Kids Today!

Last year we gifted our Granddaughter two beautifully written and illustrated “children’s books” by the incomparable Moira Kalman. The girl was 14 years old then. Perhaps it was as kids will do, wanting to grow up fast, she rejected them out of hand; as, just “for kids”.

Mother suggested that Grandfather usually had something in mind with his gifts besides just the thing.

Well I did. The Dear Girl has creative talent; both in writing and drawing. The idea was to give her something for inspiration. But, no, she wasn’t having it. Not a child anymore. [But, still childish!]

Maybe that gift will play in the “long game”. Perhaps someday, years from now, this brat will be preparing a children’s book of her own and the light will go on, and she’ll recall those two “kids’ books”.

The story gets better. We asked to have those two gift books back. Bold move, I know. On purpose. Not gonna let it stand that even though a gift is not welcomed, a communication over that is still quite in order. I have complete acceptance for any lack of acceptance. But, just getting ghosted, not on my watch. 

Quite the uproar from Mom and Dad. A lesson in couth for Granddad ensued. What, if anything, was learned by little girl and the parents, it's not at all clear. Mostly it seems to be, what you do when we don't like it, then it's your fault. So much for being responsible for your own experience. At the risk of being further politically incorrect, the term “Indian Giver” is what we would have called it ... in the day, that is.

The outrage was so righteously catastrophic that all communication has been terminated. Except for the reliable Christmas food basket where sending it to Grandpa took no more thought than to lift a finger to check a box from some online store. And, for the happy face family greeting card, also sent from a list.

Quite the conundrum receiving gifts from your flesh and blood who otherwise might as well live in another walled off universe. Gifts of that sort in my book are mostly in the category of making the sender feel good about themselves for making even so slight an effort.

This year, we’re sending a special gift. But, nothing in a box. "Respect." Nothing ... but respect. When people in your life shun you, give them their space to be whatever it’s called when folks shut you out of their lives crapped out from whatever ferkakta ideas about what’s what about you they have going on in their heads.

Back story. Turns out that transaction revealed the hidden agenda. The elephant in the room. “The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.” The parents had long before for reasons they hold close to their hearts had decided they want nada from Gramps. Nothing. No wonder the kid is like that. Must’ve picked up on the vibe.

Unbelievable, so little respect that a gift could be rejected out of hand for the most casual reason. Worse, that Grandfather didn’t even deserve even a perfunctory patronizing thank you; or, better — mirabile dictu — a call to inquire about WTF. Nada. Zip. Zilch. One wonders how it serves creativity to be short on inquiry, much less interest. 

Also an insight into the child-parent relationship. Gone seem to be the days when "Because I said so" was enough for a kid to do as told. Now, seems, the kid needs to be convinced with several points of reasoning. 

Once when mine were very young, the older announces at the dinner table, "I don't like it!" The second younger one chimes in same. Me: "Who said you had to like it". Never had a problem over food since. 

I’ve been told that I’m not fit to be a Father. You think? If that is the prevailing frame, then no wonder Granddaughter don't wanna have much, if anything, to do with the Old Man. Kids read the room, even when words are not spoken. 

As Father and Grandfather, my task is to respect the situation, and let it be. As it ever was, it's in God's hands. Still saddens though.*

*I live under the rule that I am responsible for my reactions to people, situations, and things. The praise and blame world is for losers. Sad, I can't teach that to my closed off offsprings.

 So I'm asked to leave to God His own Creations. Amen.

 

Selling Cars

Selling Cars ...

I once tried my hand at making a living selling cars.  Chevrolet and GMC, cars and trucks; new and used. I was cut out for other things, yet the experience learned from selling cars has been useful for the things I do do. For me, as a profession, it's doodoo. Rough trade. 

DISCLAIMER: This writing is "riffy" and "fuzzy". Motor vehicle sales is a thing in itself. Lots of sales and marketing knowledge in the field. I was never  good at it. My comments should be taken with an understanding that I'm not talking as any kind of an expert. There is a skill to the deal. If you care to participate successfully, lots to learn. But, like I said, I'm not cut out for that stuff. Tough trade. My pet stuffed animal when I was very young lad was "Bambi". Not a predatory cat.

What do I do? Which right now, I'm telling a story.

Early in my jagged and checkered career path I had worked making cars at the Ford Motor Company in Detroit. Much later got into selling cars; and trucks. General Motors products.

