Category Archives: My Memoirs

SUNSHINE, HAIRCUTS AND MANICURES

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It was 1974, and I was living in Jupiter, Florida. I didn’t know anyone there other than my husband, Bob, and his family. In the past, I had worked as a dental assistant, and for a high-risk auto insurance company in New Jersey for several years. However, I had difficulty finding a job in Florida because companies had a policy that you had to have been a Florida resident for at least six months before they would hire you. And I had only lived there two months since moving from New Jersey.

Fortunately, Bob’s cousin, Margie, had worked at an insurance company B.D.Cole. Margie said I could use her as a reference. So after two interviews, I was hired to work as an assistant for Elaine Ayoub. Who had worked at that office for years and was nearing retirement age. Elaine was having difficulty keeping up with the workload and had made some mistakes. So, they hired me to assist her.

Colonnades Hotel add 1970’s.. I’m under the blanket.

I was told to go through her outgoing work every day and make sure it was in order. It was a challenging job since I wasn’t up to date on all the insurance laws in Florida. And they were different from New Jersey. Elaine didn’t seem aware that I lacked the pertinent information, and she didn’t attempt to teach me what I needed to know. She had a somewhat imposing personality, and I was young and slightly intimidated by her.

After working at B.D. Cole, for about six months, Bob and I got married. We took a three-day honeymoon in Miami. Where it rained, cats and dogs the entire time. The hotel room’s roof leaked, and the water leaked non-stop over our bed for three days. It was a honeymoon that I would never forget, that’s for sure. Bob lost his wallet somehow, and he had no clue where it was. When we returned to our apartment in Lake Park, we found it on the driveway.

We had adopted a puppy we named Ullyses a couple of months before we were married. And we had put him in a kennel for three days while we were on our honeymoon in Miami. When we picked him up from the kennel, we discovered that he was infested with fleas,  as was our apartment. After three days, the fleas were extremely hungry and bit us from top to bottom. It was not a great beginning. We had to use a flea bomb to kill all the fleas and treat Ulysses, our puppy, to kill all fleas on him.

The following day when I went back to work at B. D., Cole, I was called into the main office. I was informed that I was being laid off. The company was downsizing. And so, after three days of marriage, a wet honeymoon, and being attacked by fleas on our return. I was once again without a job.

I spent the next several weeks trying to find another job with no luck. And I decided that I would go to a hairdressing school. I found out there was a school in West Palm Beach. It was called The Florida Beauty Academy. Looking back on this decision, I can not imagine what made me think I would be a great hairdresser. I never had a talent for styling my hair, nor did I have any experience.

 I began my training to become a hairstylist. It was a small school, and there were only about thirty students attending that year. The students were primarily young people. But there were two adult students who I believed were in their mid-fifties.

They stuck together because they were the same age. But, I became friends with one of them. Her name was Maggie Wassenen. I used to visit her in her home and became friends with her entire family. Her husband was a mailman. And he would often talk about the people he met along his route delivering mail. One of the things that I remember the most about her house was that they had a tree in their backyard where they grew both oranges and lemons. I didn’t know about grafting trees back then, and I thought it was some kind of magic.

Unfortunately, halfway through the hairdressing course, Maggie’s friend, the other adult student in the class, committed suicide because her husband left her. And Maggie became depressed for the remainder of our time there. She didn’t talk to me often after that.

As it turned out, I had a natural talent for cutting hair and giving perms. I was able to roll a perm in less than ten minutes. I found I liked coloring hair as well. Most of our customers were older women that lived in the West Palm Beach area. And occasionally, we would cut the hair of homeless people in West Palm Beach. I enjoyed talking to these people since they offered a view of life that I had been unaware of up to this point in my life.

One of my teachers Mr. Diego, taught me how to cut hair. He was such a kind and supportive person. He had moved to Florida from Cuba. He often shared his early experiences with me about what it was like moving from his country of origin to Florida.

The one experience I recalled disliking the most was nearly all the students and the teachers smoked. And they smoked in the student’s break room. And unfortunately, it was the only place where the students could sit down, eat and take a break from standing all day. The smoke was so dense that you could barely see who was in the room.

Occasionally  I took a walk down the street from the school and go to Walgreens to get a soda or some snack or eat breakfast. There wasn’t any smoking allowed so I could breathe some fresh air for a little while. One morning a woman who frequented Walgreens came over and asked me if I was a  nurse since I was wearing a white uniform.

I said, “no, I’m a hairdressing student at the Florida Beauty Academy down the street.” People were friendly back then and thought nothing of starting a conversation with someone they didn’t know. I realized how much I enjoyed meeting and talking to people that I wouldn’t ordinarily speak to in the past. It helped me to become a more outgoing and open-minded person.

Of course, some experiences were not so pleasant. Some people who came in to get their hair done hadn’t washed their hair or taken a bath in a long, long time. I wasn’t gifted with a great sense of smell, and my fellow students knew that. And I would often get more than my share of people with, shall we say, “stronger body odor” than others. Sometimes, these poor people also had lice. And when that happened, the whole place would have to be fumigated. And I don’t even want to describe the condition of their feet when I did pedicures.

The first customer I gave a manicure to had unbelievably long nails that they curled under, and she wanted them to get new polish. I was so astounded by the length of her nails I just stood there and stared at her nails for a couple of minutes. And I said, “Holy Mackerel.” And she just laughed and laughed. I cleaned her nails and painted her nails bright red.

While attending Cosmetology School, I volunteered three afternoons a week with a family in Palm Beach, Florida, whose two children had Cystic Fibrosis, an inherited lung disorder. They were about ten and twelve years old. They lived on Ocean Boulevard in Palm Beach, directly across from the ocean. Their house was immense. They had a chauffeur and a limousine, a cook, and a maid. Their mother taught me how to do clapping therapy on their backs to help them breathe better. Children with this disease did not often live to adulthood since no treatment was available at that time.

When I finished the course, I found out that it was tough to find a job as a hairdresser unless you knew someone that owned a salon. Eventually, after several months of applying to every hair salon in the area, I got a job at the Colonnades Hotel on Singer Island. It was owned by John D. MacArthur, one of the wealthiest men in the United States at that time. He was married to Helen Hayes, a famous actress at one time.

I was hired to do facials on wealthy clients who stayed at the Colonnades. I also used a machine that was called Panthermal.  They would lie inside this machine with their head sticking out, and the machine would heat up a liquid, and the steam would flow over them from their toes to their necks. It was supposed to help them lose weight. But I have no idea of how it would work or if it worked. But people paid a lot of money to get the Panthermal Treatment. I was making an astounding $3.00 an hour plus tips, which was almost unheard of at that time.

And one of the most pleasant surprises was when my older friend, Maggie Wassenen, was hired to do massages at the Colonnades Health Center. It was owned by a wealthy couple, the Zimmermans.

I worked at the Colonnades for over a year, and then my husband, Bob, decided he wanted to attend Brooks Institute for Photography in Santa Barbara, California. And we were off on another exciting adventure.

I found a job at St. Vincent’s School in Santa Barbara, working with disabled and mentally disabled children as a houseparent. It was one of the best experiences of my life. And the most satisfying.

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HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

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It was the Fall of 1991 and we had just sold our home of fourteen years in Pennsauken, NJ, and moved to Pitman a small town in Gloucester County New Jersey. We were a family of four, husband, wife, and two children. The house we purchased was a Victorian house that was built in 1910.

It had originally been owned by a family called Sooy. One of the owners was a neuropsychologist and one wing of the house was used for his offices. We heard from our new next-door neighbors that Dr. Sooy only saw patients at night. The house was empty for eight years since its original owners had passed away. It had been neglected for many years long before the former owners passed away. It needed a great deal of work inside and out, starting with a new roof. The old roof had leaked for years and inclement weather over the years had caused damage to the interior of the house. We felt that we were up to the challenge. 

My plan was to utilize part of the house which was formerly used as a doctor’s office and exam room as an art studio to teach children and adults the basics of drawing and painting. I had recently graduated from Temple Tyler School of Art in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. And I had earned a BFA in Fine Arts and a degree in Art Education. I was the only adult student to graduate that year and while my fellow students had attained the grand old age of twenty-one I turned forty. Going to college turned out to be one of the most valuable experiences of my life. It was hard work, but I enjoyed every minute of it.

And so our journey began. We began to do some repairs on the house before we even moved into it. The realtor who had been trying to sell the house for years helped us do some of the minor repairs that had to be completed before we went to closing. So that we could get a certificate of occupancy. We moved in the February of 1994 on my oldest daughter’s thirteenth birthday. But we had to wait until Spring to put a new roof on the house.

One of the first neighbors we met were Bob and Marie Batten who owned the house across the street from us. Bob Batten had recently retired from his dental practice and his dental offices were in his home. His wife had assisted him for many years. He was in his early seventies when we first met and we built a friendship that lasted for many, many years until his death. In fact, Dr. Batten became one of my first adult students. Marie was a dear friend as well despite the thirty-year age gap. I spent many happy hours with her learning about her life in Pitman and hearing all the township gossip from years gone by.

In fact, I made many friends in Pitman through The Art Room. Which was what I named my business. Many children who had an interest in learning how to draw and paint attended my classes for years until they graduated from high school. And many adults who lived in town did as well, even one of the town’s administrators.

The neighborhood we lived in was a mixture of all kinds of people. Many of the people who lived on our street had lived there for decades. And they became some of my closest friends. Lois Fegundus who lived three houses away from me was an avid gardener. She was a retired school teacher, who talk Home Economics and had retired years before. Her favorite hobby was gardening and she taught me everything she knew. She shared her knowledge and her plants. Most of the flowers in the garden I created in my Pitman garden came from Lois’s garden. She had a great love of antique furniture and share her love of everything antique with me. I look back at all the hours I spent with her working in her garden as well as my own garden as the best hours and days of my life. And here I am in my own later years still happily gardening having benefited from her knowledge and generous heart. She passed away shortly before we retired and moved to North Carolina.

Of course, not everything in life smells of roses and daffodils. We had some downright awful neighbors. The Victorian house next door was owned by a man, Jack Fleming whose family lived downstairs and he rented the second floor of his house out.

His wife, Nina was friendly enough. I could never understand what she saw in him since he was eternally in a bad mood. She worked in a library and he sold real estate.

Jack’s tenants came and went fairly quickly because he refused to even consider putting a small window air conditioner in their apartment. And believe me, it is humid and hot, hot, hot in New Jersey in the summertime. So, his tenants would often stay a year and then move out. So, there was a steady stream of people moving in and out. Jack didn’t have any parking available on his property for the tenants. As a result, they always parked on our side street next to our house. One of the first tenants had an unusual hobby. He sang opera late into the night after he got home from work. 

The other tenant that sticks out in my memory is a family that lived on the second floor for several years. They used to eat outside on a picnic table and when they were done eating they would throw their trash over our back fence and into our yard. No matter how many times I told them to throw their trash in the trash can they threw it over into our yard.

After several years Jack and Nina sold their house to an investor. And he rented the whole house out top and bottom. I do not have the strength to think about all the people who came and went after that. As an example, one of the tenants who was living in the downstairs apartment decided to move out. They had a pet rabbit and they left it in the shed in the backyard, never to return. The new tenants saw me in my backyard and ask me what they should do about the rabbit. Their landlord said it wasn’t his problem. So, I suggested that they take it to the local animal shelter. It was late August and the shed was hot as hell, can you imagine?

The tenants in the house didn’t have enough parking space in the driveway and they would all park on the side of my house and come and go at all hours of the day and night often throwing their trash from their cars on my sidewalk. No matter how many times I ask them to take their trash with them and keep the noise down to a low roar when they came home in the middle of the night they just didn’t care. At one point one of the tenants invited a whole crowd of people to have a bar-b-Que in the backyard. I happened to be coming out my back door and saw them. I notified their landlord that he better keep his tenants in line or I was going to start calling the police and complain.

Soon after that these particular tenants moved away. Which honestly was a blessing. But, then I started worrying if even worse people could move in next door.

