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A BEST FRIEND WHO LIVES FAR AWAY, MY PEN PAL

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Remember when you were a young child, and your mother used to tell you stories to help you fall asleep at night? I have a story to tell, but it doesn’t have a good ending. So, here goes. It all began when I was a young child. I absolutely loved going to the Ben Franklin Store in my hometown, where I grew up. It was actually called the Ben Franklin 5 & 10 Cent Store. Because many of the items in the store could be purchased for five or ten cents, I would spend hours walking up and down the aisles at all the treasures that were for sale. And all I needed to have was a dime, a quarter, or a pocket full of pennies, and I could get one of the treasures for a mere penny, nickel, or dime.

I would walk around town, up and down Main Street, with my head down, looking for a penny, a dime, or a nickel. And on a lucky day, a quarter. I could buy a whole lot at the 5&10 for a quarter. For me, it was like a treasure hunt. Just looking for the loose change lying on the sidewalk was exciting. It was exciting to go to the 5&10 and buy something with its aisles and aisles of cool stuff. The ladies that worked in the store were always so cheerful and welcoming. They never lost patience with me or any of the other children that used to go there. They would often make suggestions on what to buy.

One day, I was walking around in the back of the store, and I happened to find an envelope filled with canceled stamps from all over the world. Next to it was an album for sale for a dollar where you could store all your stamps. The lady who worked in that part of the store came over to me and explained that all the stamps had been canceled. Meaning they had been used by someone in another country and mailed to another part of the world. The lady who worked in the store told me that for a dollar, I could buy an empty album and fill it with canceled stamps worldwide. She also suggested that I try contacting some kids my age from other parts of the world and write back and forth to them. She said they were called Pen Pals.

I talked to my fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Mc Elliot, who told me about a Pen Pal Program I could join that the school I attended promoted. Several weeks went by, and I didn’t hear anything more about my pen pal. Then about five weeks after that I received a letter with a weird looking stamp on it. And it said Ireland. I had no idea where Ireland was located. So, I showed my father, and he said, “You don’t know where Ireland is?” And I said, “no.” So, he said, “Why don’t we take a walk downtown to our library and look at the globe.” I was so surprised that he said he would walk with me that I started jumping up and down. My father rarely went anywhere with me alone. Since we had a big family. But, sure enough, he said, “Let’s go.” Off we went down to Main Street and to the library, which was located right next to the town police department.

As we entered the library, my father said, “Do you have a library card?” And I said no. What’s a library card?”

“It’s an official card that says you can borrow library books. You have to take good care of them and return them on the due date. Otherwise, you get charged for being late.”

I started jumping up and down and saying, “Yes, yes, yes, I want a library card. I love to read.” The next thing I knew, we were in the library. It wasn’t really big, but it was packed with books from the floor to the ceiling.

Then, my father said, “come on I’l show you where Ireland is on the globe. So, he took me to the middle of the room, where a round globe was sitting on a table. “ Here it is, here is where we live, and here is where Ireland is located. He pointed to it, “See where I have my finger? That is where my mother and father were born, in County Down Patrick in Ireland. My mother came to America in 1904 from Ireland. And I was born in 1910 here in the United States. I looked at my dad and said, “Wow, you are really old.” Then he said, now you know that your family came from Ireland to America. And they came to have a better life and more opportunity than Ireland since it was such a small country.

Then, my father went up to the librarian lady and asked if I could apply for a library card. Believe it or not, she said, “But of course, she can.” My father spelled out my name and address and showed her his driver’s license. The next thing I knew, I had my very own library card.

Now that you know that your family came from another part of the world, you can find a pen pal from Ireland if you want to start writing them. Or you can write to anyone in the rest of the world who speaks and writes English towrite to you.

So, that very same week, my teacher gave me the name of a student about my age who lived in Ireland. And I started writing them. It turned out to be a girl about my age, and she even sent me a picture of herself. And she looked to be about my age. I didn’t understand the words she used in her letters, but I kept writing back, and she wrote me. She told me in her last letter that someday she would like to come and visit me in America. I couldn’t sleep for a week after that. I thought she was going to come any time now. But, she meant someday in the future, she would come.

Anyway, her name was Coleen O’Cabri, which my father said was a big coincidence because that was his father’s last name. However, when he moved to America, he changed his name to Carberry. O’Cabri meant driver of the chariots, which my father said was also a strange coincidence since he started out his working career driving trolleys and buses in Philadelphia.

Unfortunately, my father’s mother had other ideas for him. His mother believed working in the office and Philadelphia Transportation Company, or PTC, was more prestigious, as my father called it. And so, he worked for the rest of his working life, scheduling the buses, trolleys, and drivers. It was a good job, but he had to work nights. And he used to sleep during the day. I rarely saw my father since he often slept during the day, and I was supposed to keep quiet so I wouldn’t wake him up. And he went to work at night.

Anyway, as I was saying, I decided to keep writing my pen pal Coleen O’Cabri, and I told her that O’Cabri was my dead grandmother’s name. When she wrote back, she told me that O’Cabri was a fairly common name in that part of Ireland. I told her that we had people from all over the world living there in America. And that my best friend was a mixture of Irish and Italian. She thought that was really weird. I explained to her that people from all over the world came to live here in America. I asked if she would like to come and visit me someday. And she said she would like that. Maybe when she grew up and had some money saved.

Coleen said there were some things different in Ireland. She said Ireland’s nickname is the Emerald Isle. Believe it or not, there are something like 30,000 castles in Ireland, and one of the oldest lighthouses is in Wexford, Ireland. Contrary to popular belief, the shamrock is not a national symbol of Ireland. Some people in Ireland spoke Gaelic, but most people since the eighteenth century spoke English in Ireland. Which I thought was weird. But then I realized that she had been writing me in English since we started being pen pals, and I didn’t even think about that at the time.

