His instincts pulsed “Get off the street, Earl”. He hesitated, trying to decide rather to keep walking to the coffee house or retreat to the apartment building. Before he could choose, The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre erupted. “Muffled fire-crackers. That’s what I heard. But lots of them…” Earl didn’t want to be a witness - he’d already seen too much - heard too much.
“There are no coincidences in life. There was a reason I was there that day…” And there was…
Dad’s business friends had given him carte blanche with training their horses. Nobody breathed down his neck. Their deal was clean - and legal. “Nobody owned me. But that all changed on Valentine‘s Day, 1929”. He didn’t know it then, but God had his back…
A few years after the St. Valentine’s Day fiasco, Earl was summoned to Chicago for a specific “assignment”, and was waiting for the “contact ”. A few days after he arrived, he was picking up some pants he’d had pressed. A face he’d seen in the bookie joints and speakeasy’s around town sidled next to him as he approached the steamy laundry. “You’ll need a ride when you’re done here. I’ll wait outside.”
Hoisting his pants above the ground, Earl was ushered into a Cadillac Sedan. A man Dad identified as a “mouthpiece for the owners”, gave him his instructions, then dropped him off about two blocks from where Earl was staying.
“In a nutshell, they wanted me to give a colt an injection. Somebody was betting heavy, and ‘he betta win’ was how it was put to me”. Earl didn’t like it. He didn’t dope horses. He was shrewd and “not squeaky clean” in making his “bosses” money - but he never compromised his love of the animal - and the sport. And nobody had ever asked him to - before.
“Little girl, I prayed hard. I kept remembering what happened on Valentine’s Day - and I knew I was in trouble…I asked the Man up There to get me out of this…and I came up with the craziest thing…”
A few days later, the “face” showed up with a syringe - and Earl said, “We got a problem. I pass out when I see a needle. Can’t do it…” It was the truth. Earl passed out every time he saw a needle - or blood.
The face met him one more time before the race…”If ever you’re late for a race, be late for this one…”
The colt ran - and won. But suspicions triggered an investigation. The horse had been doped and Earl lost his training license. Nobody “noticed” he wasn’t there before the race - and there were witnesses who said they saw him in the paddock alone with the colt. The stain on his reputation was indelible - he was pushed to the peripherals of horse training - unofficially managing, advising, and consulting .
By the end of the 1930’s, Earl was making a living by booking and gambling…and still following the horses around the States. He had “friends” still - but his career was over…
These businessmen “spanked him hard” for not giving that colt the injection - but he thought they took it easy on him because “one of them probably loved horses more than money”. Interestingly, not one of the Valentine’s Day gunmen touched the German Shepherd who was there in the garage…That really touched my Dad…He loved horses. He loved boxing. And he loved dogs…
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Hard Times - The True Story - Part 9
When I was 20, my fiancé - a New Orleans police officer - became enamored with being an undercover narcotics agent - a coveted position which rookies dreamt about. In the Irish Channel, most of the young boys became either cops, priests, or longshoremen. My fiancé was ambitious - eager to escape the “piss and vinegar” squad. My dad and I sat at the kitchen table and I told him about my fiancé’s passion. Soon after our table talk, my fiancé was assigned to a plain-clothes stake out in the French Quarter - and merited his first drug bust. It wasn’t long before he was officially an undercover narcotics cop.
All I said to Daddy about this was, "Thank you". “Keep it under your hat, little girl. I’m betting on this boy…hope he doesn’t let me - and my friends - down”. He didn’t. He became an affluent lawyer and… the District Attorney of New Orleans…
Daddy knew a thing or two about passion. He never forgot when he was a young man, and needed a break. Earl loved two things: horses and boxing. In his early 20’s, standing at about 5”4, and weighing in at 115, some “businessmen” took a chance on him as a jockey. It was a calculated risk - Earl had hung around the racetracks since he was a kid and had a reputation for “just knowing how a horse is thinking and feeling”. He had some success riding, but he couldn’t keep his weight consistent. He retired his silks and was promoted to training and racing horses around the country.
