Joe Gozdowiak
Every person has a place that defines his childhood, a place where lifelong bonds of friendship are made, a place where he was a kid. For me, that place was Violet's Sweet Shop, nestled on a corner of Milwaukee's South Side. However, the smiling face that was a fixture behind the counter was not Violet, but her husband Casey, and it was by his name that the place was known by the droves of neighborhood kids who were its eager and loyal clientele.
Casey and Violet were obviously familiar with the real estate motto regarding location because they set up shop in a part of the city that would guarantee a steady flow of customers who were more than willing to part with their hard-earned allowance. The sweet shop was located within a block of our elementary school and playground. After all, when you finally finished a hard day of pounding the books, what could be better than an ice-cold soda and conversation with classmates, reliving the day's events and deciding what to do that afternoon…or did you work up an appetite after a particularly vigorous game of dodge ball at the playground? No problem. Cross the street to Casey's, and there awaited never-ending options to satisfy even the most demanding consumer. It was the perfect place to cure whatever ailed you.
One of the attractions of Casey's was its appearance--a Milwaukee bungalow with the lower level converted into the sweet shop. In place of a porch there was simply a concrete stoop, which was infinitely better. The perfect place to sit and indulge in the purchases of the day. Plus, it gave a kid the perfect vantage point to sit and take in what was going on at the playground. It was the best of both worlds--a delectable treat as you relaxed, no need to worry about being left out of the loop of the playground's social circle.
Since we were just kids, a steady means of income was a luxury that we weren't privileged to have. Allowances only go so far. However, at Casey's, complete happiness was yours for a mere dollar. Swedish fish, candy buttons, licorice pipes, army men with plastic parachutes on their backs…you name it, Casey's had it, and all in a kid's price range. Five for a penny, ten for a nickel, the best deal in town. With a dollar, you could forget all the daily hassles of the third grade and lose yourself in the rainbow of colors and choices waiting for you behind the glass cases. Not bad for a buck.
But Casey's wasn't just a place you went to forget your problems; it was the place you went to solve problems. There was a popular game in the neighborhood known simply as "off the wall." The only equipment needed to play was a rubber ball and a garage door, preferably not white, as many of the neighborhood dads would tell you. It was a great alternative for when the playground diamonds were full, or you couldn't round up enough kids for a full game, which was rarely a problem. The rules were simple. The purpose was to bounce the ball off the driveway, ricochet it off the garage door, and attempt to get it on the roof behind you, this constituting a home run. With a little practice and a fresh rubber ball, any kid could be a home run king. Summer nights would find us out there, complete with the plastic batting helmets purchased at County Stadium, demonstrating our athletic prowess.
Along with the sweet victory of home runs came the bitter defeat of the rain gutters. Talk about extremes. Watching in triumph as your shot clears the roof and the neighbor's basketball hoop, only to have that moment brutally cut short when the ball rolls off the roof and comes to a halt with a metallic clang in the gutter.
As soon as the shock and disappointment subsided, hands dove into pockets desperately searching for any spare change that was lurking there among the candy wrappers and baseball cards. Since this was a common occurrence, we knew the magic number. Forty-seven cents, including tax. That is what it took to restore our happiness. Someone was quickly chosen to take the one block run to Casey's using the highly scientific "bubble gum, bubble gum in a dish" method. In moments we had a fresh rubber ball and an assurance that the game would continue, usually well into the night under the friendly glow of the alley's lights.
And still, Casey's was more than a candy-and-rubber-ball supply store. It was the social center of the neighborhood, at least for the under-13 crowd. It was a meeting place, rest stop and dining establishment all in one. If you were looking for someone, you'd look at Casey's; if you wanted to meet somewhere, you'd meet at Casey's; if you wanted to grab a bite to eat before going home to meatloaf night, you'd eat at Casey's.
It was a place in the city where kids could go and be called by name when they walked in the door. We knew Violet and Casey, and they knew us. They knew what grade we were in; they knew our families. We saw them not only in the store, but also in church, walking the dog, going to school, and, no matter where it was, there was always a smile and an inquiry as to how we were doing.
Like many of the kids in the neighborhood, I was an altar boy in school. Even though that meant getting up for 6:45 mass once in a while, it had its perks. As morbid as it may sound, one of those perks was serving at funerals. This was a task saved for the older, experienced acolytes. I call this a perk because it meant you got to get out of class for a couple of hours, and were occasionally invited to breakfast. Needless to say, when the priest came into the room asking for volunteers, a shortage was one thing he never had to worry about.
Out of all the funerals that I served for, there is only one that I remember. As we made our way down to church, we engaged in the usual talk--after-school plans, sports, friends. We would then wait in the back of the church for the casket to be brought up and the family to make their way in. Even though we didn't know the people, this moment was always awkward. We had just come from our light-hearted boyhood conversation, and now faced the ultimate pain. We tried not to look at the faces of the people as they filed in. However, this time was different. One face in line we all recognized instantly. This face belonged to Violet. Gone was her smile, her bright expression, her kind voice. Naturally, we frantically scanned the line for another familiar face. We were obviously too young fully to grasp the stinging irony of the situation back then. This man had given us a stoop to rest on and a place to be happy for years. Now, in a sense, we were helping to return the favor.
A majority of my childhood was spent within a three-block area of the city. But in those three blocks, I picked up a world of experience. Even though I have moved since then, I am still within three miles of the neighborhood and return frequently. Casey's is gone, but not forgotten. The large, welcoming store windows are now covered, but the stoop is still there. Kids are still playing dodge ball across the street. And best of all, Violet is also there. I still see her outside walking her dog and, of course, there is still a smile and a warm hello.
Joe Gozdowiak
This article originally appeared in In My Neighborhood: Celebrating Wisconsin Cities, edited by Andrea Dearlove and Mary McIntyre.