Another thing she told me that I didn’t know was that six million Irish people moved to America. At that time, it has been estimated that nearly two million people—about a quarter of the population—emigrated to the United States in a ten-year period.

That is how my family came to live in America: my father’s mother emigrated to the United States at the turn of the century. My father was born in 1911, and I was born in 1951. My mother’s family was also from Ireland. My mother’s last name was Brown. Marie Gertrude Brown until she married my father in 1929 and became Marie Carberry.

The Irish have contributed to America in many ways. They and their descendants made incalculable contributions to politics, industry, organized labor, religion, literature, music, health care, and art.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that people from Ireland or any other country that came to the United States were not that different from us. Some of their customs might be slightly different, or their food might not be the same as ours. But we are all people trying to make our way through life. Sometimes, having to struggle from one day to the next. But people are all the same. I kept writing to Coleen for a long time. Believe it or not, we became good friends by writing letters to one another. And I hope that one day she will come to visit me. And that I can go visit her. Do you remember what Forrest Gump said? He said, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you are going to get.”

But I know my friend Colleen and I will eventually get together. I don’t know if she will come here, or I will go to Ireland. But, one day, we will meet. And it will be my dream come true.

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A LIFE WITHOUT PETS WOULD BE AN EMPTY ONE

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I find myself sitting here reflecting on my life as I live what will be the last years of my life. I have considered all the things that have brought me the most happiness. The fact is that there has been a plethora of experiences; I grew up in an Irish Catholic family with a mother and father and five siblings. I am part of the Baby Boomer generation.

My generation had a great deal of freedom as children. My parent’s only directive when I left my house was to be home in time for dinner. They never asked where I was going or what I would be doing. I kid you not. No questions were asked as long as I was home in time for dinner. After dinner was over and the kitchen cleaned up, it would be time to do my homework. My mother would go over and over my spelling words with me. My father would help me with my math homework. He was not as patient with me as my mother was. But he did his best. I have to admit I didn’t invest much of my energy into my school work. I was more interested in playing with my friends and visiting all my animal friends in the neighborhood.

The neighbor, who lived two houses away from my house, had a collection of cats. They were allowed to go in and out of the house at will since a cellar window was kept open at all times. They stayed in the fenced-in area that ran the length of the property.

My furry best friend was a stray orange cat named Strottles. He had been originally owned by our next-door neighbors, a family whose last name was Lombardi. They were of Italian descent. My family was of Irish descent. My father did not care for Italian families simply because they were Italian and not Irish. In fact, most families in Maple Shade, where I grew up, were either of Irish or Italian descent. And they were Catholic. Maple Shade also had a public school system; we called them “The Publics.” As if they were some mutants or something. Anyone who misbehaved in Catholic School would be warned to behave, or they would be sent to “The Public School.” The nuns always made it sound like it was a fate worse than death. I kid you not. 

Getting back to my original point, I just fell in love with Strottles; I used to feed him on the sly since his original owners, the Lomardi’s, threw him out of their house as if he was some killer or something. All was well until one unfortunate day when my mother took the garbage outside to put it in the garbage can and left our kitchen door open. My mother had a pet parakeet, whose name was Pretty Bird, in a cage on the kitchen wall. About an hour before dinner time, my mother would let open the door on Pretty Boy’s cage after the table was set. And the Pretty Boy would fly out of the cage and onto the table. And then, he would push all of the silverware onto the floor. My mother thought that this was hilarious. And so every night out would come my mother’s bird and knock off the silverware. Unfortunately, Strottles saw that the side kitchen door was open and ran into the house, jumped up on the table, and killed my mother’s beloved parakeet.

I wasn’t even in the kitchen at that time, but my mother was so heartbroken by the death of her dear parakeet. My father decided that this whole experience was my fault because I befriended Strottles. And so, after yelling at me for a good. For a long while, my father told me to go down to the cellar. And stayed there until I was told I could come out. I stood alone in the cellar crying, my heart broken as well because I loved both my mother’s bird and Strottles, and I loved my mother with all my heart. It took me a long, long time to get over this event. Well, actually, I never really got over this experience. I still feel bad about some sixty years later. In addition, my father made one of my older sisters take Strottles down the street to the railroad tracks. And I never saw Strotles again. I cried and cried until my father told me to shut up about the damm cat.

After that experience, I continued to befriend all the animals in my neighborhood. I did not share this information with either my mother or father and certainly not my siblings. Truthfully, my love and attachment to animals of all kinds just grew over time. I used to feed the squirrels and the wild birds. And the ducks and the swans at Strawbridge Lake. Which was a favorite haunt of mine. I would ride my bike there, take a lunch bag with me, and throw the leftovers to the local wildlife. It was a good three-mile bike ride from my house. But that didn’t bother me in the least. Sometimes, my best friend would go with me, and sometimes, I would go alone. As usual, my parents wouldn’t ask where I had been as long as I was home on time for lunch or dinner. I kept begging my parents for a pet, and they wouldn’t get one for a long time. My father was given a female dog named Nomie. My father became attached to her. My father felt dogs should be able to come and go as they pleased. He didn’t believe in spaying dogs, so as a result, Nomie got pregnant. My father gave away all the puppies when they were born after they stopped nursing. Nomie became ill, and the vet said, “She has milk fever.” The vet put Nomie down. I was heartbroken. I missed her so much. And then my father gave away all the puppies.

After that, we didn’t have any pets for a long, long time. Even though I had haunted my mother night and day about wanting a pet, finally, my father gave in and bought me a hamster. I fell in love with that little guy. Unfortunately, hamsters do not have a long life span. But I didn’t know that. And that was the last pet we had for a long time. Until one of my older siblings gave my father a dog. My father named him Andy, and my father loved that dog. It was the first time I saw my father get attached to an animal. Andy would sit next to my father no matter where he was located, especially when my father was watching the news. My father would sit in “his chair” while he watched TV at night. And Andy would sit on the floor next to the chair. My father would pet his all the way up until the ll” o’clock news when my father went to bed.

