.”
My eyes must have shifted back and forth a dozen times, trying to figure out what was happening, but nothing made sense. This can’t be good, or they’d be smiling.
Breaking one of the cookies in two, I dipped it in my milk and started humming like I usually did while eating. I thought it might cheer things up a bit. Boy, was I wrong.
Tata gave me a stare that could have killed a raccoon in its tracks. I shut up immediately and went about finishing my treat. I didn’t dare look at my dad again out of fear I might end up being that raccoon.
When Mama sat down, she nodded at Tata. “You wanna do the talkin’?”
“Yep,” was all he said, and he still looked awfully grumpy. His one-word response was a dead giveaway that whatever he was about to tell us wouldn’t be pleasant.
He glanced around the table at each of us. “The reason you’re here is your mama and I have come to a decision that affects all of us. You’re probably not going to like it.”
I didn’t want to hear another word. I considered cupping my hands over my ears, but I was a scaredy-cat. I simply cradled my chin with both hands and waited for whatever was coming.
After a long pause, Tata sighed. “Your Mama and I are getting a divorce. She will be living somewhere else, and you kids will be living here with me on weekends.”
Not exactly sure what he said, but certain it wasn’t good, I hadn’t a clue how to react. All I knew for sure is that I was having trouble breathing.
We had such a fun time with Mama the past couple of weeks, then all of a sudden, this. What does he mean? Mama will be living somewhere else?
Desperately sucking air, I glanced at my mom. Tears streamed down her cheeks. With all this going on, Little Brother kept staring at me with a confused look.
Gasping for more air, I whirled toward my dad. Though I tried with all my might, words refused to come out of my mouth.
Jumbled questions flooded my head as tears spilled down my face. Weekends? What about all the other days?
Mama passed out tissues while Tata seemed to ignore us and kept on talking. “Your sister is going to stay with Babcia on the days I have to work, and you boys…,”
At this point, my mind went blank. I couldn’t hear or say a thing and began to think I was dying.
Hoping this was all some stupid dream, I closed my eyes. Then, I heard my dad say, “Orphanage.”
My eyes shot wide open. What does that mean?
Sniffling, I blew my nose and stared at the table while mumbling, “I don’t understand. What do you mean by orfin…,” even I was surprised to hear my own voice as I took a deep breath, “…or whatever you said?”
Mama bawled as I lifted my head and looked at Tata. “What is that place you said?”
“It’s simple. You and your brother are going to stay with the nuns at the St. Joseph Home for Boys.”
I still had no earthly idea what he meant. My stomach burned as I kept gasping for air. Everybody but Tata was bawling louder with each passing second.
Quick as a wink, I silently prayed it would all go away. I waited for a second, but when I didn’t snap out of the horrific nightmare, I cried my eyes out as one particular question kept gnawing at my gut. Why is this happening to us?
*******
That's it for now!
So you don't get the wrong impression, when I had the opportunity to reflect back on my childhood, years after I had "grown up," I was very thankful for the Felician Sisters' care and the time I spent in the orphanage. Not all of the lads in care of the nuns at the St. Joseph Home for Boys were orphans. Some, like my brother and I, were placed there as the only available means of a childcare center back in those days. The difference between then and now, when parents pick up kids at the end of each day, was that our dad only picked us up on weekends, if he didn't have to work overtime.
I hope you enjoyed this little peek into my life back in the late 1950s and early 1960s. In my next post, where I'll describe being dropped off at the "dungeon," you'll get a peek inside the walls of the huge orphanage in Jackson, Michigan that many people walked past while wondering what went on inside those large doors. While these first few posts will be quite sad in nature, my later posts will share a lot of humorous adventures in the life of Andy Junior, so watch for those next stories.
Thank you so much for your support!
Andy Skrzynski
Note: The Felician Sisters provided the orphanage photographs and gave me permission to share them within "Andy and the St. Joseph Home for Boys" and social media outlets, including my website.
ANDY JUNIOR'S CHILDHOOD STORIES
The St. Joseph Home for Boys
My 2nd Short Story
I hope you've had a chance to read my FIRST Short Story with the "INTRODUCTION" to my childhood and orphanage experiences.
Hello, everybody. Allow little Andy Junior to share his emotional experiences and historical perspectives from the eyes and heart of a young boy, during his stay in an orphanage and the years that followed.