There was a senior salesman at the dealership who sat there all day chewing an unlit cigar, and customer after customer would just show up at his office and buy a vehicle. Seemed all's he did was make appointments and fill out paperwork.

Meanwhile, me, I spent most of the day wondering where my next sale was coming from; dreading spending the frustrating mandatory slog cold calling prospective buyers, or looking to be first to spot an “UP”. An “UP” is a potential buyer randomly showing “up” on the lot.

It was quite the game among the salesmen to get to the "UP" first. There's fierce competition. Who's gonna get eyes on the mark first. Positioning one's cubicle in relationship to the show room floor or nearest the door to outside for easiest access to a buyer were good tactics. Mostly you hang out on the lot to get to the next one who drives up. Not something you want to be doing if you're in it for the long career haul. But, hey, you have to start somewhere. Unless, you can magically "manifest" eager buyers with prayers in a wish basket. 

There were a few fellows who had the manager's favor. They perched in the big window just behind the manager's desk which was on a raised platform. They got the Eagle eye view of the lot so they were the first to spot a car driving in.

[Not saying it was the case with those two, but some managers will steer a sale in return for a cut in the commission. I declined one such proposition; probably cut into my sales stats. But, my larger career has to do with integrity, so what would you do? This situation can happen very easily when a prospective customer approaches the manager directly. Then it's his discretion who gets the sale.]

By the way, the gospel of car sales is anyone who comes on the lot is a buyer. Period. "They're just looking" is not an excuse you give your manager. On a rainy day, for sure you're looking at a serious buyer. 

I do recall how there was some order in determining which salesman was "UP" for the next "UP". Some honor among gentlemen? Which everyone knows 100% of car salesmen are gentlemen. Right up there with carpet and house siding sellers. I personally haven't met that many A grade humans in that field.

The salesmen at my first dealership had the habit of hanging around just outside the showroom entrance waiting for the next customer and chewing the fat and smoking cigarettes. The path to the showroom was littered with cigarette butts. How that obviously [to me] didn't have a good look, no one seemed to even have it occur to them. Rough trade, and rude. There was a garden area adjacent with a few puny Rose bushes growing listlessly; one salesman took it upon himself to water the plants. That act right there earned my respect.

Once when a new crop of salesmen came fresh out of training they were sent to all points around the car and truck lot. A few right at the very entrance to the lot itself. So here we are the regular sales guys standing around in a group watching as the newbies are sent to stake out all points on the lot. And this, mind you, in the hot Phoenix, Arizona sun. You got a complaint with that, sonny? Pack your stuff and take a hike. Cut throat competition anyone?

When you go to work, you leave Democracy behind.

So, now, what about that old as F senior sales guy, just signing paperwork all day? I honestly can't tell whether he is an angel or a devil? Probably, if he's anything like me, a good measure of both. Of course, the guy had been in the business for ages; so a lot of his customer base was repeats and referrals. That's what you get at the end of a successful career in sales. Sit back and let the bucks just come on in.

He had two dogs. One named Hank; the other, Oskar. He would regularly address his customers as "Hank" or "Oskar". Sort of like you might casually refer to someone as "Bub" or "Fella". No one seemed to make any issue. Or was it that in his mind customers were dogs, just to be led around? I don't know the gentleman's mind.

Speaking of which ... he was fond of saying, "You know how to tell if they're lying ... their lips are moving".

Right there, I think that was a big clue. In his car salesman world, "Buyers are liars". That's an adage throughout the business. Maybe in sales of all kinds. Think about it. Making a commitment to buy a big ticket item is stressful. Nerves on edge. A lot of potential buyers will try to get off the hook. "I need to talk to my wife." "Don't you want to surprise her?" "I need to think about it." "Of course. It's a big decision. Let me ask you ... ".

That last item is a key to selling. You must establish rapport with the customer first, then you have the permission to ask a question; or make your point. Show them you understand their situation. Big selling tip, that one. Like a bank account they said in sales training; you have to make a deposit first to earn the permission to come back with a counter to their objection. Otherwise you're just arguing; back and forth. Try that with your main squeeze sometime. Works like a charm. But, the Good Lord will know if you're sincere. If you're not, it's false. Not good for any relationship. Especially at home. But, on the lot ... sincerity, there's not a lot. In order to get a sale, since "buyers are liars" the gloves are off and you gotta do what you gotta do. Notice all the car dealer commercials on TV. Every last one touts how you're gonna have a wonderful buying experience. Come visit our friendly, family dealership. No hassle. [Notice please, their lips are moving.]

