Tag Archives: childhood

LIFE’S HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS

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I arrived at that point in my life when I found myself reflecting on my life. Recently, I have considered what people influenced my development and personality the most. I believe my mother and my father certainly had the most influence on my personality and character development.

I grew up in the small town of Maple Shade, New Jersey. I spent the first twenty years of my life there. I had a fraternal twin, and three older sisters and one brother. There was an age gap between us. My oldest sister, Jeanie was thirteen years older, my brother was nineteen years older and my other two sisters are seven and eight years older than me. It was a busy household when I was younger, but over time, my older siblings grew up and married, moved to their own homes, and had families of their own. 

I believe that my father and my mother had the most influence on the person that I became over time. My mother was a deeply religious woman who attended Mass every day of her life and in the afternoon she spent at least an hour saying the rosary. My father was the authoratarian he set the rules for the family and worked hard every day of his life. But he also had his own life outside of being a father and a husband. My father liked to play the horses and play cards with his friends. He worked hard every day of his life and often held a second job to support our family.

My two older siblings attended public schools, but my twin and I attended Catholic School. So, Catholic schools and the Catholic Church had a great influence on our belief system.

This is me when I was a toddler.

This was me when I was a toddler.

Yes, to some degree, twelve years of Catholic School did influence my personality and my behavior to some extent when I was a child and adolescent. Still, once I graduated from high school and started working, I was exposed to people with different beliefs and experiences from those I had as a child. And over time the somewhat narrow beliefs of my childhood were overhadowed by working with different types of people some of whom had completely different beliefs. I do believe that having experienced twelve years of Catholic School influenced what I believed was right and what was wrong. But, over time although I had strong beliefs I became less narrow minded.

My parents were hardworking people their whole lives. And I never heard a single complaint from either one of them. My father grew up in an orphanage and because of his childhood he didn’t really learn how to express his love or emotions. He often grew angry, but he wasn’t one to come over and give any of us a big hug, nor did he ever tell me he loved me. And I believe I knew he loved me at some level but could not express it. Other than working hard and providing for all of our needs.

My mother also showed her love in her own way but wasn’t a hugger either. I remember going over my girlfriend Joan’s house and I often saw her being hugged by her mother. And it made me feel like my mother didn’t care about me. One day, I came home and told my mother, “I wish you were like Joan’s mother. She always hugs her and tells her she loves her.” My mother told me years later, that they was the most hurtful thing anyone ever said to her.” Life is hard. We all make mistakes as parents at times.

As children, we often learn through examples rather than words. Words can build a child up or knock them down. My parents taught us to work hard and do our best through their example. My mother taught me kindness through her actions and concern for my well-being. My mother worked hard all the days of her life, starting from her own childhood. When she was the only girl in a large family and her mother had Lew Gerigs disease and she had to feed and take care of her brothers and her mother. She didn’t really have the opportunity to have a childhood. I remember that she was given a beautiful doll with real hair that she could comb and style one Christmas. And every year her parents would take the doll to have it’s hair styled for Christmas. My mother cherished that doll since it was the only toy she had.

My father’s child hood experiences were even more difficult his father died when my father was quite young. And his mother had to support him, she wasn’t able to keep him at home and work, so she arranged for my father to live at Gerard College in Philadelphia until he was seventeen years old and could go to work. My father didn’t have any siblings. My father was highly intelligent, working all his life to care for our family. And yet, he still managed to have a personal life that for the most part we were unaware of while we were young. It wasn’t until I was older that I became aware of my father’s interest in horse racing, and gambliing. I have to say it didn’t have any negative effect on my childhood. But, I can not say that it didn’t affect my mother, who was often left to care for the children with very little assistance from my father. In addition, my mother did not have a social life outside of going to church every day and being part of the altar-rosary society at the Catholic church we attended. She rarely went out. My father always did the food shopping and made all the decisions, including buying kitchen curtains, the clothes on our backs, etc. As far as I know, my father never asked for her opinion.

I have often considered what kind of effect my father’s and mother’s relationship had upon myself and my siblings. I can only speak for myself in that I knew that I would never marry a man who didn’t allow me to have my thoughts and beliefs, who thought women should not be included in decision-making. I decided early on that when I grew up I would decide what I would do with my life and that no man, father or husband would be deciding anything for me. And I can truthfully say that is exactly how I have lived. I will be married fifty years in July, and I have always, always made my own choices. When I was twenty I moved out of my parents house and got an apartment alone. This had been unheard of in my family up until that time. Since, all of my older siblings got married and then moved out of my parents house.

