Category Archives: My Memoirs

You got it made in the Shade

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Hello, Write On Followers, I thought you might enjoy reading a short essay on the town that I grew up in Maple Shade, NJ. I would love to get feedback and comments. Or tell me about the places that you all grew up in the comments section of my blog.    SUSAN

Although Maple Shade wasn’t exactly Mayberry, and I wasn’t exactly Opie, I did have an idealized childhood, if slightly more tarnished version of it. I was born in 1951, and lived in Maple Shade, NJ until I was twenty. When I spread my wings and moved to a small one-bedroom apartment on Haddon Avenue in Haddonfield, that was over a yarn shop.

I grew up two houses away from the Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic Church on Fellowship Road. I attended OLPH elementary school through the eighth grade. I attended highschool at St. Mary Of The Angels Academy in Haddonfield. It was an all- girl school.

The kids in my neighborhood were mostly of Irish or Italian descent. We were Catholics but not everyone went to the Catholic school, some of my best friends were publics. That’s what we called anyone who didn’t attend OLPH.

The families were generally large. It wasn’t uncommon to have six or more kids in the family. Which is hard to believe because most of us lived in three-bedroom homes, with one bathroom. We didn’t have a lot of money but, we never went hungry, our parents loved us each in their own way.

There were always plenty of kids in the neighborhood to play with. Kids from school were only a bike ride away. We were safe; we didn’t have a lock on our front door, until the late 1970’s. Divorce was unheard of, and all the neighbors watched out for each other’s kids. And told them if they were up to no good.

The summers are what I remember most, the absolute freedom we were granted, as long as we showed up for lunch and dinner, on time. We did pretty much what we wanted. Going down the Pike (Main Street) to visit the .5 & .10 Department Store, and peruse the aisles, for inexpensive new treasures. There was the Rexall Drug Store, where you could get a roll of film developed, or buy your first tube of lipstick.

The Maple Shade Bakery, made the best donuts and bread anywhere available for miles. But perhaps my favorite haunt was Shucks. It was everything a kid could want rolled into one, a penny candy store, a soda fountain, and subshop, and for the older set a separate space for dancing, and listening to records on the Jukebox.

And, oh the malted milk shakes were out of this world, not to mention the root beer floats. I spent almost every Saturday afternoon seeing a movie at the Roxy Theater, where you could see a western, or the latest sci-fi for twenty-five cents. It was a three-block walk from my house. We used to smuggle in a Lebanon bologna sandwich and eat for free.

The Maple Shade public library was my second favorite place to visit. I read every book in the children’s section by the time I was eleven, those books took me all around the world and back. The library was part of same building as the police station. It was my second home.

We used to catch a bus one Saturday a month out front of the police station and go roller-skating in Riverside Roller Rink for fifty cents. My family didn’t have TV until I was about nine or ten, although some of our neighbors had one, sometimes I would go over and watch TV in the window of the TV repair shop on Main Street. Not Mayberry, but close enough!

THESE THINGS I KNOW TO BE TRUE

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The more love you feel and give to others, the more you receive in return

It was 1976. Bob and I had been residing in California for one year. When we first arrived, I found a job as a chairside assistant at an oral surgeon’s office in Santa Barbara. We were living in Lompoc. Which is about a half hour drive to Santa Barbara.  Doctor Snyder, the oral surgeon I was working for had a habit of calling me at home at the last minute to tell me the patient for the morning had cancelled. Sometimes I would arrive at his office and he would tell me to go home. Gas was $.59 a gallon in 1976 and I was making minimum wage which was $2.30 an hour. Which wouldn’t have been that bad except sometimes I only worked ten hours a week. I lasted six months at this job.

My next position was at Robinson’s Department Store in Santa Barbara. I worked in sales, selling hats and wigs. If there is a more boring job in the world, I hate to think what that might be. I had to stand at the counter and look busy. Doing what I have no clue.  On a good day I had one maybe two customers per day. I started looking for another job after the first month. A fellow employee at Robinsons told me about St. Vincent’s School on Calle Real Drive in Santa Barbara. It was a residential school for mentally disabled children.

I found my way to the school, and filled out an application. Did I mention that I have absolutely no sense of direction?

No one contacted me. I began a campaign to get hired there. I called St. Vincent’s two, three times a week. I sent letters. After a month and a half, they called me in for an interview. They called me back within the week and hired me.

St. Vincent’s School was run by The Daughters of Charity Catholic nuns. I was hired as a houseparent in the Laboures Group to take care of and assist sixteen girls ages twelve to seventeen.

My kids participating in Special Olympics

My kids participating in Special Olympics

I was assigned a split shift. I arrived at the school before the girls were awake about seven in the morning. I woke them up and supervised them until it was time for school to begin. I walked them to school which was on the same grounds as the residence. I came back when they were dismissed at three pm.

The children that resided at St. Vincent’s had a multitude of disabilities, Down’s Syndrome, Autism, Prader Willie Syndrome and mental retardation. But to me, they just became my kids. I don’t think I could have loved these kids anymore if they were my own. I didn’t look at them as disable kids. I looked at them as children who needed an adult’s love, care, guidance and acceptance.

