The British and their Hats

I was as glued to the TV as any Englishman who couldn’t make the Wedding Ceremony of Kate and William. Her dress was perfect; elegant, regal but not overstated, and accentuated her happiness wrapped in beauty. I enjoyed the bands, the choirs, the sermon, and the pomp. However, what captivated me most was the parade of hats. Having loved hats for as long as I can remember it was a tour de force. Having never had the verve to display my spunky side I watched with stark admiration as the women exhibited their head gear with assurance, strutting about like peacocks in full regalia.  It seems the custom of hats has never left the Brits. Queen Elizabeth is never seen without one, but it is not confined to royalty. The commoner will display their Fascinators’ with the same confidence and poise.

Covering your head goes beyond staying warm or keeping the sun out, it is a statement that you are a lady. Furthermore as fashion history explains, it draws attention to the face, or sometimes interest in what lies beneath the wide rim.

I vote to revive the crowning of ladies in America with these creations of art. I want to see some mystique back into the mainstream of women. I am tired of our carefree, who cares dress code. Women with bellies hanging out, shirts with some political statement, flip flops; they have destroyed the feminine mystique. It is not going to hurt women’s liberation one bit to keep a bit of you under wraps. In fact the joy of the past was discovering who that woman was underneath the crown. I vote for restraint and vote against letting it all hang out.  Bring on the Facinators.

Step on a Crack, Break Your Back

The games we played. The fun we had; dodge ball, hop scotch, jacks, hide and seek, Cowboy and Indians (one of my favorites) Old Mother Witch Are You Ready, and of course pillow fights. At school we played Hang Man and Hide the Eraser at which I was suspected of cheating, but I never did. I was just intuitive.

When cousins would arrive, added to our baseball team size family, we had the makings of war hoop fun. I usually led the games, general that I was. Some of us were very competitive; some of us just had fun. I won’t mention names. When we played Cowboys and Indians, those of us who were Indians would hide in the adjoining woods, and the Cowboys would look for us. Boy was I a good Indian, probably because I believed I was an Indian. In the 50’s TV was loaded with Westerns and our grandmother Meme loved watching Gunsmoke. I watched westerns with her and for the longest time I thought when people died they had a few last choice words and then went ohhhhh. Pretty straight forward and that’s how I play acted it out in my escapades. I would hide in the woods, up a tree, or crouched down behind a rock. The cowboys would go stalking by, but I was as silent as a doe waiting for its mom. Many times we Indians painted our face with mom’s lip stick and made a band to go around our foreheads. We took our play very seriously. The games would go on until the last slip of light threw shadows on the trees. Then we would reluctantly go back home were we filed into the house with dirty faces, dirty hands and barefoot that we were, very dirty feet. The bathwater handled that.

Games were only one of the ways where we learned competitiveness, good sportsmanship, and strategy. There were also the other kinds of games. Those games would be made up, fed by our imagination. We would improvise as we went along. We invented pretend characters, gave human qualities to inanimate objects, and felt no limitations in the scope or measure of our thoughts. Unlike adulthood we did not create barriers to our success.

I remember that we never walked around puddles, we walked through them. We never worried about germs or hand sanitizers. We laughed at scratches and bumps and the days lasted a life time. We lived in the present with no thoughts to the “what ifs’” and tomorrow. A blessed time and blessed in the adult who can recapture those unbridled moments of spontaneous actions.

How Far Back Can I Remember

We lived on the second floor of a tenement. We were only a family of four, mom, dad, me and brother Ronnie. I was very young but impressions of that time are still vivid in my mind. I remember there was a lady that lived upstairs and who stayed in a wheel chair. She had suffered from Polio. She never left her apartment. Her name was Nellie and she had hair as white as the sand dunes in Massachusetts. She wore glasses and was very kind. She liked to look out her picture window facing the street and watch the world skate by.