So, was this old, sweet cuss some sort of Taoist Master with his "lips moving" truism? You know, like in "The truth that can be spoken is not True". Or, just some tricky fucker who conveniently manipulates his own thinking to always be ready for the "kill"? Like I said, if you're seeing the world as a lie, then, when in Rome.

In car sales the management will tell you that even if it's your own Grandma, you squeeze as much juice out of the deal as you can. A sale is a sale. And, have a "thick skin". Car sales is not for someone who can't deal with a "no". It is for someone who can bullshit his way out of any situation. Tricky mofos.

Speaking of juice. "Grape." A "grape" is a customer that just comes in and buys the vehicle at sticker price. Just like that. All the juice. I once sold a very expensive SUV to a lovely family from overseas. They paid full pop. It tore at me, since almost every customer — and this was in a very upscale town — would fight tooth and nail to squeeze the last nickel out of the deal. Humanity at its lowest. Not just the sales people; the  customers too. 

Sometimes during the middle of a deal a customer would call another dealership to compare prices. I kid you not. The art of the deal. My foot! So much bullshit to move some metal. 

One tactic I was in awe of was when a customer came in with a price from another dealer. Usually, scribbled on a slip of paper, and non-binding. Usually proffered with the question, "What would you say if I could sell you the vehicle for this price?" Notice, no commitment from the sales person. A true mutt of a customer will snatch that piece of paper and go off looking around town for an even better deal. That's what you call a "mutt". Mind you, on that slip of paper is a price which is well below invoice, the dealer's cost. An impossible price. 

That's called being put "On a Ball". The customer carries that tempting ball around trying to get an even lower price deal. Of course, they have to bring the ball back to where they got it. Usually after checking all over town and getting nowhere. Coming back with the erroneous assumption that they will get the vehicle for the "ball" price. No fuckin' way, Jose. 

The "out" when the customer comes back is to inform them that price was for buying the vehicle at the time they were first in the dealership. And, it was purely hypothetical anyway. "So how about we get you into a car or truck today with a deal that you'll be completely satisfied with?" Hopefully they're so worn down by then that you get them into a new negotiation. Mostly it's a grind. Think skin. Like the carny and his sucker. This is not a situation where there's room for a heart to heart relationship. If the customer thinks there is, they're dupes.

Negotiation. Haggling. What a game. It used to be from selling and buying horses. Each horse was an individual. Some better than others. Good horse traders knew from horses. There are things to dicker about. Cars, on the other hand, are pretty much identical. Okay, the sales comeback on that is that each is built individually. Kind of a philosophical gambit, like no two of anything are really ever alike. But, it did strike me as a carryover from horse and buggy days. The grinding negotiation to sell and buy a car. Or, truck.

There are all kinds of ways to structure a deal. Most people purchase with a loan. So instead of focusing on the selling price, you sell the monthly payment. Very tricky business there. You don't even know what it's gonna cost you. Just what you can afford. Vehicle prices are now so high, the days of a three year loan contract are long gone. Five years. Maybe more; I haven't checked.

Problem is with such long loan terms, if you want to trade in your vehicle, you could be "under water". That is, owing more on the original loan than what the damn buggy is worth. Oh, we can handle that! Just fold the balance of the loan payoff into the new sales contract. 

It doesn't end with the commitment to buy. There's "Aftermarket". You know, custom wheels, special doodads, truck bed liners. GPS. Undercoating. Special "Desert Package" paint protection. Lojack. Security code etched onto all the glass. A thick book of options are offered to the buyer in the second phase of the sale. At that stop there's a special separate dedicated sales person. Also, on commission. Better know what you want going in. 

Then, there's the money part. "The back end." In many of the sales in the competitive market I was working in, so many sales are "Mini's". That when all the gross profit is squeezed out, and the sales person gets a minimum guarantee. In my days, that was $100. For a half day of running your ass ragged to get their ass in the seat and off the lot. Can't make a living on Mini's. As a dealership, that is. So, there's the stop at "Finance".