I taught them self-care, table manners, how to make their beds and personal hygiene. I helped them with their homework. I taught them how to make their beds. I ate all my meals with them.

At night I watched TV or played games with them, helped them write letters to their families. I took them on outings for picnics, shopping for new clothes, the movies. I enjoyed every minute of the time I spent with them.

On Saturdays, which was my day off my husband Bob and I would take one of them out for the day to the mountains, or swimming at our apartment pool or into town. The same kind of activities that you would enjoy with your own children. A few girls wanted to learn how to sew so when it was there turn to spend a day with me, I taught them the basics of sewing.

I have had many jobs since those days, but I can tell you in all honesty that working at St. Vincent’s with those awesome kids was the best position I ever had. I experienced all the good things with them, love, acceptance and being needed, respect. I was making a positive impact on their lives. Whatever I gave to them they returned to me tenfold.

When my husband completed his education at Brooks Institute. I gave my notice. It had been seven years since I had lived in my home state of NJ. And my parents were getting older and I wanted to spend time with them. I wanted my future children to know their grandparents. I have never had a day I felt so sad, as the day I said good-bye to those wonderful girls, and the staff of young women and men that worked at St. Vincent’s School. I wrote the kids for many years until they left St. Vincent’s.

Picture of me and one of my co-workers Stacy Smitter

I look back on those days in California with gratitude and happy memories. Bob and I had the opportunity to be young and free. Live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. And get to know those children. It was a blessing. I often wonder what became of them. But I can only hope that they went on be happy in their lives. And were on the receiving end of all the good things in life, which they so richly deserved.

I KNOW THESE THINGS TO BE TRUE

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Things I Know To Be True

The smallest act of kindness can have a tremendous positive impact on other people and on your own happiness.

Bob and I were married in 1974. We were living in Jupiter, Florida. Bob’s lifelong dream was to become a professional photographer. He had recently been discharged from the Navy. He served during the Viet Nam War. As a vet he knew he would be able to get Veterans Benefits to help pay for his education to attend school.

He applied to and was accepted into Brooks Institute, a photography school in Santa Barbara, Ca. We had only been married a couple of years. We were poor. We had to wait two years for an opening at the school. During those two years I saved every penny we earned except for living expenses.

I was working at a The Collandes Hotel on Singer Island in the Spa giving facials to wealthy people. The Colonnades was owned by Douglas MacArthur the second richest man in America. When I knew him, he was in his late seventies. Bob was working third shift as an electronic technician.

We needed money for the traveling expenses to travel from Jupiter, Florida to California. And to rent an apartment. Brooks Institute required students to own a View Camera, and a tripod as part of his curriculum too. It cost almost $600.00. Which was a fortune to us.

We owned so little in fact, that all of our world belongings fit into Bob’s van and my 1970 yellow VW. We had brought our two dogs Bogie and Ulysses with us. We drove the van and towed my Volkswagen. It took us ten days to travel from Florida to Santa Barbara. It was an amazing trip. In the 1970’s much of our country was still undeveloped and there were hundreds of miles of unspoiled land. I had never fully realized how enormous our country is, until then.

We were unaware that most apartment owners in the Santa Barbara area did not allow pets, especially dogs in their rentals. In addition, we decided that we wouldn’t bring all our savings with us. Since, I was concerned that it would be stolen or lost. And so, when we started looking for apartments. We didn’t have enough cash to pay for first, last months rent and a security deposit. Apartment rents in the Santa Barbara area were much more expensive than Florida.

We began looking outside of the Santa Barbara area. And ended up looking in Lompoc, Ca. Which was about an hour’s drive from Santa Barbara. It’s is located near Vandenburg Air Force Base. The rent was more affordable. Unfortunately, we still didn’t have enough money to put a deposit down.

We approached a local bank in Lompoc. The people at this bank never saw or spoke to us before. They took my husband and I under their wing. We explained that we had more money in our Florida savings account. But it would have to be sent to us in order to rent an apartment.

Temporarily, we had been living with our two dogs Bogie and Ulysses in a run-down hotel room in a somewhat scary neighborhood. The bank manager loaned us the money to rent an apartment. They didn’t charge us any interest, or ask anything in return. We were complete strangers to them. In addition, they put us in touch with people in the area who owned apartments. We were able to rent one of the apartments and move in with our dogs.

I never forgot this experience, or the generosity of the manager of the bank. I promised myself that if I was ever in a position to help someone else out, I would. And I have tried to do just that whenever an opportunity presented itself to me. I consider it a gift to be able help a person in need. This experience really changed my view of the world. I realized that there was kindness and generosity in the world. And that as a fellow human being I had the obligation and the opportunity to make the world a better place. And I was blessed by this opportunity and have grown as a human being because of it.

Strawbridge Lake

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Today is one of those muggy August mornings when your upper lip starts sweating the moment you step out the back door. You know what they say about NJ, it’s not the heat it’s the humidity. Well, let me tell you something, it’s the heat too. But that has never stopped me. I grab my bike that’s lying on the ground next to the back step. And hang my lunch off the handlebars.

