Glass Block

It was my 10th birthday. We were at my grandma's on Drexel Road in West Philly to celebrate. Marty, my dad’s older brother, was told in no uncertain terms that he had to be there.

I looked out the front window just in time to see his huge, crumpled metallic blue 68’ Caddy swerve up on the curb, knocking over a trash can and settling back onto the street.

He got out, set the can upright and stumbled up the walk blithering drunk with a half empty handle jug of something yelling “I’m Here, I’m Here.”

My father cut him off at the door with, “Please tell me you brought something for the kid.”

There was a puzzled look on his face. He had completely forgotten why he’d been summoned there in the first place. Then.. a light bulb came on.

“Billy, I got this. I got it. Get the kid out here.”

I need to take a moment here to describe his voice. It was a deep, scratchy whiskey grumble. (Think Patty and Selma from The Simpsons)

He would call the house for my dad almost every week and when my brother and I would answer the phone, he always said the same thing: U NO HOO Dis IS? It’s yer uncle Maaty… Is ya dad dare? We wondered how it could be possible to mistake his voice for that of anyone else.

My father hesitated, but called me out from behind the dining room wall where I’d been listening to this whole thing. Everyone else came out and Marty led me down the path to his car. He opened the trunk and took out a structural glass block.

In the 50's, 60’s and early 70’s, when you opened a new account with a savings and loan bank, sometimes they would give these away. They were clear one foot square by 5 inch deep architectural glass block banks. A slot had been drilled at the top, but there was no way to get the money out without breaking them. The banks’ logo was spray painted on the front.

He showed it to me. It was three quarters of the way full. He knew my dad started me with coin collecting and this thing was chock full of indian head pennies, buffalo nickels, mercury dimes and all sorts of coins that I would love to have.

Marty reached into his trunk and produced a baseball bat and a big burlap sack. If you were anyone else, it might seem strange to have such things in the trunk of your car.

He rolled the glass block bank up in the sack, set it next to the curb and handed me the bat. Not only did I love old coins, but I also loved breaking things. Marty yelled, “Go Ahead Kid…

Let her rip!” I swung the bat as hard as I could and heard a definite crunch as the block shattered.

Marty then lifted the bag and told me that we were going up to the porch where he could sort out the glass. Looking directly at my parents, he said: “Yer folks would never forgive me if you got all cut up.” He spent time sorting it out and handing me coin after coin. My grandma gave me an empty A&P Five O’Clock Coffee tin for the coins.

My parents were nothing short of amazed. For once, Marty did good. It was one great save and one of the best gifts anyone could have ever given me.