I would let Andy out during the day to roam all around town. My father didn’t believe animals should be spayed, he felt it was there only pleasure in life, besides eating. All our neighbors complained because Andy would” Do His Business” in everyone’s front yard. In addition, everyone in town suggested that Andy was fathering a hoard of Andy lookalikes all over Maple Shade. Andy lived a long life, unfortunately my father suffered a stroke and wasn’t able to speak clearly after that.

After that, my father started coughing all the time, and one day, when I came over to visit my parents, my father indicated that he wanted me to look in the toilet. I went in there, and the toilet was filled with bloody water. I arranged for my father to see a doctor ASAP. And it turned out my father had developed Lung Cancer, and the disease was too far along to treat. My father was quite ill for the entire time, survived, and eventually passed away. During the time my father was in the hospital, Andy had gotten ill, and he had to be put down. It was a heartbreaking experience for us all.

My mother was not in the best shape after my father’s passing. I had to arrange for a caretaker to come and stay at my parent’s house during the week. Since all of my siblings were working then, we would take turns having my mother stay at our house on the weekends. My mother had developed dementia by then and could not be on her own. It was the saddest time in my life. My own children, who were six and three, don’t really have any memories of my dear mother. This is so unfortunate since my mother was the kindest and most caring person I have ever known.

It is incredible how quickly passes by. Here I am now, retired and living in North Carolina. I volunteer at an animal sanctuary three mornings a week, caring for a building full of parrots and two pheasants. Not only that, I adopted two dogs and four parrots,  six finches, and a cat who belongs to my youngest daughter, who moved with us to North Carolina. My oldest daughter is married and has three cats. So, loving animals with a run in our blood. I can’t imagine not having animals in my life at any time. They have always filled that empty spot I have in my heart. And I’m sure as long as I am able to, I will have dogs, cats, and birds as part of my family.

Mom, sitting at the kitchen table,

 

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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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THE LETTERS

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I received a call last night. I was informed that my father had passed away. And I had a week to clean out my father’s apartment, or all his worldly belongings would be disposed of in the nearest dumpster. I knew this day was coming, but I kept putting off the unpleasant task of emptying my father’s place of whatever meager things my father had left behind.

My father and I had lost touch long ago. After my mother passed away suddenly fifteen years ago, my father just disappeared after her funeral. I never heard from him again. My parents hadn’t lived together for years. And when they did live together, every day ended with them yelling and screaming at one another. When I was a kid, I thought everyone’s family was like ours. I can’t remember a time when they were happy together. I never brought my friends over to my house. And once I became a teenager, I made it my goal in life to spend as little time at home as possible.

The day I graduated from high school, I got on a bus and never returned to my hometown. I called my mother occasionally and let her know that I was alright. But I didn’t give her my address. Since I didn’t want my father to show up at my door unexpectedly. Looking for a handout, or worse yet, drunk and angry at the world and wanting to take it out on me. Like he did when I was a kid, I was his punching bag. I never wanted to see him again.

I had difficulty locating my father when my mother died of a heart attack when she was fifty-six. Finally, I was able to get in touch with an old friend of his who still occasionally kept in touch with me. My father and I used to go to the track together to bet on the horses. And they played cards for money. My father was a gambler, and his favorite place in the world was the casinos in Atlantic City.

Anyway, the night I called him, I said, “Hello, dad, it’s me.” And he answered,”what do you want?”

“Want, I don’t want anything from you. I doubt you have a pot to piss in any way. I’m calling to let you know that Mom died on Friday; she had a heart attack. I thought you might want to know. Anyway, the funeral is being held at Brown’s Funeral Home since Mom hadn’t been to church in years. It will be at 10:30 in the morning.”

“Well, you didn’t give me much warning, did ya?’ I don’t know if I can come. I’ve got my own life to live, you know. I just can’t drop everything on a dime .”

“Dad, like I said, she died suddenly, and I had trouble finding you. Your friend, Freddy Myers, finally was able to track you down, and he gave me your phone number. It’s up to you whether you want to come or not. It doesn’t make any difference to me one way or another.” And then I slammed the phone down. And hope I will never have to see or hear that old scoundrel again as long as I live.

Anyway, he showed up at the funeral late, but not too late. He looked rough. He had a suit on that looked like he picked it up at the local thrift store. But at least he made some effort. If I had met him on the street, I might not have recognized him. He looked like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in years and spent his time drinking night and day. It kind of made me feel bad, but he lived the life he wanted, and there was no changing the past. I walked over to him and offered him my hand to shake, and he looked down at it like it was a rattlesnake or something. I said, “Hello, dad, I’m glad you came. Why don’t you go up and say your goodbyes to Mom. You did come all this way. I wouldn’t want it to be for nothing.“

And then he turned and headed towards the casket where my mother laid. My father stood there in silence, and then he reached down and touched her hair and hand. I saw his shoulders rise and fall, and I could hear him sobbing quietly. I felt a tear slowly make its way down my cheek and fall to the ground and then another followed.

My father turned and walked slowly out of the chapel and out the front door. He never turned around and waved goodbye or anything. He just walked out of my life again, probably for the last time. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. A friend of mine came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. He held me for a moment, and then he stepped back. He looked down, and then he said, “it’s hard to lose a parent even if they weren’t the best parent. They were the only ones we ever had. Come on, why don’t you come over and say hello to some old friends from high school. It’s been a long time.”

I never heard another word from my father. I had no idea how he kept body and soul together all those years. I never married for fear that I would just repeat the mistakes my parents made. And god forbid bring children into the world to suffer the same empty, lonely childhood I had.

