Frinday Night Dances

There was nothing so exciting in the life of a young teenager than the anticipation of the Friday night dances held at the Knights of Columbus. The music of Frankie Lane, The Diamonds, and The Everly Brothers with words that seemed like they were written just for you. We would swoon and let the words and rhythm flow into our hearts like a river finding its outlet. Then there was Elvis who drew out the energy that is so pent up in teenagers and we would let it all hang out shaking our limbs and hands with full abandon.

The scene played out every week; the girls on one side of the room and the boys on the other. We had primped and fussed over our appearance and now had to wait to be “asked.”  There was tension before each dance as the announcer called out the song and we prayed we would not be left standing.

When we were picked to dance our hearts would flutter, and more often than not our palms would be sweaty.

It was a time of discovering who we were. We looked into the lyrics of the music, the eyes of our partner, the way our feet behaved and tried to put it all together. What did Connie Francis know when she sang My Happiness, or Frankie Avalon when he talked about Venus. Would any one Run All the Way Home for us, like the Impalas crooned about. Would any one ask us to Put Your Head on My Shoulder like Paul Anka asked?

The love songs had such promises of unexplored passion it took us up great heights. The sad songs thrilled us in terms of the possibilities of being so much in love. We longed to feel the pain of unrequited love just for the experience. Wake up Little Suzie and Chantilly Lace fed our imagination as we looked for the deeper meaning of such encounters.

It was a night that always ended too soon. Our chaperoned ride home was a time for basking in the afterglow of fun and magical moments. We analyzed every dance, every look, ever gesture and let our minds conjure up stories that were more exciting than the words we had just listened to.

Bathroom Priveledges

Imagine a little three bedroom house with only one bathroom. With 10 people, eight of them that need to make the school bus and beat the school bell, logistics was of great importance. My father, the great dictator and strategist that he was, came up with a plan. A schedule was posted in the hallway. Bathroom time was allotted in fifteen minute increments. I went first. Now consider how early you would have to get up in order for each child to have his promised time; very, very, early. I would go into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face and begin my toilet. Always, there would be a loud knock on the door; "I have to go to the bathroom1". " It's my turn," I would bellow but the urgency in the voice always led me to open the door and step outside. This went on in various patterns every single day, and there was overlap in the schedule, tears, jeers, and running dialogues about whose need was most urgent. According to my brothers that is why they didn't wash behind their ears, and skipped cleaning their necks. They had the dirt rings to prove it. It was such a scramble and we were more like a herd of elephants running down the stairs, buttoning our clothes, tying our shoes and gulping down our breakfast.  Now along with this was the issue our our homework. We would all be looking for where we left it, and more often then not it was stained with food or even worse. (We had a dog).
When we got out the door we had the long walk up to the top of the street. We carried lunch boxes with the Lone Ranger or Micky Mouse painted brightly on top. My neighbors child walked with me and I knew she always had a couple of chocolate fudge cookies in her lunch box. The Tom Sawyer approach was in me again. I always managed to trade some tid bit in my lunch or a shinny stone, or a secret button, for those two, delicious, cream filled, cocoa colored treats and ate it there on the spot. The root of my love of chocolate  runs deep. Our walk up the hill was as adventurous as our morning routine. There was a tenement where someone on the top floor would be playing the piano. The notes floated out their windows and down onto the street like leaves in a fall wind. Then there was the house with the bullies. I feared if they were out they would come and hit us, or curse us, or do some dastardly deed. I tried to be as invisible as possible but I was a victim on more that a few occasions. If my brother was with me I would be safe. One time I was not safe and the bully had a rope hanging next to a tree. He forced me to stand while he put a rope around me and was going to try hanging me. Fortunately an adult was looking on and saved the day. There were a lot of westerns on TV in those days and I'm sure that had something to do with his plan of action. All in all we took our challenges and fights as they came, didn't tell adults our our close calls and had a good time of it overall.

In the Childrens' Vernacular

Words have a long trail

I tried to go back in my mind and recall the vernacular of my youth. I certainly need the help of my siblings on this one. Here is a humble attempt at what my tender little ears would hear from the adults and the siblings:

Stop that or you’ll be in Dutch

You’re cruising for a bruising

I’m telling dad

I’m telling dad

I’m telling dad

Go get a switch from the tree

Quiet down or I’m coming up there

Children should be seen, but not heard

You’re going to get a whipping

And in later years from our beloved mother

You can’t have a dream come true if you don’t have a dream

Good Luck, Bad Luck who knows?

I feel lower than an ant’s sandal.

Love one and other.

When you wake up ask the question, ‘I wonder what wonderful thing will happen to be today?”

Words have always had an overly large influence in my life. I remember memorizing a poem on the wall in our living room.

For flowers that bloom about our feet

For tender grass, so fresh, so sweet

For Song of bird and hum of bee

Father in Heaven we thank thee.