I ride as fast as I can down to my best friend Joanie’s house. I jump off and hit the kickstand. It’s precisely eight AM sharp when I bang on the door. Mr. Gioiella doesn’t look like he’s happy to see me when he jerks his front door open. 

“What the hell are you knocking at the door for this early in the morning? Don’t you have a home of your own?”

“Hi, Mr. Gioiella, Joanie, and I are taking a bike ride down to Strawbridge Lake this morning. We’re going to bring our lunches and look at the sunfish and… Before I can finish my sentence, which I uttered in one long breath, Mr. Gioiella slams the door closed. I don’t let his gruff manner deter me. He’s kind of a grouch, but then so is my father, so I’m used to it.

I hear him yelling at the top of his voice, “Joanie get your butt down here. Susie is at the door waiting for you.” I had to wait for her for fifteen minutes. But I don’t let that bother me either. Joanie is kind of slow in the morning. She has trouble waking up. And she always takes a long time to get ready. Joanie finds me looking around her yard when she finally comes out.

“What are you doing?”

“Hi Joanie, I was looking at your mother’s flowers. I love the yellow and purple ones they look like butterflies. What kind of flowers are they?”

“I don’t know. They’re my mother’s flowers. I don’t pay any attention to them. You’re really weird sometimes Susie always looking at flowers and petting Mrs. Collin’s cats. “Come on. I put my lunch on the back porch and my bike is back there. Let’s go before my mother changes her mind.”

Joanie drags her bike out from under her porch. It’s covered in cobwebs. She starts screaming at the top of her lungs. She detests mosquitos. But she’s absolutely terrified of spiders. I start laughing and knock off all the spider webs. I love her screened-in back porch so much. We play out there a lot. Sometimes we write letters to the movie stars. Other times we play games like checkers, or dominoes or, Submarine.

My Mom knows if she can’t find me that I’m probably on Joanie’s back porch. She doesn’t come over to get me, she just yells at the top of her lungs. “Susie, time for dinner, time for dinner.” We only live two houses away so, she stands out in our back yard and yells until I come home.

I come home right away; otherwise, my father will come and get me and nobody wants to see that happen. Like I said, my father’s kind of a grouch. He works at night and doesn’t like being awakened during the day until it’s time for him to get up and go to work.

My father is the head dispatcher for the Philadelphia Transportation Company. It’s the bus company. Everybody he works with calls him Smiley. I know I told you he’s a grouch. They call him Smiley as a joke because he never smiles. His nickname in our family is “The Old Bear.”

Joanie grabs her lunch off the back step and shoves it in her basket. And then we’re off. We cross her front yard and cut across Mrs. McFarland’s yard and pass Dougherty’s house. We all but fly up to the corner across from Schuck’s. Schuck’s is my favorite place in the world. It’s a store that sells Penny candy and ice cream and hoagies. I live to eat candy. Oh, and drink root beer floats. And it has another room with a jukebox and booths. And teenagers dance in there.

As we speed by Shuck’s, I see Harry Fuelle. He owns the store next to Schuck’s. He lives in the rooms above his store with his wife and three children. It’s a food store. But mostly they sell lunchmeat. He’s walking slowly around his backyard in his pajamas. He is staring at his Dahlias. I think he loves them more than his own children.

We turn right on Main Street like we were told to. We keep on the right side of the street. The police came to our school and taught all the students bike safety. It’s about a twenty-five-minute ride to Moorestown. It is the town right next door to Maple Shade where we live. And get this, there’s a McDonald’s on the corner. It’s the first one in this part of New Jersey. I can’t tell you how much I love French Fries. I would kill for them, well almost.

Joanie and I turn right onto Lenola Road and ride about a mile or so and make a left. And there’s Strawbridge Lake. By the time we arrive at Strawbridge Lake we are so hot and sweaty, our clothes are sticking to us. I can taste the salty perspiration as it drips down my forehead and across my lips.

I yell over to Joanie, “Let’s leave our bikes here and walk down to the waterfall.”

When we arrive at the waterfall, Joan and I take off our sneaks and socks and wade into the deliciously ice-cold water. It’s so clear you can see the sunfish swimming over the waterfall.

“Come on, let’s try to catch one,” I scream, so I can be heard over the rushing water.

We look down at our bare feet and squish the mud up between our toes. Joan lets out a squeal, and so do I. “I have an idea. Let’s try and walk across the waterfall past all the fishermen to the other side.”

“Oh, I don’t know.’ Joanie says.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a chicken, Joanie.”

Joanie isn’t really a chicken. She just needs encouragement to do fun stuff. Once she starts walking across, she forgets how afraid she was and practically hops and skips across. We stop in the middle and stare down over the waterfall. It looks like a long way down. I have an urge to jump and lean forward a bit. But Joanie grabs my arm. “What are you doing? You don’t even know how to swim?”