Every couple of days the milk man would deliver milk in glass bottles with rich, thick cream on top. When the milkman would pull up to the corner my brother and I would rush down and with other neighborhood kids beg for ice. We loved the way it tingled on our tongues. He would scoop into his silver colored bins and give us a handful. That felt like a wondrous treat. He wore a striped uniform and a cap that looked like he was a train conductor. He was our milkman.

There was a black man who would drive a cart pulled by an old, tired out horse. Clop, clop on the pavement and we knew the ‘Ragman” was coming. “Rags, rags,” he would bellow. I wondered why anyone would want rags but later learned he collected them and sold them. I am told he put a family through college on his income from those treks throughout the streets of Providence.

We were not attending school yet and our time was spent making up games, playing hop scotch, all within the confines of our little yard, which was mostly cement. My biggest pleasure came from exploring the basement; musty smelling, but neat as a pin, I would peruse all the books that had been stored away on shelves. I was always looking at books. They fascinated me and it was the beginning of a life long love of books. I would pull them off the shelves and look for pictures. I was not yet reading. There was a coal bin at the corner of the basement and sometimes when I was down there the coal delivery man would come. I would hear the tumbling of the black, shinny spheres of earth fill up the bin. I could smell the unique smell of coal, mixed in with the damp musty smell of the basement and the unique fragrance of old books. I was always one to use all my senses whenever possible.

I don’t remember how long we lived there but it is the smells, and impressions and routines of days gone by that are with me until today.

Tricks and Pranks and That Which Earned Spanks

We were not the Walton’s’ nor the Brady Bunch, we were the Gabriel’s; loud, rambunctious and naughty. I was the boss, at least until my brothers became stronger. In spite of our unruly behavior we were all good at the core and cared for each other dearly. We proved that time and time again.

One day in early Spring I was in my upstairs bedroom and looked out the window. What seemed like far below was my father sitting in a lawn chair. All of a sudden the idea popped into my head about how funny it would be to pour a bucket of water over him. Perhaps it was the after effects of watching The Three Stooges or perhaps it came from the real desire to stump the teacher. Nevertheless I found a children’s bucket, filled it with water and slowly opened the screen window. The torrent landed on the top of his head and he jumped up from his chair yelling “Who did that?” He looked to the left; he looked to the right, not a child in sight. The tone of his voice gave me pause, but the delight of my clever maneuver thrilled me; after all he never looked up.

Ours were a life of constant action and mishaps. The pranks we played on each other were followed by concentrated attention to the cover ups. One cover up my brother reminded me of was made of Marshmallow Fluff. It was used to cover up a hole that mistakenly got punched into the wall. Did I do that? Sometimes a child was discovered under the couch having bunked school. Sometimes sweets were mysteriously missing from the cupboard. Now who could have done that? Sometimes our prized possessions would suddenly be missing and found in the hiding spots of the siblings. The best thing was we had free reign of our imagination and that provided for hours of entertainment. I recall lining up kitchen chairs in the basement and making the children sit like they were on a train. I continued to direct them in a full stage play of, The Little Caboose That Could.

I would often make caves with the blankets and each child had a role to play. I didn’t say they wanted to, but I was the director.

There was always a baby in the house and I can honestly say that the unconditional love of a child in your arms is the closest I have ever been to heaven. I changed a diaper and when I balked at the odor of a smelly mess I remembered my mom saying ‘When it’s your own baby you will think its perfume.” I did not find that to be quite true, but it’s a noble thought.

There was a laundry room in the basement. I remember the dirty clothes pile was twice the height of me. Ronnie used to hide in it. We had an old wringer type washer and I would help with the washing. One day my fingers got caught in the ringer. My fingers were very white and flat. There was an emergency button you could push to stop the machine. I was Lady MacBeth made as much out of it as I could.  After all a childhood tragedy should never go to waste. I think I got an ice cream out of that. My siblings have surly more to tell. I hope they add to this post in comments and reminisce with me at the precious times gone by.

Over the River and Through the Woods

It would always come out of the blue, maybe when we were out shopping, or just hanging around the house on a Saturday afternoon. The question was “Who wants to go see Uncle George?”  The undulating chorus of yes would fill the silent spaces as we children anticipated the adventure of the country drive.

