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August 19, 2010
THE LAKE PERSPECTIVE
I feel different when I go to the lake cottage. My Husband’s side of the family has built an amazing place, and it has only just begun. In a year it will be a virtual compound through whose gates strip away your cares. When we left home for the two-hour drive I was wound tight. 1,ooo things going on in my head -a virtual world of checklists and tasks. Within an hour of arriving I was sleepy, and the urgency of work I had to complete lost some punch. At some point during a conversation held lakeside on the dock, Corona’s in hand, there was a unanimous decision to go to town and out to dinner. Even the routine of all the showers, the clean up, seems easier. Only my hair kept tension, as it refused to be tamed- it was fueled by the lake water and breeze.
I was chided for how dressed I was. I had put on lipstick and big hoop earrings. I guess I saw what would happen- inevitably I wound up in the kitchen saying hello to the staff. It was an establishment worthy of a tribute by Andrew Wyeth, touched up by Norman Rockwell. We sat outdoors on a big dock filled with tables, lit by rope lights, shining the way for the many boatloads of hungry families who had put their car in the garage for the summer. As it got darker and the lights brighter, a line of perfect webs occupied by fat leggy predators revealed themselves along the eaves. Instead of feeling creepy, we were amazed at the level of ingenuity. As their lights shown, their webs became invisible from the lakeside angle. Droves of mosquitoes would fly toward that glow, unknowing the fate that awaited them. We thanked those spiders for their appetite. Later we piled into beds, cranked open the windows, and slipped blissful and full into ‘passed out’.This morning I called for a mandatory hike. I told them about how my Dad just witnessed the birth of a most beautiful butterfly from the cocoon he had watched a black swallowtail caterpillar construct on the leaf of one his peppers. I gave them nerves when I reminded them of how to act if we came upon bear. Might be more useful information if we were a few hours North. We covered ourselves in bug spray, pulled up our socks, and rubbed dirt on our skin to cover our scent. Kids love rituals. We had water, a net, and a bucket filled with essentials: magnifying glass, 3 books (Wildflowers and Trees, Insects. The Tracks of Animals we could encounter), the camera, a knife, and my phone. Within 10 minutes I fell down an embankment after I relied on the wrong branch. We kicked some logs, saw a perfect location if we were Beaver to build a dam, saw 16 spiders, and talked about how far we had gone. If was after it took me 15 minutes on my butt to cross the stream that they had leapfrogged across in seconds that I made the decision to allow them to enter boyhood alone. The house the whole time was only 50 yards away. I could be back in a flash happily reading my trash on the porch, an ear out for any sounds of distress. They could hike alone, which I sensed had become infinitely more appealing. Armed with a video camera they took off, soon to return with the tales of the many adventures- 15 minutes later.
Back in the city, I had made a trip to the newsstand to stock up. I had had the idea to write a blog about current entertainment news. I had a pile of the usual suspects, the ones frequently flipped through while waiting in line at the grocery. I settled in.
The cover of the first one blared " BOOZE. BONGS. ECSTASY.SEX MARATHONS" That one didn’t need my comment.
I quickly realized my reading list had diminished. My entire stack needed to be comprised of only one. I had managed to waste many dollars because all of them contained essentially the same information. Supported by the same photos. I had always been aware of the hoards of paparazzi, swarms of them, scurrying to a fro both repelled and drawn in by the lights. Enlightening that in their colonies too, there was only one Queen who benefitted from the click of his shutter.
Page after page I marveled out how photogenic the lollipop species was. When I have come face to face with the celluloid kick a** MEN, they seemed cartoonish in person. Watermelon heads supported by action figure size boney bodies. I always felt giant, a possibility that I could commit death by smother. The females were scarier, especially naked. I know this from working and shopping with the fashionistas appearing on my pages. They made me feel like the older sister who had blossomed first and who was still navigating an approach to manipulating her new female body. I was chuckling at how much they must love to be in pictures when I realized that just before I turned the page my eye went to the add of yet another pill of future skinniness. What placement! Did those readers who never met the parade of darlings believe that they truly looked like our kind in person? Were they then filled with the notion that they should be like them, and could be aided in their pursuit with just some water and a swallow? If only everyone knew!