"Finance" is where the payment takes place. Since most people are not paying in full cash, financing is the way it goes. The dealership will attempt to sell you on finding financing for you. Even if you have a preapproved loan, the dealership will always attempt to beat it. What the buyer will never know is what part of the percentage loan goes back to the dealership from the lender. If the lender offers say 5%, the finance desk will tack on some percentage more. That's what's called "making it up on the back end". Trouble is, that the sales person doesn't get in on that action. Trouble also is you get to pay more. Very tricky.  

Trade ins. This is where some real money gets made. A dealer will never give you more than what your vehicle is worth to dump at the auction. They may give you more, but that comes out of the gross profit margin on the new unit. If the trade in is saleable, it goes for sale on the used lot. Buyers of used cars and trucks will never know what the dealer has "in" the unit; what the dealer paid for the vehicle. Unlike for new, no rules for disclosure on used. 

This idea that you're gonna get "Blue Book" value for your trade is a myth. Blue Book is a general pricing estimate, and prices market to market for any particular vehicle vary considerably. Dealers don't give retail sales prices for trade ins. Plus, the sales person will use every trick in the book to devalue your trade. Sly gambit: while inspecting your beloved trade in, the sales person will notice a flaw, and simply point to it and give you a look. Just a flat withering look. Key word: "devalue".

I could write a book. But then, I'd have to do some heavy research. Selling is a big subject. If you've managed to get this far you should have a general idea that buying a car is a treacherous game. Myself, I'd be scared shitless to buy a new car. Even with some inside scoop experience. The guy who comes in to buy a car touting his own car sales experience is probably the biggest dupe of a buyer. You never outsmart the dealership sales process. Even when you think you did. Part of the art of the deal is to get you on the road in your new wheels fully satisfied that you got the best deal. There's no such thing.

By the way ... on this "I could write a book" This blog is my book. Wronski's Wramblings. 

Here's a link to the wondrous scope and breadth of all the excellence of it.

The Ethnic Cleansing of My Boyhood Neighborhood ... and, Some Memories

The neighborhood in this photo is where I grew up. It no longer exists. 

At the center of that community we see the Immaculate Conception Polish Catholic Church. Grade school across the street.

My childhood neighborhood on the East side — the better side — of Detroit, Michigan at that time was virtually a 100% Polish tribe. "Ethnic." When I was a youngster in the mid-1900s a great many of the Babcias and Dziadzias and adults living there were émigrés from Poland. 

I knew the slur, "DPs."; "Deported Persons." "Dumb Pollacks." They didn't speak Amercan, so naturally they had to be dumb. Didn't know the customs either. Scoffing and laughing at what's new and different. How dumb is that? [Even now when I shop at some ethnically rooted Polish stores, I see a sensibility which I can only describe as Polish. I can't put my finger on it, but there is something at play that gets lost in translation. It can come off as dumb. Hardly, though. If I myself am an example of that trait, it maybe in that we Poles are intelligent. That is, seeing the many sides of a situation and sometimes not knowing what's what. Educated guess.] 

"Dumb Pollacks" was still in common usage. Even among Pollacks. Yes, even among the clan, there were the dummies. I grew up not proud to be Polish; even ashamed. That's on me. It may have driven my desire to leave after college and start a new life in that Big [Tempting] Apple, New York City. Now, however, just look at all the Polish names prominent in the news and in so many walks of life.

With all the wanting to get away, the imprint of one's culture is hard wired. It's still with me. Makes me what I am as a person. Hopefully now with some wisdom of age I can happily integrate every bit of it. The good, the bad, the ugly. [Hey, but that's life. Not just if you're Polish. "When life hands you Lemons." The Polish gene in me says, "When you go to bed and put your head on the pillow, you think 'Pierogi' ".]  

Still some very crisp, fond memories from those days. 

Got me to reminiscing ...

In 1981 most of my old Polish neighborhood was razed to provide GM the space to build its new, all-on-one-floor Cadillac factory. It's a big story. Read the coverage for yourself online. Here's something I wrote that talks about that historic event.

I purposely chose the term "Ethnic Cleansing". Huh? What? It's timely, don't you know. Did you hear about Gaza? There's an argument over whether right there next to the State of Israel it's "ethnic cleansing". Or, even "genocide". Or, it's just Israel "defending itself". Regardless, the reality is that a lot — A LOT — of people are being killed. [And the Super Bowl had the most viewership ever!] 