Dad at the wheel, mom beside him, proud of her rambunctious litter of offspring fiddling in the back seat was the backdrop of the impetuous decision.

I would sometimes squeeze in the back window ledge and watch the roads go from track housing and little strip malls to tree lined back roads with only a car here and there passing by. We all waited for a billboard of a large Turkey which announced the proximity of Wrights Turkey Farm. That was the turn off. Our little hearts were pitter pattering as the fun was being pulled closer to our restless feet.

Once there we bounded out of the car, like a deer running from a hunter. The first thing our eyes rested on was the old Apple tree. Proud it stood, green apples, dripping from its twisted boughs, like treasured offerings to the masses and we were certainly the masses.  The old apple tree gave us a helping hand with branches that swooped close to the ground.  We got a leg up and swarmed the tree like bees on a flower bush.  I do remember the thrill of free fruit for the taking, and worm holes that didn’t faze us in the least. I also remember the belly aches that would accompany our repast.

The house was unpretentious with tar shingles and a wide front porch. We approached the back door in tandem because our Uncle George lived upstairs with his family and his mother in law resided on the first floor.  My father would open the door and we would follow in tight procession. I particularly remember that my dad had heavy footsteps and each step he took on the unpolished wooden stair was matched in time and unison with our footsteps on the stair below. It must have sounded like a giant or an army was entering the humble abode of my fathers’ oldest brother.  When dad knocked a loud, white knuckled bang on the somewhat flimsy door, we all stopped, poised in mid air, at the stair we were landed on. Then came the warm greeting, the warm ‘come in, come in’, and we piled in like logs in a wood pile.

The house was very tiny and we entered right into the kitchen with a black top stove directly in front. There was a white Formica table top with a black strip around the edge. The was a small chip broken off the black line which I always noted. It had a drawer at one end for the silverware. I was very impressed by a built in drawer. The chairs were spindle with colorful chair pads. The young ones would go into the small parlor and sit around on the floor. Couches and chairs were reserved for the adults.  Cousin Bobby would almost always be sitting in the corner strumming on a guitar. He was a tall, shy fellow who had a timid smile, and spoke more with his guitar than his lips. Cousin Joey would come bounding in sometimes but most of the time he was out gallivanting. 

Jeannette was the only daughter and just plain beautiful with long dark wavy hair and a smile that could light up a room. 

Aunt Katherine would always light up the stove and start toasting white bread to pass around to everyone. It was to our eyes and our hearts a treat. We were welcomed, we were loved and we had “family”.

After the bread was eaten and maybe even some soda pop we left the confines of the little house to venture out into the faux farm. There was a hen house and some hens strutting about like they owned the place. There was a small garden, meticulously attended to, and there were cats and dogs of various breeds and ages. For us they were our country cousins and this was the country farm. We played hard, chased the chickens, checked out the eggs, pulled the dogs tails, and found fun where we could find it. The air was always so fresh and clung to your skin like the peel on an apple.  We played tag and when nature called there were always the woods and field right there.

When the adults had finished their jabbering we were rounded up and packed into the car. We were tired and pretty dirty and the ride home was always quieter than the ride there.  There would sometimes be moans about a belly ache which Miss Know it All, me, would attribute to the act of eating wormy apples.  All and all we were a content lot and looked forward to when we could again visit our Uncle George.

Sunday"s After Church

Sundays were a special time of the week. We all got dressed for church, faces washed, hair combed, and every female wore a hat to church. This was a mark of respect for the Holy Institution. It was hard to sit through a whole mass. We fidgeted, we poked each other behind the back, and we grimaced at each other when the parents weren’t watching. However when dad caught our antics his look could freeze us on the spot. He was the Patriarch and not to be taken lightly.