Tyler School of Art, Temple University. I attended four years of school and graduated when I was forty with two degrees and teaching credentials.

I have lived in New Jeresey, Florida, and California and now live in North Carolina. We had two children who are grown now, and both are artists. I didn’t ask my parents if I could move out; I decided on my own and then just set about doing it. When my children were still young I decided to go to college, and in fact applied to three art schools in the Philadelphia and after preparing a portfolio I was accepted at all three schools. I was thirty-six at the time, I graduated at Temple Tyler School of Art when I was forty years old, the only adult student. I got a standing ovation when my name was called out. I graduated cum laude with a 4.0 average. My husband and children attended my graduation, along with two siblings.

When I graduated from school I realized after applying to all the public elementary schools in the area that art was no longer being funded and art teachers had no place to go. And so, after giving it much thought I discussed with my husband the possiblility of purchasing a larger house and opening up a private art classes for children and adultss. And we found such a house in Pitman, New Jersey. A neuropsychologist had previously owned it. But, had been empty for eight years. We purchased the house and spent twenty- four years living there. I taught children in the afternoon and adults at night for many years. I called it The Art Room.

I have found through my own experiences that I could accomplish many things once I set my mind to it. I know what I am able to do. I know my limits, and I don’t let anyone tell me what I can or can not do in my life.

At this point, I find that I have reached what may very well be the final years of my life. No one knows exactly when that will be, but I know I will continue learning and growing as long as I have breath in my life. I will create art and write short stories and who knows what. Maybe I will surprise myself with my next pursuit. I have been writing this blog Write On for eight years. I’m considering attempting to publish a book I have written. It is called GRIND.

In addition, I have been volunteering at an animal sanctuary “Animal Edventure” for the past eight years since I retired. We never know what opportunites life will present to us, but I know if I set my mind to it, I can and will suceed. I believe my parents would be proud of what I have accomplished in my life so far. And more important than the my accomplishment is the fact that I always strive to be a kind and decent person willing to lend a helping hand to anyone I can along the way. Because if we can not lend a helping hand to our fellow human beings what good are we. 

I believe I have a kind heart, as did my dear mother. My father was intelligent and set his own compass during his lifetime. He didn’t allow anyone to make decisions for him. And neither do I. Life goes by quickly, so do not waste a moment on it. It is up to us as individuals to create happiness in our own lives. And to do good along the way. We should all have a generous heart and nature. And do our best along the way. Keep an open mind and a loving heart. Be kind to all the creatures with whom we share our planet. And keep in mind that we are the caretakers of this beautiful planet we occupy. And remember to “First do no harm, not to other people, animals or our planet.”

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Family Consists Of A Safe Environment And A Loving Family

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Watercolor painting of my childhood home

As far back as I can remember, my parents had to struggle to get by. I’m talking about my entire life from my early childhood forward until I moved out when I was twenty-one. My parents were hard-working people. They never took a vacation or a day off, for that matter. We had a large family with a lot of mouths to feed. My mother would clean houses and do laundry for extra money.

My father worked the third shift as the Head Dispatcher at PTC, The Pennsylvania Transportation Company in Philadelphia, PA. On his days off, he worked at Johnny’s Auto Supply Store, which was located on Main Street in Maple Shade, NJ. The auto supply store was within walking distance from where we lived.

As a child, I was completely oblivious to my family’s financial situation. My siblings and I always attended Catholic Schools. I was the youngest, and as in most large families, the clothes were handed down from the oldest to the youngest. I didn’t really care about clothes that much, so it didn’t bother me. After school, I would change out of my uniform and get in my play clothes and go play with my friends, or ride my bike all over town.

On weekends my friends and I would go to to the Roxy Theater and watch the latest movies for a quarter or take a bus to the Riverside roller rink and spend the afternoon there roller skating. Or I would ride my bike all over town and visit my friend’s house. I would skate around the roller rink until my legs started hurting me or until I fell down one time too many. And I would sit on the floor next to the wall until it was time to take the bus home.

Roxy Theater in Maple Shade, NJ 1960’s

You may be curious about how I had money to go to the movies or the roller rink. I had money because, after school, I would take long walks downtown Maple Shade and look for lost coins and empty soda bottles that could be returned and get the deposit returned.