I smile at her and shrug my shoulders. “Come on, let’s go back to the stream near the Honeysuckle Bush and try to catch some sunfish.”

As we get closer to the stream, I start running at my top speed, and Joanie chases me. By the time we get there, we are both out of breath and soaked to the skin from sweating. We take a good look at one another and start laughing our heads off. You know the laugh that ends up snorting and hiccuping. Which makes us laugh that much more.

We step down into the stream and watch the golden fish swim across our feet. It tickles, and that makes us start laughing again and the fish disappear. As I stand in the ice-cold stream, I see young couples walking hand in hand. And mothers with their young children sitting on blankets.

Suddenly, I hear honking and, a huge goose comes rushing at us. Joanie and I are momentarily frozen. Then we realize that there are little goslings swimming right next to us. “Hey Joanie, we better get out of here. Remember the last time that goose bit you right on the butt.”

Joanie’s eyes get as big as saucers.  I grab her arm and pull her out of the stream. And we run until we are out of breath. Joan’s face is red as a beet. She looks at me and says,” your face is red as a beet.”

” My face, you should see your face.” This brings on the laughing again. We fall to the ground. We are laughing so hard. People are staring at us, but we don’t care. We can still hear the goose honking.

After I catch my breath, I say,” Hey, let’s go get our lunches, I’m starved.”

“Yeah, me too.” Joanie gasp.

We take our time getting back to our bikes. “Jeez, I think it is even hotter out. Is that even possible? I’m dying of thirst.”

“Me, too. But guess what my mom put a thermos in my lunch.” Joanie smiles.

I shrug my shoulders. I detest guessing games with Joanie. They can go on forever.

“Oh, you’re no fun, it’s cherry Kool-aide.” She sticks her tongue out at me.

“You’re kidding, that’s my favorite.”

“I know Susie, that’s why I brought it.” We ran the last few feet to our bikes laughing, all the way. And then we flop on the ground. Joanie pulls out her lunch. “What do you have?”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

I open mine. “Me too. It’s my favorite. Well, that and Lebanon Bologna.”

“Mine too.” She says as she shoves the last morsel in her mouth.

I hand her the lid of the thermos with ice-cold Kool-Aide in it. “Oh, wow, this taste so good.”

I smile and think this is going to be the best summer of my life.

These Things I Know To Be True

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THESE THINGS I KNOW TO BE TRUE

It is essential to have some space for yourself, even if it is only inside your head and heart.

I was a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. I am a sister, aunt, friend and neighbor and citizen.

My parents passed away within eight months of one another when I was thirty-four years old. I took care of my parents through the final moments of their lives. My father died of lung cancer and my mother had dementia. At the time that my father was diagnosed with cancer my older brother came to me and said, “It’s up to you Susan, to take care of them.” My brother was nineteen years older than I was. He was a psychologist whose practice centered on family therapy. He passed away a year ago.

I believe that he felt that as the youngest in my family of origin and a stay at home mom that I was in the best position to care for them. I would have done it without his words. But none the less, there is an expectation in our society that women are and should be the caretakers.

It was a difficult time, stressful, unbearably sad. It was an isolating experience. I learned during that time, that if I was going to take care of my parents, I had to first take care of myself. And so, I tried to get enough rest, eat properly and ask for help from family members when I felt overwhelmed. In fact, I sought counseling because I was suffered from depression.

After my parents passed, I began to think a great deal about life, and how swiftly time passed. My mother had told me before she developed dementia that her regrets in life had to do with all the things she didn’t do. Not any mistakes she may have made. I took my mother’s advice. Not to let fear stand in the way of doing anything I wanted to accomplish.

I considered the regrets of my life up to that point. What I wish that I had done and hadn’t been able to do up that point. My biggest regret was not going to college. When I was senior in high school in 1969, my father, who was an old school kind of guy said,” girls don’t need to go to college they are just going to get married and have children.” I went to work instead as a dental assistant after I graduated.

Consequently, after my parents passed, I kept my mother’s regrets in mind. I decided to go to college.

Two years after I lost my mother and father I applied to and was accepted into Temple University at Tyler School of Art in Philadelphia.  My kids were three and six at the time.

It was very difficult juggling two young children and going to school full-time. But I did it, I graduated with a degree in Graphic Design and Art Education. It was the best experience of my life. I realized I was intelligent, motivated and worth the investment of time and money. I gained confidence in myself. Both of my children grew up being exposed to art and creativity. They went on to Art School and became artists. Creativity is an essential part of my psyche and theirs as well.

In addition to painting, I write. Writing and painting are both forms of storytelling.  Until recently, it was something I did only for myself. Writing is an outlet for expressing my thoughts and feelings when it doesn’t always feel safe to express them to anyone else.

You are more than the roles you play in other people’s lives. You are more than someone’s mother, daughter, sister or wife. Try to remember you are unique, you have value. You have much to contribute to the world. Do not ever let anyone take that away from you. Make it your goal to find that little space inside your heart and your head just for you.