I'm not at all suggesting that eliminating that Polish enclave was anti-Polish. Or, intentional ethnic cleansing. Yet, regardless of the motive(s), it boils down to the same thing. And, probably since it's just a bunch of dumb Pollacks anyway, no big whoop. Economically, for the city, no great loss either.

After the razing the erstwhile neighborhood has since been referred to as "Poletown". It wasn't a term before that in the day as best as I can tell. Yet, it fits. Very "Polish". Le mot juste.

Poletown had an ethnic flavor. "Polish." So, what is that? 

One taste of Kielbasa ... you know. I don't know if it's a Polish thing, but in our family the quest for the best Kielbasa was a never ending odyssey. In fact, it's still a thing with me. Fortunately in northern New Jersey where I currently call home there are so many choices shopping at wonderful Polish stores. Some where servers only speak Polish. Believe me, each one has their own take on THE Kielbasa. With many varieties at the same store. The texture of the ground Pork; fine cut, or coarse. Seasonings. Garlic/no Garlic. Even types of wood smoke.

Bakeries sold Pączki. Fried yeast raised fried Donuts filled with jelly or Bavarian Crème. Sugar glazed for the jelly ones — Powidła [Prune lekvar/butter], Raspberry, Apricot, Rose Jam. A dusting of powdered Sugar for the custard. By the way, when you see a word in Polish with "ł" it's pronounced as a "W" ... whah. And, since we're getting all proper, a "W" is pronounced like a V. See, I told you, Polish has its own way. Supposedly a difficult language to learn. I know enough to say "thank you", and "give me a kiss".

On the streets, women wearing babushkas. Seemed everybody spoke Polish. My Grandparents spoke no English when they arrived in America in the early 20th Century; and still didn't until the day they died. My parents were bi-lingual. Like, the enclave didn't require it [English].  Some English came through; "telephone" had my Polish Babcia's spin: "Telephonuya". Her word to the wise: "No money, no funny".

In my early grade school years there was an attempt to teach the Polish language. Alas, it didn't get any traction. Don't know why. Well, I know. By the time I was in school Polish wasn't spoken at home. Except maybe when the parents didn't want me to know from something or other. My older Brother Arnold [by nine years older] his first language was Polish. Had trouble starting out in grade school at St. Hyacinth's on account of that. Took some teasing too. But, he learned English. Well enough way later in life to become the President of the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra. Dumb Pollack, indeed!

Polish homes are famous for being well kept; inside and out. Mostly humble homes in Poletown, but spick and span. Flowers and shrubs growing neatly around the house in front; border gardens in the back yard. Small front lawns, never overgrown. Neighbors who didn't keep up were frowned upon. 

[I had a Polish Uncle who kept his lawn as tight as a Golf putting green. Special push mower. All the shrubs ... topiary precise. Reindeer statues out front. Big ass blue reflector globe in the back yard. I remember visiting once to see him on his hands and knees with a knife, trimming the narrow precise lawn gutters around the walkways. His home was not in Poletown, but in Grosse Pointe. He moved on up.] 

In the time of my youth stores were not open on Sundays. Seemed to me at the time that was the custom throughout the city of Detroit. And, well beyond. A corner convenience store opposite the Church was opened on Sunday; bit of a scandal with my Mother.

Neighborhood flavor. Everyone has their take. I was a sensitive lad. Tuned to the sensorium of life. The barrels of pickled Herring on the sawdust grocery store floor at Chene and Trombly Market, across from Chene-Trombly Lanes; kitty corner from the Candy Kitchen. Big barrels of Powidła [Prune Butter] too. Frankincense smoke wafting throughout the Church on special occasions when there would be an indoor procession. My Mother's delicious cooking.

Learned to bowl at the Chene-Trombly Lanes. Pinsetters were young boys. They were stationed right there next to the action, after each roll they reset the pins. Can you imagine that! When bowling was dangerous. 

After homework sometimes I'd trek over the 3 or 4 blocks from our home on East Grand Boulevard for a Banana Split at the Candy Kitchen. Even in the thick of snow. Read all about it.