I remember the old entertainment magazines. They were filled with their version of stars. Glamorous pictorials of squeaky clean beautiful perfection people, some of them even in families. Suits and ties for the men, hats and gloves for the ladies. The smallest wore lacey socks or tiny bow ties. The unattached were usually arm in arm with shiny hair, bright eyes shining the reflection of the bulbs flashing behind. All of them with yet another success in their field. If scandal rocked their world, we would only be aware by their absence.Who is worthy of this adoration now? I couldn’t find any copy on the actors I admire, whose films I anticipated the opening with a feeling reminiscent of a childhood Christmas. Instead I found these people that occupied four main categories. JAIL: In, going, released, manipulating or dodging. REHAB: In, going, released, manipulating or dodging.. PLASTIC SURGERY: Presently having a procedure, consistently hinting of ‘maybe’in interview quotations, obviously altered selves posing and preening, and of course the admissions from some and denial by others.
The final category was parents. Includes the offspring. How amazing a life is led. World travel, couture outfits, hours of park time and beach strolling. No cars with drool on the windows and pieces of old food under the seats. No homes with a vacuum in the hallway, hard gobs of toothpaste in the sink, overflowing hampers, and a dog that has to go out even though it’s pouring. In fact, the parents being lauded should not even work, their life of ease should continue without making the family sacrifice a day of theirabsence. Yet, if there is discourse between you, we revel in seeing the destruction. A family in pain is one that we worship.
So we have become a society that thrives on misery. Our own, as we strive to have allthat we see, and others’, as it makes us feel more worthy. World economies have felt the pull of the disease of want. Millions have been left ravaged from the suffering of being overly extended. Less is more. Seems to me I’ve heard that before. Time to exit this highway of potholes. Let’s take a more scenic route. I want to look at awe-inspiring things, not dumpsters of trash.
I’m going to go down to the dock and jump in the lake. -
July 23, 2010
GROWING UP MOM
I’ve been forced to examine myself as a mother. Am I what I thought I would be? Did childhood behaviors conceive my parenting skills? There have been a number of events that happened recently that have brought on my introspection. One mood seeps from my past into my future, and I welcome its attendance. Humor. I laugh at myself as a teenage dumbass, and I laugh at my predicament as Mom.
It all started benignly enough while cooking dinner. My youngest wanted to help with the cooking. T
he recipe called for ¼ tsp. of cayenne pepper. I tossed the measuring spoons to him, forgetting that he was standing on a step stool in order to work at the counter. How much? He asked. Distracted by my own mixing I said a 1 and a 4. Dinner was torturous. Gasping and choking we came to find out he had interpreted my direction as 4 times the one. The big spoon. We went through the McDonald’s drive thru. An occurrence that has become way more frequent lately than I used to boast.
Still, they did change that horrid fry oil, didn’t they?
It wasn’t until we finished our quarter pounders that I found out that my youngest, the chef, had had another issue that day. I had enrolled him on a computer website loved by his big brothers, a site that I had already checked out thoroughly. That had become my common practice ever since the Christmas debacle. Then the boys had each gotten a laptop from Santa, all set up and ready to surf. After all the wrapping had exploded throughout the room, I scooted them out to try to regain order. It took me about 20 minutes until I called them to eat. At bedtime that night, my oldest asked,“Why do men kiss women’s private parts?” He and his brothers had seen pictures on their computers. #$%$$#@!!! We forgot the parental controls. “Hot Chicks” could be searched. In 20 minutes. I couldn’t even turn a computer on until after college. Are you kidding me? Anyway, Club Penguin seemed made for kids. Fun harmless games, and cute waddling Penguins whom you could dress up and make talk.
My little sweet boy put a hat on his, and took him promptly to the screen where he could see some of school friends’ charges. He waddled his up to another and typed his greeting. “Hi ASS”. With false pride he told me he was kicked out of his Arctic world for A WHOLE YEAR!
Ah yes, the bad words. My three are obsessed with them. I had always thought my thoughtful middle one was immune to thatinfection that is until I heard him whisper the F word angrily to his brother over the intercom. Even “boner” is on the list. Yup, that gem came from a 12-year-old neighborhood demon. My oldest son confided, “We have awesome talks when we lay on the trampoline and look at the sky. “
Obviously. My three wonderful little men had managed to add to their already full repertoire of farts, burps, and endless mentions of other equally intriguing bodily functions. Where are my dainty girlie girls playing dress-up with their Barbie’s, quietly, and in the corner? Why were these noxious things in my house, and why did they multiply on the weekends? I made more rules, and gave out more rewards. I yelled, gave mean looks, and sentenced consequences. I even tried 30-second free reign. That’s when I take them all into my bedroom and let them talk like sailors while I watch the watch. Oh, what joy this brings! Hopefully some tactic worked well enough that when they leave my house they don’t cause me embarressment. After all, my biggest concern, unfortunately truthful, is what will others think?