Daddy Liked To Clean House

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I rooted through my drawer, moving things aside, throwing stuff on the floor. It was no use it just wasn’t there. I kept hoping it was in there, but it just wasn’t. I searched the entire house after my parents went out for their weekly food shopping.

I went so far as to look in my fathers’ cabinets in the basement. He had strictly forbidden snooping. I had to be cautious when I looked in these drawers because he was very careful where he put things away. He remembered exactly how he left them and could tell if anyone had been in there.

Photo by Hugh Carberry 1958

Susan Carberry First Communion-

I was equally as careful. I memorized how each object was placed and in what order. I had years of experience, so I was very good at it. So far, my intrusion into his inner sanctum had never been detected. In desperation, I looked in his secret stash in his desk drawer under his Playboy magazines. It was nowhere. It was gone.

I would have to innocently question my mother to see if she knew the whereabouts of my most precious collection. It had taken me years to amass. And now, now it was gone. I prayed it hadn’t gone the way of all my other beloved treasures, removed, and never to be seen again.

It all began innocently enough. One year in the early Spring I decided to plant some Zinnia seeds in the front yard. In front of the white, wooden fence my father had built years ago. Well, he never finished it. He had completed the front section that faced Fellowship Road, it had no sides.

Kids in the neighborhood often made obnoxious remarks about how come you only got half a fence, your father is too lazy to finish it, or too poor to buy more wood. Maybe all or part of that was true, but it didn’t have anything to do with me.

Anyway, I digress. I bought the seeds at the Ben Franklin 5 & 10 Store down the pike on Main Street in Maple Shade where I live. It was marked down to five cents. I used my own money. I rarely had any money so I was careful about what I invested it in. I usually spent any money I acquired on candy.

The illustration on the packet was beautiful, colorful Zinnias of red, yellow, and orange. I loved the flowers. We only had two plants in our front yard, one was a bush we called the Communion Bush, but now I know it’s called a Spirea. When someone in the family made their First Holy Communion, which was a big deal in an Irish Catholic family, we had our picture taken in front of this white-flowering bush.

The only other bush was my mother’s lilac bush that grew next to the front sidewalk.  It was my mother’s pride and joy. It was wonderfully aromatic. The harbinger of Spring in our house was the lilac blooming in early May. She would cut branches from it and put them in her crystal vase in the center of the kitchen table.

When my older brother, Harry came over on Sunday morning to visit my mother, he would cut a bunch. He would give it to his wife, Maryann for her Sunday dinner table.

Every day when I came home from school, I checked on my zinnias to see how much they had grown if they looked thirsty. I would drag out the hose and give them a drink. Oh, and how they grew tall, reaching almost to the sky, wonderfully bright and cheerful. I was so proud that I had created this wonderful oasis of color in our otherwise boring yard of dandelions, and buttercups, and the occasional clump of grass.

As the summer was in full bloom, so were my zinnias. I smiled every time I spied them from the kitchen window. Then one day I came home from playing with the kids in the neighborhood. And as I rode my bike towards my house, I noticed something looked different. Then it hit me. My lovely zinnias were no longer there. And in their place was a long strip of dirt, decorated by small pieces of mowed down flower petals and leaves. I stared in utter disbelief.

I ran into the house and howled at my mother, “where, are my flowers mom? My zinnias are all gone.

She looked up at me and said, “I’m sorry Susan. Your father cut them down when he cut the grass today.” There was no point in confronting my dad about things like this. He never offered any explanation. He might simply answer, it’s my yard to do as I wish, or girls shouldn’t be doing work in the yard. That’s a man’s job.

I stopped playing with my dolls when I was about twelve years old. My mother put them away for safekeeping in her room, in the storage space above her clothes closet. I had two dolls. One was a collector’s edition of Shirley Temple. She was dressed in an authentic Scottish kilt, and military-style jacket and tan beret with a red feather. She wore woolen knee-high socks and patent leather shoes. Her hair was dark blond and had perfect ringlets. I had her for many years, but she was in perfect condition. I kept her and her clothes in a miniature white trunk. That had a special space for her on one side, and on the other side was a place to hang her change of clothes.

My other doll was older, she was a baby doll called Betsy Wetsy. You fed her with a little bottle that you could fill with tap water. And then she would pee in her baby doll diaper, just like a real baby, except she did it as you were feeding her.

My mother kept these dolls for me for a long time in her closet. Perhaps hoping that someday I would have my own little girls who would like to see, and play with their mom’s childhood dolls.

One day when I was sitting on my mother’s bed, she was looking in her storage area for her hat, which she kept in a hatbox. I noticed that my doll trunk and Betsy Westsy were no longer there. ‘Mom where are my dolls?” I felt a sense of dread.

“I don’t know Susie.” She answered. But she wouldn’t look at me, she had her head down. But I knew, I knew my father had taken them away.

After that, I tried not to let myself get too attached to things.  But then I discovered my special collection of autographs of TV actors, was gone as well. I had kept them hidden under my twin bed. This really made a great big empty spot in my heart.