The Cunningham's Drug Store at the corner of Chene and Milwaukee. They had live Leeches for sale. Old timey. What to take the blood of that bloody eye. And the best licorice I ever tasted. A thick stick of hard chew Licorice, in a slim dark orange box with black lettering. Serious stuff. Licorice. I remember going to the corner store and testing the shop guy's patience trying to decide what types of licorice and other candies I would get for my few cents spending money. Licorice. The flavor of my youth.

I went to grade school at Immaculates. The grade school of the Immaculate Conception Parish. Felician Nuns. Strict. Seems the general consensus among the Good Sisters was we were little born devils. 

In the early years in grade school we had a Nun whose name was Sister Mary Cantia. [I can't say I'm spelling it right. Just remember the sound of her name.] She would rag on us miscreants, frequently. Remember her complaining that if it weren't for us brats she could have been a movie star. We did not like Sister Cantia. 

Fuzzy Fachinni sat in the first desk, nearest the door. One day he put a pencil down on the floor and Sister as expected took a tumble. We had our ways. Little devils. She sure knew how to bring it up in us. 

One thing I vividly remember about Sister Cantia was her look. Her look of displeasure was so severe and frightening the devil himself would slink away from that deadly gaze, tail between his legs. 

I was a budding photographer in my youth. One day I took my mini spy camera to school. Predictably, Sister gave us that disapproving look. I jutted out into the aisle and took a quick shot. Sister saw; "What's that?". Me ... "Nothing". The moment passed. I never developed the film. But, Dear Sister, the image is framed in memory.

Sister Maximia. She was reputed to be the toughest Nun in school. She taught the 8th Grade class. Once she got all the girls together and gave them a talk about tempting the boys. A few girls were rather well developed. Pretty too. I don't know the actuality of that talking to, but I heard rumors. Don't show off those tits, girls! Strict. 

And, Sister Maximia liked me. For sure she changed the trajectory of my life. She pointed me to the University of Detroit High School, one of the top schools in the state. Jesuit. I got an education. 

Our Pastor, Father Alexander Cendrowski, questioned me about why I was going out of the neighborhood for high school. St. Stanny's [Stanislaus] was the usual next step for high school for kids from this blue collar neighborhood. I don't recall what I responded. Just stuck to my guns. It was a college preparatory school. And I went to College. The University of Detroit. Also Jesuit. I was educated. 

Cendrowski. First name Alexander. We didn't have a good relationship. I named my dog Alexander. 

As a kid in 1st Grade we had the homework once to make Butter. Heavy Cream shaken in a jar. My Mother put some of my pristine product in a shot glass and covered it neatly with wax paper, secured with a rubber band. [Pre-plastic wrap days.] It was given by one of the Nuns to Father Cendrowski. Never heard anything more about it.

I was an Altar Boy at Immaculate Conception. Regular duty. Even during the summer recess months. One summer early morning mass, Father Cendrowski celebrating, I got sick. Queasy, dizzy. I didn't want to interrupt the Mass, so I just left. Later that morning Dennis Sczieda, the doctor's son, rides up the alley on his deluxe-doctor's-son Schwinn Phantom to tell me that I was kicked out of the Altar Boy's. That hurt. But, I didn't have the nerve to confront Father about the why's and wherefore's. Nor did he call me in to discuss it himself. A true authoritarian.

I probably had it coming. Not for that incident, but ... As an altar boy I had my style. 

When serving Mass the two main boys knelt on the lowest of the three steps down from where the Priest stood at the Altar. We were assigned either "Bells" or "Book". One lad's task was to take the Missal from it's starting place on the right side of the Altar, bring it down the three steps to the center, then then up again to the left side of the Altar. Meanwhile the other boy positioned kneeling on the lowest step would move from the left side the right. The guy on "Book" was now free to take the spot on the left. 

Now, the "Bells". To the right, a step just below where the Priest stood, was a little metal lid covering a set of push buttons for said bells. The bells were rung at the most sacred moment of the Mass; the transubstantiation of the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.  

[Okay — look, I don't know how to paint this picture without getting into it. So thank you for your patience. You had to be there.] 

Part of the set up for when the two boys would change places for the "Bells and Book" was to see to it that our missals were exchanged so that the respective missals would be in place where they arrived after the switch. Each stair was covered by a fabric rug. I loved to scoot the other guy's missal over, sliding it over on that narrow rug. Once I gave it so much juice it went flying off and landed way over on the left side of the sacristy, well to the left beyond the altar. 