What happened next was the elderly neighbor, Mrs. Foot who lived behind us passed away and her house, a duplex was sold to a middle-aged couple. I went over to their house the following week and introduced myself to her and welcome her and her husband to the neighborhood. She had moved from New York City to our little town of Pitman. The first time I met her I introduced myself to her and welcomed her to the neighborhood she was originally from Brazil.

Over time we became friends and she told me she never learned to drive. I offered to teach her. I have to admit it was a scary experience since she seemed as if she didn’t know her left hand from her right hand. But eventually, she improved and got her driver’s license and her husband bought her a car so she was able to go places while he was at work. We were friends for a long time until my husband and I retired and moved to North Carolina. They came to visit us the first year that we lived there.

But the neighbor who will live forever as a bad memory lived across the street from our driveway. She was the neighbor from hell. Her elderly aunt formerly lived in the house and became ill and passed away. She inherited the house from her aunt. The house was in poor repair but it progressively went downhill after Susan Mullen and her family moved in. She had two teenagers when she moved in but within two years she had two more children a boy and a baby girl. They had different fathers. Susan Mullen was truly one of the worse mothers I ever had the misfortune to know and unfortunately live across the street from them.

Susan Mullen and her string of boyfriends had loud arguments late at night. She apparently had acquired a drug addiction and she had all kinds of scary people visiting her night and day. She left the child care of her two young children to her teenagers. Eventually, I had to report to DYFS that Susan was not only verbally abusing her children but physically. One day her son who was about five or six at the time was out in front of their house he had a child’s golf club and he was swinging it back and forth across the grass. I happened to be gardening in my backyard. She yelled at him to stop. But he didn’t right away. And she ran towards him and kicked him in the rear end with tremendous force and he flew about two feet in the air. I called the town police and reported the incident to DYFS.

I can’t say that thing ever got any better at Susan Mullen’s home. Unfortunately, I have to admit we developed a hate/ hate relationship. That only got worse over time.

The time came when my husband and myself retired and my younger daughter decided to move to North Carolina. By then our older daughter had moved to Philadelphia and married.

We lived in Pitman for twenty-two years. We met and became friends with a great many people. Overall, it was a wonderful experience with a few bumps along the road. And I will miss our house in Pitman for the remainder of my days. It was a difficult decision to sell our house we had put our hearts and years of hard work into restoring it to its former condition. The day we moved away and pulled out of our driveway was one of the hardest days of my life. I only hoped the new family who lives there now love and care for that house as much as we did. And now they are forever a part of its history as we are.

And here I sit in my home in NC in a small development of twenty families. It is a quiet place to live out our retirement and I have come to love this house as well. But, it will never be able to take the place of our Pitman, NJ home in my heart. But, life goes on.

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I MADE A WRONG TURN AND NOW I’M LOST

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One of the most difficult and frustrating challenges of my life has been my total lack of a sense of direction. Laugh all you want but the fact is that this deficit has affected every daily aspect of my life since I was a child.

I have tried to explain to people over the years that I just don’t have a sense of direction. That even if I have been somewhere many times before I have made the wrong turn and ended up terribly lost, and then the panic steps in and takes over. I have been lost for hours countless times. I can not even guess how many times I’ve been lost over the course of my lifetime.

I can not explain to anyone just how terrifying it is just to try and go from point A to point B without making a wrong turn and ending up in the wrong place. Why one time when I was visiting a friend of mine who lived about an hour and a half away from me in North Jersey, I lived in South-Central New Jersey I made a wrong turn and ended up at New Hope in Pennsylvania. Which is about an hour in the wrong direction from her house. Yes, I knew I made a wrong a wrong turn somewhere but I had no clue where. And I couldn’t figure out how to get to her house from Pennsylvania. I ended up calling her on a payphone {this was way before cell phones} and I told her where I was and what happened. And she drove there and I followed her to her home. I had driven to her house many times. But on this particular day, I made a wrong turn.

Ah, you think well that might have been a problem for you in the past but now that we have cell phones and a GPS getting lost is no longer a problem. Wrong my friends. I live out in the country and the signal is not reliable out here and can send you off in the totally wrong direction and you will end up who the hell knows where. I don’t.

Of course, as a child, I didn’t realize that I had this deficit. And I loved taking long walks around the little town that I grew up in and I also loved riding my bike even farther away from neighboring towns. Sometimes I would be gone for hours and my parents would be left wondering and worrying about where in the world I was at any given time.

When I finally arrived home late, they would be frantic and worried thinking something terrible had happened to me. They would call my friends and ask if they had seen me. And when I finally managed to find my way home I would try to explain that I got lost. And they would ask, “how did you get lost you gone over Helen, or Anne Marie’s house many times. How could you get lost?” And I would say, ” I don’t know I just did. I guess I made a wrong turn.”

And god forbid someone makes the mistake of stopping and asking me for directions. Because even if I have been living in the area for many, many years I am incapable of giving directions to people. It seems like I can only give them the initial direction from where I’m standing and no more. The rest of the directions are a complete mystery to me. People have said, “well, how long have you lived in this town?” And I’ll say almost twenty years.” And they respond well, how is that possible?”

I have no idea, but if you wait a few moments I’ll go get my husband and he can give you directions.” And they wait for a few minutes and then he easily gives them directions. I can see them shaking their heads and looking at me and clearly not understanding why I could tell them the same information. And the answer is, I don’t know why. I guess I’m just really bad at directions.

The only time I can get from point A to B is if someone, usually my husband writes the directions down step by step from my turn out of our driveway to my ultimate destination. I can follow directions but I can’ remember them. It is a mystery to me because I actually have an excellent memory but just not for directions. It’s a brain thing. And apparently, I’m missing that one part of my brain that tells me which way to go.

When I am going to the same destination several times a week I have no trouble getting there unless for some reason I have to go a different way. One day when I was going to my volunteer job one of the roads I took every time I went there was flooded out because of several days of rain. The river that ran next to the road rose and flooded the street. I had to turn around and try to find another path to my destination.

I spent a good hour driving all over the place and ultimately I had to go back home and have my husband drive his car and I followed him to my volunteer job. By the time I arrived, I was worn out and frustrated with myself for having such a difficult time finding my way around.

And to add insult to injury I have a similar problem when I go into buildings that I’m unfamiliar with. For instance, hospitals. Any building that has a great many halls with many doorways that look the same is like a maze to me. I can never find my way around.

I have to ask many people to give me directions to the doctor’s office or the lab where I need to have a blood test or a room where I have to get an x-ray. Just the thought of having to go to a hospital for a test fills me with anxiety. Not because I’m afraid of having the test done or finding out the results of the test but finding my way to the office or lab where I have to get the testing done. I know that sounds crazy but it’s the truth.

And then there are the experiences I’ve had within a dentist’s or doctor’s office when it is a large practice and many exam rooms. If I am told to go to Dr. So and So’s office and one of the office assistants takes me to the room all is good. But, if no one is available to take me out of the exam room and back to the receptionist’s desk you can be assured that I will make a wrong turn and be lost in the maze of look-a-like rooms and hallways and I could wander around in circles for quite a long time until I find a friendly face who is kind enough to take me to the receptionist desk.

It is believed that men have a better directional sense than women. But, the truth is I know many women that have a great sense of direction. I just don’t happen to be one of them.

After a lifetime of being on the edge every I go to a new place on my own I have learned to accept my shortcomings and my strengths. I was doing some research on what could be the possible causes for such a deficit such as no sense of direction and I found this out.

Professor Giuseppe Laria studied a potentially hereditary neurological condition known as Developmental Topographical Disorientation or DTD. This is what is believed to cause people such as myself to be unable to keep maps or directions in their minds. and be perpetually lost, sometimes in their own home. (thank goodness that hasn’t happened to me yet.)

It is reassuring that I am not alone in being unable to find my way around and that many other people suffer from this unique deficit. And even though I have struggled with this issue my entire life I managed to go to college, earn two degrees, have two children and stay married and relatively happy for most of my life. I have also lived in New Jersey, Florida, California, and now North Carolina and somehow managed to find my way to and from work, and school somehow, someway without a police escort pointing the way for me.

And so I look forward to hopefully quite a few more years of wandering in circles and seeing places I had no intention of seeing. And talking to people who are kind enough to give me directions, sometimes having to repeat the directions a couple of times to me. And so I wish you and I a Bon Voyage in our future life and maybe someday we may meet along the highway of life and I hope you will be so kind as to point me in the right direction.

 

A LONG SUMMER’S WEEKEND

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It was August of 1965 I just turned fourteen years old in late May. My childhood best friend, Joanie calls me up one day and asks me if I would be interested in going camping with her other best friend Dolores Brennan.

Joan originally agreed to go camping with her but decides she really doesn’t want to go camping at all. Since she hates the idea of sleeping outside in a tent, on the ground. And has an almost pathological fear of insects, especially mosquitoes. And as everyone knows New Jersey is the breeding ground in the summer for every kind of biting insect, especially mosquitoes.

On top of that Dolores’s father was going to be going with them. And they would all be sleeping in the same tent together. Joan went on to explain that she felt really weird about sleeping in the same tent with Dolores and her father for some weird reason. 

My family never took summer vacations or trips when I was a kid, ever. Joan’s family took summer vacations to Florida almost every year. I had never been anywhere at all unless I could ride there on my bike. And my parents expected me to be home at five o’clock on the dot. Or there would be hell to pay. Well, not really. They just remind me, “You know we eat at 5 pm and you shouldn’t keep other people waiting.”

So, when Joan calls and asks if I would like to go camping with Dolores and her father I did not hesitate to say, “Yes, I would love to go camping with them.” And Joan responds, “great I’ll give Dolores a call and let her know that you’ll go. And I’ll give her your phone number and she’ll call you with all the details.”

I pack a bag that includes enough clothes for at least three weeks even though I would only be gone for two days. I “borrow” one of my older sister’s bathing suits. Since I didn’t have a swimming suit of my own that still fits me. As I had grown quite a bit since the last time I went swimming in Jackie’ Rice’s above-ground pool. Hopefully, my sisters wouldn’t notice it was missing before I left.

I nonchalantly tell my parents that I’m going camping with Joan’s friend Dolores and her father. They never met Dolores but have been hearing about her for years. Since I was extremely jealous of Joan’s friendship with Dolores. I insisted that Joan could only have one best friend. And Joan insists that it’s alright because I was her best neighborhood friend. And Dolores is her best friend in school. Joan is a year younger than I was and so she was in a different year of school.

The day of the trip finally arrives and I’m impatiently waiting for Dolores and her father to arrive in front of my house. They know that I live two houses away from Joan’s house. I stare out the living room window.  My father says, “you’re going to stare a hole in the window if you keep that up.” My mother says, “Leave her alone she’s not hurting anything by looking out the window.”

And then, at last, I see an old car pull up in front of my house. And I can see Dolores sitting in the front seat next to her day. “Here she is, I’ll see you on Sunday night.” And I grab my bag with my stuff in it and run out the door before they can change their minds about letting me go. I run out to the car as fast as I can. Dolores has her window down and says, “get in the back.” I am a little upset because she isn’t going to sit in the back with me. Then I open the car door and throw my suitcase onto the back seat and jump in. I glance out the window and I can see both of my parents looking out the front window and waving at me. I give them a little wave, and before you know it, we are on our way.

Dolores doesn’t even introduce me to her father, she just says,” hi.” And then she turns the radio up. Her dad pulls out into Fellowship Rd. and heads toward Route 73 South towards the shore, where we will be camping. After about a half-hour of silence, I say,” so how long a drive is it to the campsite, Dolores?”

“Oh, it’s about another forty-five minutes.” And then she turns the radio up louder. I start feeling a little mad and almost feel like telling them I want to go home. But I realize if I do that my parent will decide I’m too young to go anywhere without them. So, I keep my mouth shut. Dolores and her father start having a conversation about what people they know that might be there. And how they are looking forward to cooking over a fire and swimming in the lake that is nearby.

I decided that I will start asking questions so that they will include me in the conversation. I wish that Dolores had sat in the back seat with me. I wonder why she asks if I could go with her if she wasn’t going to talk to me and just ignore me sitting in the back seat of her car.

“Dolores, do you know how to swim?”