My best friend, Joanie, and I had shared this hobby for most of our childhood years. We spent many a summer’s afternoons sitting in her screened-in back porch. We wrote long letters of our undying love for the stars of our favorite TV shows, requesting autographed pictures.

Our favorites were Western’s like Gunsmoke. I was secretly in love with James Arness.  And then there was Wagon Train, and Have Gun Will Travel, and of course Bonanza. My favorite show of all time was Dobie Gillis, who I thought was the coolest. Because he was a beatnik that frequented coffee houses, and listen to obscure poetry, and snapped his fingers instead of clapping.

Even now sixty-plus years later it’s hard to fathom what motivated my father to abscond with not just my childhood playthings, but my memories as well.

LESSON LEARNED

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It was 1969, my senior year in high school. I was seventeen but would turn eighteen in May. Everyone else was doing it, had been doing it since they were sixteen. But not me, the other girls in my class told me I was a baby, asked me what I was waiting for?  What was I waiting for?

As my birthday drew closer, I made the decision I would do it. I would learn how to drive. But

Father’s old car

who would teach me, who? Well, the most likely candidate was my father, since he was the only member of my family who owned a car. My mother never learned how to drive. In fact, she seldom went in the car, except to the doctors, or the food store, and she didn’t go often.

My father was not an easy person to talk to. He was prickly like a porcupine, and you never knew what would set him off. He was in one word a grouch! In fact, his nickname in our family was” The Old Bear.”

So, the Sunday morning before my eighteenth birthday, I decided it would be D-day. The day I would ask my father to teach me to drive.

My father made his feelings about women driving no secret. He didn’t think that they should drive, could drive, or needed to drive. Up until now my transportation included my feet, my bike, and the bus, in that order.

So, as I sat down at the breakfast table after Mass, I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. My father was engrossed in reading the Sunday paper. He did not encourage talking at meals.

Nor did he encourage conversation, or other points of view. I had asked my mother’s opinion about talking to my father about driving. She said, “well I don’t know Susie you know how your father feels about girls driving. But I guess it can’t hurt to ask.

So, I did. “Dad, would you teach me to drive? You know I’ll be graduating from high school this year, and I’ll need to drive back and forth to whatever job I get.”

“Susan, you don’t have a car, so why would you need to learn how to drive?”

“Well, I countered, I can go on the bus back and forth to work, until I save enough money to buy a car. Then I would need to learn how to drive and get my drivers’ license. And then I wouldn’t have to take the bus anymore. I hate taking the bus. “ I said this all in one breath.

This wasn’t the best argument because my father worked for PTC. That was the Philadelphia Transportation Company; in other words, the Philadelphia bus company. He had been a trolley driver first, and then he was the head dispatcher for over thirty years. In other words, his life was all about the bus.

“You know Susie, if you are able to save enough money to buy a car, then you have to get insurance, in case you get in a car accident, did you know that?”

I had a very vague idea about that, from talking to some of my friends at school. “Dad I will get a job now, and start saving so by the time I graduate, I will have enough money to buy a car.” I had no idea if this was possible, or even where to buy a car, or how much it would cost. Up until now, the biggest purchase I had made was a movie ticket.

Just then my mother said,” Harry teach her to drive; she’ll need to learn at some point, why not now, before she graduates?”

I stared at my mother.I couldn’t believe she spoke up to my father. It was really unheard of. He rarely asked or wanted her opinion or anyone else’s. My father looks from my mother to me, and then with a loud sigh, he said, “OK, OK next Saturday, we’ll give it a try.”

Saturday arrived, and I was filled with excitement and trepidation. As I was finishing breakfast my father said, “all right, Susan get in the car, we’re going over to the Sears parking lot at the Moorestown Mall, and you will practice.”

As we pulled into the parking lot, my father said,” whatever I tell you to do, do it, nothing else.” We switched places in the front seat. My father explained how to sit properly in the seat, how to check the position of the mirrors, the signals, the gas pedal, and, most importantly, the brake.

“Susan, we’re just going to go from point A to B. Then, you will depress the brake, when I tell you, show me which is the gas pedal, which is the brake.” I was nervous and started biting my nails.

Off we went back and forth, back and forth, for about fifteen minutes. “OK Susan, now I want you to start turning the wheel, you’re going to drive in a circle.” I started to do that, although I didn’t make a perfect circle.

My father started yelling, louder and louder, “slow down, slow down, you’re going too fast. The louder he yelled the more nervous I got. I forgot which pedal was which. He told me to stop and,  I hit the gas pedal hard by mistake. We started heading toward a little building, Sear’s Auto Parts.

My father’s yelling got me so flustered I smashed right into a pile of car tires next to the side entrance of the building. Which was lucky for us, because otherwise I would have hit the building itself.

I let go of the wheel, and the gas pedal, and that is when we stopped, and my father reached over and hit me on my arm as hard as he could. That was the end of the driving lessons.  Without looking directly at me, my father said, “Get out of the car Susan.”

I got out, I was pretty shaken up, between the yelling, crashing into the tires, and then getting smacked. I could only remember my father hitting one other time, so I knew he was really, really mad.