And the next time I heard anything about him was the night I received a call that my father had passed away, and he had left my name and address, and phone number to contact upon his death. I have no idea how he knew where I lived or how he got my phone number. In a way, I was relieved that I had heard about his passing. It gave me some peace of mind that he wouldn’t show up at my door someday. And also, I could finally put the past behind me. Anyway, I told my father’s landlord that I would be over that next day to clean out the place and take my father’s belongings away. I wasn’t looking forward to it, not at all. I was dreading it. But I knew it would finally close this unhappy chapter of my life, and I could finally move on.

The next morning I woke up at the crack of dawn. I kept obsessing about having to go to my father’s place and how it would bring all the bad memories back to haunt me. It turned out he only lived about an hour and a half away from me. When I arrived at his address, I looked up and down the street, and I thought what a terrible place for someone to live the last years of their life, all alone. There was trash up and down the street on the curb and blowing up and down from one nasty, sad place after another. There was a homeless man asleep or high or dead lying next to the door of my father’s building. I couldn’t help but wonder if my father had ever slept on the curb after he went on a bender.

I stepped around the homeless man and walked up the steps, and rang on the door to be let in. No one answered, so I tried the door, and it turned out it wasn’t locked. So, I just pulled it open and stepped inside. The smell was horrendous. There was trash up the steps, and one step had what looked like blood on it. I took a deep breath and made my way carefully up the steps to the second floor of my father’s place. The door was locked, so I had to go down the steps again and knock at the door that said, Superintendent of the building. I almost laughed aloud, thinking this dump has a superintendent. It didn’t look like anybody had cleaned this place up since the depression. I rang the bell, and a middle-aged, balding fat man answered. He said, “Yeah, what do ya want?” I told him who I was and that I was here to clean out my father’s apartment. You called me yesterday. “Oh, yeah, that’s right; here’s the key. Go ahead and bring the key back when you are done. Your father was in apartment 2 B; he lived here for a long time, never had any trouble with him.” And then he slammed the door in my face.

I made my way to the apartment. I unlocked the apartment and stuck my head into the room. I don’t know what I expected. But I was surprised to see it was clean and neat. There was an older TV, a raggedy but clean couch, and a single bed that was stripped clean of sheets and blankets. I looked into the bathroom. It was also clean and neat. I thought I must have the wrong room. My father had never been clean or neat. He had never picked up his clothes and hung them up. He had just thrown them on the floor and yelled at my mother, get in and clean up this mess. Before I make you sorry.”

I looked in the drawers, and there were some clothes all neatly folded. I looked in the closet, and there was an old suit. I think it was the same one that he wore to my mother’s funeral. There were a couple of pairs of shoes. All that had seen better days. I looked up, and I saw a wooden box. It was the nicest thing in the whole place. I took it down from the shelf and looked inside. There were old letters inside the box. And they were in my mother’s handwriting. And there were several in my father’s handwriting. I was so shocked that I almost dropped the box.

I decided to go sit on the couch and read the letters. They were addressed to my father and the dates indicated that they were written before my parents had gotten married. I was shocked. I knew nothing of my parents’ lives before they got married. I began to read the letter with the oldest postmark. It was a love letter from my mother to my father. In it, she declared how much she missed my father and how much she looked forward to being reunited with him again. And how she knew they were going to have a wonderful life together.

I was absolutely flabbergasted. My mother and father were once deeply in love? I felt tears run down my face. I looked through the letters for the last post-marked letter. It was from my father. He wrote to my mother that he had been injured and would be coming home soon because he wouldn’t be able to continue to fight any longer. Since he had suffered some severe injuries. He told her he was no longer the man he used to be, and maybe she should find someone else.

The next letter was from my mother saying that she loved him dearly and she wanted him to come home to her and she would help him recover. She would wait for him, and she didn’t want anyone else. And she ended the letter with, “I will wait for as long as it takes, and I will love you forever.” And she signed it, “all my love, I will be waiting for you for as long as it takes.”

I could hardly believe my eyes and understand the words I had just read. I know I would spend the rest of my days trying to understand what went wrong between them. And wish that they had experienced a better life together than they had. I can only imagine that my father had suffered both physically and emotionally from whatever he suffered during the war. I felt broken-hearted for the young couple they must have been and the unfortunate life they lived after his return. But in the end, I was happy to find that at one time, they had been in love and hoped to have a happy life together, but I felt sorry that it did not work out the way that it should have. That is what happens in life sometimes. Our plans for a happy and fulfilling life doesn’t always turn out as we hope it will. I held the letters next to my heart for a few minutes. I slipped the love letters back into their box, and I knew that they would forever remind me that life is short and to make the very best of it that we can. And if we find someone to love and who loves us back, we should never let it go.

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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 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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OH WHAT A TANGLED WEB WE WEAVE

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I want a car more than anything I ever wanted in my entire life. Last month I turned seventeen, and I took the written driver’s test. I was so nervous that I failed the test the first two times I took it. My dad told me that if I didn’t pass the written test this time, I can’t retake it for a year.

I told him I would die if I couldn’t get my driver’s license. Just die. Can you imagine graduating from high school without their driver’s license? The humiliation alone would kill me. Absolutely everyone I know has their driver’s license. And their parents are buying them a new car for graduation. My father said, “you have to get a job and earn money to  pay one half of the cost of the car.” And can you imagine he said I have to get a used car? A used car, I will be devasted if I have to drive around a hoopty.

Girl learning to drive

I’ve made up my mind that I will pass my written driver’s test and my driving test. Whatever it takes. And by that, I mean WHATEVER. I will beg, bribe, or sleep with someone to get my license.

I have agreed to start looking for a part-time job to earn money. I have made a commitment to myself to accomplish this goal. And I will.

I spent the whole weekend studying the driver’s manual. My friend, Gina, ask me all the questions for the written test twenty times. I’m ready. Today I will be taking the written test for the third and last time. I’m stoked.

“Good news, I passed the test. I only had one question wrong. I couldn’t remember the shape of the road sign for Yield. And now I am going to get my mother to teach me how to drive.”

“Get this, my father said he will be the one teaching me to drive. Can I never catch a break? What’s next, water torture?”