Earl was in Chicago on February 14, 1929, taking care of some horse business with his friends. They put him up in an apartment on Clarke Street while he was in the Windy City. Across the street was an auto garage housed in a warehouse. He decided to take a stroll to a familiar coffee house, and noticed a Cadillac pull up in front of the warehouse. He would have continued walking, but two police officers stepped out of the car, along with two men dressed in plain clothes. They were all carrying Tommy’s…Something was going down…Earlier, Earl had spied some thugs shadowing the halls in his apartment building…that wasn’t unusual. The game in Chicago between Capone and his rivals was escalating, and the teams were setting up their pieces for the chess match. But "Cadillac’s with Cops Carrying Tommy’s" - that cast an ominous chill in Earl’s bones…
All I said to Daddy about this was, "Thank you". “Keep it under your hat, little girl. I’m betting on this boy…hope he doesn’t let me - and my friends - down”. He didn’t. He became an affluent lawyer and… the District Attorney of New Orleans…
Daddy knew a thing or two about passion. He never forgot when he was a young man, and needed a break. Earl loved two things: horses and boxing. In his early 20’s, standing at about 5”4, and weighing in at 115, some “businessmen” took a chance on him as a jockey. It was a calculated risk - Earl had hung around the racetracks since he was a kid and had a reputation for “just knowing how a horse is thinking and feeling”. He had some success riding, but he couldn’t keep his weight consistent. He retired his silks and was promoted to training and racing horses around the country.
Earl was in Chicago on February 14, 1929, taking care of some horse business with his friends. They put him up in an apartment on Clarke Street while he was in the Windy City. Across the street was an auto garage housed in a warehouse. He decided to take a stroll to a familiar coffee house, and noticed a Cadillac pull up in front of the warehouse. He would have continued walking, but two police officers stepped out of the car, along with two men dressed in plain clothes. They were all carrying Tommy’s…Something was going down…Earlier, Earl had spied some thugs shadowing the halls in his apartment building…that wasn’t unusual. The game in Chicago between Capone and his rivals was escalating, and the teams were setting up their pieces for the chess match. But "Cadillac’s with Cops Carrying Tommy’s" - that cast an ominous chill in Earl’s bones…
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Hard Times - Part 8
His Al Pacino character - a contradiction entirely to his Gabriel Byrne side, was consistent with Frank in that “he did it his way”! The law be damned if it didn’t agree with his personal philosophies or politics. He declared often that the “average Joe” carried a lunch box and punched a clock. He was a man, for crying out loud, and a real man had to love what he did - even if it meant breaking an unfair law.
As a kid, he rolled marijuana cigarettes in the backroom of a grocery store, in between stocking the shelves. He got a newspaper route, and made deliveries containing small brown-paper packages rolled up in the classifieds to men with names like “Sam the Snake”, “Joey the Butcher”, and “Louie P”. He was paid handsomely with $20 bills slapped between poor-boy sandwiches from Joey the Butcher, or in a bar napkin next to the Coca-Colas that Sam the Snake served him. Louie P, the grocer, paid him his honest wages…and then some…
The young Earl never peeked at his “deliveries”. “Wouldn’t have been right. Wasn’t my business.” And Daddy wouldn’t let me call these men “mafia” - ever. “Businessmen, little girl. Just businessmen.”
He made friends as a kid with some “influential” New Orleans contacts who had fingers reaching around the United States. I asked Daddy once about how he got the job of bat boy for the New York Yanks, and he said, “Friends, little girl. Just friends.” When I was 18, I was arrested for not being able to prove I was old enough to be in a pub - but I was of legal age. I called my Daddy, and within minutes I was released. Friends, I guess…Just friends…
As a kid, he rolled marijuana cigarettes in the backroom of a grocery store, in between stocking the shelves. He got a newspaper route, and made deliveries containing small brown-paper packages rolled up in the classifieds to men with names like “Sam the Snake”, “Joey the Butcher”, and “Louie P”. He was paid handsomely with $20 bills slapped between poor-boy sandwiches from Joey the Butcher, or in a bar napkin next to the Coca-Colas that Sam the Snake served him. Louie P, the grocer, paid him his honest wages…and then some…
The young Earl never peeked at his “deliveries”. “Wouldn’t have been right. Wasn’t my business.” And Daddy wouldn’t let me call these men “mafia” - ever. “Businessmen, little girl. Just businessmen.”
