Several years earlier, my father had maimed his right hand at the E-J shoe factory in our old neighborhood in West Endicott, New York, but although he had only one useful hand, he always tried to find work. When mom died of leukemia last autumn, Aunt Beaners and Uncle Arty had been kind enough to take us in so Dad could work, which is how we ended up in Buffalo.
Beaners never yelled at us. She must have read a book on "polite discipline" because she would say things like, “Lefty, the next time you attempt to wash your hair with spaghetti, you should use your noodle instead.” Or, “Children, if you decide to burn your fingers again while toasting marshmallows with Uncle Arty"s cigarette lighter, you should first ask his permission to use it.”
At times Beaners would miss the point altogethe