Today my father took me out for my first driving lesson in the parking lot of the Mall. Can you say a living nightmare? So, I get behind the wheel, and the seat is so far back that my feet can’t even touch the peddles. Let’s just say that my father is somewhat “softig.” And by that, I mean he looks like he is going to give birth any day now.

First, he says,” Adjust the mirrors, the side mirrors, and the rear-view mirror.”

“I know Dad, I know. I did take driver’s ed.”

“Make sure your seat is adjusted too, Samantha.”

“I did that already, Dad.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady.”

After that, I kept my mouth shut, because when my dad says, “don’t roll your eyes at me.” That means he’s not kidding around. And I keep my mouth shut. I just complain in my head.

“Alright, ease your foot off the brake and gently press on the gas pedal.”

I do just that, and the next thing I know, we are shooting forward, and I totally freak out and let go of the steering wheel. My father grabs the wheel and starts screaming at me like a maniac. “Have you lost your mind, never take your hands off the wheel. Are you trying to kill the both of us?”

I begin to silently weep. I have found that my father is very uncomfortable with crying females, and he immediately feels repented. I wipe my eyes repeatedly and then my father looks over at me.

“Alright, alright, stop crying. Take a deep breath. Let’s begin again. Samantha, you must always, always drive with great care. Your life and the other drivers on the road depend on that. A car can become a weapon of death and destruction if we do not learn how to drive responsibly. Our lives and the other driver’s lives on the road depend on responsible driving.”

“Ok, ok, dad I get it. I just freaked out momentarily. I’m a little nervous.”

“Let’s begin again. Take your foot off the brake and depress the gas pedal slowly. Look both ways to the right the left and the rear-view mirror.”

For the next half-hour, my dad has me drive in circles, practice parallel parking. Can you believe it he had two traffic cones in the trunk of the car, god knows where he got those?  Then he had me drive forward and backward.

“That’s it for today, Samantha. Next time we’ll go out on the back roads around town, and you can get some practice in the traffic where the traffic is not as congested as on Route 50 or 40.”

I look over at my dad, and he has sweat dripping down from his forehead. His face is red as a beet. I think he might be having a heart attack or something. “Are you alright, Dad? You look kind of sick.”

“What? Of course, I am. No problem. Let’s change seats.”

“Oh, please, dad, let me drive home.”

“What? NO. I mean not today, honey.”

I moved to the passenger seat; I notice that my dad seems a little unsteady on his feet as he gets out of the car and walks over to the driver’s side. I guess it’s tough getting old.

I start looking at part-time jobs online. I don’t have any work experience except baby-sitting. And god, how I hate taking care of little kids. Absolute torture. “I want this; I want that.” Annoying as hell. I could get a job at the mall, but I would have to take the bus. Taking the bus is so lame, nothing but old and poor people take the bus. What choice do I have? I’ll have to take the bus.

I see there’s an after-school job at the Shop and Stop, which is only about two blocks from my house. I can walk there. The hours are three days a week from 4 until 8 pm. I’ll have to talk to my mother about it. My dad says he wants me to earn money, but he won’t like it if my grades slip.

“Good news, my mom and dad said I can work that job I told you about, but if my grades fall, I’ll have to quit. My grades aren’t great. I can’t really afford my grades dropping, or I might not graduate. And I must get out of high school this year.

Today is my first day on the job. I have to admit I’m a little nervous. Here I go through the Stop and Shop entrance. I see a woman who looks like an employee standing in front of the store. She’s wearing an apron that says Stop and Shop. I walk over to her. “hello, my same is Samantha Miller. I supposed to start working here today.”

“Well, dear, I don’t know nothing about that. Go over to that door that says manager and knock.”

“Ok, thanks.” I knock at the door. It is a very small office. And the man that interviews me is apparently the manager. I don’t remember his name. He is talking on the phone and gestures for me to come in and sit and wait. I do.

After about five minutes, he hangs up.

“Your Samantha, correct?”

“Yes, I’m supposed t start working here today.”

“Well, I think we are going to start you out by teaching you how to restock the shelves. And after you are finished that I’ll have you work with Terri.”

I spent the next four hours stocking shelves. It isn’t hard, but it is boring. But I keep telling myself I will have my car soon. I can’t imagine doing this sort of job for the rest of my life. This makes me start thinking about school and how I need to improve my grades if I want to go to college or some type of technical school after I graduate. I hadn’t really put any thought into it before.

When I get home, I hear my mother calling me from the kitchen.” Samantha, is that you?”

“Yes, Mom, it’s me.”

“How was your first day?”

“Well, it was boring, but I guess it will be worth it. When I get a car.”

“Honey, we all have to work at boring jobs when we first start out and don’t have any experience. When I was in high school, I had a job in a factory where I had to do assembly. I attached one part to another part by soldering it. Over and over again, I thought I would go insane from boredom. But every Friday, when I got my paycheck, it all seemed worth it.”

“Yeah, Mom, you told me that before.”

“Well, I supposed I did, but it’s true none the less. You better get started on your homework. Oh, I put dinner in the oven for you. You’re probably starving.”

“I am starving. What did you make for dinner?”

“Your favorite, lasagna, and, meatballs. I knew you would be hungry.”

“Lasagna, Oh, really, thanks, Mom. You’re the greatest.” I gave my Mom a little hug. And I noticed a tear run down her cheek. It made me realize that sometimes I’m not very nice to her or my dad.

“You go on now, and eat up. I love you, honey.”

“I look at my mom and, I got a lump in my throat. I swallowed it hard. Can’t show weakness. As I turned and walk toward the kitchen, I said really quietly, I love you too. Mom.”