When I was their age my memory is that I was angel. From what I heard, my tantrum phase was over, and we were smooth sailing. No more throwing myself on the ground and screaming loud and foul when I was told No. Charming. No, my recollection of punishment inducing behaviors really comes into focus on my teenage years. There was the yearbook photo of me in my cheerleading uniform walking furtively between two friends. Seemingly innocuous, yet it hid many facts in plain site. Both friends were part of the ‘pot’ crowd. I was carrying a brown-papered bottle of JD. I had signed a creed vowing to abstain from many things. I had already had a warning…. Or the Friday night hell ride that erased my savings. See, my parents had decided to go to my grandparents and take my brothers for the weekend. They trusted me to stay alone, except for my best friend who would stay with me. I’m sure they felt even more secure by leaving us with the light blue Plymouth Valiant, the car with the stick shift on the wheel. Both of us only had our Learner’s Permit. I couldn’t drive it. Especially without a licensed driver, and not past 9pm anyway. Didn’t matter. They were gone and we were going.
We realized pretty quickly that 1st gear was all were getting. Still, the idea of going out in our car trumped going fast. All the way down to the lake parking lot we cruised. Friends were there hanging out drinking and talking. The thing the cool people do. That night we belonged. ‘Rents were gone, no curfew, and we had our own car. It was past midnight when the party crashed and we started our slow drive home up. ‘Started’ being the most important word in that sentence. See, about half way there is a hill with a stop sign at the top. We have to cross a busy road at that intersection, as it is the only way home. Did I mention that I had to come to a complete stop at the top of that hill in order to check traffic before I go? Back to the stick shift on the wheel. I couldn’t do it. It was look to avoid death and then roll back.
Over and over again. At first the two of us found this extremely funny. Then the funniest thing became that we thought that the situation was funny. That chorus just kept playing. Then we really lost control around three in the morning. I swear it was because of the laugh spasms gripping my body, but those backward rolls got longer and more erratic. That is to say every mailbox or flowerbed was taken out on the left side of the hill and beyond. The racket woke the neighborhood and the police were called. Someone was watching over us. The officer who responded to the call was a relative of my boyfriend. I had to repair the damage with apologies, and then he even held traffic. The rest of my weekend consisted of planting, and $$. The biggest expense was the car. Varsity jacket? Nope. Ski Club? Not this year. My coffers were barren. Somehow my parents didn’t find out until years later. Amazing since the color they painted that Valiant was thankfully discontinued along with that auto. Almost a match…
See, my worry is about if those things happen to an earlier angel, what happens to a naughty boy? This is what keeps me up at night after a Penguin blackballs my kid. Is there a cycle I need to break? After all, it was my Mother who gave my God Mother a haircut. Long, lustrous hair was left intact on only one side of her head, the other side trimmed to the scalp. Yeah, I fear there is trouble ahead. Hopefully I’ll keep on laughing while I figure it out.
Source: LaurenHolly.com
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June 26, 2010
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
I have been thinking a lot lately about the various places I have lived in my life. I have moved about and set up my world so many times. Sometimes I yearn to be like those who grew up in one place, one house, and then moved to only one other, and in that one they die. I really think the ones I grew up in formed me, the ones I was in as an adult cemented me. My person needed the changes, the different faces and rules each move gave me. Would I have become the kind of mother I am, the actress I am if I had had stable sameness?
I’ve been told that an early bed of mine was a drawer in the desk of my father’s freshman college dorm room, but the first one I remember was in the white house with the brown trim. I think we only lived in the upstairs. I can still see the ½ metal, ½ screen door that I would go in and out of, the skinny staircase up to our part.
Next we moved to a Garden of Eden. It was the little guest house on a bigger property. The big house was occupied by a rarely seen couple who seemed like royalty to little me. I remember special days when I was allowed in their big red barn, invited to swim in their pool, or to pet all of their golden retriever dogs and puppies. Mostly I got to run in my massive yard that had as my boundary a small cliff drop to a stream. My Dad would put on tall boots and wade out in it to fly fish. I caught snakes and picked vegetables from our garden. I pumped water up from the well, and felt miserable with the mumps. I started school and had my first best friend in that house.