I would often go to the Roxy Movie Theater on Saturdays when there was a new movie playing., if I wasn’t going roller skating. It only costs twenty-five cents to see a movie. My friends and I would bring our lunches with us. In that way, we didn’t have to spend money on candy. I always brought Lebanon Bologna sandwiches, which was my favorite food at that time.

One time I asked my parents if I could get a bike for my birthday so I could ride around town with all my friends. And sure enough, my father gave me a bike. It was a used bike, but he cleaned it up, painted it, and put new tires on it. And I loved that bike and rode it for years. It didn’t matter to me that it was used.

Gerard College Philadelphia, PA, in the 1920-s

My father was a man who pinched a penny until it cried. He was born in 1911, the only son of a widowed mother. My father spent his childhood growing up in a residential school in Philadelphia called Gerard College. It wasn’t a college but was a live-in residence for boys who had lost their fathers. He lived there most of his childhood until he was about sixteen years old. He only saw his mother once a year at Christmas.

My father worked hard his whole life, and he spent most of his working years working for the Pennsylvania Transportation Company. He started out as a Trolley driver, but his mother decided it was more prestigious to work in an office. My father loved driving a trolley and the bus, but his mother insisted that he apply for an office job. And so he did. He spent the next forty years working as the head dispatcher until he retired.

As a child, I don’t recall ever feeling that I had less than any of my friends. That is until Christmas time. When my mother would ask me what I wanted. We were allowed to ask for one gift. And I would receive it and be content about it. Until I went over to my best girlfriend’s house, and under her Christmas tree was a mound of gifts two feet high or more. And then I would feel bad for a while, but I got over it. It made me realize that “things” are not as important as having a good home and caring family. And a dog, if possible. I always loved animals.

When I was in high school, my mother got a job cooking for an employee’s lunch room at the Wanamakers Department Store in Moorestown, NJ. She did this so that my sister and I could attend a private girls ’ school in Haddonfield, NJ. Many of the students who attended Saint Mary of the Angel’s Academy came from wealthy families in Haddonfield, but as far as I was concerned, I fit right in and made friends there. It was a good experience for me.

My parents were examples of people who worked hard their entire lives and were role models for their children and grandchildren to follow. Nothing came easy for them, but they continued to do the best that they could for all of us. They were not perfect humans; they made mistakes, as we all do. My mother never complained about anything. She took one day at a time and put forth her best efforts. I never saw my mother lose her temper, no matter what happened. My father could and did show his anger at times and would say hurtful things. But, as I look back on my life with my family, I know I am the person that I am today because of their example. They taught me to work hard, not to complain, and to make good choices over the course of my lifetime.

I have made every effort to do good in my life and show kindness towards the people that have come into my life over my many years. I don’t know if I was as good and loving as my mother, but I know I did my best. My father, who was a highly intelligent man who was an example of someone who rose up from being an orphan living in a boy’s school, got a job in management for the PTC—and had a long-term marriage of over fifty years. He fathered six children and supported them in every way possible. And had seventeen grandchildren.

Because of my father’s setting such high standards as an adult and later as a parent, I hope my own children learn to have faith in their own abilities and work hard for what they want to achieve in their lives. And most of all, to do the right thing. That’s all a parent can hope for in their lives. Our children will ultimately make their own decisions. They will make mistakes, as we all have, and hopefully, they will learn and grow from them. And that they, too, will experience happiness, success, meaning, and live a life of integrity.

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MY FIRST BEST FRIEND, MRS. MCFARLAND

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I grew up in a small town in New Jersey, South Jersey, to be more specific. The town I grew up in was called Maple Shade. I always assumed it was called Maple Shade because of the many Maple trees that grew there from one end of Maple Shade to another.

I believed that Maple Shade was a great place to grow up. Of course, my life experience at nine or ten was somewhat limited. But, as far as I was concerned, it was heaven on earth. Especially in the 1950s through the 1960s when I was growing up.

I clearly remember my mother standing on the street curb outside our house with me by her side, and she was teaching me how to cross the street safely. She said, “Before you cross the street, look to the right and then to the left, and then to the right again. If no cars are coming in either direction, it will be safe to cross the street. She practiced with me several times, and then she said, “You are on your own, be careful. Before you go anywhere, let me know where you are going. Understand?”