After I eat dinner, I walk into my bathroom and brush my teeth and wash my face and use the toilet. There is no way I’m ever going to use a public toilet and the Stop and Shop. Gross. I go back to my room and open up my laptop and spend about five minutes checking emails. Then I close the laptop and get busy with my homework.  I remember how boring stocking shelves are and how I don’t want to do it for the rest of my life. I make a promise to myself that I will pull up all my grades, even math. I have definitely made the decision today that I want to get Tech training. I’m not sure exactly what I will do, but it won’t be some boring and repetitive job like stocking shelves or cashier.

After I spent a good two hours finishing my homework, I start studying for my history final as I’m reading the history of and the Holocaust. It occurs to me how much I love learning about the past. And how we need to know the past and learn from it. As I’m sitting on the bed, I realize what I really would love doing is teaching. I would love to teach history. I’m going to teach history.

__________________________________

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.

_____________________________________

The Kitchen

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Our day begins in the kitchen. We wake up to the aroma of coffee percolating on the kitchen counter and bacon and eggs frying on the stove. I’m not big on eating first thing in the morning. But my mother insists that we eat a breakfast that will stick to our ribs for the rest of the day.

My mother in pin curls sitting in our kitchen

As I walk into the bright yellow and orange room, I see my mother hunched over the wide kitchen counter. My father recently redecorated. My father’s a creative man with an unusual sense of color and design. He is, unfortunately wildly attracted to psychedelic patterns. He made the kitchen counters really wide. He made the counter in front of the sink wide as well. My mother has difficulty reaching the sink since it’s set back so far from the edge of the counter.

My father purchased a kit to decorate the kitchen counters with small bits of multi-colored tiles. After he spread the tile bits, he poured some type of liquid resin over it. It took a long time to dry and had a somewhat lumpy result. Unfortunately, the dirt tends to accumulate in the lower recesses of our bumpy countertop.

Hanging from the ceiling over the kitchen table, my father fashioned a candelabra of sorts. He found a giant wagon wheel in the dumpster of a Steak house Restaurant and brought it home to serve as a light fixture in our kitchen. Of course, our kitchen is much smaller than the Steak House dining room, and our kitchen ceiling is much lower than the dining room in the Steak House, where it formerly resided. The wagon wheel hangs right above our heads at the table. If you aren’t paying attention when you stand up, you take a chance that you might knock yourself out when you stand. We have to back our chairs up and then stand to avoid getting a new bump on our noggins each time we sit or stand at the table for a meal. Mealtime is no longer a quiet time to reflect on the day. It’s time to pay attention to the surroundings, or you can end up in the Emergency Room.

I look across the kitchen and see my mother is hunched over the stove, frying the eggs and bacon. “Hi, Mom.”

“Good morning Susie, what can I get you for breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry Mom, how about a piece of toast.”

A couple of minutes later, my mother brings me a bowl of hot oatmeal. “Here, Susie, this will stick to your ribs. Eat up,”

I look down at the bowl of steaming oatmeal, and I begin to feel sick to my stomach. I hate hot cereal. I have told my mother this time and again. But she always says the same thing to me. “Nonsense, eat up.”

I’m repeatedly told I’m a picky eater. Which is probably true. But none the less I detest hot cereal.

Unfortunately for me, I have to ride an ancient school bus to Haddonfield, where I go to high school at St. Mary of The Angel’s Academy. It is my Freshman Year. The bus is on its last legs, and the shocks on the wheels died a slow and painful death a long time ago. It’s a long and rocky ride to school. We have to pick up all the students that go to St. Mary’s and the boys from Bishop Eustace Prep. So, we have to ride all over Burlington and Camden County and Haddon Township. It takes over an hour.

By the time we arrive at school, I’m feeling sick to my stomach. And start the day off by throwing up the moment I step down out of the bus. Mr. Hartman, a lovely man who came from Ireland, is the bus driver, gives me the same sympathetic look every day as I pass by him in the driver’s seat. He knows what’s going to happen momentarily. None of the other students on the bus ever mention my daily purge.

When I was going to grade school at Our Lady of Perpetual Help, I came home for lunch as we lived two houses away from the school. Every day when the lunch bell rings, I rush up to the front of the classroom to line up to go home to eat. Not because I was looking forward to my lunch, it was always the same. I hated school with a passion and can barely tolerate one extra moment in the presence of the dear Sisters.

One day as I stood at the front of the classroom, I realize I have to pee immediately. I raise my hand.  Sister ignores me. I begin waving my hand and arm urgently. Finally, Sister said impatiently, “What is it, Susan?”

“Sister, I have to go to the girl’s room right now.”

“Susan, you have to learn patience and self-control. You can and will wait until you get home.”

I wave again more frantically. Sister ignores me. I realize I’m peeing my pants. All the other kids notice it at the same time and start laughing. I begin to cry.

Sister says, “you will wait until the second bell, Miss Carberry.”

I’m simultaneously crying and peeing. I vow to myself that I will never return to this wretched place again. The second bell rings. The kids in line are permitted to go home for lunch. I keep my head down.

I emerge from the school, I take off like a rocket and get home in record-breaking time. I yank open the screen and the front door and allow them both to slam closed. I rush to the bathroom. I hear my father yelling at me from the kitchen. “What’s the matter, Susie, pants on fire?”

After taking care of the wet pants, I walk out to the kitchen nonchalantly. My mother says, “How was your morning, Susie? Did you learn anything new?”

“Yes, Mom, I learned that I shouldn’t take a long drink at the water fountain before lunch.”

“Did Sister tell you that Susie?”

“Not exactly Mom, she told me that I needed to learn patience and self-control. And I learned that I really hate Sister Daniel Catherine.”

“Susan, you should never say you hate anyone, especially one of the Sisters, that’s a mortal sin.”

“OK, Mom, I won’t say I hate one of the Sister’s ever again. I promise.” And I never did say I hated one of the sisters out loud ever again. But I said it many, many times inside my head.

“Susan, sit down I made your Lipton Noodle Soup and Lebanon Bologna sandwich it’s all ready.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’m starved.” Lunch was never a surprise since I had the same lunch every day for eight years, through elementary school years. Although on special occasions I had Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.