He made friends as a kid with some “influential” New Orleans contacts who had fingers reaching around the United States. I asked Daddy once about how he got the job of bat boy for the New York Yanks, and he said, “Friends, little girl. Just friends.” When I was 18, I was arrested for not being able to prove I was old enough to be in a pub - but I was of legal age. I called my Daddy, and within minutes I was released. Friends, I guess…Just friends…
Hard Times - Part 7
The “Frank Sinatra” persona was his playful - and vain - self. I remember Daddy standing in the kitchen with a Coca-Cola in one hand, and a Pall Mall in the other, crooning “My Way”, and “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”. He’d boast how “Old Blue Eyes” didn’t have anything on him…and how when he was young, he was mistaken often for Frank…
Dad would dress up for a photo racetrack event - bathe, shave, trim his nails - habits he did not practice on a regular basis. But when he finished the transformation from “bum” to “dandy”, he looked mighty good - and he knew it! There wasn’t a mirror in the shot-gun house that he didn’t admire himself in…He’d spontaneously start snapping his fingers and singing something jazzy - grab Momma and do a spin, then launch into a witty joke - laugh loudly and declare just how entertaining he was! It was times like these, when I could imagine the young “Frank”, cocky and confident - and knew why Momma married him…
Momma said that she first saw him at an uptown New Orleans restaurant. She was delivering pies that her mother baked for many of the local eateries. He was holding court with his buddies and mesmerizing the lip-sticked, doe-eyed girls hanging on his every word. She said that he was “prissy” and too pretty for her taste - and he annoyed the heck out of her the way he kept flipping a silver dollar in the air with his thumb and forefinger. And though she was staring contemptuously at him, he ignored her - purposely it seemed…
Daddy said he noticed her: “For crying out loud, she pulled up to the restaurant driving a big white motorcycle! She was wearing a helmet, pants and a big coat. If it hadn’t been for her breasts, I wouldn’t have known she was a woman.“
His pals razzed him with “Hey, Earl! That’s Eva Mae over there. Five dollars says she wouldn’t give you the time of day. Doesn’t like men…” Earl shook his head “No thanks.” The bet rose to $25 - if he could get her to go out with him - and $50 if she actually kept the date.
He strolled over to her and said, “Eva Mae? My name’s Earl. Those guys over there are betting that you won’t go out with me. They say you don’t like men…” She placed her last pie on the counter, and said, “Tonight. 7pm. At the movie house on Coliseum.”
Earl showed up outside the theater. He was looking down at the match he had struck to light his cigarette, and didn’t notice her approach him. He took a long drag, then felt her breath on his ear as she whispered, “Waiting for somebody?“ She had high-cheeked bones framed by long auburn hair, serious green eyes, and slightly-parted red lips. His eyes fell down her body - the dress - green like her eyes…clung to her breasts and cinched at the small waist. She was wearing heels and had the most beautiful legs he’d ever seen.
Earl won the bet…and Eva Mae.
Dad would dress up for a photo racetrack event - bathe, shave, trim his nails - habits he did not practice on a regular basis. But when he finished the transformation from “bum” to “dandy”, he looked mighty good - and he knew it! There wasn’t a mirror in the shot-gun house that he didn’t admire himself in…He’d spontaneously start snapping his fingers and singing something jazzy - grab Momma and do a spin, then launch into a witty joke - laugh loudly and declare just how entertaining he was! It was times like these, when I could imagine the young “Frank”, cocky and confident - and knew why Momma married him…
Momma said that she first saw him at an uptown New Orleans restaurant. She was delivering pies that her mother baked for many of the local eateries. He was holding court with his buddies and mesmerizing the lip-sticked, doe-eyed girls hanging on his every word. She said that he was “prissy” and too pretty for her taste - and he annoyed the heck out of her the way he kept flipping a silver dollar in the air with his thumb and forefinger. And though she was staring contemptuously at him, he ignored her - purposely it seemed…
Daddy said he noticed her: “For crying out loud, she pulled up to the restaurant driving a big white motorcycle! She was wearing a helmet, pants and a big coat. If it hadn’t been for her breasts, I wouldn’t have known she was a woman.“
His pals razzed him with “Hey, Earl! That’s Eva Mae over there. Five dollars says she wouldn’t give you the time of day. Doesn’t like men…” Earl shook his head “No thanks.” The bet rose to $25 - if he could get her to go out with him - and $50 if she actually kept the date.
