Hey Poochie !

While strolling down the Main Street at the Branson Landing, I heard a strong voice from the rear yell out, "Hey, "Moe!" Now, when I hear my nickname called aloud, I know one of two possibilities holds the truth...a family member is beckoning or an old East St. Louis friend is nearby. I turned to see a familiar face from the old neighborhood; always a wonderful moment considering the time and distance that separates us.

After my friend and I shared a long conversation, we parted ways once again but lingering thoughts of the old neighborhood gang remained. I began to recall how so many of us 'back-in-the-day' had nicknames. There was Terry "Thumper,"  "Stump," Dick "Radar," "Midge," Steve "Blackie" Sam "Pud" and Eddie "Poochie."

I remember as young boys around ages 9-to-13, we'd round up the guys for a game of sandlot baseball or just to hang out by going street to street and standing in front of a friends house and YELLING OUT  his nickname. We never bothered to go to a door to knock...the rule was: stand in the middle of the street and yell the person's name.

I recall how "Poochie's grandfather from Italy lived with "Poochies" parents. The old- grandfather spoke very little broken English. One day about three or four guys were standing in front of their house and in unison, we all called out, "Hey, Poochie." Suddenly the front door opened and their stood "Poochie's Grandpa waving a walking cane towards us boys as he yelled back in his thick Italian tongue, " Hey, you boys-a-no-call my grandson, Poochie?...He's-a-no fooking dog!" Poochie appeared and hug his grandpa and explained, "They don't mean nothin' bad; they're my friends."
Let's face it all new immigrant arrivals had to learn America's national anthem word, sooner or later...most sooner.