“What? Of course, I know how to swim, silly. Only babies don’t know how to swim.”

Oh, oh I think, I don’t know how to swim. I will have to be careful not to let her know. The only place I have ever been swimming was my neighbor above the ground pool. It is shallow and I can stand up in and it was about up to my chest. I never learned how to swim.

Her father still hasn’t said anything to me. My father is kind of a grouch, so he doesn’t really talk to my friends that come over, other than to tell them to pipe down while he’s watching TV. So, I try not to take his ignoring me personally. But the fact, that Dolores is ignoring me pretty much, is really making me mad. I’m not sure what I should do though.

After a while, we get on a big highway and I see a sign that says South Bound Atlantic City. So, I know we are getting closer. I realize that my ear is starting to hurt me. I must have gotten water in my ear when I was shampooing my hair last night. I get a lot of earaches so I know in a little while my ear is really going to start hurting me. I wonder if I should say something before, we get any further.

“Dolores, I’m starting to get an earache. Maybe your dad should take me back home before we get any further otherwise, I’m going to keep you up all night with my earache.”

“What? We’re not going to turn back now, we’re almost there, don’t be a baby.”

I’m so mad at Dolores now that I feeling like giving her a big punch. I knew there was a reason I didn’t like her. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the trip. In about an hour her father announces, “here we are, get ready for some fun.”

My ear is really throbbing now and I know I shouldn’t go swimming or my ear will get more water in it and then I will get an infection. And I will have to go to the doctor’s when I get home. “Dolores, my ear is really starting to hurt, I’m not going to be able to go swimming.”

Dolores turns her head and looks at me and makes a really mean face at me. But she doesn’t say anything at all. And her father acts like he doesn’t even know that I’m in the back seat. Since he hasn’t said a word to me. I wonder what I should do, but I really have no idea. I just sit there with my ear throbbing. I guess I will just keep quiet and hope it doesn’t get worse and hope the weekend goes by quickly. I feel miserable.

About ten or fifteen minutes later we approach a sign that says. CAMPING FOR FAMILIES. Dolores’s father pulls up to the entrance and hands something to the guy in the booth at the entrance. “OK I got our campsite, lets go park and set up the tent and the campsite. He’s looking at Dolores and is still acting like I’m not in the back seat of the car. I feel like I’m invisible. I vow never to talk to Dolores again and I am definitely and going to tell Joan that I’m mad at her as well. Why didn’t she warn me that Dolores and her father were weirdos?

Dolores’s father pulls his car into the camping site and parks the car. Then he jumps out of the car and opens the trunk. “Ok, you guys come on out and help me unload the camping gear and set up camp.”

I feel a little better because at least he acknowledges that I exist for the first time. “Come on, get out and help.”

I’m so mad at Dolores that I feel my temper is rising and soon I will smack her or something. I go over to where she is standing and say, “what do you want me to do? I’ve never been camping before?”

“Just grab some of the stuff from the trunk and bring it over to where my father is standing and once, we get out everything from the trunk, we’ll set up the tent.”

“Ok.” And I do just that, she hasn’t even smiled at me or said anything to me except that I was acting like a baby. I’m so, so angry.

We follow Dolores’ father into the woods carrying all the heavy camping equipment with us. We have to make two trips to get all the equipment to the campsite. I have no idea how to set up a campsite let alone put up a tent. The only tent I ever put up was in my backyard. My friends and I would throw a blanket over the clothesline in the backyard and then pin it to the ground by hammering clothespins into the ground on either side of the clothesline.

I watch Dolores and her father put the tent up and set up a place to cook whatever food they brought with them. It is a small tent. And I can’t help but think and now I have to share this small space inside this little tent with Dolores and her father all night.

I wish there was some way to get out of this situation aside from demanding that they take me home right now. And I truly wish I had the guts to do just that but I don’t. Dolores says come on let’s take a walk and I’ll show you where the showers and the bathroom is located in case you have to go to the bathroom during the night.

“What? Do you expect that I will be able to find the bathroom in the dark in the middle of the night by myself? Are you crazy? I’ll get lost. Then what? If I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I’m going to wake you up and you are going to have to go with me.”

Dolores looks at me like I’m crazy. “No, I’m not going to do that.”

“Yes, Dolores you are, or you and your father are going to have to take me back home right now.”

Dolores doesn’t say anything to me after that. And that was just fine with me. I didn’t care if she ever spoke another word to me for the rest of my life. Dolores says, “come on I’ll show you where the bathroom is just in case and the showers are right next to the bathroom. I hope you brought a towel with you because they don’t supply them here.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me that before we left? I had no idea, I told you I have never been camping before. We made our way through the woods to the bathroom and then we both went into a stall to pee. It was disgusting. Apparently, you are supposed to bring toilet paper with you too, but I didn’t know that. This was turning into a real nightmare. I yelled out, “Dolores, do you have any toilet paper?”

She yelled back, “you mean you didn’t bring toilet paper with you?”

“No, I didn’t Dolores. No one told me too and I never went into a public toilet that didn’t have toilet paper there for people to use. Why didn’t you tell me that either?”

I hear Dolores laugh. And then a roll of toilet paper flies over my bathroom stall and I barely catch it before it falls onto the filthy floor. What in the world is wrong with these people?” Why did my friend Joan like this girl? She was just awful.

After I finish using the bathroom, I left the stall and I can’t find Dolores. She wasn’t in the bathroom anymore. I go outside and call out, “Dolores, where are you? She calls out, “I’m over here.”

I look in the direction that her voice came from. And I find her talking to another young girl about our age. I say, “hello.”

Dolores says, “this is my friend Joan’s friend. Joan couldn’t come, so I brought her with me instead.”

“Yeah, aren’t I the lucky one”, I said. Can we go back to the camp I’m getting hungry I didn’t have any lunch. Dolores rolls her eyes at her camping friend. And said, “yeah, I guess so.”

Dolores’ Dad had set up the campfire and he put the sleeping bags in the tent. It was really going to be close quarters. But it was only going to be one night because I decided that tomorrow, I’m going to tell them my ear is killing me and I feel sick. And they’re going to have to take me home first thing in the morning.

We have hotdogs and corn on the cob for dinner. Which is good as I love both hotdogs and corn on the cob. I say, “thank you, that was good. I was really hungry.” They both look at me like I’m talking another language or something.

I wonder what we were going to do the rest of the night. I have a feeling it was going to be a really long night. I never slept outside on the ground. And I‘m sure I‘m going to have trouble sleeping. I hope I won’t have to go to the bathroom again. I decide I’ll just go to the bathroom behind a tree or something before I went wandering around in the woods.

It turns out that all the campers are going to meet in a central location and tell ghost stories and sing songs. I enjoy singing songs. But some of the stories are really scary and I know I’m really going to have a hard time falling asleep. Or I‘ll have terrible nightmares about being murdered in my sleep.

After everyone starts returning to their own campsite, we’re about to go back to ours when Dolores says, ‘I’ll be back to the camp in a few minutes I want to talk to my friend Marla, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

So, then I had to walk with Dolores’ father to the campsite by myself and he still hasn’t talked to me at all. I’m beginning to get that creepy feeling about him again. About a half-hour later Dolores came back to our campsite and whispers to her father. I can’t hear what she’s saying. But then she grabs her sleeping bag and leaves the campsite. “Where is Dolores going?” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Her father looks at me as if he just realized I was there. “Oh, she says she’s going to sleep in her friend Marla’s tent tonight. She’ll see us in the morning.”

“What? She isn’t going to be sleeping here tonight? But she asked me to go camping with her. And now she isn’t even going to stay here in this tent. And I have to sleep here in the tent with just you????”

“Yes, it’s not a problem I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind? But I do, and I know my parents wouldn’t like it at all.”

He doesn’t say anything more after that. But I was so worn out by the whole ordeal, that I just push my sleeping bag as far away from him as possible. And pull the sleeping bag up over my head and zip it shut as far as I can. And I promise myself that I will scream bloody murder if he comes anywhere near me.

Somehow, I manage to go to sleep, about halfway through the night I had to go to the bathroom so I sneak out of the tent and pee on the nearest tree. I crawl back into the tent and into my sleeping bag and zip it all the way up again.

I can’t fall asleep again, so I lay awake and listen to the crickets and mosquitoes all night. And as soon as it gets lite out, I wake Dolores’ father up and say, “I’m sick and I have to go home. I have a terrible earache and I feel sick. You have to take me home right now. Or, I’ll have to call my father and tell him he will have to come all the way here and pick me up. And he won’t like that because he works at night and he’ll have to go to work without getting any sleep.

He groans, and says, “ok, od let me tell Dolores that I’ll be back in a couple of hours. And then we’ll go. I knew this was a bad idea bringing some kid I didn’t know camping.”

If looks could kill he would have been dead where he stood. But he didn’t die, but he did take me home and never said a word the whole way. He drops me off in front of my house. I grab my bag and head into my house.

My mother is standing at the stove cleaning up the breakfast dishes. She’s startled when I walk in. “What happened are you alright? How come you’re back already?”

“Well, it’s kind of a long story, but for now let’s just say it turns out I’m not much of a camper and leave it at that. And if Joanie calls any time in the next couple of days. Tell her I can’t come to the phone. Needless to say, that was my one and only camping experience for many years to come.

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THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE CURIOUS

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There are many ways that someone can be described. I’ve been described as intelligent, not bad-looking, and funny. But the truth is my most outstanding trait is my curiosity.

As far back as I can remember the force that drove me is my curiosity. You may ask, “But what are you so curious about?”

“And the God’s honest truth is, everything.”

I remember an incident from my early childhood. I was about four years old. And I decided to take a walk down my street about four houses down from where we lived. I was standing next to a telephone pole that was out in front of Mrs. Collins’s house. And her trash can was sitting there waiting to be picked up by the garbage man. They always come at 8 AM every Friday morning. 

My father had a weird fascination with counting how many garbage cans people put out in front of their house the day before the trash was picked up. He got angry if the neighbors put out too many and even more angry if they didn’t put out any at all.

So perhaps because he talked about the garbage cans every week to such an extent, I became curious and wondered, “what is so interesting” about garbage cans? And on this particular Friday morning, I decided to take a walk down my street, and investigate just what was inside these metal cans that everyone wanted so badly to get rid of them, and have them driven far, far away from them every week? And why did they keep buying things that they eventually couldn’t wait to get rid of?

As I stood there staring at Mrs. Collins’s trash can I couldn’t help but notice that there was a disgusting smell emanating from the depths of the can that had a bent and rusty lid on it. The lid was being held closed by a broken brick. Because the lid didn’t fit well. And would often fall off before the garbage men emptied its contents into the maw of the giant monster of a truck that swallowed everyone’s garbage every Friday morning.

I picked up the broken brick and put it gingerly onto the ground next to the can. The stink intensified. I took off the lid and put that on the ground next to the stinking can. The first thing I saw inside was a large can. I recognized it as something my mother used to call “The Crisco Can.” I didn’t know that everyone had this “Crisco Can.”

I thought, “wow, that’s really a big can. I wonder if this can will fit over my head. It looks big enough.” And so, I picked up the can without investigating the contents. It felt empty so I thought it would be safe to put on my head. My older brother had been kind enough to give me a haircut recently. As a result, my hair only came down to the tips of my ears. For some reason, my mother asks, “why, why did he cut your hair? And why would he cut it this short? I told my mother that he cut it short to see if I would look like a boy.

Anyway, it turns out that the Crisco Can was almost a perfect fit for my head since I had very little hair left on it. I wiggled my head a bit to see what if anything would happen. And then out of the blue, I felt something or someone biting my head. Not just the top but all over. And not only did the bites sting like crazy but my scalp started to burn like it was on fire. And whatever it began running down inside my shirt and biting me all over my chest and stomach.

I began to scream like crazy and running at the same time back to my house. I ran to the kitchen door and screamed at the top of my lungs. “I’m on fire, help I’m on fire.”
My dad and mom who had been sitting quietly at the kitchen table drinking their first cup of coffee of the day came bursting out of the kitchen onto the side stoop. And my father started yelling, “what the hell is wrong with you? You’re not on fire. And why in the hell do you have a Crisco can on your stupid noggin?”