He strolled over to her and said, “Eva Mae? My name’s Earl. Those guys over there are betting that you won’t go out with me. They say you don’t like men…” She placed her last pie on the counter, and said, “Tonight. 7pm. At the movie house on Coliseum.”
Earl showed up outside the theater. He was looking down at the match he had struck to light his cigarette, and didn’t notice her approach him. He took a long drag, then felt her breath on his ear as she whispered, “Waiting for somebody?“ She had high-cheeked bones framed by long auburn hair, serious green eyes, and slightly-parted red lips. His eyes fell down her body - the dress - green like her eyes…clung to her breasts and cinched at the small waist. She was wearing heels and had the most beautiful legs he’d ever seen.
Earl won the bet…and Eva Mae.
Hard Times - the True Story - Part 6
The character “Chaney” donned a jockey cap - just like Dad’s. It was as much a totem of Hard Times as his characteristic Florsheims. He grew up in the Irish Channel of New Orleans - where Italians were eschewed. Wearing the cap identified him as bonified Irish blood. The truth is, he was as much Italian as he was Irish - 50/50. His father changed his surname “da Vinci” to Vince because of the animosity toward “Dagos”, after the war. (Dad had a quip whenever he was “accused” of being a “Dago”: “Day goes, and night comes…”). He simply wouldn’t engage about his Italian ancestry.
Born “Oliver Earl Anthony Vince”, his name reflected his mixed - and suspicious heritage. His sister insisted that they were Spanish and Irish - without a lick of Italian. Daddy looked every bit Irish with his cold black hair, clear blue eyes, pale rosy complexion, and petite features. And he sure loved whiskey, horses, backstreet fighting, superstitions…and long yawns of days past…
But the Italian blood was evident, too…As he aged, his face morphed continuously from Gabriel Byrne, to Frank Sinatra, to Al Pacino - each persona subtly ebbing and flowing into each other. Ironically, as his features transitioned from Irish-to Italian-to Irish again, so did his idiosyncrasies!
His “Gabriel Byrne” personality was replete with the Irish Catholic aura of religious mysteries:
He saw “dead people” - and talked to them, too.
He titled God, “The Big Man Up There”, and never made any plans without saying, “God willing, I will do this or that…”
He despised immodesty in women, vulgar talk or obscenities - and pontificated on always being truthful.
On his wedding night, he offered to God the sacrifice of abstinence, (for which his bride rebelled by dancing the evening away in a bar with sailors… and never forgave him…). When his wife was too old to get pregnant, he refused to be intimate with her because he was convicted that “sex is for the purpose of child bearing”.
He studied Bishop Sheen’s writings until the paperbacks were brown and yellow from coffee smears and age.
His response to hard times in life was, “The people in hell want ice water. Won’t do any good to complain here, either.”
He prayed…a lot. ( I have a letter he wrote to me about his prayer life which I cherish).
His children were all baptized into the Catholic Church, and he obediently enrolled each into parochial schools. (Only his youngest - me - survived the strict regiment of discipline and education through high school). Daddy raised his two daughters and son with a belt and dictatorship; he was determined that we would be moral and virtuous. He tolerated his Baptist wife’s faith as long as it didn’t negate the “true faith”. He wasn’t a regular church-going guy, or a Bible reader - he might have been more sinner than saint - but anybody who knew him discovered quickly that God was the only one Hard Times answered to.
Born “Oliver Earl Anthony Vince”, his name reflected his mixed - and suspicious heritage. His sister insisted that they were Spanish and Irish - without a lick of Italian. Daddy looked every bit Irish with his cold black hair, clear blue eyes, pale rosy complexion, and petite features. And he sure loved whiskey, horses, backstreet fighting, superstitions…and long yawns of days past…
But the Italian blood was evident, too…As he aged, his face morphed continuously from Gabriel Byrne, to Frank Sinatra, to Al Pacino - each persona subtly ebbing and flowing into each other. Ironically, as his features transitioned from Irish-to Italian-to Irish again, so did his idiosyncrasies!
