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At four years of age I was living on Ramona Avenue in the Mission District of San Francisco. I was two to three years younger than the other street urchins and was considered the "Runt of the Litter." "C'mon fellas can I play in the games? Can I huh?" They eventually allowed me to be the second base tag up bag. Big Alfred's front stair case first base and third base was the front left fender of Mr. McClure's Nash car. At least I was playing the game. Being the smallest and the youngest in this mob I was their lab rat. When anything looked dangerous or a bit risky they would use me as guinea pig. Like the time they found an old truck tire at the city dumps which they dragged all the way across town to our street. They decided to roll it down the 14th Street hill for one block with someone curled up inside of the casing to where the hill leveled off; but that could be dangerous. "Hey you, Tommy", squeeze inside so we can test it out. Oh wow, I thought, I'm being included in their new game. They like me." The intended run was but the one block, but someone forgot to clue the tire in on their intentions. They gave it a four man shove from the top of the hill where it roller over and over for three blocks, smack dab in the middle of the street. (This was the mid thirties and there were just a few cars on the streets). It was stopped short of going further when it slammed into a fire hydrant and bounced a few feet into the air. When I recovered my senses from this Goodyear tire Maiden Voyage, I took inventory of body parts and decided that I am fit enough to saunter back up the long hill while dragging the tire behind me. When I entered the alley on of the girls told me that they had all gone to the movies because they considered the "Rolling someone in the Tire" game was too risky. The neighborhood was filled with kids (all of us were children of the depression) who made up our own games as well as the rules. Ice Hockey was one of their favorite sports but it was played without ice. They wore roller skates on the hard asphalt and their hockey sticks looked a lot like Mom's household brooms. I was not allowed to play in this rough house sport because I didn't have a pair of roller skates. But, I am sure they would let me play in their game if I volunteered to become their Hockey Puck. During those depression years I often became an Island unto myself. I would hike in my backyard to escape the jeering and taunts of the others. I would sit and stare at the clouds and imagine shapes of things like elephants, pirate ships, castles and tigers. Tony Kosturos was another kid on the block. He was three to four years older than myself, a more serious kid than the rest, and he enjoyed making me laugh. Due to a mass of freckles covering my face my nickname became Rusty. Many times as I sat in the back yard Tony's voice would echo down the long alleyway: "Hey Rusty, where are you?" It was a joyful sound and it meant that Tony had gone to the library. He had brought along another story book with drawings in it and he would read to me. He often acted out the characters in the stories with great facial expressions and I would become explosive with laughter. I began studying the lines of the illustrations within the pages, committing some of them to memory; later I tried drawing them in my own primitive renderings. Tony gave me the courage and the ambition to turn my frustrations and anxieties into future building blocks and how to start structuring my life as a dedicated artist. Like most things in my lifetime such as Places, People and Names that are usually tucked away in the far reaches of my mind, one will suddenly emerge. While shuffling through the newspapers I ran across the Obits and saw the name Anthony Kosturos; hey, this is Tony, my childhood friend who read to me and took me under his wing those many years ago. I read further. "The Reverend Father Anthony, of the Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church on Brotherhood Way in San Francisco. He was quoted as saying: "Being a Priest is as natural as breathing. I make no distinction between my Priesthood and my Manhood."
To everything there is a Season;
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