I thought he was just going to drive away and leave me, but he said, Get in the back!”

After that, I asked my sister Betty to teach me to drive. She said she would. Even though she was married and had four kids. She found the time to teach me and take me to get my driver’s license test. The day I passed the test, I told my dad. And he just shook his head and said, “just what the world needs another woman behind the wheel.”

Sweet Tooth

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I didn’t get it from any stranger.  My mother has the same addiction. She joneses for Peppermint Paddies. It started innocently enough. At first, I would nosh on a bag of shredded coconut or a miniature box of raisins on our front steps. You know, the ones I’m talking about, the one with the dark-haired little girl with the bonnet on her head. It wasn’t long before that didn’t do the trick for me. I needed more, better, sweeter.

Finally, the day arrived when my mother decided I was old enough to learn how to cross the street. “Susie, take my hand and watch what I do, and cross the street with me. Don’t let go of my hand.

After we practiced this a few times, she felt I was ready to take my maiden flight alone. “Remember what I said: look both ways, look right, then left, then right again. Then cross the street when you are sure there isn’t any traffic coming in either direction.”

“Ok Mom, I know how to do it, you don’t have to watch me anymore,” I assured her.

Finally, I was free to roam not just my side of the street but everywhere in town. Maple Shade was mine for the taking. My first destination was Shucks. I heard all about it from my older sisters, Eileen, and Betty who worked there on their school lunch breaks.

When all the other students from Our Lady of Perpetual Help Elementary School would go home for lunch, they would head around the corner to work for an hour at Shucks. They made milkshakes, malted milk, and hoagies.

In exchange, they would get a free lunch, anything they chose to eat. They were always talking about it, saying how all the cool kids in town went there after school, eat French fries, and dance to the 45’s on the Jukebox.

Well, I had a nickel that was just burning a hole in my pocket. No sooner had my mother watched me cross the street than I was off and running. I took a shortcut through Mrs. McFarland’s yard. She was out in her yard, as usual, weeding her garden.

“Hello, Susie, how are you doing today? Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. McFarland, I’m just going around the corner.”

Mrs. McFarland is a nice lady. And sometimes my friend Joan and I sit on her garden swing and play dolls. She would bring out her doll from when she was a little girl to show us. It looked really, really old. It had a face made from china and had real hair.

Other times, she would take me for a walk on her garden path and tell me the names of all her flowers, explaining the special care each flower needed. Her favorite was her tulips, which she explained had come from some far-away place called Holland. She told me how she had to dig them up each summer and replant them the next year. “Bye. Mrs. McFarland, I’ll see you later.” And I was off and running again.

As I rounded the corner to Main Street, I saw my friend Joanie’s father driving down the street and waved at him. He pulled over to the curb and rolled down the window. “Hello, Susie, what are you up to? Does your mother know that you crossed the street?”

“Yes, you know I’m not a little kid anymore!”

“Alright, be careful when you’re crossing on the way back.” I was almost home free. I came up to the door, as two teenagers walked out, I ran in. They laughed and said, “Look out where you’re going kid!”

Candy from the 1950s &n60’s

There it was. I couldn’t believe it, the holy grail of candy counters. I stood before it, transfixed by the amazing assortment of candy. There were red-hot dollars, dots, ribbon candy, licorice, red and black gumdrops, wax lips, and every kind of chocolate candy imaginable. I stood there, with my mouth watering, almost immobilized by the decision that lay ahead of me. A lady came up to the counter,” Hi dear, what can I do for you?”

I said,” Well, I have a nickel, and I want to buy some candy.”

“You do, well you just take your time and decide which ones you want. It’s penny candy, so you can get five pieces of candy for a nickel.”

“I want a licorice whip and a red-hot dollar, bubble gum, dots, and oh yeah, I want wax lips.” She took a small paper bag and put my booty in one at a time.

“Here you go, sweetie. Now, don’t eat it all at once.” And she handed it over to me.

“Thanks,” I said as I was walking towards the door. Two girls walked in, but I was too busy looking in the bag to notice that it was my friends Helen and Teresa from school.

“Hi,” they both said at once to me. I mumbled hello and took off for my house. I couldn’t wait to get my first taste.

After that first bag, I couldn’t stop thinking about getting more, but the problem was I didn’t have any money. Then, I came up with the idea of collecting the coins from the church floor that people dropped during Mass on Sunday.

And so that’s what I do. Every Sunday afternoon after church, I walk up and down between the pews collecting money. I’ve become a regular customer at Shucks’. I wish I could tell you that I feel guilty, but I can’t. Life has never been sweeter!

What If?

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What if?

For anyone who is reading this, you’re so welcome. Today I’ll be writing about creativity. For me it is the driving force in my life. And it always has been as far back as I can remember. I was a shy child, quiet and introspective. But I had a vivid and active imagination.

I have a fraternal twin, she was outgoing. Most people would question why are these two so different? They are the same ages, exposed to the same environment and family. Both spent twelve years incarcerated in the Catholic School. We had to wear uniforms including the same shoes. All methods to make students conform, act the same, lose all personality and originality. Methods to control children’s behaviors.