His “Gabriel Byrne” personality was replete with the Irish Catholic aura of religious mysteries:
He saw “dead people” - and talked to them, too.
He titled God, “The Big Man Up There”, and never made any plans without saying, “God willing, I will do this or that…”
He despised immodesty in women, vulgar talk or obscenities - and pontificated on always being truthful.
On his wedding night, he offered to God the sacrifice of abstinence, (for which his bride rebelled by dancing the evening away in a bar with sailors… and never forgave him…). When his wife was too old to get pregnant, he refused to be intimate with her because he was convicted that “sex is for the purpose of child bearing”.
He studied Bishop Sheen’s writings until the paperbacks were brown and yellow from coffee smears and age.
His response to hard times in life was, “The people in hell want ice water. Won’t do any good to complain here, either.”
He prayed…a lot. ( I have a letter he wrote to me about his prayer life which I cherish).
His children were all baptized into the Catholic Church, and he obediently enrolled each into parochial schools. (Only his youngest - me - survived the strict regiment of discipline and education through high school). Daddy raised his two daughters and son with a belt and dictatorship; he was determined that we would be moral and virtuous. He tolerated his Baptist wife’s faith as long as it didn’t negate the “true faith”. He wasn’t a regular church-going guy, or a Bible reader - he might have been more sinner than saint - but anybody who knew him discovered quickly that God was the only one Hard Times answered to.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Hard Times - The Yankie Bat Boy
Daddy dictated this story to Momma...It is amazing!
I have a baseball which belonged to Daddy...but it is all smeared and I am not certain it is the one the Yankies gave him...I played with it as a kid...
Daddy was quite the storyteller, and Momma was quite the writer. The two of them collaborated on this story...Much like I am doing from my memories to tell Daddy's stories...
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Hard Times - the True Story - Part 5
Hard Times - the True Story - Part 5
Hard Times lifted up his gray tweed jockey cap to scratch his head, then dropped the butt and quenched it with a polished Florsheim. Bronson took one more puff, then lit another cigarette.
“I got some time…”
He watched that day. He studied llBrutto. They smoked and talked during the frequent breaks…At dusk, Hard Times shook Bronson’s hand, tipped his cap, and walked off the set. He didn’t return…he didn’t go to the movie when it was released. His kids saw the movie - and wondered why he never got a penny for it…or even a mention that it was “based on the true story of Earl A. Vince, aka ‘Hard Times’” …
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
HARD TIMES - THE TRUE STORY - Part 1
The True Story of “Hard Times” - Part 1
Before the States-Item, or the Times-Picayune reported that the film was on location in New Orleans, he had gotten wind of the news at the racetrack. One of the sports writers in the press room had pulled him aside and told him that there was a movie being made in New Orleans with his name - his turf name - “Hard Times”.
He looked like his track tag, with clothes as loose and wrinkled as the skin on his face. His nose touted a few breaks, as did his knuckles. His eyes were unforgettable. They were a shocking blue - like pure, crystal waters - with an undercurrent of strength and pain. When the young man mentioned that the film was about an Irish street fighter during the Depression, the old man’s blue eyes narrowed and penetrated the messenger’s eyes. “Who’s playing the fists”? he asked, as he pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The writer divulged another scoop saying, “Charles Bronson.”. Hard Times put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, looked away from the cub reporter, and said, “Bet the Number 2 horse in the 5th. Keep it under your hat”.
