7. Fish Fry

Actually, it's a repost, from my very first month blogging over at South City Musings--three years ago this month. I could rewrite it, but it wouldn't say it as well as I said it the first time. Just got back from fish fry. A woman I'd never met before asked me for my Italian Wedding Cake recipe. Made my day.

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I attend a Catholic Church in south St. Louis City named St. Pius V. Pius was a pope, and he is mostly remembered for not being St. Pius X. Actually, he was elected pope after the Reformation, when the Church was in a state of chaos. He kept things together and struggled tirelessly against the Protestants and the Turks. Pius V was integral to the counterreformation and excommunicated Elizabeth I, encouraged the new Society of Jesus (that would be the Jesuits…), and did any number of good works and, well, pious things. All fine and good; it was a long time ago and, frankly, St. Pius V in St. Louis doesn’t have real strong ties to its namesake. The front façade of the building has a carved stone mural of his good deeds (freed 10,000 Christian slaves from the Turks, for instance), but when I taught at the school, it wasn’t like Pius came up very often, as a St. Patrick’s or Our Lady of Mt. Carmel School might honor their patrons. He is kind of an underdog in the saintly world. The patron of Malta, for goodness sake. Not doctors or firemen or bullfighters (he outlawed bullfighting in Rome). Malta. You can’t walk into Catholic Supply and get a medal of St. Pius V, probably for good reason: even the depictions of him in paintings—short, hunched over, bald, with a beak nose and a long beard—make him look like an evil wizard, not a pope.

An underdog in the archdiocesan world, our church was slated to close two years ago when they came up with the new plan for the south side. There are, frankly, too many parishes, most with segregated roots (meaning that the Germans, Irish, Italians, and Poles all were Catholic (meaning “universal,” ironically), but they weren’t about to go to church together). St. Pius’ territory was carved up into two pieces, half given to Holy Family, and the other half to St. Wenceslaus. The Holy Family, on a side note, is the patron of Reno, and Wenceslaus pays attention to Bohemian brewers (like our hometown Anheuser Busch, for instance).

Obviously, we were saddened and a bit enraged, and we submitted a counter-proposal to the archdiocese. In some ways, from an outsider’s point of view, it made sense: we no longer had a parish school, having merged with the school that is on Wenceslaus’ property (and supported by 7 or more parishes). Our attendance was low, we were relatively poor, and we straddled Grand Ave, which would, perhaps, be a natural boundary for parish lines. When I’d taken the job at the parish school 6 years ago, my ex-principal told me, “well, I hope they stay open long enough for you to get a couple years in.” We are definitely urban in appearance—a big blacktop parking lot serves as a cut through for the drug dealers who live across from the old school building. There’s a broken gate between the lot and a dirty alleyway. No trees, very little landscaping at all. Rundown—sagging, perhaps.

In other ways, though, the archdiocese hadn’t looked very closely: we support immigrants and refugees, we have an active food pantry, our school was successful now that it was merged, and there was some underlying animosity between Pius and Holy Family that meant that our numbers probably wouldn’t “shore up” Holy Family’s decline like they’d hoped. We were also right on Grand Ave, and our church building, unlike the school and lot, was visible and striking. It probably wouldn’t look so good with a plastic banner over the stone mural reading “Joe’s Church of the Living God” if the building was sold, or, as would probably happen in this city, as an empty building, finally razed and replaced with another Walgreens.

The committee listened and agreed, amazingly. It was almost like being in a democracy. We stayed open, as did Wenceslaus. Holy Family closed, St. Francis de Sales became a Latin church, St. Agatha’s became a Polish center (don’t get me started on the Polish church in St. Louis and the archbishop right now, that’s for another day). Shocked by our good fortune, we welcomed some new people, watched as our parish grew just a tad, and started thinking of ourselves as a new parish, one with opportunities and potential instead of unmet needs, seedy neighbors, and dilapidated buildings.

