The magic of the St Francis de Sales bazaar
Samantha Winter
Just one of those things, it’s one of those crazy things, a trip to the moon on gossamer wings, just one of those things.
Wednesday, June 18th, 2025, not so foggy anymore. The sun is beaming, the temperature is going up, I’m dictating this in an elevator going down.
So I’ve taken to putting my phone on do not disturb during the day so I’m not disturbed by various calls. There have been many spam calls coming through and I’ve decided to do something about it damn it hahaha.
I’m not at the beck and call of anybody anymore, really, except for maybe Bill. I am content. It was somebody that I would call, and they would be unavailable, so instead of sweating that, I decided to apply the same methods to my own madness, and here it is.
Sitting on 5th Avenue once again, just staring out into space and dictating into my phone. Last night I spoke to my sister-in-law Elaine and it went well she’s a pleasure to speak to he found some things in Frank’s old coats bomber jackets and I said I would take them from her I got to work that out somehow, get my ass out to Garfield.
Walking to work this morning, crossing 14th Street and up 5th Avenue, and for some reason I was struck by a memory of the bazaar that my grammar school, St Francis de Sales, used to have back in the day. They would set up while school was in session, and of cours,e none of the children, at least I could not focus on the school work that was being presented to me, I was too drawn to the amusements that were being set up outside, just mere feet away from my desk. How dare they expect me to pay attention to the schoolwork!
One of the last memories of that magical time was my mother giving me a brown change purse so I could have some money to ride on the rides. In the hindsight of 50 years, I recognize that money was tight family of six. The minimum wage was a buck something, she gave me a couple of hours of work, at least the wage.
I remember Frank Mallia’s father being an adult supervisor of sorts, and he was a nut job, but a pleasant one.
And Samantha Winter, she popped up in my head this morning. She passed away in the early days of the pandemic, but not from COVID-19 but from a brain aneurysm that occurred when she was sleeping.
She was a nice enough person, perhaps a little bit racist. She grew up in Wyckoff, which is next to Paterso,n and that in itself was a white enclave from Paterson. She lived around the block from ShopRite, but she would shop blocks away at Acme because the wrong people shopped at ShopRite, that was her quote.
I did show my vulnerable side to her once when we were both in Jersey City at the New Jersey City offices of the Algerian financial family. I had told her about the day before, how I saw a very effeminate man on Washington Street in Hoboken, and I was very upset when I saw him.
Less than a minute later, I regretted feeling upset seeing this guy, knowing that he had probably gotten a lot of grief for being who he is and did not need mine, though I did not give him any. I recognize my problem was not his problem, and as I was explaining that to Samantha Winter a day or so later, I started to cry, and she rubbed my back and told me it was going to be okay. So perhaps that was a redeeming factor of balance to the ersatz racism that she mentions, balanced with a concern for me. I know I grew up with racist people, and I know that they love me and care for me, and yet they were still racist.
Last night, while talking to Mike on the phone and he was telling me of this sexual exploit that he had in Chicago at Man’s Country or Steamworks and the various men he had encountered.
I filled out three applications for jobs while he rattled on about his sexual encounters, which were engrossing, but I was dedicated to working on his future.
It was strange, since I asked him about whether or not he filled out applications for Ben and Jerry’s and/or Panera Bread. He stated that both jobs or one of those jobs weren’t taking applications anymore, and here I was, hours later, filling out applications for those different positions.
I’m not sure if he realizes how his situation mirrors the situation of people that he encountered in the shelter where he worked. Mike has a trial period or an audition for a job at 6:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. tonight at a restaurant in the West Village, a hungry llama. He is understandably excited and anxious, as are Bill and I, and his Pops in the Bronx.
Mike called after his audition, happily telling us he has a job. It was good news for sure. We chatted, Bill, Mike & I, on the phone. Mike was telling us how it went, and we listened and offered more encouragement.
This morning, Mike called, and the restaurant told him not to come in today as they were still looking at other people. That was deflating. We continued to boost his morale and started our days separately.
Just a few minutes later, the other applicant seemingly did not follow through, and Mike was asked once again to come in this morning, which he did. It was flaky of the restaurateurs to do that. Mike asked to come over later today, Juneteenth, and I agreed, telling him we will continue to send out resumes on his behalf.
We are on the brink of World War 3.