He hung around until the 5th race, collected his winnings on the number 2 horse, then found a vacant phone booth. He pulled a small spiral notebook from his change pocket, located a penciled entry, then dropped some coins into the phone’s metal mouth. He dialed slowly, enjoying the clicking sounds. He lit a cigarette, took a puff, and put his notebook back in his pocket. “Judge? Hard Times. I need a favor…”
As he was leaving the track, heading for one of the two busses it would take to get him back uptown, he heard his name being yelled. “Hard Times! Slow down”! He kept walking. “Hard Times! Damn it, man. I know you need a ride home”! The old man wasn’t in the mood to spend the next 20 minutes dodging sharing his picks for tomorrow’s races. He never lied. And he never betrayed the owners and jockeys confidentialities, either. He only gave that stuff out to his paying customers…and sometimes as a favor - like with that baby-faced reporter. “Don’t need a ride. Stopping for a shoe shine”. Hard Times kept walking…"
Hopefully, I'll add to the above memoir of my father, as I am inspired!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
HARD TIMES - The True Story - Part 4
HARD TIMES - THE TRUE STORY - Part 4
(continued from Decemer 11, 2010 blog...)The two men came face to face - thirsty blue eyes searching hungry gray-green ones - both men vulnerable to each other’s souls…Neither one politely glancing away…neither one afraid of being seen. Two street dogs sizing each other up - instinctively sensing destiny - and concluding that each was a worthy contender…To clinch the “deal”, they gripped hands and…came out fighting!
“Bronson, you are one ugly man”, said Hard Times.
“Yeah. My nickname in Rome is ’llBrutto’. Means ’ugly one’. I earned it”.
“Yeah”, Hard Times nodded at him, then reached for his Pall Malls.
“How did you get your nickname?”, Bronson asked, as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and struck a match for the both of them.
“Earned it”.
“Yeah…”
To be continued...
Saturday, December 11, 2010
HARD TIMES - The True Story - Part 3
HARD TIMES - THE TRUE STORY - Part 3
(continued from December 10, 2010 blog post...)
Now, at 65 years old - with still a full head of silver and black hair - he was going to meet the actor who was going to portray him. He had never heard of Charles Bronson - the last movie he’d seen was “The Ten Commandments”.
He strode onto the set like he owned it…This was his town, his life - and his story…
A cop stopped him - annoyed that he’d ignored him at the gate. “Got a pass, sir?” Hard Times stared him down, and shook his head “no”. The “badge” said, “Nobody enters without one…sir.” The old man gestured a knobby-knuckled finger for the officer to lean close. Then Hard Times spoke one word to him…the cop nodded and avoided the blue eyes piercing him…Hard Times passed through the gate…
He knew people. Important people. Really important people. He didn’t take advantage of his connections, but when he needed a favor - like getting on the film site of this movie and having “a little chat with a guy named Bronson” - a phone call was all it took…
Hard Times spotted some cameras, and with his characteristic fast walk, he weaved between the crowded site, and confidently positioned himself beside a boom man. “Which one of these guys is Bronson? I got a date with him in 15 minutes.” The man told Hard Times to go talk to “the guy over there” - pointing to the director. He walked over and caught the director’s eye - he had a knack of getting a person’s attention without saying a word - it was as if he willed another to look at him…
“My name’s Hard Times. Which one of these guys is Bronson?” The director pulled his eyes away from the old man, and yelled: “Charlie! Hard Times is here! Take a break…” The director turned back and shook his hand. “Sir. It is a real pleasure to meet you…Let me introduce you to Bronson…”
Hard Times chuckled to himself, “Yeah, the Judge must have made a few calls and done a little talking…”
(To be continued...)
Friday, December 10, 2010
HARD TIMES - THE TRUE STORY - Part 2
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| Daddy at Home with Muff & Me 1976 |
THE TRUE STORY OF HARD TIMES - Part 2
He sat on the “shoe throne” on Magazine Street, reading the States-Item. He had a philosophy about shoes: “I walk miles in a day - some people buy a Cadillac to get around - I buy Florsheim - the best damn pair of shoes a man can own. And I keep ‘em shined and buffed. Shoes tell a lot about a man…”
Few know the reason why Hard Times didn’t own a car. Most presumed that he was too broke to buy one…the truth is, he had made a promise to God in the late 1930’s that he would never drive again…He had been in love with a woman - Eva Mae Smith - the only woman he had ever loved. But he wasn’t the marrying kind - and she wasn’t any other kind! He was having the time of his life traveling around the states following the horses he trained - and having a little tryst with Mary Pickford. Mary was a silver screen icon and took a real fancy to him. The two of them were pretty fiery - their spats were public and even made it into the newspapers. That’s how Eva Mae found out - and what triggered the whole “I’ll never drive again” vow…
Eva Mae - a pretty fiery gal herself - lowered the boom: “It’s over, Earl.” She was ten years younger than him, quite the beauty, and just as stubborn as him. She had values - never slept with him or even allowed any lingering kisses - and that was one of the things Hard Times loved about her. They were in his little yellow coupe, parked on St. Charles Avenue, when Eva Mae ended their four year on-and-off affair. She squeezed out of the tiny car, took off her heels, and walked away. Earl knew she meant what she said. He knew what he had to do to get her back. But he couldn’t - he just couldn’t settle down in one town with one woman and work a nine-to-five crappy job…
“Life ain’t worth living without her. It ain’t worth living with her, either”, is how my Daddy described his decision dilemma that day. On impulse, he drove his little coupe directly onto the rails of an on-coming street-car…It was a miracle that he survived!