Then there was the grace that preceded each meal.

Bless us, O Lord, for these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord we pray. Amen.

At night we would kneel by our beds and say the famous prayer;

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take.

Words were everywhere and I would grab at them like candy in a candy jar. I wanted to think about them, find their place in the perplexity of life, and learn.

I would welcome my sibling’s contributions to the vocabulary we were subjected too and the wisdom that ensued. I often think that the colorful language and expressive ways of our clan is why I grew up to love the written word.

Ten Little Indians

There was a lot of music and noise in our household. Dad would put me on his knee and sing all sorts of silly songs. I remember some of the lyrics like ‘the hip bones’ connected to the leg bone, or Give me cracked corn, or Would you like to wish on a star, carry moon beams home in a jar. When dad would sing in his rich baritone voice I would feel so happy. I think there was a piano somewhere along the way and he would play notes to go with his song.  I was always enraptured by words and would visualize everything he sang. Singing was also a pass time when we went to bed. We would sing 10 little Indians and supposedly fall asleep when we got to one. I really doubt that happened. We also sang 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, and Found a Peanut, all repetitious but serving us quite well. When we were alone in the house it was not uncommon for us to bellow out songs, especially me. I remember two quite different songs I would sing. ‘Nobody loves me, Nobody Cares” was a popular hit and my rendition was quite, quite dramatic. I also sang Our Father Whom Art in Heaven, with my whole heart and soul. The Catholic Church had a great influence on me and my actions.

I think now of my gifted brothers and sisters and realize that the genesis of that may very well be in the exposure and joy we had in expressing ourselves with full abandon in those youthful days. Kathy, Mary and Geoff are talented artists. Mary Ellen paints beautifully and sings, and plays the flute. Kathy is a song writer and performer with a voice as sweet as honey. Geoff was amazing with his nautical pen and ink pictures as well as painting. I remember him picking up a white square gift box in mom’s hospice room and in a few minutes it was a work of art. He drew pictures on all sides. How I marvel at such talent.  Ronnie and I appreciate the arts although that particular gene swept over us. However Ron made up for it with his ability to earn money and invest strategically. Laurie shows such remarkable skill in working with the exceptional children and is compassionate and a good friend.  No question there is a lot of talent floating around the Gabriel family and I’m proud of each and every one of them.

Port Said

Port Said was the name of the LP record I acquired and would play over and over on dad’s home made stereo. I was very proud of my dad building that stereo with that thin needle bringing the most magical sounds into our living room. I loved the way that record would take me to far away places, where men wore turbans, and ladies hid behind translucent veils, with long flowing dresses and jewel sparkled sandals. The music had a lot of drum sounds, (tubbla) and brass. It was nothing like that which played on our radio. I would sit my siblings on the couch drape a scarf around my head and start dancing to the music, synchronizing every step with every beat. Oh to be young and energetic! I could hear the finger cymbals of the belly dancer and realized I was short a prop. I got my hands on some and my performance was over the top, according to me.  The children listened to these strange sounds and the tingle of my cymbals and till this day talk about their introduction into the world of prince and princesses and yes, belly dancers. No friends of theirs had such exposure to the music of a land far away from our little house in Cranston. It was only the beginning of my voyage beyond our New England borders and eventually I brought home friends from all over the world; Columbia, Turkey, Taiwan and the list goes on. 

Once my friends from ‘International House” which was a meeting place for Brown University students, came driving up our long driveway. Our neighbor was planting flowers along her hedge which was underneath a steep hill in our yard. One of students was a very tall, very dark student from Nigeria. He ran up the bank, looked down at my neighbor, who took one look, screamed, threw her spade in the air, and ran into the house. I don’t know what frightened her, his amazing height, his dark, dark skin, or the shinning white of his eyes. I’m guessing for both of us it was the first time we saw such a dark skin and were looking for his war party to follow with tall spears. I exposed my provincial neighbors to a lot of firsts, but it was all a wonderful learning experience as the world came closer and closer in our small town of Anglo Saxons nestled on the east coast of America.

A Trip Downtown

The 50’s were a time of mass transit, over sized cars, and downtown shopping. On occasion I would take my sisters in tow and climb aboard a hissing, diesel spitting bus for the ride down town. We’d climb the steps; I would deposit the coins and settle down on the vinyl seats with my sisters holding tight to my hands... We would listen to the whistle of the door closing and smell the fumes of the diesel and it was all a part of our downtown adventure.