“My head is on fire. And something is biting me. HELP.”

My mother said, don’t yell at her, you’re just making it worse. Why do you always have to yell?”

“For the love of god, take the can off her head.”

My father yanked the greasy can off my head. I yelled even louder. “Ow, ow, ow. That hurts.”

My mother said, “what is it” what is it?”

“Holy mackerel she has red ants all over her head, and on her neck, and in the front and the back of her shirt. “Take her clothes off, and I’ll get something to kill them. And with that, he ran back into the house and off to find something that would kill the “red ants.”

I hoped he wouldn’t kill me in the process. Sometimes with my father in charge, the cure was often worse than the ailment. I started crying anew. My mother started pulling my top off and my undershirt and then my pants and underpants. I was now naked as a Jay Bird in front of everyone who happens to drive or walk by. And the worse part was, I could see our evil next-door neighbor’s face pressed up against the windowpane. And there was a horrible grin on her face. For some reason she just despised me. She was always calling me The Cry Baby.

And then at that very moment, my father burst out of the kitchen door and he had a big metal can in his hand. “Step back from the child, I’m going to pour this all over her head. This should kill the bastards.”

My mother yelled, “What? You can’t pour turpentine on her head. It will kill her. She’s just a little girl and it will get in her eyes and blind her.”

She stepped back and I felt a burning liquid pouring down over my head and face, I quickly closed my eyes tight. And then it dripped down my front and back and down my skinny legs. My mother forgot to take off my shoes, so my new sneakers got all wet too. My mother said, “oh no, you ruined her new sneakers.”

I had tightly closed my eyes but tears somehow managed to creep out of my eyes and down my red and swollen face. My father yelled, “get the hose, and we’ll hose her down.”

And that was what they did. They hosed me down for what seemed forever. I had finally run out of tears and was just standing there in my ruined sneakers and red and itchy skin and soaking wet. And my father said to me with all seriousness,” are you happy now?”

I stood there soaked to the skin with itchy, burning bites and dead ants pooling around my feet. And my father said, “why in god’s name did you put that filthy, disgusting can on your head for? Can you just tell me that?”

I looked at him and said, “to see if it would fit on my head of course.”

“Did you hear that? She wanted to know if the can would fit on her head?”

“Yes, she’s always been a curious child. She’ll probably be the death of me yet. I’m going to take her in and put her in a tub and clean her off. And then I’m going in my room and say the rosary.”

Of course, this was neither the first or last horrible experience I had because of my curiosity. My best friend and I often took long walks around town or rode our bikes all over the place. My mom always said to me as I was on the way out the front door, don’t slam the door and be home for lunch (or dinner) on time.

My best friend would always go along with my plans and never questioned or suggested. Nor did she ever suggest that perhaps this was not a good idea. She just went along with whatever I said. So, one fine summer day, I said, “Wow, it is really hot outside, I would really like to go swimming. She said, “Me too.” I was about ten years old then and she was nine.

“Why don’t we go and get our swimsuits on and walk down to the hotel on Route 73 and sneak into their swimming pool. I bet they wouldn’t even notice us. I’ll meet you at your house in about fifteen minutes. Put your clothes on your swimming suit and bring a towel. “Ok, I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes. I went to my house and changed into my hand-me-down swimsuit and put my shorts and tee-shirt on over it.

My mother told me to be on time for lunch and I said, OK. She never asked where I was going, she just reminded me to be on time. When I got home from whatever adventure I was up to she said, “oh good, there you are. Go get ready for dinner.” And by that, she meant to wash your hands. Neither my father nor mother ever ask where I was. They might say what were you doing today? And I would just reply, riding bikes.

And so, on this particular day, we rode down Route 73 which was a State Highway in South Jersey and heavily traveled. Luckily, it wasn’t rush hour so there weren’t too many cars and trucks on the road. And somehow, we made it in one piece to the hotel.  When we got there were several families with kids already swimming in the pool. So, we just parked our bikes next to the fence behind a bush and walk through the gate and put our clothes on our towels and nonchalantly jumped into the pool. We had a great time. Unfortunately, both of us got sunburned and when I arrived home my mother said, “Good grief, you’re as red as a beet. You should have known you were out in the sun too long. You need to go take a bath in baking soda. My mother thought baking soda was a cure-all, either that or Vic’s Vapor Rub.

I never let a previous negative outcome to one of my little adventures deter me from continuing down the path I follow to satisfy my curiosity. I really don’t allow anything or anyone to stop me once I got an idea in my head. My father often told me I was the most bullheaded, stubborn person he ever knew bar none.

And so, about a year later, when that self-same hotel that my best friend and I went swimming in added a trampoline for the guest children to enjoy I thought, why shouldn’t I enjoy the trampoline? What’s one or two more kids jumping on the trampoline going to harm? We had a half-day at school this Friday so I would just fail to inform my mother and she would not be the wiser, no harm, no foul, right?

I waited for my friend to come out of her classroom on Friday and we dumped our schoolbags on my back porch and we went on our merry way towards Route 73 and our new adventure. Once again, we managed to get safely across the highway and up to the hotel. My friend did have a few moments where she freaked out as we crossed the highway. When we got to the other side I said, “what are you crying about? Nothing bad happened we’re fine.”

And then we walked up to the gate where the trampoline was located and before you knew it, we were jumping up and down to our heart’s content. It was amazing. I felt like I was flying. My greatest desire in life was to be a bird. And to fly from one side of the planet to the other. We must have jumped up and down for three hours. My stomach was growling like crazy because I didn’t eat breakfast that morning. And we skipped lunch. On the other hand, there was a really strong chance that if I did eat anything I would puke.

I yelled as loud as I could, “hey my legs are getting tired. How are yours?”

She yelled back, “they are killing me let’s go home now. It must be getting late.” By then we were the only kids left on the trampoline. “Yeah, let’s go home now.” We took our time walking back to our houses because not only were our legs killing us, it felt like we were still jumping up and down. It was a weird feeling, and it took us twice as long to get back home. When we got back to my house, we went to the back porch and grabbed our school bags. I yelled, “I’ll call you later,” to my friend. She barely waved at me. No doubt she would go home and fall in her bed and not get up to twelve o’clock on Saturday afternoon.

I have to admit my legs were absolutely killing me. But there was no way I could tell my mother what I had been up to. Or my father would have made sure that my legs were the only thing that would be hurting for a few days. When I got up to the side steps, I could hardly lift my legs up to the next step. There were only four steps but I wasn’t sure I would be able to make it. It took me about five minutes.

When I got to the top step, I saw my mother looking at me through the windows on the kitchen door. I waved at her. Thank god, my arms didn’t hurt. Or the jig would be up.

My mother opened the door and let me in. She said, “where have you been your sister has been home for several hours? She said you had a half-day today.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. But I had to stay after school to practice diagramming sentences with Sister. This was a frequent occurrence so she didn’t question me again. But the problem was I was hardly able to walk because I had such terrible leg cramps from jumping on the trampoline for hours.

As the school year came to a close, I began looking forward to going to Strawbridge Lake. My friends and I used to ride our bikes there. I was twelve years old now so I didn’t think it was a problem to ride there it was only two towns away. Of course, I didn’t tell my parents where we were going, they would have told me that I wasn’t old enough to ride my bike that far. But unbeknownst to them, we had been going there for years. But as I mentioned earlier, my parents never ask where we went. They only told us not to be late for lunch or dinner. Unlike me, they didn’t seem to have any curiosity about where I was and what I did. As long as I got home in one piece more or less.

Anyway, on this particular day, I had the brilliant idea that today would be the perfect day to walk across the waterfall at Strawbridge Lake. Up until now, we had all been too chicken to cross it since the water was at its deepest at the Falls. It would be really, really fun. I called a couple of my friends up and ask them to meet me outside my house in a half-hour. Only two of them agreed to go. Since they had all suffered some negative consequences when I got “some crazy idea” about what would be fun.

At eleven o’clock we all met in the church parking lot. And then we headed to Strawbridge Lake. It was in Moorestown. So, it took us about forty-five minutes to get there. And it was at least ninety degrees out and humid. In other words, typical summer weather in NJ. By the time we got there, we couldn’t wait to get in the water. However, no one was allowed to swim in the lake. It was strictly a fishing lake and a place to have family picnics. But of course, that didn’t stop us.

I had brought a towel and a blanket in my bag. So, I laid the blanket out under a Willow tree and we all took our sneakers and socks off. Then I said, “let’s go.” And off we went and walked toward the waterfalls. I kept saying, “come on, come on let’s go.” There was me and my best friend and two of my school friends, Diane and Helen. I said, “come on last one there is a rotten egg. And we all started laughing and running.

When we got to the edge of the water I stuck my foot into the water, and said, “holy mackerel it’s freezing.” They all looked at each other and I could see they were going to chicken out. “Come on, come on. I’ll go first and then each one of you goes in one at a time. The water was shallow at first but got gradually deeper as I moved forward. And then there was a sudden drop off as I got to the waterfall, the water was up to my knees. I started making the climb up to the top of the waterfall. It was really slippery.

I could see about six or seven fishermen standing on the top of the waterfall and spread out all the way to the other side. I heard one guy yell,” hey kid be careful the water is really deep along here. You shouldn’t be up here. Go back.”

I just ignored him. There was no way I wasn’t going to go all the way across the falls. My feet were already numb from the freezing water. But I was almost to the halfway point of the falls and there wasn’t I was bound and determined that I going to go all the way to the other side. And then it happened. My foot slipped and I was just about to fall off and down into the lake. I screamed at the top of my lungs. One of the men, yelled, “grab that kid she’s about to fall off into the lake.”

And that is when the fishermen closest to me tried to reach down and grab me, but he couldn’t reach me. Then he yelled, “Hey kid grab ahold of my fishing pole. Yeah, that’s it, grab it. I’ll pull you up.” And he did. I was small for my age so I wasn’t that heavy. And he pulled me up by the fishing pole. When he finally got me back to the top of the falls he said, “are you crazy or just stupid?” My father used t say that to me all the time. So, it didn’t really bother me that much. I said, “thanks” and walked back to my friends.

They were all standing there with their hands clapped over their mouths. And then my best friend said, “good grief, you could have drowned.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t. And this goes to the grave with you and the rest of them.” Then we all walked back to the blanket and I flopped on it and I just sat there until my clothes dried off. And then I said, “well, I guess it’s time to go back home.” None of my friends ever mention this experience again. I thought about it quite often and I decided it might be a good idea if I learned how to swim.

My experiences as a child growing up in the 1950s and the 1960s were fueled by my curiosity and desire to experience everything I could and if there was a chance that it was a little dangerous well, all the better. I was a quiet child around adults and no one would imagine that I would do anything dangerous. But I was often the catalyst for all the exciting and yes, possibly dangerous activities that I and my friends participated in over time. My friends knew it was going to be an exciting day if I preface a statement with the phrase, “Hey, I was thinking wouldn’t it be exciting if we…

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MARIE’S RECIPES

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It’s almost unbearably hot in the kitchen, even though all the windows in the kitchen are wide open. And Marie’s new summer curtains are pushed aside. If it wasn’t for the ceiling fan that Harry installed a couple of years ago Marie thinks she would probably pass out or have expired by now. Summer in New Jersey is not only hot but unbelievably humid. You know how people say, “it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” Well, it’s both.

Mom sitting at the kitchen table,

Marie isn’t one to complain. In fact, she never complains. She learned that complaining is an unwelcome trait when she was growing up as the only daughter in a house filled with older brothers and a sick mother.

She’s been bent over the ironing board for the past several hours but thank god she’s finally finished that tedious task. She had a large family with six children. All grown and left home save for the youngest two, who are twins in the fifth grade. And even though there are only four people living in the house now, there’s still plenty of ironing to do. Harry is fussy about how his clothes look. Of course, she never mentions to anyone how much she hates ironing, especially Harry, never has, never will.