As I eat my lunch, my father sits across from me, eating his six hot dogs. He doesn’t eat hot dog rolls, only the hot dogs with relish. They are cut up in little slices. My father doesn’t like it if anyone talks while he is eating. So, I sit quietly until he finishes eating. And then I bend his ear and tell him everything that happened in school that day. This is actually his dinner since he works the second shift at PTC, which is the Philadelphia Bus Company. He is the Head Dispatcher at the bus depot for the entire city of Philadelphia. When my father has to work the third shift, he sleeps all day, and we aren’t allowed to make any noise and wake him up. My father is deaf in one ear, and we always pray that he is sleeping on his one good ear.

My mother rarely sits down at mealtimes. She’s always getting dinner ready or serving dinner or cleaning up after. Sometimes my mother has her hair set in bobby pins all day unless she is going to go to Mass with the Altar Rosary Society. They are a group of women who say the Rosary together early every morning, and they wash and iron the Altar vestments and clean the Sanctuary in the church.

Right after lunch, my mother starts getting ready to cook dinner. My favorite meal is Irish Stew which is made with beef and carrots, onions and celery and potatoes. After my mom cooks the stew for many hours, she rolls out the dough and puts in on the top of the casserole. And puts it in the oven to bake the dough and let it rise and brown. It’s delicious.

While dinner is cooking, my mother irons. The ironing board is in a little closet on the wall next to the refrigerator. You open the closet door and pull down the ironing board. My mother irons clothes, sheets, and my father’s underwear and his socks. She irons all our clothes. Then cleans the whole house. I have never heard her complain about anything.

Everyone tells me,” your mother’s a saint,” and I believe them. She works so hard and takes care of everyone in our family. And always has a kind word to say. I never heard her say a mean thing in my entire life. I wish I could say the same about myself, but I get mad all the time, at my sisters, my father and the dear sisters, every one of them. I doubt that I will ever be as good a person as my mother.

It’s one of the things I have to tell Father Nolan in confession all the time. He tells me to say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. No matter what sins I commit, he gives me the same penance, three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.

My mother is a quiet person. But a good listener. Every day when my sisters and I come home, she asks us how our day went. And she sits and listens until you finish talking and then she offers you cookies and milk.

After dinner, my mother sits at the kitchen table while we do homework. She quizzes me on my spelling words. She gives me hints if I don’t know how to spell the word. If my father is home, he helps me do my math homework. He works out the problems differently than I do in school, but he always gets the answer right. I keep telling him that’s not the way we do it in school. We do New Math. He tells me that we are doing it incorrectly. He shows me how to do it. He is always right.

But in school, I do it their way. My father is a smart man. He reads a lot on every kind of subject. Right now, he is studying all the world’s religions. He doesn’t go to church as my mother does. But he is curious about the world and the people in it. You ask him any question, he knows the answer. My father’s memory is phenomenal. He remembers everything he reads and hears.

On Sundays, one of my father’s days off, he watches golf on TV. It’s the most annoying thing you can imagine. He is transfixed while he is watching it. Sometimes he feels compelled to tell you about the golf game swing by swing. Although I’m impressed by his ability to remember, I want to plug up ears every time he starts talking about golf. It is unbelievably tedious.

My father watching the news 1960s

Television is an amazing thing, no doubt. But in our house, my father controls what we watch. He is the King of his castle. On his days off, he watches the 6 O’clock news with Walter Cronkite. We aren’t allowed to utter a sound when it’s on. If we want to watch TV, we watch what he watches, end of story. I have become quite fond of Cowboy stories like Matt Dillon and The Lone Ranger. My father and I watch it together. My father pets our dog Andy, the whole time he is watching TV.

My mom brings my father a bowl of ice cream to eat while he is watching TV in the evening. He doesn’t tell her or ask her. She brings it in and, he eats it with salty pretzels. My mother brings herself a bowl too. She is extremely fond of ice cream. She is the proud owner of a sweet tooth that I inherited.

At the end of the night, my dad lets Andy our dog go to the bathroom and waits for him to come back inside. My mother gathers all the coffee cups, ice cream bowls, and glasses and takes them in the kitchen to wash. My dad turns out the lights, and we all go to bed. The next morning, we wake up and start all over again. Good Night.

LET A SMILE BE YOUR UMBRELLA

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Harry wakes up feeling weary even though he overslept. He feels as if something is amiss. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and takes a deep breath. It smells like a wet dog in the room. Then he remembers that last night his dog, Andy escaped the backyard enclosure.

Andy made his way to a lake and took a little midnight swim. When Andy returns home, Harry is waiting up for him at the worn Formica kitchen table. He smoked one cigarette after another and drank stale coffee while staring out the kitchen window. About twelve-thirty in the morning, he sees Andy making his way up Fellowship Road. He seems in no great hurry.

Father

Harry Carberry, my dad circa 1960

Harry opens the front door and is about to give Andy the dressing down of his life when Andy suddenly pushes past Harry and runs excitedly through the house and into the front bedroom. He jumps on the bed and shakes himself off, spraying stinking lake water all over the floor and onto Marie’s bed for good measure.

Marie wakes up and says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what is going on? Oh, I should have known. It’s that damn dog. Why didn’t you put him in the cellar until he dried off? I swear to god you love that dog more than you love your own kids. For the love of Mike, will you put him in the basement so we can all get some sleep?”

Harry grabs Andy’s collar and drags him down to the basement. Then he puts some water in his bowl and says, “Andy, you can wait until the morning for something to eat. I’m tired of your shenanigans. I’m going back to bed.”

Marie is probably praying for his heathen soul this morning as she did every morning. The house is empty because the kids are off to school. Their cereal bowls are drying on the rack. Marie left half of a grapefruit in the refrigerator for his breakfast. She cut all the sections for him and sprinkled sugar on the top. Two pieces of white bread waited patiently to be toasted.