Sr. Mary Henry decided it was time to start up the fish fry. Fish fries in St. Louis are a Lentan ritual. Every Friday, hundreds of families line up at their parish cafeterias, mostly in stale church basements or school gymnasiums reeking of bleach and government cheese, to consume blocks of fried cod and a variety of meatless sides: potato salad, spaghetti, green beans, flourescent yellow macaroni and cheese, applesauce, cole slaw. Some parishes go for french fries and fried shrimp; others serve cheese pizza to the kids. We hadn’t had a fish fry in 4 years, and at the time it shut down, it was a pathetic mockery of what a parish event should be. Bad food, low attendance, stinky church basement with bad lighting. My family went a total of one time.

Mary got a committee together. They in turn got volunteers. Norma made the menu: real fish, hand-breaded. Green beans with tarragon. Potato salad not from a can. It sounded great. Katrina asked for desserts. I don’t like to work with raw fish, so I went with Katrina and baked. I cut cakes and brownies and put them out on plates the morning before our first Fry. Mary was hoping to serve 250 dinners that night. She had no idea what to expect, and the nervous energy in the kitchen was palpable. Everyone was working hard at a new venture, one that could fail miserably as before, or could fill, as Fr. Mike said, “the fish fry gap in South St. Louis.”

I showed up to eat at 6, with husband, daughters, and friend Brian in tow. We stood in line for 30 minutes and then ate the best fish fry food I’ve ever had. Mary wanted 250 to come. We saw over 500. Then the second week, having learned our lessons, we had more food in reserve, more desserts. We set up a second line. We streamlined many things and got more volunteers. And we, again, served over 500 dinners. Fr. Mike mentioned at mass this morning that we had our first Fish Fry convert—someone picked up a registration form on Friday night while listening to our live Irish music and eating Peggy’s rum cake, and decided this was the church they’d been looking for.

So here we are. You might say we are surprised by our success. Having been, frankly, the low man on the archdiocesan totem pole for so long, we find ourselves in the wonderful position of popularity. We have arrived—debuted, as it were. I know, it’s only a fish fry. We still have bills to pay and poor to serve and buildings to repair and there’s always the specter of church closings in our future. We have a new pastor coming in June, and many things will change. It is hard to shift from underdog to top of the heap, to trust that things will work for us, after so much hasn’t worked for so long. I feel a magnitude of energy and happiness at Pius that hasn’t been there in the 8 years I’ve been attending. For the first time, I think I may be living in the “good old days.” Simply amazing.

6. Red Brick

Throughout the south side, everything is red brick masonry construction, which I have heard means that when the big one hits New Madrid, all our houses will liquify. They were built with brick, as opposed to frame, because we had a fire. Not famous like the one Mrs. O'Leary's cow started up in Chicago, but it was still quite a fire. Afterward, very little was built with frame construction.

Many houses have a different brick or stone facades--our block is filled with houses that appear to be white stone or brown brick. But down the sides and across the back, it's all red. The brick is native to the area, coming from quite nearby, actually. The south side is filled with old clay and coal mines.

My house is red brick all around, but the front is a tighter stacking of bricks--like a higher thread count. The mortar is red on the front, too, while it's a lighter pink down the sides and in back. But that's as fancy as the builder got with my house (definitely the plain jane sister to many of the houses here). Still, it's quite an imposing building, this foursquare done in brick instead of frame--it doesn't have the friendly look of the platonic ideal of a foursquare, a big happy farmhouse kind of building. It looks urban, set so close to its neighbors, tall and looming. I like it.

Our alley was red brick, too, until 3 years ago when it was paved over with asphalt. I suspect our street was red brick, since there are still some blocks scattered through South St. Louis with perfect brick--not cobblestone--streets.

Brick houses are easy to care for--we've done nothing but paint some window trim and lament the state of our terrible front porch (added on in the 80s, like a back deck on the front of the house) in the 11 years we've lived here. But they do require care. The four-family block of flats behind us had some drainage issues and we watched as the walls grew moss and mold, and then the mortar started to crumble. It's fascinating to see a brick wall tumble around a doorway, but not so great when it's the house behind you.