From the outside it looked like I was conforming, fitting, but I wasn’t. My imagination knew no bounds. I made up stories and tell them to anyone who will listen. I would draw pictures of animals and insects, and flowers who could talk. I was a daydreamer. I made things out of odds and ends that I found in my house and out in the yard. I would run in the house and say, “Mom, Dad look what I made.”

The question I asked myself as a child was “What if…” What if the sky wasn’t blue and white? What if I could fly like a bird? What if I could talk to animals and we could understand what they were saying and thinking?

But the real question is why aren’t all people more creative? Why isn’t creativity supported? Why is creativity inhibited in children? People who think outside the box are the people that become scientist, engineers, artist, writers, innovators, musicians, poets.

By putting two dissimilar things together, two unrelated things you can come up with new ideas, new inventions. Think about it. Think about how different your life would be if you let your imagination go and not stifle it. Open yourself up to a new way of thinking and being in the world. What if birds decided to float down to the earth instead of flying,

UMBRELLA BIRDS by Susan A. Culver

 

It’ Monday Night So We must Be Having Meatloaf

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My father sits on his faded orange rocking chair in the living room. He is watching the news on our new black and white TV. Walter Cronkite is saying, “And that’s the way it is.”

As he gently pets our dog Andy he absentmindedly stops. And Andy pushes his wet nose up into my father’s palm until he starts stroking his head again.

My father shouts, “Marie could you get me a cup of coffee.”

Marie is my mother’s name but my dad usually calls her Mom. My father is the king of this castle.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table staring at my spelling words. I’m supposed to be memorizing them for a test tomorrow. But instead I’m kicking my sister Karen’s leg and she’s pinching my arm under the table.

My Mother is busily wiping the kitchen counter unaware of the silent battle Karen and I wage just five feet from where she stands. We know better then to make any noise because my father doesn’t put up with any boloney while Walter is discussing the world news.

The problem is Karen is left-handed and I’m right handed. We’re both stubborn and refuse to change seats, so every time we try to write or turn a page, we bump arms. The battle would be on. My mother calls out in her sweet voice, “Be right there Harry.”

She fills his cup and adds three teaspoons of sugar and brings it into the living room wrapped in a dishcloth. My father has diabetes but he doesn’t let that affect what he eats, or drank. He adjusts his insulin shots depending on his blood sugar level.

His drink of choice is watered-down ketchup. My Mom places the cup on the table next to my father and warns him, “Be careful Harry, it’s hot.” Looking down at Andy, she says, “That animal has the life of Riley.”

My father loves Andy and lavishes all his attention and affection on him. Once a week he walks down to the corner store and buys him an ice cream cone. Karen and I sit there with our tongues hanging out wishing we could get a lick in, as he holds it to Andy’s mouth.

My mother would offer the same reframe, “Oh Harry you’re spoiling that dog.” Then she glances over at the two of us with a look that says, there’s not much I can do about it.

After we finish our written homework, my mother quizzes us on the spelling words. If we aren’t sure of the spelling, she’ll give us a little hint by saying the first two or three letters.

That night I have math homework. I hate math, hate it even more because my father tutors me when I have trouble. This is a daily occurrence. He’s very good at math. My father is the Head Bus Dispatcher at PTC. which stands for the Pennsylvania Transportation Company. He’s been working there forever. He created the procedure of scheduling the buses and trollies that’s still in use today.

After I complete my math homework my father says, “Give it to me. Let me have a look at it.” I lived in terror of this moment every day. My father expects nothing less than excellence and perfection. I feel I’m far from excellent. He would go over each problem, while I sat on my hands because they’re sweating. Praying that they’re correct.

He makes me so nervous I can hardly think straight when he asks a question. He looks over at me and says, “How did you get these answers? Show me the work, do this problem.”

I stare at it for a moment, my mind is a complete blank.  I ‘m afraid that I will disappoint him again. He says, “What are you waiting for? Get to it!” I finish the problem.

“Let me show you how you are supposed to do it.”

He shows me how to do it his way. I look up at him, afraid to speak.

“Well?”

“Dad, we use the new math, we don’t use your old math.”

“Old math, what are you talking about, old math?”

“But Dad, that’s the way Sister Joseph Catherine told us we have to do it.”

My father’s is a very bright man. “Alright Susabelle, use the new math at school. But when you need to do math in your life later on, you’ll see that my way works better.”

“Daddy, When Sister Joseph Catherine calls on me, she says, Hey you, and not my name.

“Well Susabelle, just tell her that Hugh is your father’s name not yours.”

My father doesn’t make jokes very often but when he does it would behoove you to laugh along with him, even if it’s at your own expense. After our homework is finished, we all go and sit in the living room to watch TV. I hear, “This is Walter Cronkite and good night.”

My mom sits down probably for the first time all day. She has a cup of coffee, and we watch Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke. My dad’s favorite show. Andy lays asleep next to my father’s chair, snoring quietly.