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.

The Bedroom Closet

I was often tasked with watching the children and keeping them occupied while the big folks could visit. I was big on story telling and treasure maps but what my cousins and siblings have told me they remember most vividly was the closet trips.

I would gather them all into my bedroom closet. It was small, but so were we. It was dark, which suited my purposes just fine. Once they were stuffed in, and sitting with their legs crossed I had them close their eyes. I was about to take them to a secret place that only I was privy to. My voice was as important as my words.

I pushed a hidden button and we began to descend. Down, down, down we went and they could feel the motion of the secret elevator. Upon arrival at our destination only I could open my eyes. They were to keep theirs closed shut or there would be catastrophic consequences. Even in the dark I could see those eyes shut tighter than a window on a stormy day. I described what I saw in great detail. Monsters, their eyes of neon colors, their dragon shaped body with menacing claws. The silence of my audience was deafening. I described the road, the trees that were upside down. The grass that was blue and the sky that was green were the backdrop for the animals that scurried about. I told them of the dangers that lurked but assured them I knew the traps. I went on and on as long as their fidgety bodies could take it. I also monitored their degree of scared. With an uncanny sense of timing I knew when it was time to get back on the magic elevator and bring them home. Of course when we arrived back they opened their eyes at the count of three. The filed out quiet and subdued, recounting the scary adventure they just enjoyed. I brought them downstairs triumphant in my ability to weave fantasy into their life.

I sometimes think that my career in sales started way back then in the small bedroom closet in our humble little house.

Laundry Day

Imagine a cellar with clothes piled twice as high as you. Imagine a washing machine that groans and moans as it twists and turns the clothes within. Imagine a little girl helping her mom get through the mound of clothes so everyone would have clean socks, underwear and outfits to wear to school. Laundry day was a ritual that arrived with great regularity. The clothes pile was sometimes used as a hiding place by brother Ron. The tune of the machine would drone on and on as each load was selected by color, fabric, and necessity. The washing part was mundane but what I always loved was the ‘hanging of the clothes.’

There was the straw basket with clothes wet and heavy, distorted in shape, varied in size. There was the clothesline, hung between two trees waiting to be dressed. And did we dress it. With our handful of clothespins we would pull up a garment and hang it neatly on the rope. On a good day I would try to organize shirts together, pants together, pajamas and the parade of socks that seem to have no end. The wind would toss the clothes about and blow into the arms and pants making them look like headless people. The socks would do a jitterbug, going in every direction and the underwear would range in size from tiny little to large and extra large.  You can tell an awfully lot by the clothes hanging on a line. Are there children, are there babies, is it a working man or a 9-5 office type that supply the line?  A whole story could be drawn from the wind blown participants of outdoor drying.

Then, when the clothes were collected, they smelled so good. The outdoor, fresh air, woodsy, smell of summer days would permeate into our noses. The sheets would carry that fragrance right into our bedrooms. I really missed those hang to dry days.

In winter it was a different story. The hands would get so cold from hanging wet clothes. The wind would cooperate but the temp froze the clothes into flat cardboard shapes and the socks would have to be thawed under the hissing of the steam radiators. A time gone by, a time remembered with fondness. Would I trade my automatic dryer for a clothesline? Never!

Rocky Point was really Crescent Park

Well memories are not always to be trusted and the jaunt Ron and I made was to Crescent Park, not Rocky Point. Having corrected that small point I will continue with the story.

Ron and I trekked up the beach and small hill and entered the Amusement Park with great anticipation. The noises and smells around us only heightened our excitement. Popcorn popped, and vendors with paper cones in their hands swirled cotton candy from a noisy machine. We walked around, scouting out all the rides and treats so we would spend our money in the most satisfying way. We saw families sitting at tables munching on sweet corn, eating clam cakes and the aroma of clam chowder filled our nostrils as we walked by. We saw young men in sailor uniforms with their arms around girls steering them possessively through the crowds. We saw young girls carrying big stuffed animals and their boyfriends puff their chest out proud of the trophies of their marksmanship skills. Men yelled from their stalls that were lined with prizes from small trinkets to bigger than life stuffed dolls. Rifles were lined up and targets in the form of ducks were moving along a back drop.  The macho men handed over their coins and tested their skill with confidence while their dates stood by with eager hearts. There was a huge bar bell that displayed your strength with a meter that ran up like a thermometer. There was always a long line in front of muscular men who were proud of their brawn. There was the gypsy fortune teller, with her three chins, and dark eyes, a shawl draped around her shoulders, jewelry amassed on her over sized body. She was always sitting outside her stall and would speak in a low, tantalizing voice inviting you into her “parlor”.  Inside her parlor, which you entered by going through a hanging curtain, were a chair, a table, and large crystal ball sitting on the table. The room was fairly dark, and her eyes looked like ambers sparking fire in the dark. She had a deck of cards and other paraphernalia and you would pull out a card, show your hand, and wait for the pronouncement of your future to slip from her painted lips.