When Mass was over we filed out into our famous Woody station wagon and headed for the Jewish Deli on Ralph Street. It was an incredibly small store with goods piled up literally to the ceiling. I can remember watching with wonder as the son of the proprietor would use a step ladder and than this long handle to grasp the object of his customers desire. It was a routine I witnessed every time I went into that little deli. I also remember the great big wooden barrel loaded with big, fat, plump dill pickles. It’s deli fragrance permeated the store, along with the sliced meats, and variety of pickled goods. I did not pay much attention to the meat and dry goods because my eyes were always on the great big tray filled with apple turnovers, Danish, doughnuts, elephant ears and a assembly of pastries. Dad usually settled on Apple turnovers and that was our after Sunday Dinner treat.

Mom usually put on a pot roast, and within a couple of hour the whole house smelled of seasoned beef with potatoes and carrots simmering within the broth. I was so in love with the smell of the pot roast cooking that I would lift the cover just to inhale the fragrance. One time I actually sustained a burn in a semi circle across the bridge of my nose. My freckles turned pink and I was marked for a whole week as a interloper of the kitchen business. The meals were prepared with so much love and my contribution was usually peeling the potatoes. Mounds and mounds of potatoes until it felt like my hands would fall off. Ten people equal a lot of potatoes. Till this day I always peel too many potatoes for my family. After the Sunday dinner the pastry box was broken into. It was always a brown square box with a string tied unceremoniously around it. Inside were the best apple turnovers I can remember tasting. We demolished the contents of that box in less time than turning on the stove. Then came dishes and clean up and out to the yard to our home made adventures. Sundays were special, a ritual that gave us all a sense of family and predictability. What a treasure for the minds eye.

The Corner Drugstore

It was a long upward hill to reach the top of the street but each step brought me closer to the Corner Drugstore. The change jingled in my pocket, and my thoughts were focused on the goodies to be had for a few pennies. Licorice, Mary Jane’s, Good and Plenty, Root Beer Barrels, wax lips, tutee fruits, were the images that danced in my head. When I was really good I might have more than a few pennies and the ultimate treat was a Coffee Cabinet made with Eclipse syrup, (manufactured in good old R.I.). That is what they called rich creamy milkshakes, twirled in a stainless steel over sized receptacle that was spun, and twirled until the ice cream, milk and syrup were married. They would pour it from that glistening container into a tall, pear shaped glass, and there was lots of foam at the top. There was always some left in the canister, so you could top off your drink a second time. Was that the creamiest, most flavorful taste that ever touched your mouth, or was it the novelty of new and exciting experience? All I know is that the thought of those treats kept my feet going at a quick pace.  I was sent to the store to get something needed for the family and my reward was to keep the change. I was very prudent and careful about spending because my bonus would be spent on my revered taste buds. Those taste buds have played a very important role in my life as I have great, if not too much, appreciation for good food.

 Now that drugstore had all sorts of Sundry goods to stock up on. The man behind the soda fountain, yes it was a soda fountain, was a wrinkled up old man, short of stature, who has unnaturally black hair surrounded his aged face. I would strike up a conversation as he attended to my order and one day he told me I had the gift of gab. I’m not sure being a garrulous person is a gift but I did like to know people and hear their ‘stories’ all my life.

If I sat up on the stool my feet did not reach the bottom rung and the counter would sport an assortment of people eating grilled cheese sandwiches or drinking coffee with a doughnut. . I could not sip my drink from a straw because it was so thick. I savored each swallow until I heard the gurgle of an empty glass. Totally satisfied I slipped off the stool, took my order and started the journey home. Fortunately the return trip was all downhill which is easier on a full stomach. I can honestly say I was always the first to volunteer to make the trips to the corner drugstore and now dear siblings, you know why.