Marie notices a movement out the kitchen’s side window. She tilts her head to get a better view. It’s Mrs. Rice, her next-door neighbor. She has her rotary push mower out and is energetically pushing the mower in crooked rows from one side of her front yard to another. It isn’t unusual for her to cut the grass on the most inhospitable day. Although she usually chooses a day when it’s pouring down rain. Mrs. Rice is a widow with one son that lives at home and three married daughters.

Marie would never admit it out loud, but she really doesn’t like Mrs. Rice at all. The woman just rubs her the wrong way. She made a habit of saying hurtful things to Marie, and she goes out of her way to talk to Harry. Whenever Mrs. Rice talks to her, Marie nods and keeps walking or ignores her altogether. Marie is friendly and thoughtful to people but she cannot bring herself to even look at the woman for any length of time.

The final straw that broke the camel’s back happened when Mrs. Rice came over to the side door and hammered on it with her closed fist. Marie looks out the curtain and sees Mrs. Rice. She reluctantly opens the door and she can tell by the look on Mrs. Rice’s face that she’s fit to be tied. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I just had my front steps painted red and “someone” came over and took some of the paint and the paintbrush and painted nasty words on my sidewalk. And I think it was your daughter, Susan. She will have to clean it up.”

“What?” Susan would never do such a thing, and she doesn’t know any bad words. She’s only ten years old.” And with that, my mother slammed the side door in Mrs. Rice’s face. If it was possible Marie thought she actually hates Mrs. Rice. But she knows that’s wrong and tries not to think about it again.

It’s Friday afternoon and it’s Marie’s custom to make a cake for Sunday afternoon. Today she decides to make an Applesauce Cake. She takes out all the ingredients, a measuring spoon and a measuring cup, and a spatula. And she opens the cabinet and pulls up the mixer. She just loves how Harry attached the mixer inside the cabinet and all she had to do is pull it up and lock it into place.

She began adding the ingredients one by one.

1 1/3 cup flour

1 13 cup sugar

¼ tsp. Baking powder

1 tsp. Salt

½ tsp. Cinnamon

¼ tsp cloves

¼ tsp. Allspice

w/3 cup shortening

1/3 cup water

1 cup unsweetened applesauce

1 large egg (beaten)

1/3 cup chopped nuts

2/3 cup chopped raisins.

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease rectangular pan well and dust with flour. Sift dry ingredients into a bowl. Add shortening, water, and applesauce. Beat 2 min. Scrape sides of bowl constantly. Stir in nuts and raisins. Pour in prepared pan, bake for 35 to 40 minutes.

Baking is one of Marie’s favorite tasks. Rarely does anyone say thank you for cleaning the house and washing my clothes, but everyone loves her cakes, cookies, and pies? She’s proud of her baking skills. Although she rarely eats cake, she does love her Peppermint Patties.

When the twins come home from school, they sit down and she gives them each a glass of milk and some cookies. They love to dunk the cookies in cold milk. Marie is still bent over the ironing board making her way through the wrinkled clothing. Marie doesn’t have a dryer. She still hangs all her clothes on a clothesline out in the backyard. If it is raining or too cold outside, she hangs them on clotheslines in the basement. This is why they are wrinkled. If she doesn’t have time to iron all the clothing in one afternoon, Marie rolls up the clothes and puts them in the back of the refrigerator, until the next day.

Susan sits down and starts eating her cookies and dipping them in the cold milk. Susan’s twin sister says she will eat her cookie on the way to her friend’s house. “Alright, but go up and change into your play clothes before you go, and be home for dinner at 5:00. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be. I’ll see you later.”

“Be careful riding your bike in the street.”

“Susan, so how was school today?”

“Mr. Mc Elliot was teaching us some words in French today. Also, he told me that he knows my brother Harry and that he used to work with him at the Post Office. He thinks he is one of the smartest people he ever knew.”

“Oh, I forgot about that. That was a long time ago.”

“Did anything else happen in school today, Susan?”

“Well, I was showing Mr. Mc Elliot some of my drawings that I made. Remember I drew all those pictures on the stiff paper Daddy gave me. Well, all the kids gathered around him to look at the drawings and were handing them to each other to look at. And I ask for them back. And they didn’t give them to me right away and I got mad.”

“Were you afraid you wouldn’t get them back?”

“No, I got mad because they were looking at my drawings but didn’t pay any attention to me, and I made the drawings.”

“Oh, you felt ignored. What kind of drawings were they?”

“Well, one of them was a drawing of a shooting star and the star had a face and a holster and was shooting a gun.”

“Oh, that was a clever idea, Susan. Why don’t you show them to me?”

“Mr. McElliot still has them, he said he’ll give them back tomorrow.”

“I’m sure he will Susan.”

“OK, Mom.”

“Why don’t you get change and go out and play for a while, I have to start dinner.”

“What are we having, Mom?”

“Your favorite, Susan, beef stew.”

“Great, Mom, I’ll be home on time.”

I go to my room and change my clothes and throw my uniform on my bed. I pull my play clothes out of the drawer and put them on. I grab my sneakers and shove my feet into them without untying the shoelaces.

I run down the steps two at a time.  Susan is about to run out the door and she says, “what kind of cake did you make, Mom?”

“Applesauce Cake, Susan, one of your favorites.”

“Oh, boy can I have some now?”

“No, you already had cookies, that’s for Sunday after dinner. It’s the dessert you know that.”

“OK, I’ll be home at five Mom.”

Marie has finished ironing for the day, so she rolls up any unfinished ironing and puts it in the back of the refrigerator on the second shelf under the milk and eggs. She goes over to the counter and pours herself a cup of hot coffee from the percolator and adds cream and three sugars. Marie doesn’t have a big appetite but she does love her sweets including sugar.

After Marie finishes her coffee, she washes the coffee cup and dries it, and puts it away. She decides she has time to wash the kitchen floor. So, she gets out the bucket and fills it with warm water and floor cleaner. First, she puts all the chairs upside down on the kitchen table and then sweeps the floor with the broom and dustbin. Then she washes the floor on her hands and knees from the front window all the way up the kitchen counters. She takes the bucket into the bathroom and dumps the dirty water down the toilet and flushes it.

Marie goes down to the shelf in the cellarway and gets out some of the newspaper.

She lays the newspaper on the kitchen floor. Because she knows one of the kids and some of their friends might show up and walk all over her clean floor looking for a snack.

It has been a long day, and Marie goes into her bedroom and takes off her shoes, and sits in her chair. This is really the first time she’s sat down all day. Marie wakes up at six o’clock sharp and goes to Mass every day, she’s never missed a single day. She belongs to the Altar and Rosary Society at the church and she attends Mass with them.

But now it is her time to relax. As she sits down in her rocker, she pulls her rosary out of her pocket and starts saying her prayers. It’s called “saying the Rosary.” Marie finds this ritual comforting. Sometimes she says some extra prayers from her prayer book. She prayers for all her children, the grown ones that have children of their own, and the two she still has at home. As she gets to the end of her prayers she starts to nod off. It has been a long day.

Marie wakes up with a start and looks at her clock it is four O’clock and she has to check on the Irish Stew she has on the stove and make the crust for the top and then put it in the oven. Luckily, Marie woke up just as the cake was finished baking and it didn’t burn. She can smell the wonderful smell of apples from the applesauce cake.

Marie rises from the rocking chair. It isn’t as easy to get up as it used to be. She puts her rosaries away and walks into the kitchen. The timer has just gone off on the cake that was in the oven and Marie gets her potholders and takes it out of the oven and puts it on the hot plate on the kitchen counter to cool off.

Then she walks over to the counter and gets the ingredients out to make the crust for the stew she has been cooking all day on the stove.

Irish Stew is usually made with lamb, but Harry doesn’t like lamb. So, Marie always makes it with beef.

The Beef Stew Recipe:

1/4 cup vegetable oil

1 1/4 pounds stew beef, cut into 1-inch pieces

6 large garlic cloves, minced

8 cups beef stock or canned beef broth1 tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon dried thyme

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

2 bay leaves

2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) butter

1 large onion, chopped

2 cups 1/2-inch pieces peeled carrots

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parley

1 can of small potatoes (already peeled)

Preparation

Heat oil in a heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Keep the burner on low. Add beef and sauté until brown on all sides, about 5 minutes. And sauté 1 minute. Add beef stock, sugar, thyme, Worcestershire sauce, and bay leaves. Stir to combine. Bring mixture to boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, then cover and simmer for 1 hour, stirring occasionally.

Meanwhile, melt butter in another large pot over medium heat. Add potatoes, onion, and carrots. Sauté vegetables until golden, about 20 minutes. Add vegetables to beef stew. Simmer uncovered until vegetables and beef are very tender, about 40 minutes. Discard bay leaves. Tilt pan and spoon off fat.

Recipe for the Stew Crust  

And while the stew is simmering Marie makes the crust for the top of the stew.

1¼ cups all-purpose flour plus more for dusting your work surface

¼ tsp salt

6 tbsp unsalted butter and cut into 1/2 “cubes

2 tbsp chilled shortening and cut into ½ cubes

5 tbsp ice water

Using a dry ingredient measuring cup, add the flour to the mixer

Add the salt and then the chilled butter and shortening.

Cut the fat into the flour.  The butter should resemble small frozen peas.

Add the ice water, 1 tbsp at a time, just until a ball form.  Immediately stop mixing.

Remove the dough from the mixer bowl and using your thumbs, for a disc.

Enclose the dough in plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator for 1 hour.

On a lightly floured counter/surface, place the dough.  Try not to handle the dough too much, to prevent the butter pieces from melting.

You’ll need to roll out the dough to about 3 to 4 inches greater than the inside diameter of the pan.

Try and roll the dough out in a few ‘rolls’ as possible. Repeated rolling will overwork the dough, and will yield less flakey crust.

To transfer the dough to the pot, fold one half over, then fold over again into a quarter. Gently place onto the top of the large stew pot and then unfold the dough. Trim the edges with scissors.

Use your fingers to flute the edges.  Your pie dough is now ready for baking! And then bake in the oven until the crust is golden brown. Bake at 350 degrees for one hour or until the crust is golden brown.

Marie gets the large bowls, dishes and knives, and forks out for dinner and large spoons for the kids. At the last moment, she remembers to put salt and pepper on the table and bread. God, forbid she forgets the bread.

Marie sits down and has another cup of coffee; this is a quiet part of her day. She thinks about what she will cook tomorrow. About a half-hour goes by and Marie hears Susan coming in and slamming the front door behind her. “Susan what have I told you about slamming the door?”

“Sorry Mom, I always forget. Oh, Mom, I forgot to tell you earlier but after Mr. Mc Elliot looked at my drawings, he asks me what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
“What did you say, Susan?”
“I said I wanted to be an artist or a veterinarian.”

“Really, that’s wonderful.”

“Susan, could you take the newspapers off the floor for me. The floor is probably dry by now.”

“Sure, Mom. Can I watch Popeye after that?”

“Yes, after you pick up the newspaper.”

“OK, Mom.”

“I’ll call you for dinner, Susan.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love Irish Stew Mom. Thanks for making it. It’s my favorite.”

“I know it is Susan, that’s why I make it.”

At five o’clock sharp Susan’s twin sister arrives with a bang at the front door.”

Marie yells out, “Karen, I told you a million times not to slam the door.”

“Sorry, Mom. Is dinner ready? What are we having?”

“Irish Stew. Can you tell Susan that dinner is ready?”

Then she screams at the top of her lungs, Susie, dinner’s ready.”

“What did I tell you about yelling?”

“Sorry, Mom.”

And then the three of them have a delicious Irish Stew dinner. Harry is working the second shift this week, so he isn’t having dinner with them.

“That was great Mom,” said Susan and her sister in unison.

“Ok, why don’t you go do your homework.”

Susan says, do I have to do it now?”

“Yes, you do. If you get done before it’s dark you can go outside and play for a while.”

“OK, Mom.”

Marie starts clearing the table and washing the dishes, then she dries them and puts them away. She puts the leftover stew in a container on the counter to cool off before she stores it in the refrigerator. She wipes down all the countertops and the stove and the front of the oven.