“Yes, Mom, I understand, right, left, right, then cross the street.”

“OK, now keep your eyes open, and most of all, don’t be late for lunch or dinner.” And then she went back into the house. I guess she was going to clean the house. That is what she did most of her days unless she was cooking. She did a lot of cooking. We had a big family.

After I crossed the street, I went directly across the street to Mrs McFarland’s yard. She was our neighbor, and I loved her so much. She was really, really old. She lived alone because her husband had died a long time ago. And if she had any children, they had all grown up and moved away. I never met them.

I walked up her path to her side door and knocked. I could hear her walking towards the door. When she opened the door, she said, “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise? Would you like to come in for a snack??? Or we can sit outside on the swing and have our snack?

“Oh, let’s eat on the swing.”

A couple of minutes later, she came out with a tray of milk and cookies. Oh, how I loved her cookies. I hope they were chocolate chip. Mrs. McFarland sat down on the swing and said, “Here we go, your favorite chocolate chip. I smiled from ear to ear. Mrs. McFarland had one whole arm and one-half arm. What I mean is her left arm only went down to her elbow, and the rest of her arm was missing. I was always amazed that she never let that bother her at all. She managed to do everything she had to do with one and a half arms. And her cookies were delicious. Sometimes, she brought her doll outside that she had since she was a kid. And She would let me change her clothes. She told me the doll was made from china, which I didn’t understand. When I asked my father what china was, he told me it was a country very far away. Sometimes, I would bring my doll over and play dolls together. Other times, my best girlfriend brought her doll, and we would all play with dolls.

But what I loved to do the most was walk around her yard, which had flowers growing all over it. But, my favorite flowers grew in the Spring, and she called them tulips. She had red tulips. And they were so beautiful. Sometimes, she let me cut a tulip and take it home to my mother.

While we sat and swung back and forth on the swing, she told me all about herself when she was little. I wished I was little when she was so I could play with her every day. But I guess I was lucky to have her as a friend now. The fact is I really loved Mrs. McFarland. And I didn’t care one bit about her only having one half of an arm. Anytime I saw Mrs. McFarland out in her yard, I went over and visited her. She was my best friend. One day, she said, “How about we walk out to the corner of my yard, and you can try climbing up the tree?”

I screamed at the top of my lungs,” Yes, yes, yes. Let’s”

“Well, I can’t climb the tree, but I’ll stand next to the tree and keep you safe.” And she did. After that, I took every opportunity to climb that tree and any other tree I saw around town. Sometimes, I fell, but I just got black and blue marks on my arms and legs. My mother would say, “What in the world have you been up to?”

“Nothing, Mom, just playing in the tree.”

My mother said, “Well, you have to be more careful. My father said, “Let her be. Kids will be kids.” And so, after that, she would say, be careful. When I was a kid, I would tell my mother that I was going out for a bike ride. She would say, be home in time for lunch. I would listen for the church bells to ring at noon time. We lived two doors down from the Catholic church, and then I would run as fast as I could home. Because if my father was home, it wasn’t a good idea to be late for lunch or dinner. When I got home, I would rush through the front door, and my mother would say, “Go wash your hands and face before you sit down. We almost always had the same thing for lunch every day: Lebanon Bologna sandwiches with chicking noodle soup or sometimes Alphabet soup. I loved making words in the soup with the noodles that were in the shape of the alphabet letters. My father would say,” Stop playing with your food. And my mother would say, “Oh, leave her alone. She’s just a little kid.

As time went by, I grew up and visited my friend Mrs. McFarland less and less. I was always busy with my neighborhood friends and my school friends, who came over after school. There was never a shortage of kids around town to play with after school and during the summer.

Eventually, I graduated from elementary school and went on to high school. We had to take an entrance exam to get into Catholic High Schools. I was sure that I failed, but as it turned out, I passed both tests, the one for St. Mary of the Angels Academy and Holy Cross High School. My parents decided that I would attend St. Mary of the Angels Academy. I had to take a bus to go back and forth to high school. As time went by, I didn’t see Mrs. McFarland anymore. She didn’t come outside since she was having difficulty walking, and I didn’t see her working in the garden anymore.