The Dump

Behind our green shuttered house, that stood with an unpretentious charm at the top of a small hill, lie a steep incline. It lay just beyond the confines of our yard, and was surrounded by tall trees and brush and bush, like a mini forest. In the days before there was sensitivity to carbon footsteps, recycling, or green living, there it was, a handy, convenient and FREE dump. When the trash would pile up, which it did with great frequency, one of us children would be asked to take it to the dump. Only a two minute walk, we hauled the trash, usually in paper bags, and through it over the edge of the back yard. What immediate gratification to get the job done in such short measure. There were no plastics, no disposable diapers, and no plethora of cleaning fluids. In modern standards our lives were so simple. Diapers were cloth and hung out on the line to dry. Paper bags were reusable for a time and totally disposable. Even meat came wrapped in butcher paper with reusable string tied around it. Our milk was delivered in glass bottles and we ate produce that had no wrappings. Although the dump was like a wide open mouth ready to chew anything we gave it, I doubt it was subject to anything toxic or indigestible.  I take that back, that it what I thought until I mentioned it to brother Geoff and he said, "oh yeah, the dump, I pushed a couple of cars down there when I was young." As incredulous as I was I found myself thinking that dump was really a time capsule. How people lived in the 50’s is evidenced by the very trash we trashed. Guilty of reminiscing about the good old days like any senior citizen, I confess to romanticizing the past, but one thing is for sure, we didn’t live off plastic.

Ghost Stories and a Near Death Experience

It was a guaranteed audience and I was a willing performer. When mom and dad went out at night I was the designated babysitter and the only way I could keep the brood in control was with my famous, neighborhood renowned Ghost Stories.  I would gather the children into the middle upstairs bedroom that overlooked our front yard. I would sit on the bottom bunk, always with a young one in my lap, and begin my tale. I didn’t just tell the story, I acted it. I changed my voice for each character, varied my intonations, spoke loudly, spoke softly, and had the attention of all before me. I took a perverse delight in the freight in their eyes, but if they were too wide eyed, like Mary Ellen and Geoff would get, I would tone it down a bit. My stories were made up on the spot, and the words would tumble from head to my lips and it was my first taste of power over others with the impact of words.

One day, when I was in the middle of a riveting scene, without any reason, no noise, no smell, just instinct, I handed the baby to Ronnie and said “I’ll be right back.” I closed the bedroom door and headed toward mom and dad’s room. When I opened the door I was stunned to see the wall behind their bed on fire. It was surreal and the few seconds it took for it to sink in, really felt an eternity. I closed the door and went back to the children. “We have been invited to the neighbors for ice cream." Their innocent minds did not question why a neighbor would invite us at night, past their bedtime. As the scrambled for their shoes, I said “No, this is a midnight adventure and we have to go as we are and quickly or the ice cream will melt.” They giggled as I herded them out of the house.

After the fire truck has come and gone I heard the grown ups talking. Our neighbor whispered to his wife, “The fire deputy said another five minutes and the fire would have caught the draft in the wall and the whole side of the house would have been up in flames.”  I pondered that. Sometimes life can be more dramatic than made up stories, but then stories are steeped in real life drama and that is just fine with me.

Easter Parade

There are a multitude of colors on the Easter pallet of childhood memories. All of us looked forward to a new outfit; the girls a spring dress with shiny black pat and leather shoes; the boys with gentlemanly pants and white shirts with bow ties and black tie shoes. Of course the crowning glory was the Easter Bonnet and that was chosen with great consideration. They were usually straw with flowers displayed around a ribbon band and came in a plethora of colors. The idea was to find the perfect match, and in our case, the most affordable. There was an excitement in the air as we would don our new clothes and feel new all over again. The weather was usually just short of pleasant, so many times we had to cover up with sweaters or even coats, but it didn’t keep us from feeling renewed after a long winter with short dark days.

Dad bought a second hand station wagon which we named ‘Woody” because of the wood panels on the side. On Easter Sunday we all piled in, squeezing together, elbowing each other and complaining that our clothes were getting wrinkled. The seats were tan brown and slippery. Mom always had a baby in her arms and I often had a toddler on my lap. We were off to church and our grand entrance.

A grand entrance it was as the people in the pews watch Dad and Mom walk down the aisle with all the chicklets behind. I always held my high, because I felt queenly with a hat, and I was first after mom and dad, if you don’t count the child I was always carrying. We filed in the pew taking a whole row, and knelt and stood, and knelt, and received communion, and tried so hard to stay still, but all the time our minds were on what waited for us back home.

