Bill's Story Part 3: Joining The National Guard

In honor of Veterans Day this week, here is another excerpt from Bill’s story, told with his signature New Jersey candor and sense of humor.

I graduated from high school in 1960, and my brother and I played baseball all that summer. Ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to play baseball, so Joe and I played together on semi-pro teams during that season. He was a catcher, and I played outfield, usually center field. We were Yankee fans. Mickey Mantle was my favorite, and Joe’s was Yogi Berra.

We had a great time, but when that next September came around, I was looking for a job. I’d go to all these places, get the applications, and then I didn’t know how to fill them out, because I was a horrible speller. I learned certain tricks in order to complete the applications, and I kept looking, but nobody would hire me.

I wanted to stay home and play baseball, but I needed money, and I didn’t want to get drafted. At one point, I had to report to the Army draft board, where they’d give you a medical exam and decide if they wanted you or not. I was real shy, but everyone had to stand in a big circle and take all their clothes off.

Then the doctor went around the circle, and told everyone, “Bend over and spread your cheeks.”

I had heard that this would happen so I was prepared. I don’t know what the doctor was looking for, but it was so embarrassing.

I didn’t get drafted into the regular Army, but in November of 1960, I decided to join the Army National Guard. I went to Fort Dix for nine weeks of basic training. It was January in New Jersey, so it was cold, and it was snowing on our trip out there.

When we first arrived, we had to go through this line and get measured for our uniforms. They gave us overcoats and these crazy looking baseball caps. I wore a jacket from the Second World War. I was going, What the heck? We ended up looking like prisoners of war with the stuff they gave us, although they did give us some nice fur hats.

I only weighed a hundred and fifty five pounds when I started in the Army, but we were allowed to eat as much as we wanted, as long as we ate all our food within the given time period. If somebody sitting next to you didn’t want something, you could ask if they’d give it to you.

We had to run everywhere during training. We called it, “hurry up and wait.” It was double time out to the field, and then we’d have to wait for the sergeants, who came out in jeeps. The instructors didn’t have to run like us, but our sergeant did. His name was Sergeant Ortiz. He was in his forties, and he had been in the Second World War and the Korean War.

It was always so cold, and we’d asked him, “When can we put our earmuffs down?”

He told us, “When I do.”

And he never put his earmuffs down.

He was able to teach us a lot because of his experience in the wars, particularly the Korean War, which was horrible and cold. People actually froze to death in position holding their weapons. So he never put his earmuffs down, and he always had his collar open. He taught us hygiene things when we were out in the field, as well as other things, like how to shoot a weapon.

When I left basic training at Fort Dix, I was up to one hundred seventy five pounds. My legs were so thick, and I couldn’t button my jacket. Sergeant Ortiz had said, “If you’re skinny, you’re going to put on weight. If you’re fat, you’re going to lose weight.”

And he was right.

Once I was done with all my training, the sergeants wanted me to re-up to the regular Army, but I didn’t, and I left. I still had the remainder of my National Guard service to fulfill, and eventually I became a supply sergeant. I made sure to take good care of everyone, and in return, they took care of me.

Some of them did, however, also think I was a little nutty, especially when I drove trucks. One time I had these new guys with me, and I took them on a drive in a two and half ton truck. We were driving on all these rough dirt roads, and eventually we had to turn around to do something. I ended up deciding to cut through the woods.

I said, “We’ll go here.”

They looked at me like I was crazy and said, “That’s not a road, Schlegel!”

I said, “Yes it is.”

Well, I didn’t know it, but I had left the truck’s emergency brake on. The wheels were smoking and the breaks were burning. I kept driving along, bouncing off a bunch of trees, and I ended up breaking the windshield. By the time we got to the maintenance shop, the thing was really smoking.

The maintenance guy took one look at me and said, “Come here and give me your helmet.” He put water in it and poured water on the burning brakes. He was a nice guy. He said, “Hey, don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of the windshield.”

I didn’t get in trouble. But the guys who were in the truck with me were like, “You’re crazy.” The truth was that I didn’t actually have a driver’s license. They don’t ask about that when you’re in the Army. They don’t care, because they train you how to do everything.

Eventually, I learned how to drive and got my license when I was twenty-three. The National Guard was a good experience overall, and it made me think that the United States should do what they do in Israel, where everyone goes through basic training. I was glad I did it, and it taught me things I remembered for the rest of my life.