It will be my pleasure to share with you several short stories which compile an extensive look at Andy Junior's life during the late 1950s, 1960s, 1970s and beyond. By reading these true stories from the eyes of a young child, growing to be a young man, you will relive some of the experiences many witnessed several decades ago.
The "St. Joseph Home for Boys" stood on the northwest corner of Blackstone St. and Van Buren St. in Jackson, Michigan for more than 50 years. The Felician Sisters out of Livonia, Michigan, purchased the mansion from a local banker in the early 1900s and cared for up to 50 boys in the orphanage between the early 1910s and late 1960s, before the building was unfortunately torn down.
In this short story, told from the eyes of a very young boy, you will discover the time when Andy Junior's fairly fun-filled childhood came to a screeching halt, and he learned that his life would be changed forevermore.
"Childhood Interrupted"
The days were getting colder while the snow piled higher all around our tiny house during our winter break from school at the turn of the new year. More than a week passed before I finally returned to kindergarten in 1960.
As it turned out, there was lots of snow at Warner Elementary as well. During recess, we rolled the cold, wet, white stuff into big balls and made several different snowmen.
When we finished our masterpieces, we used them for shields during our snowball fights. My hands were beet red and stinging from the cold, but that didn’t stop me.
I had so much fun during my morning classes. I hated when the teacher rang the bell to let us know it was time to hop on the bus. That meant I’d be heading home where things weren’t getting any better.
My mom and dad argued loud and long, whenever he returned from work. The yelling usually ended with my dad storming outside — slamming the door behind him.
My stomach felt worse when my parents fought. Fortunately, it didn’t burn as much after drinking the newer stuff our mom bought. It was still thick and gooey, but pink and tasted way better. It helped quite a bit, but the pain never totally went away.
For a long time, each day repeated the cycle: have fun at school, wait until our dad got home for an argument to start, drink the pink gunk, then have a tough time sleeping. By now, I was sure this was NOT normal.
Around lunchtime, after a wonderful time at class, the big yellow bus with a bird painted on each side dropped us off at our driveways. I couldn’t wait to tell Mama about the new fairy tale the teacher read to us that day. I galloped through the thick snow like a wild stallion and swung open the door.
I stopped in my tracks. Something’s wrong.
Mama’s eyes were red and swollen again, and she held a gray suitcase in each hand with Little Brother and Baby Sister at her side. “We’re leaving, Junior. If you’ve got to go to the bathroom, do it now and get in the car. We’ll be leaving shortly.
I couldn’t believe my ears. “But, Mama, I….”
“No buts! We’re leaving! Do your business and get in the station wagon.”
**********
PAUSE IN THE STORY for a comment about life back in those days:
Things were quite different during the first half of the 1900s. I'm sure my parents both went through a lot of turmoil about what to do with us kids. When our parents decided to divorce in 1960, our mom tried her best to care for us on her own, but it was very difficult for women to find decent jobs in those days that paid enough to properly take care of 3 very young children (sister 2, brother 4 and me 5). There were no daycare centers where parents could drop off kids before work and picked them up at the end of the day. Those types of childcare facilities came many years later.
After a few months, our mom finally had to give up custody to our dad who worked quite a bit of overtime to survive. Babcia (Polish for grandma), who was approaching her 70s, agreed to take care of our sister, but she could not handle all 3 of us little kids.
**********
BACK TO THE STORY after our mom returned us to Tata (Polish for dad), and they were about to share their decision with us kids:
Once we arrived at our old Quonset home in the middle of the afternoon, us kids were told to sit at the kitchen table. Our dad had that grumpy look about him while Mama appeared sad.
She placed a plate of oatmeal and raisin cookies in the center of the table and poured milk in each of our tin cups. “Here you go. Eat up while Tata and I tell you something. It’s very important, so listen good.”
My eyes must have shifted back and forth a dozen times, trying to figure out what was happening, but nothing made sense. This can’t be good, or they’d be smiling.
Breaking one of the cookies in two, I dipped it in my milk and started humming like I usually did while eating. I thought it might cheer things up a bit. Boy, was I wrong.
Tata gave me a stare that could have killed a raccoon in its tracks. I shut up immediately and went about finishing my treat. I didn’t dare look at my dad again out of fear I might end up being that raccoon.
When Mama sat down, she nodded at Tata. “You wanna do the talkin’?”