I don’t remember the sermons except for the part of Father Ellis talking about the importance of giving so they could build a new school. It seemed like he was always asking for money above the change we had to put in the basket that got pushed under our noses each Sunday.

I was probably the most excited as we rode back home, because it was I who organized the Easter Egg hunts. I drew out an elaborate map for each sibling with pictures and arrows and clues and then and each one was handed the key to the kingdom of chocolate, I delighted in their quest for the buried treasure. I remember once the chocolate eggs were hidden inside the washing machine. They had to go out to trees, dig holes, go inside the house, back out to the garage, and open cookie jars to receive the next clue. It was so much fun, and even though I knew where the treasure lay, I am sure I had the most fun seeing my well laid out plan executed.

Some years there were Easter Baskets given by loving relatives or friends, but mostly we were happy with a chocolate egg.

A beautifully decorated egg that is as vividly clear in my mind’s eye today, as the day I set my eyes upon it. It was a large chocolate egg laced with yellow and white and green trim, but it was hollowed out, and inside sat a scene of a tiny bunny with a mommy bunny among some green grass. I was totally fascinated at how they could possible get inside that egg and create such beauty. Till this day I am awed by beautiful things, nature, people, colors, paintings, and of course I have never left my utter delight at a good piece of chocolate.

The Taste of Mornings

The Taste of Mornings

One bathroom, eight kids set the scene for organized chaos each morning. The eldest (me) had the first allotted 15 minutes and the rest followed. Of course in order to accommodate everyone time enough to ready for school, the first slot was the earliest. So there I was first up, first washed, first ready. I was steadfast in my refusal to be hampered by the loud knocks on the bathroom door for miscellaneous siblings insisting they had to use the toilet. I wouldn’t give up a second of my time.

I remember so fondly the smells as I would descend the stairs into our kitchen. Always the smell of toast coming from an old fashioned toaster that required opening up to a flat position and then closing each side. Toast mixed with warm, hissing radiators. Then there was the ubiquitous smell of coffee. An old tin coffee pot with a glass top would start bubbling and the aroma would fill my nose and color the day begun.

Now the trip downstairs was not to be forgotten. The walls were covered with wall paper that depicted women with great coiffures and wide ball gowns. The men had wigs with pony tails and wore tight pants and long jackets. I did not know of Johann Strauss or the Emperors Waltz, but I was there when looking at the wall paper. I would sit on one step and stare at the women with their fancy ball gowns. In my mind I would fill in the black and white sketches with vivid colors and see the ivory of their skin and blue of their eyes. I was totally mesmerized and sure I was meant for such galas. On many occasions I was positive I had been kidnapped from some Royal Family and plucked into this alien family. I could not hold on to that theory for too long since I was the spitting image of my mom. The first down, the first born, the first arrival to the kitchen had to set the table, and there was always a little baby that needed attention. I especially remember Kathy who was so delicate of frame and would reach her arms for me from the office turned den. It was a wonderful way to start the day, with a warm, young little infant in my arms as I sang made up lullabies to her.

We usually had oatmeal with brown sugar and rich creamy milk. I balked at that preferring a slice of apple pie, or something sweeter; my downfall till this day. The irony is I love oatmeal now because those mornings that seemed so ordinary then, come flooding back like sunshine in the taste of each spoonful.