Bill's Story Part 2: First Kiss and Other Adventures in Catholic School

Here is another excerpt of my father-in-law Bill’s life story. Our manuscript is a work in progress, and we’ve got about 150 pages thus far. It’s been a real pleasure getting to learn so much about him. The photo is Bill on the day of his First Communion. What follows are some of his early memories attending the local Catholic school down the street from his childhood home in Jersey City, New Jersey. Enjoy!

I started kindergarten when I was four years old. A friend of mine, Tommy Katz, had his birthday in April, and he went to school the following semester in September like I should have done. Eventually I figured out that I should have waited to start school until the next year, because I was always really behind. I couldn’t spell and I couldn’t really read, so I just kept quiet, and did what I could.

I attended St. Bridget’s, a Catholic school in our neighborhood. We walked to school, and we had half days. For the first five months, I’d go to St. Bridget’s in the mornings. Then for the second semester, I went in the afternoons. I hated that. My mom used to have to chase me down to get me to go.

For the first grade, my teacher was Sister Elizabeth, who was very pretty. The Sisters wore those black habits, where all you could see was their face. Everything was covered, but I swear they had four thousand pockets in there, because they’d pull out all kinds of crazy things.

In second grade, I had Sister Anette. She was a little, petite, pretty lady, but I don’t remember much about that year. I always was quiet. You had to fold your hands on the desk, and if you screwed around, the Sisters would whack you with their rulers. Or they’d take you to the principal’s office, and you’d get whacked again.

The principal was Sister Mary, and her office was right across from the third grade classroom. I sat in the front because I was real short, so I was right by the door where I could look into her office. Inside there, I saw all of these cabinets lining the walls from floor to ceiling, and the ceiling was like twelve feet high. Everyone used to spread rumors that she had a cat of nine tales, a whip, and all these old torture instruments in the cabinets. If you got called into her office, you’d look around and wonder which cabinet held the torture instruments. Your mind travels like that in those situations. Luckily, I only had to go a few times.

I remember a lot of the third grade, because I was there twice. When I went back to school after the summer following third grade, I discovered that I was in the same class and had been held back. I had Sister Grace as a teacher both times. She was very hairy, with a black mustache, and she was strict but nice.

I was still short, so I sat in the front, and there was a group of big kids in the back. They were there when I started third grade the first time, and they were still there when I started the second time around. There was Raymond Mooney, Charles Castle, and a kid named Louis. I went all the way to the eighth grade with them. They all looked like men, and one kid even looked like Bela Lugosi, the guy that played Frankenstein.

There were a few reasons I got held back for the third grade. I was sick a lot back then. Our apartment wasn’t very big, and whatever sickness my brothers or sisters got, I got too. Whooping cough, measles, chickenpox, you name it.

I also used to sneak out a lot at night. The first time I did it was in first grade. I don’t know how late it was, but when everyone in my family went to sleep, I’d go outside. The big guys were always out- sixteen, seventeen-year old kids in the neighborhood. They’d tell me to do stupid stuff, saying things like, “Hey Bill, go up on that car and jump up and down.” I’d do it, because I was a little kid and I wanted to be part of the group. Then I’d go back home, and I was tired during class the next day.

 I was always in the lowest groups, and one day Sister Grace asked Mary, a beautiful girl in my class, to go sit with me to help me read. I was so excited, but then, when she sat down and started reading, she had horrible breath. I thought to myself, “Oh gosh, that kills everything. That’s the end of that one.” No more crush on Mary.

Then, there was a girl named Jeanie. She was very pretty, and she was my first kiss. Her and I used to kiss each other all the time. Tommy Samon used to find us kissing down in the basement in the apartments. He’d look through the keyhole in the door and say, “Hey, I saw you!” and we’d get embarrassed. After that, we never hung around or anything, because the next year she was grade ahead of me.

 When I brought home the first report card of the school year, my dad looked and it and said, “Third grade? Weren’t you in third grade last year?” I said, “Yeah, but I got held back.” He asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, “Well, you didn’t ask.” My dad didn’t know I had been held back for a grade.

Bill's Story Part 1: Growing Up In Jersey

If you've ever met my father-in-law, Bill Schlegel, then you know that he is quite a guy. The son of Hungarian and German first-generation Americans, Bill grew up in Jersey City, New Jersey. He is one of those rare diamonds in the rough, an inspiring success story of a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks creating an extraordinary life for himself through grit, relentless positivity, and good old-fashioned hard work. It's been a real privilege getting to sit down with him and listen to his story. What follows below is a brief excerpt from our earlier interviews, and a sampling of our manuscript in progress. Enjoy!