Then, one day, I was sitting at the kitchen table, and someone knocked at our front door. I got up and opened the door. It was an older man, and for some reason, he looked very upset. My mother came to the door and said, “Can I help you?” He said, “ I was just across the street at Mrs. McFarland’s house. I am her insurance man. And she had a heart attack and died right in front of me.” And then he started crying. I never saw a grown man cry before. My mother told him to please sit down. He did. The tears were streaming down his face. I looked at my mom, and she looked at me. And then we both started crying. I felt really bad because I hadn’t visited her for a long time. And I wish I had. I never saw Mrs. McFarland again. Someone else bought her house and rented out the top part of the house to someone else. They took Mrs. McFarland’s swing down, and about a year later, they cut down her Weeping Willow tree one day. I’ll never understand why. I cried all over again.

I will always remember Mrs. McFarland even though I am now the age she was when she became my first friend.

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THE UNEXPECTED PEN PAL

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I was staring out my kitchen window at the rain that was pouring down hard. In fact, it looked like the wind was picking up because the trees were swaying back and forth. Some people love the rain, but I’m not one of them. And this rain looked, for all intents and purposes, as if it might turn into a hurricane. As it was hurricane season, I thought I should get myself in gear and prepare myself for the worst.

I was about to close the curtain and get busy when I saw a lone figure struggling to walk up to my driveway. I realized it was our mailman. He was wearing a long raincoat in an attempt to keep dry, but his head was bare, and the torrential rain was pouring down his face. He slowly made his way up my driveway. His hair was plastered to his balding head. He pulled open the door of my mailbox and shoved the letters, or most likely bills, into the box. And then slammed the door closed again with all his might. And then, he slowly made his way across the street to my neighbor’s house and repeated the same painful procedure with our new neighbor Brent’s mailbox.

In the back of my mind, I said, “god, what an awful job. Walking up and down the lonely streets, shoving mail in people’s mailboxes day in and day out until you’re old enough to retire. Then, he would be sitting at home looking out the window for his mailman to deliver his letters, bills, and useless advertisements. Life can often be mind-numbing. 

I considered making a run for it and grabbing my mail, but I decided to wait for the downpour to subside. About forty-five minutes later, I realized that I hadn’t heard the rain pounding on the windows for a while. I went into the kitchen and looked out the window. And sure enough, it had stopped raining. I double-timed it to the mailbox and pulled open the door. And to my surprise, there were about ten pieces of mail. I know this will sound weird, but for some reason, I’ve always looked forward to getting my mail every day. I know that seems weird, but my life holds a few surprises for me. Each day follows one another. And my routine rarely varies.

As I head back into my house, I notice that one piece of mail doesn’t look like a bill at all. And I thought, oh, I must have gotten someone else’s mail by mistake. It happens occasionally. I arrived inside my house unscathed and only slightly damp. I plopped the mail down on the kitchen table and grabbed my cup of tea off the counter. I briefly leafed through the mail and was about to go back to paying my bills when I noticed an envelope with a stamp that wasn’t from America. I checked the front of the letter again, and sure enough, it was addressed to me. How strange and unexpected.

I put the envelope up to the kitchen window to see if I could read any part of it. But, no, I couldn’t see a thing. So, I went over to the kitchen drawer and grabbed a small knife. And I carefully opened the top of the envelope since I wanted to keep the envelope intact. The return address on the envelope seemed vaguely familiar. But I couldn’t remember where I had heard the name before.

As I unfolded the letter, I looked at the date. And it had been mailed four days ago. And then I recognized the stamp. Lo and behold, the letter had been mailed from Ireland. I sat there dumbfounded and said out loud….”Well, who in the world is this from?”

As I opened the letter, I noticed that it was handwritten in beautiful script. It’s so unusual to receive a letter that is handwritten nowadays. Since most people either type the letter on their computer and print it out, or they avoid snail mail altogether and use email. For some reason, the handwriting looked familiar, but I couldn’t imagine who it was from.

It was signed by Kelly O’Brian. At first, I couldn’t quite a place who Kelly O” Brian was. And then it dawned on me. I used to have a penpal long ago when I was young. And we communicated for many years. That is until I graduated from high school and started attending college at Temple University in Philadelphia. Pa. After that, we lost touch. And I guess over time, the whole experience faded away.

As I began to read the letter, it dawned on me that the Kelly who wrote me this letter was indeed my old pen pal from when I was just a kid. Only now she was married, and her name was Kelly Rafferty. Well, what in the world could this be all about? I couldn’t imagine why she was contacting me after so many years had passed by.

