Phelan, Frank

I was born in 1925, the very middle of the Roaring Twenties, but there is not much of those left in me. I remember a lot; our family was very religious, and some young nuns visited us on the way to entering the convent. One of them gave me my first water-pistol, and I went around shooting Sisters of Saint Joseph all afternoon. I am able to date this event as August of 1929, two months before the Crash. I remember the great Dirigibles. They were longer than a city block, and sounded like a vacuum-cleaner. The Akron, the Macon, even the mighty Hindenburg, passed low over our house, each on the w...