5a. Sidewalk photos

Snowfall, March 2008

Block Party August 2007

Hot days Summer 2006

Block "Grandpa" comes to say hi.

Power outage day two, July 2006 (that's Mike in blue, by the way)

5. Sidewalk

Elliot says that places that don't have sidewalks do so to keep the poor people away. This used to make me laugh until I spent more time in suburbs and realized that, yup, sidewalks are few and far between. Not only in the residential areas, but near the strip malls and commercial districts. Huh.

Here there are poor people, obviously. I technically live in the inner city, although it doesn't look like it because "inner city" has many shades of gray that suburban dwellers (at least those who dwell there out of fear of the inner city) do not see. Yes, people are poor here--63118 has an estimated 35% of its population below the poverty line, which, if you live here long enough, know is a big fat lie. It should be much higher, since it's based on a false assumption of how people spend their money these days. 0f the estimated 30,000 people who live in my zip code, that's approximately 10,500 people living on not enough money.

But this is about sidewalks.

Our sidewalks are busy little places. There's a bus stop at the end of the block, so we do have foot traffic back and forth. Usually the same faces. And the park draws people west down our street with their dogs, to the dismay (or excitement?) of my visually impaired rottweiler. But most of the busy comes from children. There are 26 children under the age of 12 on our block, with one on the way. Everybody knows everybody else--there are no strangers hanging out on the stoops and sidewalks here. Passing through, but not staying.

Hopscotch, of course, makes an appearance. Picnics, too. Bikes and scooters fly by, making my bare toes nervous in the summertime. Lots of digging in the tree lawns leads to small piles of dirt and rocks. An occasional smashed brick. One day, Brent walked out to find a large orange traffic cone sitting on the sidewalk in front of his house. No one claimed it, and so it's part of gangway scenery now, brought out when needed for obstacle courses.

Being so close to Grand, trash blows up our way sometimes, and so there will be a mysterious hot-fries package lying on the sidewalk. Passers-by will also litter, always the cheapest brands of beer for us.

Every snowfall produces dads on the sidewalks, shoveling paths. Brent meets up with Mike meets up with Colin. If you're out first, you try to do at least a one-shovel-wide rudimentary start down the length from Ralph's to Corey's. Mike, as I said, will shovel, but so will I (I'm also the only wife/mom who mows grass, but that's another story). I like getting the heart rate up and moving the snow, since here in St. Louis, snow is a soft blanket of 3-6 inches, not anything scary or big. And the sidewalk I'm in charge of is 36 feet long. Not much.

I'm glad the developer, back in 1903-1905, didn't opt to copy Compton Heights and eliminate sidewalks from his plan. I think they make our street more alive. Without them, the kids would be in backyards, cloistered away from each other in their own private spaces. And Dara wouldn't have much reason to bark. And how she loves to bark.

4a. Mike's Thoughts on Alley

"You know, alley clean up day always reminds me of 'Mending Wall'," Mike said when I read him yesterday's entry.

"But isn't that where there are cows?" I said with a giggle--it's an inside joke between us. But then I considered.

Good alleys make good neighbors? Because out front, we can just wave and go about our lives, but when you share power lines, dumpsters, and car parking space, you have to negotiate better?

I remember sitting on the remains of an old ash pit behind me, behind the house I see out my kitchen window, with a lukewarm cup of coffee. Anne sat next to me on the step. We were worried about the developer at the end of the block, and Anne had pretty much alienated most of my side of the alley. I was caught between my front-door neighbors and my back-door neighbor, who was the first neighbor I'd met, who got rid of my cucumber beetles, who sat with the DEA with me in her dining room going over our evidence on the drug dealers. Anne was one of the good guys--so was everybody else, though.

"We will probably lose," she told me realistically. The developer had the alderman on his side and we were just folks. Voters, sure, but not influential, not really. "Get your bottles of wine ready, maybe we'll split one when we lose."

We didn't lose. And in the end, I remained good neighbors and good friends with both sides of the alley. But it certainly took a great deal of wall-mending and wall-removal to walk that fence line.