She decides to read the newspaper in the living room, when Harry is home, she isn’t able to read the paper until he is finished with it. But for now, she can take all the time she wants to read it. Marie brings a cup of coffee to the dinner table and sits down. It always feels so good to get off her feet and relax. Marie reads the comics first as she sips her hot coffee, black with plenty of sugar. She takes a deep breath and relaxes.

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THE INDENTURED GRADE SCHOOL STUDENT

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It was September of 1957 when my twin sister and I entered first grade at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Maple Shade, NJ.

Susan Carberry – photo by Hugh Carberry

“Get up it’s time to get ready for school.” My mother yells from the bottom of the steps. We moan and reluctantly throw the covers off. And slowly we get out of bed.

My mother put our school uniforms out for us. They look exactly alike, a maroon jumper with a white blouse that had what my mother called a Peter Pan Collar, black and white saddle shoes, and white socks. And worst of all a hat called a beanie that is also maroon. I put on the blouse and the jumper and it is so itchy I can’t believe it. I don’t think I will be able to wear it all day. I start scratching. I put on my new shoes. They look kind of neat but feel really heavy. Since I haven’t worn shoes all summer.

As soon as I start walking around my feet start hurting. I take them off and put my old sneakers on instead. Since I haven’t worn shoes all summer.

My sister looks over at me and says, “What are you doing? You have to wear the school shoes.”

I stick my tongue out at her. She says I’m telling Mom.

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up, I’m telling Mom.”

We walk down the steps to the kitchen. My sister’s shoes are making a lot of noise as she clumps down the stairs. I’m wearing my sneakers so I’m not making any noise. I hear my mother yell.

“Pick up your feet.”

I start laughing at her. She rushes down the rest of the steps and runs in the kitchen.” Mom, Susie isn’t wearing her new shoes, she’s wearing her old sneakers.”

My mother says, “Don’t tattle, that’s not nice.”

My sister is mad now, “but Mom she’s not wearing her school shoes.”

“Alright, sit down and eat your cereal, I’ll talk to your sister.”

I’m hiding at the bottom of the stairwell, so I know my mother is coming to talk to me. There’s nowhere for me to hide so I just stand there and wait for her.

“Susie, please go back upstairs and change your shoes. We already talked about this the other day you have to wear shoes and the uniform. It’s a rule.”

I look at my mother, and I want to cry but instead, I say, “I hate school, I don’t want to go.”

“No, you don’t Susie, you don’t even know what it’s like. You will make new friends, and learn all kinds of new things. Now, please go upstairs and put on your new shoes. And while you’re at it get your beanie. And I’ll comb your hair after breakfast, and help you brush your teeth.”

She has to “help” me brush my teeth because for a long time I didn’t brush my teeth at all. Just because my mother would nag me about it. And then I got an abscessed tooth and my mouth swelled up and, I got an earache. My parents had to take me to an emergency dentist appointment in Philadelphia. The dentist said my tooth had to be pulled out. And he blamed my mother because she didn’t make sure I brushed my teeth.

Now I stomp up the steps, muttering under my breath, “I hate school, I hate school.” I hear my sister laughing in the kitchen.

When I come down, I hear my mom talking to my sister in the bathroom while she is brushing her curly, dark hair. I start shoveling my cheerios in as fast as I can. I feel like I’m going to start crying. My sister and mother come back into the kitchen. I feel a tear and then another run down my cheeks.

“Look Mom, Susie’s crying, she’s such a baby.”

I look at my sister, and I’m so mad at her that I stop crying and stare at her hard. I stick my tongue out at her.

She yells, “Mom, Susie is sticking out her tongue at me again.”

“Alright that’s enough, go get your school bag, and wait for Susie on the front porch she’ll be outside in a minute.”

“Come on Susie, I’ll fix your hair, and you can brush your teeth.”

I follow my mother down the hall past the Blessed Mother grotto towards the bathroom. I start feeling sick to my stomach. “Mommy, I don’t feel good, I feel sick.

“You’ll be alright Susie, you’re just nervous. Let me brush your hair and then you can brush00 your teeth. Don’t forget to put on your beanie or you’ll get into trouble.”

I look in the mirror, I see my tear-streaked face, it is all red from me rubbing it. I had washed my hair last night but I didn’t comb or brush it so it is full of knots.

“Susie your hair is a rat’s nest. Didn’t you comb it last night after your bath?’

“No, I guess I forgot.”

Then my mother starts pulling the brush and then the big comb through my hair. It hurts. I look in the mirror. I have blond hair, but my sisters always tell me it’s “Dirty blond.” I hate when they say that cause I wash my hair every week.

“OK, Susie here’s your brush, put some baking soda on it and start brushing, brush all your teeth not just the front ones.”

“OK, Mom I will.” And I try to brush all my teeth, but my arm starts to feel tired, so I may have missed a few of the back teeth.

“Alright, let me see your teeth, Susie, open up.”

I open my mouth wide. She looks in. “Looks like you missed the ones in the back, here’s your brush do it again, and then rinse out your mouth.”

I do it again, I hate baking soda it tastes like poison. I brush the back teeth, rinse and spit.

“Put your beanie on Susie.”

I put it on the top of my head, it is sticking up weird in the back, because of my ponytail. I make a face. My mom looks at my face in the mirror. “Here Susie, I’ll put a couple of bobby pins on the beanie to keep it on. She takes the bobby pins out of her own hair. Which is set in bobby pins. Sometimes she doesn’t take the bobby pins out of her hair all day. Because she is so busy doing the housework, the laundry, making the beds, and washing dishes. And of course, ironing, which often takes up her whole afternoon.

“Don’t lose them, Susie.”

“OK, Mom.”

She sticks the bobby pins into my hair, and I flinch. Now, my feet and my head hurt. I want to cry again, but I don’t.

My mother leans down and gives me a little hug. It makes me want to cry again, but I hold the tears back. “Bye Mom, I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, Susie I forgot to tell you. You can come home for lunch. Sister will tell you when it’s time. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”

For a minute, I feel a little better. Then I run out the front door and I see my sister has already left. Now I have to go by myself. She’s a pain, but I always feel a little better when I can go with her somewhere I’ve never been before. My stomach starts to hurt in earnest and I get the weird scratchy feeling in my throat right before I really start crying.

I cry all the way to the schoolyard. I hear the school bell ringing. There are hundreds if not thousands of kids in the schoolyard. I don’t know where to go. Just then I realize that I forgot my school bag. The crying increases. I run into the schoolyard and look into the sea of unfamiliar faces. I look for my sister. I can’t find her. All the girls look alike in their uniforms.

I see a “nun” coming toward me. I want to run away. She looks like a giant or a witch. She has a really long black dress on and around her waist is a giant rosary swaying back and forth. As she comes toward me, I see she has a giant bib on her neck that comes down to her chest. And a stiff white piece of fabric and it is across her forehead. There was a black veil hanging down her back.

I’m terrified. “You’re late, don’t let that happen again. What is your name and what grade are you in?”

I look down at the ground. For a moment I can’t remember my name, or what grade I’m in.

“Put up your head and speak up.”

I looked up momentarily and mumble, “Susan Carberry, first grade.”

“Alright, Miss Carberry follow me.”

The “Nun” takes me across the schoolyard, and over to the line with the smallest kids. I see my sister. And I had never been so happy to see her in my life, as I did at that moment. She looks over at me and she gives me a little smile. And then the second bell rings, and all the kids start marching toward the school. The first day of school begins.

At first, when my mother told me that we were starting first grade I was excited about it, thinking it might be a new adventure. I could make new friends. It could be fun.

But then I talked to some of the older kids in the neighborhood and they told me about the nuns and homework and having to sit from eight o’clock in the morning until three in the afternoon. I wasn’t really sure what “Nuns” was, but it didn’t sound good. I was scared.

Jackie Rice the boy that lives next store to me told me all about it. He’s a lot older than me he’s going into the fifth grade. He said that the Nuns yelled at the kids all the time. And that you’re not allowed to talk in class unless the teacher says you can. I guess I don’t care about that so much since I don’t plan on talking in school at all. I decide that no matter what happens I will not open my mouth. And in that way. I won’t be able to get in trouble, ever. Keep my mouth shut.

But it turns out that I wasn’t able to do that because Sister John Michael who teaches my class is always asking questions. Sometimes she’ll go up and down the aisle and ask each of us a question. This is really bad because the whole time I hold my breath until it’s my turn to answer. And by then I feel sick to my stomach, from not breathing.

And then sometimes Sister John Michael will call a student’s name out of nowhere. And ask a question you didn’t have time to think about before you answered. One day she called out “Susan Carberry, what address do you live at?”

I just stare at her and don’t answer. I didn’t even know my address. No one ever told me that was something I needed to know. I think about making up an address. But I can’t think of one.

Then she yells even louder,” Has the cat got your tongue, Susan?”

“What? No, he doesn’t.” And then everyone laughs at me. I don’t know why they’re laughing. “My best friend is Strottles the cat, and he would never hurt me.” Everyone laughs at me again. That’s the day I decide I hate school and I would do everything I could to stay home.

From that day on almost every day, I would tell my mother that I felt sick, sometimes I tell her I had a stomachache, which is true. I wake up feeling sick every day. Because I hated school so much. Sometimes I told my mother I have an earache. But she just put drops in my ear and puts a piece of cotton ball in there too. Sometimes I convince her I was sick, and she’ll let me stay home.

But when I get my report card the number of days, I was absent was written in red. And Sister John Michael tells me that my mother has to go and talk to the principal at school. I don’t know what they told my mother but she looks upset when she comes home. I’m afraid they’ll send me to Public School because that is what they always said will happen to us if we’re really bad.

After I come home from school the next day my mother says that I can’t stay home from school anymore unless I’m really sick. So, from then on, I never told my mother when I’m sick. No matter what. So, when I got itchy bumps on my stomach, I didn’t tell anyone. And it turns out that I had measles and then so does the rest of my class. My mother talks to me again. “Susie, tell me when there is something really wrong. OK?” I don’t answer. I just look at my mother. I don’t want to lie to her.

I pretty much keep everything to myself after that because I didn’t want to go to Public School. Because the nuns told me it’s horrible there. I think it was horrible in the Catholic School and I didn’t think I could stand being anywhere that’s worse.

When I was promoted to the fourth grade Sister Joseph Catherine became was my teacher. She’s short not much taller than me. But she’s loud and mean. I’m a shy and quiet child. She chooses me to be her “assistant.” Wherever she goes I had to follow and carry whatever she is taking with her. She never said a kind word to me or even thanked me.

The Catholic Schools were overcrowded in those years when the boomers went to school. There aren’t enough classrooms available for all the kids. Sometimes there are fifty kids in a classroom. And there aren’t enough classrooms., Our fourth-grade class is held on the stage in the basement of the Catholic Church. Because it was in the church basement our classroom was isolated from the rest of the elementary school.

Sister Joseph Catherine was extremely strict with the students in order to keep the noise to a minimum in the overcrowded classroom. She also has a short fuse if she feels you aren’t trying hard enough or didn’t keep up with the class.

One day she calls on me to go to the blackboard to do a math problem. I hate being the center of attention and math did not come easily to me. When I made a mistake on the answer to the math problem, she comes up behind me as I was standing at the blackboard. She yells at me and then she grabs my ponytail and repeatedly slams my face into the blackboard and says to me, “How stupid are you?”

In addition to being Sister Joseph Catherine’s “assistant,” I’m told I will have to sell candy during recess to the other kids in the schoolyard. For the whole year, I sell candy and I’m not allowed to play with the other kids.

As an adult looking back on these experiences, I understand to some degree that these “teachers” were overwhelmed by the sheer number of students and the stress of keeping order. But still, I wonder why I was chosen to be the focus of Sister Joseph Catherine’s anger and resentment.

She could have made the decision to treat a shy and quiet student with concern and care and understanding but she did not. She was a sad and, heartless woman that was woefully unprepared and lacking empathy towards the children in her care.

As an adult, I look back on this experience as one that taught me many things. At first, my response was to become more withdrawn, more reluctant to participate in school. And become less apt to trust adults and less trusting of my own abilities to learn and participate in challenging experiences.