Stary nights

For little feet it was a long driveway. Our house sat back from the street atop a little hill which gave the driveway an incline not conducive to walking on skates. But when winter came, with a large pond beside our house, large floodlights put in by the town, and a mirror smooth surface to skate on, we couldn't get out fast enough. There was a type of ritual we had to go through. We put on an extra pair of socks, of course they never matched. We stuffed our feet into our skates, tied the laces real tight, and put on sweaters and jackets and scarves, mittens and hats. As anxious to get out skaters it was a tedious exercise. The driveway was a challenge in balance, as we gingerly pointed the toes of our skates into the ruts so we wouldn't fall before our glorious destination. Then there at the bottom of the treacherous trek was our beloved pond, beckoning us with it's smooth surface and assortment of neighbors and children swirling about. What joy filled our hearts in anticipation of ice skating. As for me, probably the least courageous of the family, I started off in long glides, and mini twirls. I would look up to a sky studded with crystal stars. I would feel the wind rushing about my face, and the contentment of a warm, wrapped up body. The boys would form a chain and yell for me to join. I had to work up courage. I also knew the last one on the chain was the whip and when the chain turned that chosen one would get the biggest, widest spin. Not for the weak of heart I admit.The night would go on with the skates gliding over the ice, making turns and speeding up and slowing down, and avoiding other skaters, and seeing the colorful scarves blowing in the wind. Eventually a kind and loving neighbor named Bill would start a bonfire with the help of my able bodied brothers. The roaring red fire at the edge of pond would add a dramatic contrast to the night sky. We would skate up to it to warm our hands and listen to it's crackle which sounded more like a cackle. Eventually the night would pass and the the lights would go out. We had to collect ourselves and make the long trek up the driveway. By then we couldn't feel our feet or our hands and the cold seem suddenly to hug us tightly. The windows on our house were all steamed up and as we entered we could hear the hissing of the old gray radiators. What a comforting sound that was. Off came the socks, and the wet mittens, and the scarves. As we covered the radiators with our winter gear there would be a burst of sound as the wet clothes sizzled.  We could not feel our feet at that point and our hands were pretty numb. We gathered around the fireplace and willed the circulation back into our bodies as our eyes became heavy and sleepy. Under the blanket of night, snuggled in our beds, we dreamed of the world beneath our feet, and stars that were close enough to touch. We dreamed the dreams of innocent youth.

Escape

Escape

There was nothing more enticing than to leave the rambling old house, the endless chores, the child strewn yard, and dash into the surrounding woods. I never walked, I ran, my bare feet skimming the dirt worn paths, touching down here and there on a soft clump of grass. I could tramp as quietly through that forest as any Indian girl from over a century ago. The wind would play with my hair, tossing it about like a light feather. I loved the smell of the wood. It permeated me everywhere; my hair, my clothes my skin. That outdoorsy, trees, leaves, wind, sun kind of smell convinced me feel perhaps I was really an Indian girl who had been kidnapped and left in the woods far away from her village.

I stopped to take a breath. There was a small clearing between the trees. A log lay stoically across the path. It beckoned me to sit down. I did. With a few quick motions my eyes scanned the forest. Trees hugging each other for as far as the eye could see made me feel safe and protected. I listened. I could hear the song of a brook beyond the trees. Brook meant water to drink and fish to eat. I must be careful no white men see me. I stood up and began to follow the sound in my ears. Suddenly I stopped. White man’s voices were coming from behind. Surreptitiously I crouched behind a giant old oak tree and waited. Two young boys came into the clearing. They were laughing and punching each other on the shoulder. I stood very still. The enemy must not find me. They did not know I watched. “We’d better find her before Dad gets home,” one squealed. I slipped away and found the singing brook; it whistled a victory tune to me.  I knelt down at the water’s edge and cupped my hands. The water felt cool on my flushed face. I thought of my own village and the women lined along the river washing their clothes, tanning the hides and chewing the leather to make it soft. I thought of my father Gray Wolf and knew he would pursue me relentlessly even though I was a girl child. I looked around to see what I could use to build a shelter. The tall hemlocks and pine trees stood protectively around me and my heart became calm and peaceful. I always felt the tall trees were like sentries watching over me. Suddenly I heard the snapping of twigs and footsteps broke the calm. I stood still as a doe and held my breath. The white man was capably of terrible deeds. I could become his prisoner, a slave or perhaps his dinner. My heart started beating like a war drum and I looked up to the tree with pleading eyes. A bobolink perched on a branch and began to sing out a warning. The trees parted and the two boys came into the clearing. The older one looked at me angrily and said “You better get home right now Barbara and set the table, otherwise you will get a licking.”  “Yes, big brother” I said and followed him back to the house.