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