But ultimately, I decided that I would not let this experience shape me or change me in a negative way. And I chose to become open to new experiences and kind to the people I met along my way. And whenever possible to learn from all my experiences that I would and could overcome all challenges. I would meet the challenges with confidence in myself and the heartfelt belief that most people are decent and good. And the ones that aren’t are dealing with their own negative experiences and may yet do better in the future.

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THE BASEMENT

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The Basement in my childhood home held a certain fascination for me. Whenever my parents weren’t home, I would quietly make my way down the cellar’s stairs and snoop to my heart content.

Why? You may ask because that’s where my father spent most of his free time when he was home. He wasn’t home all that much. Well, that’s not entirely true. That is where he spent most of his waking hours. During my childhood, my father worked as the Head Dispatcher for PTC, the Pennsylvania Transportation Company (the bus company) in Philadelphia. It was later called SEPTA. He worked there for over forty years, either on the second or third shift, which meant he often slept during the day and worked at night.

Carberry Home Maple Shade, NJ 1950

His daytime sleeping schedule meant that everyone who lived in our house had to be quiet while my father was sleeping. No one wanted to risk waking my father up. Believe me. My father’s nickname was the Grouch and sometimes, the Old Bear. You know how you are never supposed to wake a bear in hibernation. It was the same with my father.

I was so curious about the basement that I wanted to know what my father did down there for all those hours. My father was a brilliant man. He had many hobbies. He was a voracious reader, interested in many subjects, including religion, although he was an atheist. He was fascinated by all things related to the Asian Culture, although he was prejudice against Asian people and called them all Chinamen regardless of their country of origin. My father was prejudiced against anyone that wasn’t white or Irish, for that matter.

He was an accomplished woodworker and builder. He had every type of woodworking tool that was available in the 1960s in his basement. My father took me for a ride one time and showed me a house that his friend Dar and he built. It was a Cape Cod Cottage which was similar to our house. He used to repair and replace electric wiring in our house. However, later after he passed, I learned that he always used lamp wire which wasn’t up to code. He painted our house inside and out. I have to admit that his choice of colors and his decorating taste were somewhat Avant Guard at the time. He was a gardener, and we had a beautiful rose garden in our backyard. I believe his love of gardening led me to become a gardener when I grew up.

And then there was my father’s private life. My father was a gambler. He had a group of friends that he played cards with every week, although I never met them. He was a regular at the Cherry Hill Race Track. He had a different group of friends there. I never met them. My older brother told me that my father had taken him to the track on several occasions and introduced him to his friends.

He had a bookie in Philadelphia that he placed his bets with on the phone, and occasionally he would take my mother and me with him to make bets we waited in the car. It was a treat for us since we rarely took a ride in the car. The only place my mother went was to Mass every day at the Catholic church, which was two doors down from our house, and she walked there.

My father also had a part-time job working at Johnny Marrow’s Auto Supply Store, located on Main Street in Maple Shade, where I grew up. So, as you can see, my father had a full life. Most of it spent outside our home. Much of it unknown to me until I was a teenager or older.

As a result, I was inquisitive about my father and all his activities. I would snoop in his basement to see what he was up to all the time when he wasn’t home. I knew that my father was a perfectionist. And he knew exactly where everything was in all his tool drawers, and cabinets, and on the shelves. And most importantly, on his desk. I, too, was somewhat of a perfectionist and was able to open all his drawers and look inside, and put everything back the way I found it. I inherited my father’s great memory.

The day I decided to look in his desk, I knew my parents would be out for at least an hour. The top of his desk was pristine. He only had his favorite pens and pencils all arranged in a line. Then there was a file drawer with all his papers. They didn’t really hold any interest for me. In the middle drawer, I found several magazines. I was about eleven years old at the time. And had never seen anything like them. They were Playboy Magazines. I was shocked by the pictures of the mostly naked woman. I had never seen any woman in my neighborhood that looked anything like these women.

But the thing that drew my curiosity and held it was a cartoon called The Naughty Granny. I was shocked by the depiction of an older woman barely clad whose intentions were clearly not anything I could imagine at the time. But somehow, I found it to be so shocking and funny and disturbing at the same time. I wanted to talk to someone about my discovery. But really, who could I ask? Certainly not my mother. I was sure she would not understand it. At least that’s what my eleven-year-old self thought. I couldn’t ask my father, obviously, since I was sure he would cut my head off for sneaking around his basement into his sacrosanct desk.

After I discovered the Playboy magazine, I looked at my parents in a whole new way. I no longer looked at them as just my parents. I looked at them as people separate from me who were individuals. People I didn’t really know as well as I thought. People with friends of their own and interest of their own. People who did more than go to work and come back. People with flaws.

It seems strange now as I reflect on this experience that the discovery of this magazine changed how I looked at my parents. They weren’t just my parents; they were people. My father wasn’t just the grouch who seemed to be mad at the world all the time. He was a man with friends and a job who went places and did things I didn’t know anything about.

And my mother was more than the person who loved me, and washed my clothes and cooked my meals, and went to Mass every day of her life. And she probably had friends too, even though I never met them.

And that is when I started talking to my parents and asking them questions about what they were doing and where they were going? I ask my mother one day,” Mom, what do you do for fun?”

My mother just stared at me. I realized that she didn’t really do anything just for fun. That her life was not as complicated as my father’s appeared to be. Her life was mainly taking care of the family and the house and going to church. But I knew at some level at one time during her life; she too had friends and siblings. And I hoped that somewhere during her life, she had the time to have some fun. My mother was nineteen when my parents were married, and she proceeded to have ten children in twenty years, six of who survived. I knew my mother had lost her parents. So, I knew she had loss and sadness in her life. I hope she had happiness as well. I rarely saw her laugh; she didn’t joke around. She rarely mentioned her childhood or her parents.

I think it was the first time I thought of my parents as people as individuals, not just my mom and dad. It made me start thinking about my life when I grew up and what I wanted to do with it. And I knew I wanted it to be more than getting married and taking care of kids, and cleaning a house. Although as I grew up, I knew I wanted to have children someday. But I wanted more than that.

I was a quiet and thoughtful child. I kept my thoughts to myself for the most part. Most people interpreted that as me being shy. But I wasn’t shy, just quiet, but always listening and trying to understand people and the world around me.

I never talk to my friends about their parents because I didn’t really know how to ask them. I thought they would think I was weird or something. But here I sit many decades later, trying to discover and understand the person I am now in this moment. And I know evolved over the many years trying to understand myself and the world I live in, and I fit into it. I am a part of the world, but I am also an observer.

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BOOMER

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Twins Susie on the left & Karen on the right

“Yeah, I have to confess I was born a long time ago. No, not in the caveman days, as you seem to think. But, in the 1950s. You don’t have to bug your eyes out like that. You are young, so young that your Wisdom Teeth haven’t fully erupted yet. Why don’t you sit down and let me tell you a story, and maybe you can come to a better understanding of why people my age have a different perspective than your generation does.”

Many people have described my generation’s childhood as idyllic. And in some ways, it was idyllic. That is if you only scratch the surface. And secondly, even though most middle and working-class people lived in similar homes, most kids attended public school. It doesn’t mean that everyone’s childhood was perfect. Every family was different than you might realize.

I grew up in the small town of Maple Shade. It could have been any small town in America. But mine was in New Jersey on the other side of the Ben Franklin Bridge from Philadelphia. Most families were large. There were six children in my family. Why you may ask would anyone want six kids? There was a reason for that, lack of adequate birth control. And the fact that many families were either Irish or Italian and therefore Catholic. And the Catholic church put the onus on birth control.

In other words, if you were Catholic, you were forbidden to use artificial means of birth control, including condoms. They did allow the rhythm method of birth control that meant keeping track of when the woman ovulates. This was not a guarantee of unwanted or unplanned pregnancies. As I have explained, many families were large. I had friends who had fourteen siblings in their families. When the birth control pill was first made available, only married women were allowed to get it with their husbands. Doctors would not prescribe birth control to single women.

I recall when I was about fourteen or fifteen years old, my mother confided to me that when she was younger, she envied women in town who only had two children. I can remember being somewhat taken aback by her statement since I was number six in our family. It made me feel like she thought I was a burden that she wished she hadn’t had. I don’t think she meant to hurt my feelings. She was expressing how she felt being a mother of a large family. Still, her statement hurt me.

My mother was a kind and caring person. She put all her energy into being a parent and wife, which left precious little for herself. I rarely saw her sit down. In fact, even at meals, if she took the time to sit down and eat with us. She would get up and down, wait on everyone, and clean the table off and wash the dishes. She never asked for help, and none was offered. She wasn’t a great cook, but she was a great baker of cakes and cookies. Almost all the meat was fried except for roasts, which we had once a week on Sundays. She fried the meat in the bacon fat leftover from the bacon she fried on Sunday mornings.

The rest of the time she spent cleaning the house, endless washing of clothes, and ironing. I remember coming home from school, and she would be standing at the ironing board ironing the seemingly bottomless basket of clothes and sheets. There was no wash and wear clothes back then.

My mother was a quiet woman; she would listen while I recounted my school day. She undoubtedly grew tired of my complaints of how I hated schools and the nuns that taught me. Since from my perspective, they were mean spirited. In reality, they were overcrowded with fifty or sixty students in each classroom. Whenever I had a  difficult day and had been punished for one reason or another, my mother would offer to go up to school and talk to the nun in question. That would put an end to my complaints for a while. Since I was terrified at the thought, she might tell the nuns what I had said. And I believed they would go to even more extraordinary lengths to punish me. I had already been locked in the boiler room all day, had my head banged hard on the blackboard, told I was stupid daily. And compared unfavorably to my sister.

Now you may think this was just because I attended a private school. But no, corporal

high school graduation picture

Susan Culver- high school graduation picture

punishment was the norm in all schools in those days. And so was verbal abuse.

“Oh, you want to know if I have any good memories. Yes, plenty. Because my mother and most mothers back then were so overworked, they didn’t have time to micromanage their children. We were often told to “go outside and make sure you are home on time for lunch or dinner.”

And the fact is, neither my father nor my mother ever questioned what I was doing or where I went. If my mother said, what did you do today?” I would answer, “I was out riding my bike with my friends.” And no further questions were asked. Even if I had been gone for five or six hours, I guess it was all a part of the “Don’t ask, don’t tell mindset of their generation.

And believe me, they should have asked, because my friends and I would ride all over the place on our bikes. Sometimes several towns away. We used to sneak into swimming pools at the hotels on route 73, which were only a fifteen-minute bike ride from my house. I used to like to take long walks by myself and often talk to people I didn’t know. If someone asks me if I would like to come in and have a cookie, I would say,” Sure, I love cookies.” And off I would go with strangers. Luckily, no one ever hurt me. My parents never ask what were you doing all day? If we came back alive, then all was good in their minds.

There was no stranger- danger back then, no fingerprinting; on the other hand, the schools did have a bike safety lesson, so we all knew we were supposed to ride our bikes on the right-hand lane. So, there was that; we were completely unprepared.

And corporal punishment wasn’t off the table if you got into any terrible trouble, like talking back to the teachers or your father. Suppose you didn’t have a desire to live longer. Talk back to your father, and even I never did that. Well, I did talk under my breath, but my father was partially deaf and didn’t hear me.

We weren’t given an allowance, so if you wanted to buy anything, you had to become an entrepreneur at an early age. I started babysitting when I was about eleven. I loved little kids, but I really didn’t have any experience since I was the youngest in my family. It was a learn on the job kind of thing.

I used to walk all over town and pick-up soda bottles. Then I would take them to the local store and turn them in for either 2 cents or 5 cents. After I got the money, I would spend it on candy at Schuck’s. It was a store that sold candy, hoagies and had a soda fountain, and had a Jute Box in a separate room, and the teenagers used to dance in there.

You could say that my generation was the first to recycles glass bottles and then spend it at local stores, which benefited everyone. Plus, we picked up the glass bottles that were left in the street.

