Ragamuffins of the Fifth Ward

Ragamuffins of the Fifth Ward

What comes to mind when you think back to the era of the sixties and seventies—Watergate, Vietnam, civil unrest, racial tension? Nah, not if it was 1968 and you were ten years old. That was the stuff adults worried about. All we had to worry about was who was stronger, The Hulk or Thor? Or how many doubles of Y. A. Tittle could one kid actually end up with before getting that Johnny Unitas card? The 1960s era was dubbed the Age of Innocents, and with good reason. Children were under the protective wings of adults—spared the anxieties that our parents faced as we entered into an era of war, of high tech death and destruction. It was almost as though an invisible barrier had been erected, defining the fine line between childhood and adulthood. Breaking the barrier was a one-way trip. Once done, it was impossible to return to that childlike state that made everything as simple as night and day. Comic books were twelve cents, and they were a magical balance of words and pictures collectively known as pop art. Baseball cards were bought as much for the stick of hard, pink bubble gum as for the cards themselves. Candy was a sight to behold—sold in loose, bulk quantities, not wrapped in today’s win-something-for-free gimmicky wrappers. Yep, growing up in the sixties was a kid’s dream come true! Never again will these unique rites of passage be repeated. Technological advances and changes in attitudes have supplanted the simple pleasures recounted here. Because such joys of childhood may be a thing of the past, this book has been written as a reminder of that special time, a tribute to that Age of Innocents—to growing up in the sixties. Once in a great while a publisher is privileged to receive a book that reaches out and touches the heart with joy and allows the spirit to soar into the past unencumbered. Ragamuffins of the Fifth Ward is just such a book. A series of vignettes about growing up in the 1960s, it speaks out with all the innocence and exuberance of a young boy who, along with his friends, finds happiness in simply living. Before the days of computer games and 24/7 multi-channel television programing, youngsters entertained themselves by exercising their ingenuity and imagination. Those days, now long gone, are delightfully captured and relived by Charles Novinskie in this very special trip back to his childhood, and he invites us to come along. It is a trip well worth taking. School was never easy for me not grade school, not high school, not college. In fact, it only seemed to get harder and harder. One thing I did manage to do was make it through at an early age. I started when I was five, graduated parochial school at thirteen, high school at seventeen, and college at twenty one. Don t get me wrong it wasn t because of my stellar scholarly performance. Instead, it was a case of my being at the right place at the right time. In 1963 I was enrolled in kindergarten at St. Stan s Catholic School at the tender age of five. Starting school back then was a lot scarier than it is today. Now both parents often work, and kids spend a few years in preschool, getting prepped for kindergarten. Not so in the sixties! Back then, Mom was called mom for a very good reason rather than spend her days working an outside job, she stayed home to raise the kids while Dad was off earning the paycheck. Going off to kindergarten was as far removed from spending the previous five years at home with Mom as I could ever imagine. The first day of school was perhaps the most traumatic event a five-year-old would ever go through. Not only did you have to make sure that your pencils were sharpened, but you also had to make sure that all of your primary colors were included in your crayon box! For me, kindergarten was a nightmarish experience. I m not ashamed to admit that I started to cry soon after Mom dropped me off, and not all the promises in the world that it would be okay were going to appease me. Now I m not talking about those fake crocodile tears that all kids learn to shed until Mom or Dad is out of sight. These tears started early in the day and didn t stop! Not even for recess! Conventional wisdom would suggest a call to Mommy. Instead, a small miracle happened that day. The layperson in charge of teaching kindergarten had no idea what to do with me, so she took me over to the first grade to have a seat while she discussed the situation with one of the nuns who was in charge of the school and I immediately stopped crying! Now my recollection is a bit fuzzy from that point on. I don t know whether the sisters actually forgot that I wasn t really in the first grade, or they figured that my absence of crying was a sign to leave me there. All I know is that, just after turning five, I had gone from kindergarten to the first grade! No more morning naps, cookies and milk, and playtime for me I was now in the first grade! Looking back, I m pretty sure this five year-old was nowhere near ready for the rigors of first gr