In second grade I moved to a new town and into an apartment. Our appliances were new and they were green. There was wall to wall carpeting. Upstairs there was a girl who was very fat and I liked her a lot. Across the parking lot there was a girl who was skinny and mean, but she had the prettiest clothes I had ever seen. I once wore an outfit of hers to school and I felt like a princess. There were horrible older boys who stabbed all the frogs that were in the marshland at the back of the complex, and then threw their dead bodies all over my beloved playground. I once jumped from that playgrounds’ top of its slide into the air, just to land in the piles of snow from a giant storm. It was here that my first little brother came home and I became a big sister.
From there we went bigger again. This time it was to one half of a very large brick house on a main street in town. We each had our own front door. Next door there were two boys, and a trampoline. Across the street it was a large European family with a big kitchen table. Up the street there was a corner store and a park. I smoked my first cigarette. Had my first crush on an adult friend of my parents, a wonderful bedroom, pets, and a list of chores and responsibilities. I walked to school and to my friend’s houses. I had a green and yellow 10 speed and I got bitten by a dog. All while I lived there.
We crossed the ocean and for a bit I lived in the bottom two floors of a townhouse in an extremely posh neighborhood in London, England. I wore a school uniform, and used public transportation. Our milk was delivered in bottles. I played the flute and wore high heeled clogs. I kissed a boy, and I got another brother. Now we were three. I had two best friends. One had caramel colored skin, the other had hair so blonde it was white. I became aware that some were rich, and some were poorer. I went to church, and I read a lot of books that became my favorites. I realized a life that was more cosmopolitan. I became a teenager.
Back to my town, and we moved again. This time we went out to the country. Eight houses all by themselves in their own woods. We had a gravel road to our circular driveway. Lots of trees and my Dad’s flower garden. My own room with its own entrance, though it also housed the washer and dryer. We had our first dining room furniture set, a screened in porch, and a wood burning stove. A black and white TV on the kitchen counter that played the news during dinner. My dad and his long beard that cooked maple syrup in the metal washtub all night at the head of our driveway and mortified me three nights a year. The small jar in the fridge that the syrup he made fit in. I remember blow drying my hair every morning before school, watching for car headlights coming through the woods, and working on my college application essays at my yellow desk. I rode a bus to school from that house, and it was where I lived when I got my driver’s license. I had my first love, my first job; my first real secrets were kept when I lived there. We crossed country skied through the trees, searched for animal bones and heard the piliated woodpecker. I became a babysitter for the neighbors, and played in kickball games next to the mailboxes. My littlest brother became a little boy. This was where I lived when I left. This was the house that burned, and where my little brother died.
My family always told me that I was good at setting up a home. Even my dorm room I made cozy. It has always been everything to me to set up my home. Wherever I was, I could not begin until I had my surroundings in order. One would think that I would stay in one place because of that, but instead I have kept up the rhythm of change. Even as an adult I have continued to move, and I still do not feel that I am completely settled. Still, every place, every space, has been a home. I have felt safe to begin.
The last few years have been very hard for everyone. So many people have lost their homes. The census had to make special provisions in order to count the homeless. It was all the stories in the news of those so unfortunate that I began to think about where I have lived, of where I had been shaped. How I felt to have my own space in which I could keep my own things, my own mailbox to get a birthday card, an address to put on the tag of my pet. According to the latest US census, 170,000 more people have lost their homes. What will the children who have lost their home become? Less than what they would have been? Are they filled with fear? We have such a big problem in this world of homelessness. Before you can be as healthy as you can, as educated as you can, you must feel safe. We must help provide housing, give everyone a roof. Remember the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song?
“Our house is a very, very, very fine house.
With two cats in the yard.
Life used to be so hard.
Now everything is easy because of you.”
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May 31, 2010
Wonderful Water
It was a Wednesday night. I was bummed we weren’t in a good week’s rhythm. Just one of those nights when you have kids that body slams you into tired headache living. Their Dad was out of town, and I was alone to handle it. That meant no breaks to catch my breath. Fighting, yelling , teasing, tears, something broken, my threats getting worse until the punishment I dole out is so bad I can’t possibly keep it- “You are not going to be allowed to play outside until you are 18!” (That’s ten years. Every bad parenting no no met? Check. ) No one slept, bad dreams were had. No shock there.