If I didn’t spend the money on candy, I would feed my addiction to comic books. I was a die-hard enthusiast for Superheroes and Wendy the Witch, and Casper the Ghost. I used to buy them and then sneak them into the house. Before I graduated from grade school, my father found my comics stash and it was the last I ever saw of them. Of course, I never questioned him. Since I wasn’t interested in my father being angry. You didn’t want to see my father angry, believe me. It was a terrifying sight.

When it was time for me to enter high school, my parents decided to continue our Catholic School education. We had to take a test to get into the Catholic high school. There were two Catholic High Schools, Saint Mary of the Angels Academy and Holy Cross. By some miracle, I passed both tests. My parents thought an all-girl school was the best choice.  So away, I went to four years at St. Mary of the Angels Academy in Haddonfield, NJ. I wasn’t a good student as I rarely put much effort into schoolwork or homework due to being told how stupid I was since first grade by the nuns and my father. So, I thought, why bother? I won’t be able to do it anyway. I had no self-confidence at all.

People try to keep in mind if and when you have children that children believe what you tell them about themselves. If you tell your child he or she is stupid repeatedly, they believe you.

In my senior year, the Principal of St. Mary’s Sister Eileen Marie called me into her office and told me they had found a job as a dental assistant for me in a nearby town. Since I had nearly all the credits I needed to graduate; I started working part-time there until I graduated. And so, I did, and I worked there until I was twenty-one or so.

I found out that I was indeed quite competent, capable, organized, friendly, and outgoing. And the most surprising thing of all I realized that I was not stupid as just about every adult told me most of my life, but I highly intelligent. I believe Sister Eileen Marie had insight into me that even I wasn’t aware of until I started working. And also, Sister Venard taught me French for four years. She encouraged me and assured me repeatedly that I was indeed capable of learning French. And here I am some fifty years later, still able to read and write French to some degree. And for these two dear sisters who believed in me, thank you.

And so, straight out of high school, I had a full-time job that taught me many things, including a sense of responsibility, being organized, and be reliable and trustworthy. And I believe I have done just that my entire life. I have always given my all to every job to every commitment I ever made.

When my parents were in their last years, my mother developed dementia, and my father was diagnosed with lung cancer and emphysema. These were long, sad, painful days. They passed away eight months apart.

The years when my children were young, and I watched them grow and learn and hopefully taught them what they needed to know in life and left them with some happy memories that will remain with them long after I’m gone. I was fortunate to learn what intelligent and incredibly talented people they would become.

At thirty-six, I decided to go to college. I didn’t have the opportunity to do that at the traditional age out of high school. My parents didn’t have the money, and at the time, I wasn’t inclined to go to school when I graduated from high school. Then, my father believed and shared with me that it was a waste to send girls to college since they would end up just getting married and having children. This was not an unusual belief for fathers in 1969. Girls and young women were not looked at as people that really needed higher education.

I prepared a portfolio of my work and applied at three different schools: Temple University, Moore College of Art also in Philadelphia (an all-girl university and Hussian School of Art, which was at a school that concentrated on graphic arts and illustration. I was accepted into all three schools. I was offered a full scholarship for my first year at Temple and grants for some of the three years after that. I never made a better choice than going to school. It was hard because my children were relatively young, my oldest was six, and my youngest was three. I graduated in the top 10% of the entire Temple graduating class in 1991 with a double major in Graphic Arts and Art Education with a teaching certificate when I was forty-years-old.

If I had a wish, it would have been that my parents were still alive to see me graduate. I wonder what my father might have said to me on my graduation day.

After graduating from college with a teaching degree, I found out that schools were phasing out art in schools across the North East, and retiring teachers were not being replaced. I was unable to find a teaching position. It was beyond discouraging.

I decided to find a job helping children. I worked at a residential treatment program in Alloway and New Jersey called Ranch Hope. I was a houseparent responsible for kids from the inner city, Camden, NJ. The courts had adjudicated them. These were boys at risk because of poverty, drugs, gang violence, family problems, or kids who grew up in foster care tossed from one family to another. When I left, I was the Assistant Supervisor in Turrel cottage with fifteen boys ages fourteen to seventeen. Also, I took these boys to Scared Straight Programs in Federal and State Prisons to speak to prisoners and hopefully learn from their experiences.

My next position was in Camden, NJ. At Project Cope, I worked with five churches with kids at risk and matched them to mentors in the churches. I also visited all the prisons in South Jersey and Philadelphia area to talk to incarcerated parents about their at-risk children.

And now here I am thirty years later after a lifetime of hard work of being a wife, mother, student, and advocate. I’m retired, it’s true. In the last four years, I have become politically active. My husband Bob and I were volunteer Captains working in Elizabeth Warren’s Campaign for President. During the last election, I was a volunteer for the Democrats in Johnston County here in NC.

I  started this blog in 2018 and wrote one or two stories a week since that first story was published. I volunteered in the NC courts protecting at-risk children with the Guardian ad litem. And I volunteer three days a week at an animal sanctuary taking care of exotic birds for the past four years.

I look to the young people to take the torch I and the rest of my generation carried, and it’s time to pass it on. And know that I and the majority of my generation worked hard, did what we thought was right. I know we made mistakes along the way. And we tried but did not always succeed in leaving the part of the world we lived in a better place. Nothing was ever handed to us. We worked for it every day.

Please try not to judge us too harshly. Know that most of us did the best we could and forgive us for our mistakes along the way. Be aware that your generation and the ones that come after you will judge you as you are doing to us; your generation will make its share of mistakes and realize as you get older.

And here I am now in the Winter of my life and have concluded that overall, I have lived a good life with ups and downs as everyone has. There had years when things were so bad that I didn’t want to get up out of bed, but I did anyway.

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California Dreaming

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It was in the Spring of 1976 when my husband Bob and I moved from Jupiter, Florida to California. Bob decided that he wanted to become a professional photographer. And to that end, he had applied to Brooks Institute of Photography in Santa Barbara, California. We were living in Jupiter, Florida at the time. He was put on a waiting list for two years.

This is me and co-worker Stacy Smitter at St. Vincent’s in 1976

During the time that we waited to move to California, I worked at Colonnades Health Center on Singer Island. It was located in a hotel owned by John D. Mac Arthur. America’s second-richest man, owner of a $1 billion empire of insurance companies, land in eight states, including 100,000 acres in Florida, and investments as varied as Alamo car rental and MacArthur Scotch.

I was working at a spa, giving facials to wealthy people from all over the world. I often saw Mac Arthur while I was sitting at the reception desk in the Spa. There was a huge window on the wall facing the reception area. And an Olympic size pool just on the other side of the window and MacArthur would walk around the pool area or sitting at the poolside with his nurse. He was nearly eighty at the time and quite frail-looking. But he still admired the beautiful ladies lying out in the sun.

One day his nurse brought him into the spa for a massage and a facial. Luckily, I didn’t give massages only facials. I knew he was the owner of the hotel and a wealthy man. However, I treated him the same as any other client with respect and kindness.

I was paid about four dollars an hour while I worked at the Colonnades Health Center which was considered to be quite generous in 1976. As the minimum wage pay was $2.30 an hour at the time. So, I was able to save all the money I made during the two years that I worked there. And we had enough money for our trip to California and rent for a year. And in addition, I purchased a van for Bob and a tripod for his view camera that was required at Brooks Institute.

We were notified by Brooks Institute when Bob would be able to begin his classes. So, Bob gave his employers Pratt and Whitney United Technologies his notice. At that time, he was working as a New System Coordinator for IBM components.

These are some of my kids at St. Vincent’s during Special Olympics

I will always remember the trip across the country from Jupiter, Florida to Santa Barbara. The only other trip I took across the country was when I moved from New Jersey to West Palm Beach Florida. I took the Auto Train from Lorton, Virginia to Sanford, Florida by myself. I was twenty-two at the time. It was a twenty-four-hour train ride. I never traveled anywhere except to the shore in Southern New Jersey.

Bob and I enjoyed our trip across the country. It wasn’t until I took that trip, I realized how big America was and how beautiful. Bob drove his 1969 Ford Econoline van and towed my 1970 yellow VW behind us. There were great expanses of unoccupied, undeveloped open land from Florida to California at the time. It was amazingly beautiful and unspoiled. It took us about ten days to drive to Santa Barbara from Florida.

Bob and I ended up renting a duplex in Lompoc, which was located in the mountains.

We lived there for about a year and then we rented an apartment in Carpentaria. They raised the rent and we had to move again and we found a place in Santa Barbara.

Two of the children in my group at St. Vincents

I found a job in Santa Barbara at Robinson’s Department Store. I worked there for a year. I sold hats and wigs. And if there was a job more boring than that one, I don’t want to know about it. I met a young woman my age while I was working there she told me she volunteered at a school called St. Vincent’s. She worked with mentally handicapped children. The more she talked about it, the more I wanted to work there. I loved kids and it sounded like the perfect job for me.

I did not hear from St. Vincent’s. So, after a week I started calling them every day for a month. After a month, they called me in and hired me. About a week later I started working a split shift from 6 am until 9 am and then the 3-11 PM shift five days a week. My title was houseparent. I was in charge of eighteen girls ages twelve to seventeen. In the morning I woke them up, supervised them while they got dressed, ate breakfast, made their beds, and got ready for school. I had to dispense any meds that they were on as well. The school was on the grounds. When it was time for school, I escorted them to school and then went back to the dorms and cleaned the kitchen, and made sure the bathrooms and dining area were in order.

In the afternoon I returned and walked over to the school on the other side of the campus and brought the kids back to the dorms after they were dismissed from school. On the way back to the dooms the kids would all attempt to tell me about their day and what kind if any homework they had to do. When we got to the dorms, they would change to their play clothes and do chores. I would check in on them to see how they were doing. And if they completed their chores, I would put a star on their star charts. Star charts were used as a behavioral modification to reinforce good behavior rather than punishing bad behaviors. It was quite effective for most of the children.

Special Olympics at St. Vincent’s School

If all the chores were completed, I would go to the office downstairs and sign out a van, and take all the kids out to go hiking or some kind of outside activity. I cannot emphasize strongly enough how much I enjoyed spending time with these kids. How much fun I had with them. And how much I came to love them. When we returned from our outings the kids would set the table for dinner and then watch TV or play games. On my day off I would take one of the kids out for the day and they would spend it with them. Sometimes, my husband, Bob would go with us. It was great fun and truthfully, they became family to me.

After dinner, the kids that had homework would do it. And the rest would begin getting showers and then watch TV the rest of the night. I would watch TV with them and we would all lie on the floor with pillows. What stands out in my memory the most is that all the kids wanted to lie on the floor close enough to me so that they could touch my hand or my shoulder. I understood that they missed the loving touch of their mothers, fathers, and siblings. And I was the closest thing they had to a family now at St. Vincent’s school.

On Sundays, the kitchen at St. Vincent’s was closed and I had to prepare their breakfast, lunch and dinner, and dessert for them. I would take one of the vans and take the kids out for the day. If it was summertime, I would take them swimming at the pool at the apartment complex where I lived. It was only about a ten-minute drive. If it was wintertime, I would drive them up to the mountains to play in the snow. It was great fun. We would sing on the bus trip to and from wherever we were going.

Shawna Stutzman one of the kids in my group at St. Vincents

Sometimes I wonder how I wasn’t overwhelmed by the responsibility of taking care of eighteen teenagers. But really, I wasn’t. I loved them through and through. I didn’t see their physical or mental shortcomings. I saw wonderful young girls who wanted to have fun and friends just like any other kids would want.

Of all the jobs I’ve had over my lifetime, this was the one that I enjoyed the most and looked forward to going to every day that I worked there. I never had another job where I felt more needed, more appreciated, and more loved.

They are the ones whose faces I can still summon up from my memory of long ago. If there is a time in my life that I would like to live over again, it would be this time with those wonderful girls who loved unconditionally and put everything they could to do as well as they were capable of doing. I often wondered what became of those kids? What kind of adults they grew into, were they able to support themselves? Did any of them live independently, get married, and have children?

I wrote them for a year or two after I moved back to New Jersey and some of them were able to write me back. Although they needed assistance from the house parents that cared for them. My time at St. Vincent’s was one of the best experiences in my entire life. And California will always be a place that I loved more than any place I lived in before or since.

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