“The Big Man in the Sky saved me that day…I told Him, “I ain’t ever driving again - and I’m gonna marry that woman.” He never did drive again. And he married that woman…
My memoirs of Daddy to be continued...
Thursday, December 9, 2010
HARD TIMES - The True Story
The plaque reads:
DAN COHEN TROPHY
ORPHAN SHOW
4-22-32
E. VINCE
Momma always displayed this trophy in the "front room"...She often feigned indifference to dad's passions - like boxing, and the horses...but she was proud of him!
The trophy is old, even when I was a kid - it was a time-worn bronze and pewter. Momma decided to "spruce" it up with some silver paint and gold leaf. I tried to have it restored, but the cost was prohibitive. It remains today in my home, just the way Momma painted it...
When Daddy died, it was one of the few memoirs I coveted of him...
One of Daddy's stories about his "glory days" is how he got the name "Hard Times". In his twenties, he boxed as a bantam weight prize fighter. One night, he was getting pounded - taking a lot of fists to his face. He had a "following" of young women, (yep, Ole Blue Eyes was a player back in the day!). One of the gals was crying, and in between sobs, was pleading "Stop hitting his beautiful face"! In response to her torment, a man in the crowd comforted her with a nod and yelled: "He's having hard times..."
It fascinates me how that mundane moment in time became my father's prophetic destiny for the next 50 years...
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The True Story of "Hard Times" - Part 1
The True Story of “Hard Times”
Before the States-Item, or the Times-Picayune reported that the film was on location in New Orleans, he had gotten wind of the news at the racetrack. One of the sports writers in the press room had pulled him aside and told him that there was a movie being made in New Orleans with his name - his turf name - “Hard Times”.
He looked like his track tag, with clothes as loose and wrinkled as the skin on his face. His nose touted a few breaks, as did his knuckles. His eyes were unforgettable. They were a shocking blue - like pure, crystal waters - with an undercurrent of strength and pain. When the young man mentioned that the film was about an Irish street fighter during the Depression, the old man’s blue eyes narrowed and penetrated the messenger’s eyes. “Who’s playing the fists”? he asked, as he pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The writer divulged another scoop saying, “Charles Bronson.”. Hard Times put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, looked away from the cub reporter, and said, “Bet the Number 2 horse in the 5th. Keep it under your hat”.
He hung around until the 5th race, collected his winnings on the number 2 horse, then found a vacant phone booth. He pulled a small spiral notebook from his change pocket, located a penciled entry, then dropped some coins into the phone’s metal mouth. He dialed slowly, enjoying the clicking sounds. He lit a cigarette, took a puff, and put his notebook back in his pocket. “Judge? Hard Times. I need a favor…”
As he was leaving the track, heading for one of the two busses it would take to get him back uptown, he heard his name being yelled. “Hard Times! Slow down”! He kept walking. “Hard Times! Damn it, man. I know you need a ride home”! He wasn’t in the mood to spend the next 20 minutes dodging sharing his picks for tomorrow’s races. He never lied. And he never betrayed the owners and jockeys confidentialities, either. He only gave that stuff out to his paying customers…and sometimes as a favor - like with that baby-faced reporter. “Don’t need a ride. Stopping for a shoe shine”. Hard Times kept walking…
Hopefully, I'll find the time to add more memoirs to this blog about my father...
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