I would always study the people sitting across from me taking in their dress and hats, their heeled shoes and seamed nylons. I would guess about where they were going and where they came from. Sometimes they would speak to each other in foreign languages like Spanish and Portuguese or Italian. That’s what gave me the idea. I decided to speak French. I heard it all around me when the adults gathered at our house. It was so romantic and exotic sounding. I was game to be a French woman, better still a French mother. So I instructed Kathy and Mary to call me Mother and started babbling away in pretend French. Oh, it was so much fun. My vowels and words were so “foreign” sounding and the stares I got were amazing. In retrospect I don’t know if they stared because I was speaking gibberish, or it was because I was about 14 with two “children” a few years younger. At any rate I got a response and though myself the true Helen Hayes of the century.

When we would arrive downtown we would go into the Department Stores. I only remember the name of the Outlet Store but there were others. We would walk in and there would be this soft bell that would ring every few minutes. Ding, ding, it would go and we immediately became a part of the ‘shopping experience.”  The first thing that would hit us when we entered was the wonderful smells of the perfume counter. Till this day I am a sucker for nice perfume. There would be ladies behind the class counters inviting us to sample the eau de toilet of the day. I was not a prospective customer but I sniffed at all the perfumes which usually resulted in a head ache. After perusing the perfume counter we would take the elevator to the second floor. There was a semi circle above the elevator which had a dial that pointed to which floor the elevator was on. We would watch the needle come down and feel the excitement of riding the elevator. When it arrived the highly polished brass doors would open from each side and there would be a colored man, with white gloves and a uniform that looked like a sergeant who would open this gold colored gate. “Going up” he would say in a rich baritone voice. We would file in, along with other passengers and ride to the next floor.

It was the toy floor. We would look at beautiful rubber faced dolls with eyes that had long lashes and would open and shut. They were attired in taffeta dresses or smock and white socks with black strapped shoes. We would look at doll houses that were made from tin and had windows and curtains painted on the walls, and plastic furniture filling each room. I would walk through each room in my mind and rearrange the furniture. I was empowered by my imagination. We also looked at toy trains, set out on display, chug, chugging along the tracks making us think about far away places, and padded coaches where they served meals on trays with cloth napkins. What a sojourn it was. I would pass by the ladies department and there was a hosiery counter. Ladies would come in with large bags full of their purchases and ask for their size in nylons. The nylons had seams in those days, and it was not uncommon for someone to turn to you and ask ‘Are my seams straight?”  The nylons came in square flat boxes and the clerk would whisk then out in order for the customer to choose the right color. There was dark coffee, taupe, nude, and so on. There was great deliberation before a woman would find just the ride shade.

We would always find ourselves by the candy section. I’m sure that had a lot to do with me. A glass enclosed case would display candies with an assortment of fillings, and there would be one section with various shades of fudge. Sugar, sugar, sugar, how I loved sugar.

After our perusing the floors we would get back into the elevator, all to the tune of the little bell ringing every few seconds. We would go to the basement where there was a counter and a few tables for eating. I don’t know if we ate there but I’m guessing we got a donuts or some such thing and nibbled on it on our way home. That was our downtown trip and that was an era that is long gone now. Another treasured memory.

Aunt Louise

She was the eldest sister of dad’s side of the family. She was kind, compassionate and had rheumatoid arthritis. Her demeanor was sweet, with a smile on her face whenever you looked. Her hair was as abundant as her generous spirit. She was an amazing woman.

What I remember about my visits to Aunty Louise was that her floors were always gleaming. She would get on her twisted hands and knees and polish it to a high gloss. Everything was so clean and cared for in her home. She had lots of porcelain statues, fancy ladies and gentleman in ballroom attire posed for dancing, beautiful woman with bouffant hair and graceful arms adorned with puff sleeves, queenly, carefully crafted flowers on a long delicate branch, and all of that fed my imagination about a world I would love to belong to. Her lamps were usually gilded with gold handles, and pretty flowers painted on porcelain. The lamp shades were always fringed with gold braid or fringe.  So much there was to look at and take in. Her husband, Uncle Earnest, was a tall, large built man. He looked weathered and never said two words. He was the quietist man I have encountered. We looked forward to the treats Aunty Louise would set before us. She was always giving us a bag of clothes to take home. She had two daughters whom she was close to. Her grandchildren, especially Judy practically grew up in her house. I remember that Shirley was smart and big hearted and Eva was so tall and pretty with a Princess Dianna smile. It seemed a happy house with love floating around the knick knacks she had everywhere. Back then they called it parlors, where the adults would sit and discuss the comings and goings of life. I would listen to them refer to their aches and pains and laugh at such boring conversations. I have come to believe that is kind of a sign post when you are old; talking about your aches and pains.

Aunty Louise was always kind to us at Christmas. I particularly remember her putting stickers on our presents that would say No Peeking. I marveled at how she knew that’s just what I wanted to do.

We were blessed with kind Aunts, Louise, Eva and Irene. Our fathers’ brother George was also a special person in our life. I will write about him as well. Let us not forget those who painted our childhood with such warm colors.