On bells, I once jazzed it up with probably the speediest rendition ever in the history of that Church. 1-2-3, 2-3-4, 4-5-6. Sacrilegious. Like I said, what Cendrowski knew, and the Good Sisters knew; I had the devil in me.

When I was young many times at Mass I would have this recurring fantasy. Just came to me. I didn't conjure it, or dwell on it. Just curious. Like I was taking a sledge hammer and breaking up the steps to the Altar.

The aisle floors in the Church and everywhere around the Alter and sacristy were covered in earthen tiles. From the locally Detroit famous Pewabic Tile. Beautiful shades of brown/black/orange/yellow/gold.

I found it curious at the time that such a strong visual would occur to me. Later, though, when I learned the

Church had been razed along with the neighborhood did it dawn on me that it may have been a premonition vision of that sad future. Interesting. Funny-strange, huh?

Immaculate Conception Razing 

Photo Larry Wisniewski FB — I Went to Catholic School in Metro Detroit

In the 8th Grade play I was recast from being the lead on account of being unserious. So I was the Priest. Ironic, before I even knew the term. Father Cendrowski was famous for almost never being without a cigar. Mass being the only exception I know of. There he is, in the front row for the play, and I come out on stage ... holding a cigar. My idea. Way to stick it to Cendrowski. I think there are others too with whom he wasn't a fave.

I taught myself to play Tennis. From a book at the nearby Butzel Branch Library. Went often to the playground behind the school to hit Tennis balls off the back brick wall. There was also an incentive, since I hoped my crush Lorraine would see me. She lived in a house directly across the street from that playground. 

In my high school years we went regularly to Sunday Mass. On some occasions there was a Father-Son breakfast after Mass in the Church basement sponsored by the Holy Name Society. Father Cendrowski asked me why I didn't want to join the Society. "I have nothing in common with anyone there. I don't see what's in it for me." Pretty bold, huh? But, it is what I said; and, how I saw it. I saw a future away from that community; not wanting to grow roots there. Father Cendrowski wasn't one to take me under his wing and try to understand this young whippersnapper. He was expecting compliance. He would rule.

Well, don't you know, very soon after that impasse at Mass one Sunday during the sermon, my buddy Cendrowski tells the story of a selfish young man who didn't see what was in it for him to join the Holy Name Society. Me, sitting right there, listening to him talk about me to the whole Church community. No names, but pretty withering nonetheless.

Years later, at my Nephew's high school graduation at Orchard Lake Academy in Michigan I met up for the last time with Father Cendrowski. He was retired at the seminary there. I was newly married, living in New York City. "Hello, Father Cendrowski, I'm David Wronski. Remember me?" Flatly, stone faced, he said, "I remember you." I wouldn't say the tone was disdainful, but certainly clearly indicating long held displeasure. Forgiveness is the Lord's. Not Cendrowski's; not that day anyway.

In his defense, I have learned that Father Cendrowski was a great help in supporting new Polish arrivals into the neighborhood. Helping with housing and furniture. He also was instrumental in persuading the powers that be to install a foot bridge across the new I-94 highway on Moran Street leading to the Church. 

I'm praying that Jesus and the Saints have welcomed Father Cendrowski into Heaven. Maybe after a little good talking to? Thank you Father, because of you and Immaculates, I'm what I am today. Thank you. Truly. With maturity, and maybe some wisdom, we learn to forgive. And, see the benefit(s) in all our experiences. And, maybe, the best from the toughest.

At my 8th Grade graduation ceremony I played the Ave Maria on my Violin. Maybe gained some graces back for that.

That's Father Cendrowski on the left. Me, top row center [wearing "devilish-dark". I honestly don't recall how that choice got made. Don't think it was an act of rebellion. Cendrowski might disagree.]

PS That's my crush Lorraine on the left in the first row behind Father Cendrowski. On the opposite side to the right is Geraldine Fredericks. Just look at the beaming shiny Apple of a face. Later in college she invited me to a Sadie Hawkins dance. Roles reversed; the girl invites, drives, pays for dinner. Like that. Even said she studied about cars so we could have something to talk about. She really liked me. I would have none of Geraldine at the time. What a pill I was with her. Didn't even make the effort to be relatable. Just full of my own ideas about what's what. Such a lovely girl. What a dumbass her date.

Leviticus 19:1-2, 11-18