I was in my mom’s belly on the day they bombed Pearl Harbor. It was December 1, 1941, and I wasn’t born until February 13, 1942. Later in life, I would to tease the kids I worked with as a teacher that when I was born, I came out with a machine gun, a helmet and combat boots. The kids would laugh. But it was the truth.

I was born in Jersey City, New Jersey, and I was named after my dad, who was also William Joseph. My family lived in the same apartment for my whole life, until the building was finally condemned in the '70s and they had to move. It was a railroad apartment, long and narrow, with three small bedrooms and one bathroom all in a row. The apartment was about fifteen feet wide, with tall, ten foot ceilings, and you could fit a 9x12 rug in the living room. Each room was connected to the next by a door, and my dad removed the doors to help keep the place warm. There was no privacy.

My sisters, Corinne and Barbara, shared a room, and my two brothers and I shared a room. The kitchen was right next to our bedroom, and my mom and dad’s room was also the living room. The only place we had heat was in the kitchen. 

Needless to say, we were really poor. Food, however, was one thing my mom and dad always provided. And while we always had enough, we were hungry all the time.  We ate Spam a lot because it was cheap, and we became pretty creative when it came to food. 

My brother Joe and I used to put white bread on the stovetop instead of in the toaster, and we’d burn it on one side and turn it over. Then we’d rub a garlic clove on it and put bacon fat on top because it was salty. It was like garlic bread. Joe and I could make it anytime because we always had a jar of bacon fat in the fridge. We’d go outside and Joey Cazenza would be there playing cards with a bunch of the other big guys in the neighborhood. 

When we approached, Joey would say, "Man, who stinks?"

I'd respond, “Joe and I just had bread with garlic.” 

“Well, you guys stink,” he said. 

But we never thought about it. I don't remember all of us stinking, but I’m sure we did. We were dirty, and we had to make due with what we had. Being poor, however, also made us resourceful. From the time Joe and I were about five or six years old, we found ways to make some extra money. We’d run errands for people, shovel snow, or shine shoes, and sometimes we’d even pool our resources and partner with a couple other kids in the neighborhood.

Joe and I would save things like newspapers, copper, and brass in the basement. We’d borrow a little flatbed wagon, and we’d go collect them from the neighbors. Then we’d stack it all and take it to the rag shop about five blocks away, where they’d weigh it all and give us about two cents a pound. Glass bottles would fetch about a nickel each if we took them back. Errands for the neighbors would pay about a quarter. Gerty from upstairs on the fourth floor would send us out to buy her Parliament cigarettes for twenty-five cents a pack, and another neighbor would send us to the liquor store four blocks up the hill to buy their wine. We were just little kids, but everybody knew everybody, so we were able to get away with it. 

My favorite thing to buy with the extra money I’d make was food- especially candy. I loved to buy bitza bread from Chris and Sally Vitalli’s corner store. The bread was round with a hole in it, and we’d make pizza with it using swiss cheese, oregano chips, and Progresso pizza sauce. I’d go to the store and buy sliced pork or turkey and a quarter of bread. It was seven cents for a bottle for Pepsi Cola, and the Coca Cola was six ounces for the same price, so naturally we’d get the Pepsi Cola. We’d buy those extra long pretzels for a penny, and we’d stick it in the bottle of soda. It would fizz from the salt and we’d chew it when it got soft. 

We used to get together with all the guys in the neighborhood: Andrew Demore and his cousin, Gigi; Harold Claire, whom we called Oakey; Joey Lazaro; and my brother Joe and I. They nicknamed me Dry Gulch, from some cowboy movie. We’d all go to Peppi’s Italian Restaurant, about three blocks up from Montgomery. We’d buy a dozen muscles in tomato sauce for a dollar and a quarter, along with the long Italian bread. The bread was so good fresh, but if it was a day old, you could kill somebody with it, because it was as hard as wood. The meal came with all the butter you could eat, and we’d dunk the bread in the tomato sauce. Then we’d buy a pitcher of root beer, and we were set. 

We also liked go to the Chinese Kitchen, up on Bergen Avenue. It was upstairs, and the whole second floor of the building was the restaurant. There were China-looking tables, and Chinese stuff all around. We’d sit in one of the booths, and we’d always get their green tea, making sure to put extra sugar in it because we didn’t like the taste. They always gave you as much as you could drink. We’d order shrimp chow mein, and they’d give us as many fried noodles as we wanted. We loved soda with our meals, and then as we got older, it would be pitchers of beer. 

We were probably about eight or nine years old at the time. Anytime we had money, we would do things like that, because we were always hungry, and it was a real treat. And while we always had enough food to get by, other things, like clothes, were always kind of shaky.