I began reading the letter, trying to take it all in. It was such an unexpected surprise as I hadn’t heard from or spoken to Kelly for so long. I tried to remember just why she and I had stopped communicating. And the only reason I could recall is that we were both entering college, and I guess what with college classes and making new friends over time, we just stopped writing. I wish that hadn’t happened, but it did. 

And now here she was contacting me. I don’t know how she found my current address, but somehow she did. It seems as if she had become a writer of short stories and had several fictional novels published. She named several, and I thought, Wow, that’s amazing. I knew she was a fabulous writer just from the letters she wrote me and described in such detail where she lived her family, and her great love of Ireland. In fact, one of the books she published was based on our long-term friendship via letter writing. She said, in her fictional version of our letter-writing friendship, we eventually met.

She went on to say that she was wondering if I was up to a visit from her since her book was going to be published in the United States as well. And she was going to be in New York in two weeks. She wasn’t sure how long she would be visiting the USA. But she would really like to see me. I didn’t answer her right away. I was somewhat taken aback by this unexpected event. My life is and always has been predictable. I work nine to five, then I cook dinner, watch TV, and go to bed. On the weekends, I read or watched old movies. The only variation I have in my daily life is on my two weeks of vacation. I go to Atlantic City for two weeks.

I walk up and down the boardwalk in the morning and then again after I eat dinner. Occasionally, I go to the casinos. Usually, I play the slots. Last year, I actually won five hundred dollars and almost went out of my mind with excitement. I jumped up and down, yelling I won, I won. A crowd gathered and kept yelling, “How much, how much?” And when I finally calmed down, I said, ten thousand dollars.

And they all cheered. It took me a full two days to finally settle down and stop telling everybody I saw on the boardwalk how much I won. The only reason I stopped was because an old lady came over to me and said, “Dear, you should stop telling everyone you won a lot of money, or someone is going to rob you blind. I looked at her, and I thought she was absolutely right, I must have lost my mind temporarily. And she was the last person I talked to about that money. When I got home, I went to my bank and deposited the mullah in my savings account.

And I hadn’t taken a vacation since then. I thought, well, why the hell shouldn’t I take a couple of weeks off? And visit with an old friend, especially one that I have never met in person before. So, I finally wrote back and responded, “You know, I think that is a fantastic idea.” So, I gave her my email and told her to send me her traveling plans and where and when we could meet. I would make a reservation at the nearest hotel, or she could stay at my tiny apartment if she wanted to. And then we could spend her time in New York City together.

At first, I was a little overwhelmed by the whole unexpected event. And then, after a couple of days, I was stoked about the whole upcoming visit. I started making plans for our time together. The days up to the visit passed slowly. But finally, her arrival date was only a day away. I took the next train to New York City, checked in at the hotel, and made my way to the JFK airport. It was unbelievably crowded, but I tried to keep my cool. I made my way to Terminal 4, where the International Flights land.

When it was almost time for her flight to land, I started getting somewhat anxious and excited at the same time. I wondered if I would even recognize her. Since I hadn’t seen pictures of her when she was only a teenager. I wondered if she would recognize me. She told me she would be wearing all green, including wearing a Shamrock on her jacket. The flight was about twenty minutes late because the plane encountered turbulence because of storms.

I was staring out the window, waiting for her plane to land, when I heard over the intercom that her flight would be landing in fifteen minutes. I planned on taking her to McDonald’s because Kelly felt that it best represented American food if you can believe that.

The next thing I knew, her flight was deplaning, and the passengers were coming off the plane into the waiting area. I stared intently at all the passengers who might be her. Finally, I saw a young woman about my age, and she was wearing a somewhat hideous green jacket with a giant shamrock on it. I laughed out loud. I started waving at her like a madwoman. And soon enough, she started walking towards me. And when she was a couple of feet away from me, we both walked toward each other and hugged. I said, “I would have recognized you anywhere.” And we both started to laugh because if she weren’t wearing that giant shamrock, I wouldn’t have known her at all. “Dolores, I wouldn’t have recognized you at all, either. Time does fly by, doesn’t it?”
As soon as we were able to stop laughing, we hugged again, and I said,” Do you have any other luggage?”

And she said, “No, just this small bag. If I have to, I can buy some clothes here.”

“Well, maybe not here in New York City. But, perhaps in the suburbs..The stores here are quite expensive. “Well, I do have my heart set on bringing home some couture NYC designer clothing.

