Crist’s Restaurant

It was always near midnight on those occasional, deliciously warm Pennsylvania summer evenings when Mom and I left the restaurant and walked up 12th Avenue toward home.

Her name was Emma, the eldest of five children born and raised in the Pennsylvania hills.

In 1931, she married my father, James, also a Pennsylvania hillbilly. He died in 1958, before I was old enough to start school. The government’s final accounting of his service—and, it seemed, of his life—was a one-time veteran’s benefit of $150, paid to his widow as she faced raising her children alone.

As Mom’s shift waiting tables from 3 to 11 p.m. at Crist’s came to an end, I would help Walter, the cook, and Joe, the dishwasher, finish their work in the kitchen while she attended to the dining room and the counter.

Never in all the time she worked there did she say anything negative about her job. She smiled; her customers adored her, and she put everything she had into doing the job the right way.

When the evening’s work was finished, good old Dugan handed me my paycheck—which amounted to a Peppermint Patty from the candy case beside the register.

Dugan, a longtime acquaintance of Crist, the restaurant’s owner, served as the evening host and cashier, and he was the one who locked the door behind us as Mom retrieved a cigarette from her purse.

The Walk Home

We strolled up the avenue, passing the famous Mishler Theatre, Altoona’s old vaudeville-era playhouse. It was the kind of place that gave the city its show-business reputation of the early 1900s, and it later appeared in the title of George Burns’s memoir, Living It Up; or, They Still Love Me in Altoona!

As we passed its doors, the smoke from Mom’s cigarette lingered behind us in the still night air, an ethereal, ghostlike wisp that lengthened as we walked. In it, I imagined the spirits of audiences past waiting for the doors to open once again—to hear George deliver one of his choppy monologues, fat cigar held between his fingers.

We crossed the empty avenue, where Mom paused to light another cigarette and study the window displays in Gable’s Department Store. So many things lay beyond the reach of her meager wages and tips, but, as always, it’s the dream that counts. Standing beside her, I imagined the great stores—Macy’s and others—that filled all those fine old films of the fifties, starring the likes of Grant, Cagney, and Stewart.

When she had finished dreaming, we crossed the avenue again to look at the “specials” posted in the windows of the A&P as we continued our stroll toward home.

As we moved through the next block, the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament squatted on Gospel Hill behind us. To me, its massive Renaissance form was a monolithic reminder of the Roman threat to conquer the world.

At the end of the block, we turned onto 15th Street for the final leg toward home.

Pal-Mino’s Pizza

Awaiting us along that final stretch was Altoona’s pièce de résistance: Pal-Mino’s Pizza, which, without doubt, offered that undiscovered flavor from whose bourn all travelers return. Its thick, chewy-crusted, cheese-laden pizza came Chicago-style—twenty-four delicious squares to a sheet, each with a pepperoni at its center. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

The red-pepper flakes sat on the counter alongside a shaker of extra Parmesan, if you wished. But the true delight was the hour at which it was served. If we arrived close to midnight—closing time—they would give us whatever was left on the sheet, free of charge, making the pizza taste all the more rewarding.

Carrying our box of however many pieces—still oven-hot because our house was less than a hundred yards from the shop—we arrived home.

Home

Home was where Mom’s heart was.

It was an old Victorian house built in the late 1800s, one of many of its kind in Altoona. Today it stands empty and condemned at the dead end of 16th Street on 14th Avenue. But sixty years ago, dressed in vinyl siding and paint, it was the home of her dreams.

The crumbling concrete walk and railing leading to the front porch remained unchanged for as long as we lived there.

But the interior was her true dream: beautiful antique woodwork throughout, hardwood floors, and heavy pocket doors separating the living areas. It even had a servant’s staircase leading to the galley kitchen at the back of the main hallway.

The entrance was a small vestibule between the outer and inner doors. A small bench stood against each wall, where one could sit to remove boots; above each bench was a hook for coats. They were elegant remnants of a period when the house would have been considered thoroughly modern and fashionable.

That house represented everything Mom had loved and dreamed of since her days growing up in the hills and working the farm—a dream she and her husband never had the chance to achieve together.

Once inside, Mom would kick off her shoes, drop her purse on the table, and fetch glasses for our Pepsi. Then we would repair to the front porch to devour our midnight repast.

Passing Into Memory

Talking between bites, we carried on a slow and easy conversation about nothing and everything: what I had done during the day, what time I had gotten out of bed, and who I had been spending time with—typical mother-and-son talk.

At the time, I think I was about fourteen, an age when there were so many things I could not—and many more I would not—tell her, if you know anything of what it was like to be a teenager back then.

More important than what I could not tell her, however, was everything I should have asked about her life, her dreams, and her history. Because I never asked, I know little to nothing about my grandparents, my father’s people, or even my father himself.

Sadly, it never entered my selfish, immature mind to ask.

When we finished—with me, at that age, there were never leftovers—I would remove two cigarettes from her pack, light both, and hand one to her as though we were in a Cary Grant–Grace Kelly movie and the champagne was about to be served. We sat and talked until her yawn carried her off to bed.

Those teenage years passed far too quickly. Beyond those hours spent with her, there is little I miss about them—and far too much I regret.

Not doing the things I should have. Not treating my mother with the respect she deserved. Not being as attentive to her needs as I could and should have been.

Sadly, the past is easily recalled but impossible to change. As we age, those memories can turn into guilt and longing that make it difficult to sleep.

The best I can do now is tell how pleasant and calming it was to be in her company—and how wonderful it is to recall that quiet midnight hour: just the two of us, eating, drinking, and even smoking together.

She never once ridiculed or lectured, and I never once heard her complain. Memories like these are rare for me, which makes them all the more precious whenever they return—or visit me in one sweet dream or another.