The rides were where the thrills were. The wooden roller coaster would move when you went around the curves. There was the Bubble Bounce ride and the Tumble Bug, Bumber Cars, and the fascinating carousel of horses that were so vividly painted and went up and down to the sound of music and the flashing of lights. How magical that was to young eyes. There was a brass ring that you would pass and if you grabbed it you were in for a free ride. Hope springs eternal as the famous poet said. The carousel still stands today and it a testimony of craftsmanship to its designer Charles Looff.

One of amusements was the Fun House where you looked into mirrors and saw a distorted version of yourself. The path was crooked and slanted and you were off balance the whole time. The there was the Riverboat Ride that was a building with the gingerbread facade of a paddle boat with little two-seaters to take you  through a maze of horror and pirates, and screaming women, and skeletons, and animated figures that jumped out at you. It was not for the weak-hearted and everything was ensconced in pitch dark. It was truly a journey to the dark side.

There was a penny arcade and a large ballroom where you could dance and eat a shore dinner. Corn on the cob, fresh lobster, coleslaw, clam cakes all served with the salt air breeze coming from the ocean. A veritable feast for the senses, and a day of fantasy and magic that fed our imaginations wrapped around us like salt taffy on a stick. We headed for home.

For a great description of the Riverboat Ride go to: http://www.laffinthedark.com/articles/crescent/crescentpark.htm

Ron and Me and the Great Blue Sea

 

I was a young girl in love with adventure, in books, from the widow, in my mind. However there were a few times when I threw caution to the wind, allowed the adrenalin to pump and jumped into the real thing.

In this case it was a wooden skiff that my dad used to trail along his yacht of 25 feet.

That yacht was wooden, with an indoor engine and could sleep 4. They never called them bedrooms. It had a galley and you went down some pretty steep stairs to get to the inners. It seemed like he was always sanding and corking and caulking the boat which he named after mom; The Dixie Ann. I believe the gleaming wood on the deck was a rich mahogany from the Honduras. Many hours of labor were spent on the boat with my brothers pitching in as it lay on its dock in our back yard.

Dad belonged to the Edgewood Yacht Club and went on many outings with other boaters. They would tie up  each others boats out in the ocean and party. When they had special functions at the Yacht Club he would dress up and look ever so handsome and important in his uniform.

Meanwhile Ron and I were given permission to take the skiff and row to Rocky Point Amusement Park. It was the only amusement park in R.I. and was located overlooking the Narragansett Bay in Warwick. Now that sounded like a real Robinson Caruso adventure and I allowed myself to take the chance. My over active imagination conjured up all sorts of what if’s but I will leave that alone. We were told all we needed to do was hug the shore and we would see Rocky Point at the top of a cliff. Good enough directions for us. Did we have life jackets? I doubt it though I don’t remember. Did we have a compass or any navigational skills? Absolutely not. We only had this burning desire to go to Rocky Point Amusement Park without adult supervision. There certainly was the taste of freedom in the summer breeze.

We packed a small lunch, had a few coins in our pocket and started out. Ron did the rowing. I was the look out man. The waves were mostly calm although further out you could see white caps. Sometimes I would take a turn at rowing but it made my arms so tired. I have been told I have a tendency to delegate; a polite way of saying I’m lazy. The ocean air was so invigorating and the spray left the taste of salt on our lips. My hair was tossed about with full abandon and my eyes scanned the beautiful waterscape with smug fascination. We reveled in our freedom. Our trip was without incident. When other boats would go by, somewhere in the distant, we would wave.  We were in their class now; boaters. What seem like forever got me thinking what if we missed the place. We could literally be out in the Atlantic Ocean with no land around. I swallowed my fears.