“Really, OK if that’s what you want.” Let’s head outside. We have to take a tram to the parking lot, and then we have to find my car. It will be a bit of a walk, I’m afraid. This is a really big airport.”

“No problem. It was a long flight, and I’ll be relieved to stretch my legs. By the way, I don’t know I would have recognized you either if you weren’t waving your arms like a maniac. And then she laughed and laughed. Let’s go, shall we?”

We arrived at the parking area relatively unscathed. Even though people bumped into us in a hurry to get on or off the tram. And then I was hit in the head by someone’s suitcase when they were pulling it off the overhead rack. I thought it would kill me. It was so heavy. God knows what or who she had jammed in that suitcase. It must have weighed twenty or more pounds. And when it hit me, I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, look where you’re going. You almost killed me.” Everyone in the tram laughed their heads off. Which only served to make me madder and madder. And then I yelled at them and said, “And you can all go straight to hell.”

“Well, Dolores, you always told me you had one hell of a temper, and you do. You would feel right at home in Ireland, as you probably know the Irish are known for their temper.”

“Really, well, maybe all those years of you and me writing to each other. I picked up your temper through osmoses.”

“Oz, what?” And then Kelly laughed and laughed. And they finally arrived at the parking facility. And luckily, we found my car right away. The ride back to my apartment was bumper to bumper, as usual. And it was full of New York drivers who didn’t have a lot of patience either. And they were bumping and yelling at one another as we headed to my apartment. We were near my building, and I scanned the street up and down. I saw someone pulling out of a parking spot and gunned my gas to get to the parking spot as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, someone coming from the opposite direction did the same thing. But my car was smaller than theirs, and I managed to pull into the spot like my pants were on fire.

“Dear god.“ Kelly screamed at the top of her lungs. I looked over at her and said, “What’s the matter? What are you screaming about?”

“She looked at me like I was stark raving mad. You almost got us killed.”

“What? No, that’s just everyday driving in New York City. Welcome to America. LOL

 

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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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THE OLD BEAR

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Did you ever meet someone that seems to wake up on the wrong side of the bed every day? Well, I did. And that man was my father. My father was a grouch. At least that’s what I believed when I was a child. It wasn’t until I grew up that I realized that my father was not so much a grouch as a perfectionist and with a dash of pessimism.

My father with his dog Andy

I look over at my dad on the other side of the dinner table. He doesn’t always eat dinner with our family. It depends on what shift he’s working on at the Philadelphia Transportation Company. He’s the head dispatcher for the city bus company. If he’s working the second shift, he works four to twelve pm; if he works the third shift, he works 12 Pm to 8 AM.

When my dad works the third shift, we have to be very quiet in the house. Because he is sleeping during the day. Luckily for us, he is deaf in one ear and has a tendency to sleep on his good ear. But woe is to you if you make too much noise and wake him up.

If he’s working the second shift, I usually get home from school right before he leaves for work. As I walk down our sidewalk, I look into the kitchen window and see my dad sitting at the kitchen table. As I rush through the door, I see my mother putting my father’s dinner plate on the table. He is sitting there with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other. With his elbows on the table. The king of the kitchen. I see my mom is giving him his favorite dinner six hotdogs sliced up into little pieces and ketchup. My dad loves ketchup. Sometimes he water’s it down and drinks it. He likes to use the left-over pickle juice from the pickle jar and add all kinds of weird foods to it, like hard-boiled eggs and beets and relish and any other really spicy things. “Oh no, dad you’re eating that weird pickle juice stuff with the beets.”

“Ah, you don’t know what you’re missing, Susabelle.”

“Yuck.” One day I looked in the refrigerator and I saw a glass jar in there. I kept staring at it. Finally, I asked my mom, “What’s that in the jar in the back of the refrigerator?”

“Oh, that’s just your father’s cow tongue. He slices it and makes sandwiches.”

“Make’s sandwiches out of cow tongue?”  I thought I would puke. How disgusting can you be? Sometimes it’s better not to ask questions in my house.

One night last week, I was sitting at the table and watching him eat. He kept telling me to stop picking at my dinner. It wasn’t one of my favorite dinners, so I didn’t want to eat it. Sometimes, my mother would say, Susan, don’t waste your food. Think about the poor starving children in Africa.”

