When you’re a child of the Depression, you have a different outlook on personal finance.

Mom used to tell the story of Dad, as a young child, going door to door trying to sell his toys. He wanted to help feed his family.

When I asked him about it recently, Dad recalled that he sold his alphabet blocks for five cents a piece. He raised about 25 cents, and presented the pennies and nickels to his parents.

As he hit his teen years, Dad made some money by getting up early and delivering the morning newspaper. Not the New Haven Register, but the now-defunct Morning Journal Courier.

But after school, Dad was a real jerk.

A soda jerk, that is.

The year was 1944 and Tom Sullivan needed to replace the Frank twins, one of whom just been drafted and the other left for another job. So he hired Dad, and called him Harry.

“I must have driven him crazy,” Dad admits. His favorite part of the job was showing off his skill at “palming” more than just a few ice cream cones. By that he means holding numerous sugar cones in one hand while scooping ice cream into them with the other.

His record was 14 cones.

“Harry! Stop that! What the hell are you doing?”

Mr. Sullivan’s hair was already white. Dad, always efficient – and a bit of a showman – kept it that way.

Sullivan’s Drug Store was located in New Haven‘s “Fair Haven” neighborhood. On the corner of Lombard and Ferry Streets.

Dad remembers it like it was yesterday: There was a dry cleaners across the street – and a gas station. Next door, Jay Quinn’s Irish Bar & Grill – but if you asked for something grilled, they just looked at you funny. Behind the drug store, a parking lot, an ice house, and a barbershop. The barber’s name was Cosmo Proto – a sweet guy – his grandson just retired a few years ago.

Dad admits a lot of what he did on the job back then wouldn’t be permitted in modern times. In addition to serving ice cream and sodas, he sold cigarettes, cigars, and pipe tobacco. He climbed a ladder to retrieve homeopathic medicines from a high shelf, and also delivered prescriptions for Ed McNamara, the pharmacist.

He made 40 cents an hour.

No question about it:

“I never felt so rich.”

There was something about the thrill of receiving those first paychecks that never left him. Dad says that period of his life was when he felt richest.

Interesting characters from the neighborhood stopped by on a regular basis. There was an older lady who would come by every Sunday (after Mass, of course) for some beer. Eventually the quality got so bad (remember, this was during war-time) she apologized and then stopped.

And then there was Gus Gilligan. Gus was a little bald guy who would come in occasionally for a half-pint of vanilla ice cream. He’d watch carefully as the young soda jerk packed the container full of the creamy goodness.

One day Mr. Sullivan watched, too. As soon as Gus left he called out, “Harry!”

Yes, sir?

“You’re packing the ice cream wrong! Just put the ice cream into the container and give it to the customer. Don’t press it down to make more room. It’s not priced for that!”

The next time Gus came in, he leaned over the counter as always and watched Dad scoop the ice cream.

“Hey! There’s air in there! Press it down!”

Uh, boy. What a predicament. Dad tried to politely explain that he was following ice-cream protocol, but Gus would have none of it and hollered for Mr. Sullivan to come out from the back and make it right.

Poor young Harry, like millions of essential workers before and after him, took the blame and was then told to press out the air and fill up the half-pint container with ice cream. The customer’s always right.

Who’s the jerk now?!

Dad’s future uncle-in-law, Christy Cassidy, occasionally stopped by for cigars. Fancy cigars.

Christy caught the 4:30 train each morning to head to work as Boss Electrician at Croton-on-Hudson Yard in New York, where train cars were stored at night.

Christy was all business when he picked up Knickerbocker Cigars at Sullivan’s.

Dad remembers the price: Two for 29 cents.

One of Christy’s younger brothers was my Grandpa Cassidy. As a public servant with a wife and three children, Officer Cassidy went with a less fancy cigar. He didn’t care as much about the brand as the price: two for 15 cents.

Meanwhile, what was Dad’s favorite “meal” while at work?

A chocolate milkshake. And I’d Nibble a Nab for a Nickel.

Where did his earnings go? They helped to pay his tuition to St. Mary’s High School, an occasional clothing upgrade, and – most importantly – gifts for his girl. His future wife.

Dad remembers at closing time, he’d make up two ice cream cones and then swiftly walk the five or so blocks to Mom’s house on Chatham Street. They’d sit blissfully in the backyard’s Adirondack chairs and together – the soda jerk and his red-haired beauty – plan their future together.

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