It appeared just like dad said. We heard the hum of carousel, the buzz of people and a cacophony of sounds that spell fun.

We rowed up to the sandy beach below. We then realized that we had to leave the boat to go enjoy the fun. What if someone would take it? We looked around and saw an old lady, a whiskey bottle in her hand, sitting in a similar skiff. She was totally dry docked since the tide had gone out. We pulled up our boat as far as possible and walked over to her. Her lipstick was smeared, and her eyes were as faded as the gray on her head. Her face looked like the map we didn’t have with lines crisscrossing in every direction. She wore a one piece bathing suit and her legs were full of bulging blue lines known commonly as veins.

Her appearance was out of the range of our experiences but we said with the innocence and trust of youth, “Would you keep an eye on our boat?” She laughed a yes and with that we cast away our concerns and went up to have our fun.

To be continued

The Mend and Fix Mentality

When Meme was alive she was an example of prudence, persistence and patience. A child’s eyes focuses on the little things and only when their vision has matured can they see the whole story. I remember being amazed and amused at how she would save everything. When I would come home with a bag of groceries I would stand back and watch her find room in our lives for everything in that bag. She would take out the meat wrapped in butcher paper and carefully snip the string, winding it on to a spool she had saved.

‘Every little bit adds up” she would say proudly.

The brown paper bag would be smoothed over, folded neatly and packed away in a drawer.

“Why buy things twice,” she would say with a twinkle in her eye.

When clothes were worn meme would mend them. When sweaters were down to rags, she would snip the buttons for future use. I never saw her waste food. All leftovers would find their way into some creative concoction. There was never much money around but Meme would always have a little stashed away for “worthy causes.” Those were the days of sending shoes to the cobblers, patching sweaters and jeans and mending broken cups. If Meme was not the exception she was certainly a fine example of the mend and fix mentality.

Our large family and circle of friends were subject to the same meticulous care she applied to the paper bags. With the inevitable blow ups and disagreements that plague any family, Meme would set about to mend and repair. Relationships were not abandoned when they became burdensome or uncomfortable. A fine balance between accepting people for who they were and maintaining ones own respect and individuality was her talent. She wouldn’t throw away a relationship any more than she would throw away a broken dish. It was a mentality I always admired.

We grew up and retained the same friends and family ties that we had as children. The continuity made us rich. Life is somewhat different now. There is a throw away, disposable syndrome that can infiltrate into our personal lives if we are not careful. It is a mobile, convenience oriented time we live in. You can always disregard old relationships when they disappoint you. New friends are around every corner. What deception. I learned well from my Meme to hold onto old friendships, value the past and not to ever let go of the mend and fix mentality.

The Old Back of the Shoe Sermon

One of the numerous responsibilities that crowded my childhood was the task of polishing shoes. A family of ten yielded 20 shoes and required a heap of elbow grease. First I would cover the floor with old newspapers, making sure it extended far enough to contain them all. I lined the shoes up in a solemn profile; dirty, battered, scuffed up shoes in dire need of refurbishing. The baby shoes, a defiant white stood, at the end of the procession. Out came numerous tins of shoe polish, followed by well worn rags and a used and abused brush. The tins would have an earthy, pungent kind of smell when I twisted off the cap. The polish would be invariably down to the metal with a lumpy dried up ring around the edge. Then with a very discerning eye I had to match the right color to the shoe. There is brown, and there is almost brown. Once the decision making was over the spitting began. As a person who disdained spitting I would allow a privileged sibling to do the honors. How else could I achieve a spit shine?

 Next began the task itself. All those pathetic looking shoes had to be brought to life. I started with the fronts, rubbing the polish in deeply. I than assaulted the leather with a rag. “Don’t stop until you see the whites of your eyes,” my dad had instructed me. That is pretty difficult on a brown shoe. I rubbed furiously until the fronts fairly glistened. When it was the sides of the shoes my rub was a little less furious. Still the trooper that I was I soldiered on. Next was the back of the shoes where the seam line screamed finished. A tedious task, I thought, the brush does not even embrace properly. Who cares I would tell myself, no one looks there. I became downright sloppy. That was of course before I heard the Back of the Shoe Sermon.