I really couldn’t understand why not eating my dinner would hurt the poor starving children in Africa. Where ever that was. So, I kept pushing the food around on my plate to make it look like I was eating. Then my father said,” Stop playing with your food, Susan.” I didn’t start eating, but I did start rocking my chair back on its back legs. My father got louder, “stop rocking your chair back and forth, Susan.” But, I didn’t, and all of the sudden my father reached across the table at me. I guess to smack me. Although he never hit me before. I guess I got on his last nerve. I figured he was going to smack me and I rocked back further on the chair legs. And over the chair went, taking the tablecloth with me and half the stuff on the table. As you can imagine he was really angry at me by then. And he roared at me, I can’t remember just what he said. But he did put the fear of god into me. And I started bawling like there was no tomorrow. “Get up, Susan, sit up. Are you happy now?”

I can’t really say I was happy, but I was relieved that he didn’t smack me. Although I probably deserved it.

My father kept his collection of pens on the counter behind his seat. And anyone who touched his pens was at risk of their lives. So, I always felt compelled to go over and move them around when he wasn’t looking. If he noticed he didn’t say anything. All the important things happened in our kitchen while we were sitting at the table. This included all of the conversations that we had as a family. Although, I tried to keep my mouth shut since I usually put my foot in it.

My father would sit in his seat, and behind him, he had a metal table fan that ran all year round. My father was a large man and he always felt hot and uncomfortable. He was the only one to have an air conditioner in his room and it ran all year round. In the dead of winter, he would go outside with just a wool scarf and a fake fur hat on his balding head.

My father is a creative man. He likes to make things out of stuff he finds or buys really cheap. He makes collages. He collects pictures out of magazines that he buys at the Lions Club. One of his favorite magazines is National Geographic. One of the collages is very large and hangs over our glass fireplace. Perhaps four by six feet wide. Within the collage are pictures of naked women. This collage became a silent battleground between my father and mother. My mother is a quiet person and a religious who doesn’t believe that pictures of naked women belonged on the living room wall for all the world to see.

My parents never talk about these pictures. Every time my father goes out to the store, or the track or to work my mother puts Holy Cards over the naked women in the collage. And when my father comes home, he uncovers the ladies. This went on for a long time until my father took up making String Art. The one hanging in our living room now is a huge piece over the fireplace. He made a spiderweb out of nails and string, and he found a giant plastic, hairy spider. When my friends came over, they all stare at it with their mouths hanging open. They look at me for an answer or explanation, I just shrug my shoulders. It doesn’t seem odd to me, because I love making things too, my father and I had that in common.

Yesterday my father said, “Susabelle, do you want to take a ride with me?’ I didn’t have to think twice. My father rarely took me anywhere.”

“Yes, I would. Where are we going?”

“Oh, not far.”

“We got in the car, and my father drove maybe five or ten minutes away. We were still in our town of Maple Shade, NJ. He drove down a street and pulled over to the curb and parked in front of a house. It looks similar to our Cape Cod house. “Do you see that Susie?”

“What that house?”

“Yes, that house, my friend Dar and I built that house?”

“It’s really great.” I looked at my dad and thought, my dad, can build houses. Wow. And then we went home, I never mentioned the ride I took with my dad to anybody. Because it made me feel like I was special because my dad took me to see it.

My father had our cellar filled with woodworking tools. He remodeled our kitchen and built a fence that was in our front yard for years.

Sometimes my father is in a bad mood, and he doesn’t want to talk to anybody. He’ll sit in his chair in the living room and watch one of his shows. Andy, our dog, will sit next to his chair, and my dad will pet his head all night. Until it is time to go to work or go to bed. Depending on the shift, he is working.  When he is in a bad mood. I stay far away from him. He can say cutting and hurtful things to me and my siblings when he is in a bad mood.

For instance, Christmas time is not always a good time for my father. He will put the Christmas lights on the rose arbor outside the front door. And put the big plastic Santa on the front step. And hang all the grandchildren’s stockings from the fireplace mantle. But then there are those times that Christmas seems to make him sad. He doesn’t want to talk too much. Everyone in my family goes out of their way to buy something that he will like. Sometimes He often refuses to open Christmas presents. Sometimes he will laugh and smile, sometimes silent.

_____________________________________

Daddy Liked To Clean House

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

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

Photo by Hugh Carberry 1958

Susan Carberry First Communion-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Tooth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Candy from the 1950s &n60’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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