“Yep,” was all he said, and he still looked awfully grumpy. His one-word response was a dead giveaway that whatever he was about to tell us wouldn’t be pleasant.
He glanced around the table at each of us. “The reason you’re here is your mama and I have come to a decision that affects all of us. You’re probably not going to like it.”
I didn’t want to hear another word. I considered cupping my hands over my ears, but I was a scaredy-cat. I simply cradled my chin with both hands and waited for whatever was coming.
After a long pause, Tata sighed. “Your Mama and I are getting a divorce. She will be living somewhere else, and you kids will be living here with me on weekends.”
Not exactly sure what he said, but certain it wasn’t good, I hadn’t a clue how to react. All I knew for sure is that I was having trouble breathing.
We had such a fun time with Mama the past couple of weeks, then all of a sudden, this. What does he mean? Mama will be living somewhere else?
Desperately sucking air, I glanced at my mom. Tears streamed down her cheeks. With all this going on, Little Brother kept staring at me with a confused look.
Gasping for more air, I whirled toward my dad. Though I tried with all my might, words refused to come out of my mouth.
Jumbled questions flooded my head as tears spilled down my face. Weekends? What about all the other days?
Mama passed out tissues while Tata seemed to ignore us and kept on talking. “Your sister is going to stay with Babcia on the days I have to work, and you boys…,”
At this point, my mind went blank. I couldn’t hear or say a thing and began to think I was dying.
Hoping this was all some stupid dream, I closed my eyes. Then, I heard my dad say, “Orphanage.”
My eyes shot wide open. What does that mean?
Sniffling, I blew my nose and stared at the table while mumbling, “I don’t understand. What do you mean by orfin…,” even I was surprised to hear my own voice as I took a deep breath, “…or whatever you said?”
Mama bawled as I lifted my head and looked at Tata. “What is that place you said?”
“It’s simple. You and your brother are going to stay with the nuns at the St. Joseph Home for Boys.”
I still had no earthly idea what he meant. My stomach burned as I kept gasping for air. Everybody but Tata was bawling louder with each passing second.
Quick as a wink, I silently prayed it would all go away. I waited for a second, but when I didn’t snap out of the horrific nightmare, I cried my eyes out as one particular question kept gnawing at my gut. Why is this happening to us?
*******
That's it for now!
So you don't get the wrong impression, when I had the opportunity to reflect back on my childhood, years after I had "grown up," I was very thankful for the Felician Sisters' care and the time I spent in the orphanage. Not all of the lads in care of the nuns at the St. Joseph Home for Boys were orphans. Some, like my brother and I, were placed there as the only available means of a childcare center back in those days. The difference between then and now, when parents pick up kids at the end of each day, was that our dad only picked us up on weekends, if he didn't have to work overtime.
I hope you enjoyed this little peek into my life back in the late 1950s and early 1960s. In my next post, where I'll describe being dropped off at the "dungeon," you'll get a peek inside the walls of the huge orphanage in Jackson, Michigan that many people walked past while wondering what went on inside those large doors. While these first few posts will be quite sad in nature, my later posts will share a lot of humorous adventures in the life of Andy Junior, so watch for those next stories.
Thank you so much for your support!
Andy Skrzynski
Note: The Felician Sisters provided the orphanage photographs and gave me permission to share them within "Andy and the St. Joseph Home for Boys" and social media outlets, including my website.
The St. Joseph Home for Boys orphanage, which housed up to 50 boys as a time, stood on 11 acres at the northwest corner where Blackstone St. and Van Buren St. intersected in Jackson, Michigan.
My parents, Lula and Andy Skrzynski, were dressed up in the kitchen of their Quonset home to celebrate their first marriage anniversary in 1952. They would later be known as Mama and Tata (Polish for dad) while raising us kids.
Mama, with Andy and Little Brother, in front of the family's Jeep Willys Wagon in July of 1956.
Mama, holding my baby sister while standing next to me with my hand to my chin, and my little brother, standing next to my dog, Nicky, given to me as a gift on my first birthday. This picture was taken in 1959, around the time our mom decided to leave home. Almost a year later, after deciding to get a divorce, our parents placed us boys in the orphanage while our sister stayed with Babcia (Polish for grandma). Our mom left to live with her family and on weekends, if our dad wasn't working overtime, he would pick us up on Friday evening to stay at home. On Sunday evening, he would return us boys to the orphanage and our sister to Babcia's house.