Harry knows he’s lucky to have married Marie. She’s a loving and faithful wife and a wonderful mother. But somehow the words “I love you never make it past his lips except for the day they exchanged their vows in August 1929. He reasons that she must know he loved her because here he’s still by her side after all these years.

Harry hurriedly gulps down his cup of Joe and eats the grapefruit and toast. It’s his day off. He had his day planned. First, he’ll go hit his regular stops in the dumpsters behind all the local stores. There was Woolworth’s, Three Guys, the Acme and the 5&10. He always got a little excited. you never know what treasures are waiting to be found.
Then he’ll stop at the Chinaman’s fruit and vegetable store and see if he can get some good deals. While he was at the Mart, he’ll stop at the Penny Auction and see if he can find any treasures. He’s always amazed at what people throw away. Harry thought if anything is a sin, that sure as hell is.

Why last week he bought a whole box of the Reader’s Digest books for fifty cents. He would have enough books to read for a year. Marie said it was all trash. But he made use of everything he found and bought.

His widowed mother raised Harry, and she had taught him how to squeeze a penny until Lincoln yelled uncle, why he had built almost everything in this house from bits and pieces and scraps he had found for practically nothing.

Marie complained that they never bought anything new. But thanks to his dumpster diving, they had never gone hungry in the crash of 1929 like so many others had. They have never gone without food in their stomachs and clothes on their backs.

But the best part of the day is when he goes to the Garden State Race track and bet his $2.00 on his favorite horse. He had been studying the horses for the past week, and he knows this time, this time he will win big.

After breakfast, Harry opens the cellar door, and Andy’s waiting there patiently. Harry steps aside and lets him pass.” All right, Andy, my boy, all is forgiven. Come on, and I’ll give you some breakfast. I think today’s your lucky day because there’s some left-over chicken for you.”

Harry leaves Andy to his own devices and walks out to his 1956 Turquoise Rambler and checks the trunk to make sure he has his supplies for his treasure hunting. Yup, he had heavy gloves, a pole with a nail at the end. Just in case there was the odd rat or mouse occupying the dumpsters, and a stepladder and bags.

The hunt gets off to a good start behind Woolworth’s when Harry finds five beautiful white wedding gowns at the very top of the dumpster. He lifts them carefully out and places them in a plastic bag he keeps in his trunk. His daughter, Susie, will be thrilled when he gives her these. She just loves to sew, and she’ll prize these gowns as if they’re made of gold.

In the trash at Three Guys, he finds a set of four perfect beach chairs. His older daughters will enjoy taking them with them when they go down the shore for the weekends this summer. He can picture his beautiful daughters sitting on the beach at Wildwood, getting their Irish tan. He can’t wait to see their expressions.

As Harry makes his way toward the Pennsauken Mart, he starts reviewing the races that will be taking place after lunch at the Cherry Hill Race Track. There’s nothing that makes his heart beat faster than watching the horses take off at the starting gate and run full out around the track. Harry has a large circle of friends at the track and is known as “Smiley.” Because no one ever had a bigger smile, then he does when his horse comes in a winner.

Harry picks up some lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, and beets at the Chinaman’s vegetable store and then heads towards the auction.

There’s the usual group of people there, and he waves at the regulars. Then the first box is brought out. It’s a surprise box. So, the bidding starts low, a dime. The excitement of the crowd grows as the bidding reaches a dollar. Harry never spends more than two dollars. Sometimes there was only one thing in the box of any value. Sometimes nothing at all, but occasionally he’ll get a real winner, like that time he found a gold pocket watch. His son Hugh was thrilled when he received it at his high school graduation.

The auctioneer reaches Harry’s two-dollar limit, so Harry heads home for lunch. There would always be next week. Harry doesn’t let the occasional loss bother him. After all, when you gamble, you have to be able to afford to lose and accept that it’s all a part of the game.

As Harry pulls his Rambler into the driveway, he sees his wife Marie putting something in the garbage. He waves at her, and she flat out ignores Harry. She’s probably still mad about Andy’s midnight escapade.

Still, when he gets into the kitchen, there’s his lunch waiting for him. There are his Lebanon Bologna sandwich and a pot of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup cooking on the stove just like any other day. Marie comes into the kitchen just as the kids walk in the front door for lunch.

“Hi, Daddy.” The kids say together as if they practiced it on the way home. “Hi, Mom, lunch smells good. Umm, my favorite Chicken Noodle soup and Lebanon Bologna sandwiches, I’m starving.”

“Good morning Marie, or should I say good afternoon. I brought home some beautiful vegetables from the Chinaman’s today for you.”

“Harry, you know you shouldn’t say Chinaman. Here’s your soup.”

“Why the hell not? He’s a man from China, isn’t he?”

“Never mind, Harry eat your lunch. Will you help me hang the curtains this afternoon they should be dry by then?”

“Well, I can see later this afternoon. I ‘m going to the track for a couple of hours after lunch.”

Marie’s frowns. She decides to keep her mouth shut because she’s told Harry many times that gambling was an evil thing to do and a waste of good money. She sits down, and without looking up at Harry, she mumbles, “alright later this afternoon then.”
When Harry returns home from the track, he’s so excited he thinks his head might explode. He practically breaks the door he opens it with such force. “Marie, Marie, where are you?”

“I’m right here, Harry. I thought you would get home in time to help me hang the curtains before dinner.”

“Hang the curtains, hang the curtains. Marie, I just won a hundred dollars at the track. And I’m giving you $20.00, and you can buy new curtains for the whole house if you want. And with the rest of the money, we’re all going to go out for dinner for Sunday dinner. Now, what do you think about that?”

Well, it would be hard to judge who had the biggest smile on their faces that night at dinner. When the kids come to the table and sit down, they look from one to the other of their parents.

Finally, Eileen says, “Daddy, Mom, what’s going on?”

“Well, have I got a story to tell you, it’s all about a Mudder.”