“Yes,” my dad had pointed out to me one day, “the back of the shoe tells everything. It gives you a glimpse into the character, the very soul of the polisher.”

I had looked down nervously at the 10 pair of shoe standing naked on the paper.

“A principled person, he went on, does a job well for their own satisfaction not for show or appearances.”

I moved restlessly.

“When you start doing things based on the visibility you are forgoing the value of a job done right.  Would you polish a bureau and leave the drawers in complete disarray. No you would take pride in completing the task completely including what shows and what doesn’t show.”

Dad always gave examples of his point in work references. I was beginning to see the light in spite of myself.

“The foundation that will house your values must be laid carefully. Each brick must be placed with integrity, however obscure to the naked eye. Take as much pride in the seen as the unseen.”

Dad’s lecture never left me and has served me well in the appraisal of others. I mean until this day I cannot meet a suited and booted individual without my eyes, invariably, traveling to the back of their shoes. What a window!

A Meme Not to Be Forgotten

She was our grandma, stout, silver haired with soft eyes and flawless skin. I remember her black hat with a veil and hat pin to keep it on her head. She also wore a head net to keep the sliver locks from slipping onto her face. To our young eyes she was old, she was strong, and she was stern. We did not see her human attributes, we only saw her as Meme our fathers mother.

Every time a baby was born she would appear at our house, her sleeves rolled up, her apron on, and her stern countenance ready to take on the responsibilities of helping mom. She would wash diapers, make formula, and apply her folk remedies to all what ailed us. As the family grew, so did her responsibilities. She would see to us older siblings, make us wash behind our ears and our necks which we were always inclined to skip. She would whip up meals out of scanty cupboards and she would keep us in line so latest baby could be attended to. Meme was stern but loving. She was of few words but her looks spoke volumes. She was born of time when sacrifice was expected, actions were for the good of the family unit, and waste was not tolerated. She made us clean up our plates and told us about the starving children in India. We dare not misbehave.

It wasn’t until years later that I learned the story behind the woman who was my French speaking grandmother. I had left my home and traveled the world and did not have the pleasure of her company as an adult. It was after she was long buried that I learned about the real essence of my indomitable grandmother.

She grew up poor, the step child of a French speaking family in Canada. They migrated to Massachusetts and as a young woman she married another Frenchman named George. They were hard working and upright people who raised five children during the depression. Work was hard to come by; ingenuity was a skill that was born out of the circumstances of little money and little opportunity. My grandparents together developed a formula for making picture frames. They were made with flour, hardened and painted as beautifully as the roses on a wedding cake. The frames were primarily made for wedding pictures. They peddled those frames in town after town. That is how they put food on the table and money in the Sunday mass collection. Meme not only fed her family but those of the extended family that would drop in. She was an excellent cook and seemed to make grand meals out of almost nothing. She could make a soup bone into an epicurean feast. She made her own bread and the house would fill with the aroma of freshly baked bread. Her talents did not stop there. She had a wealth of knowledge of homeopathic remedies. She nursed her own family and many neighbors back to health with her home brewed concoctions. In addition to that she was an “unofficial mid wife” and brought babies into the world in the spirit of helping out. It was a time when neighbor helped neighbor and my grandmother brought all her gifts and knowledge to bear. She is also attributed with saving a life of a neighbor when the doctors pronounced the situation helpless. She was widely respected.

Life was not easy, rewards were few. My grandfather who was coming home from work one day saw two men fighting. He tried to break up the fight and was bitten by one of the men. The bite eventually was infected and the bacteria got into his blood stream. He became weak and very sick. He could no longer work and Meme took care of him, worked in a factory and raised her children with never a word of complaint. She was made of strong stock. Eventually my grandfather died.

After some years went by Meme married again. It was a short marriage because her new companion suffered wounds from the war and died after a couple of years. She was alone again, but remained busy helping her five grown children wherever she could and showing us all what real character is all about. God Bless my Meme.

“The most sublime courage I have ever witnessed has been among that class too poor to know they possessed it, ad too humble for the world to discover it.”

 George Bernard Shaw