All I thought about was how to stop the downward spiral. What will take them out of their rude selves? Water. When water was around, kids had joy. Water gun fights, pools, puddles, ocean beaches, balloon bombs, the bathtub, the shower, the sink, the unfortunate toilet. Water meant fun. I decided to let my bad Mom behavior continue for just a little longer. No school. We were going to feel 650,000 gallons of wonderful water go rushing by us. We were going to see Niagara Falls. Water would save us!
I knew it was not THAT far, but how did we actually get to the right place to see? There was a website, and prominently displayed phone #. I called it. I have to admit I didn’t put much into this actually solving the problem. Most likely the sheer monotony of listening, pushing a button, listening to another choice, pushing a button- sometimes even twice in different languages. I always give up before I get to the final button push. But Keri answered. I knew that because she even told me that it was spelled with a K. Of course she could give me directions. How about an address to put in your GPS that would bring you straight to the correct parking lot? Keri should be the next President, she can get it done. I actually thought about her during our drive. I had appreciated when she laughed heartily at one of my stupid jokes about how I really needed something specific. I wonder what her story is, I thought. She’s probably a College student working part time to get herself through school.
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March 28, 2010
School Dances
School Dance. When has two words ever had the power to cause such a wide-array of emotional reactions? Excitement. Fear. Dread. Worry. Insecurity. Prayer. Hope. I proved to have mostly the negative feelings. I definitely was not one of the “it” girls. We all know them. They will get asked, and by the perfect boy. She will have the perfect dress, and her skin will be blemish free. She and her date will bask in the glow of being the couple everyone else wants to be. If my high school years were a map, my dance experiences would be markers in red, like capital cities. Or nuclear power plant locations.
My first one pretty much set the course of my future status. I think I was on track to be one of the “it” girls, but the 9th grade formal was ground zero for my mediocre ranking. I was in 7th grade when the most popular boy of the 9th grade asked me to go. I had to have been hot stuff. Legendary in my small town for living in Europe (Ok, it took awhile, and finally was considered kinda cool that I was in Scholastic), and blonde. My town had a large Italian population. Though my last name did not end in a vowel, and I was not related to every 3rd person on the street, my hair was a definite advantage. Anyway, JJ asked me to go, and I began to get that golden glow.
My Mom shocked me. She seemed into it. She really was not the type to wanna discuss the outfit, or to agree that “it was the most important thing to ever happen to me!” Maybe she had the feeling that this would set me up for a stress-free ride thru High School because she was cool. Extremely. First, I was allowed to go. That in of itself is a big deal. Seventh grade girl to ninth grade boy is a big leap for parents to make. Add in nighttime& cars, and up until this moment it would have been a big no-go for me. Not only that, but my parents arranged the coolest thing ever- a dinner party. Four couples were going to have a ‘dining room’ sit-down before the dance. Looking back I realize it was my parent’s way of scoping out the teens, making sure all was OK- but to all of us, we just felt grown-up. -
February 24, 2010
Living In London
We were going to live in London for a year. I still remember the feeling when my parents told me that. It seemed like a sudden bubble incased me, and I started bobbing through my life, muffled bumps guiding me along. Everything we did, every decision we made took London into the equation. We would not buy it unless it was going to London. Could we use it in London? Funny thing was, not much was going to London. The list of restrictions was long. We could not bring our dog; the quarantine was a no go with my “I love animals more than humans” mother. Then there were the weight rules. No box or trunk or suitcase over certain # of lbs per person. That began the onset of my brother’s arrogance. Though he was only 5, the discussion about how he was as important as an adult, due to the luggage allowance he provided, was the basis for the ensuing ego bloat. Not only was I being stripped of my belongings, but now I had another full person to contend with.
Due to the strength of the dollar against the pound we ended up in quite a ‘posh’ neighborhood. Every adult conversation I heard over the first few months included a comparison of the $ and pound. Lucky us, we apparently got a lot more stuff because of our buff money. Good thing, I thought. At least it helped balance the ribbing I got for having a ‘peanut farmer for a president’. Weird what they focused on. Yeah, we lived in a neighborhood that was famous because it was home to a very popular serial on television. I believe it is early evidence of successful reality television. I liked it for other reasons. We got deliveries of milk in a bottle every day. There was an awesome sweet shop on the corner, and a pub down the block that I could actually go in. The location was fab, because it was central to everything. Inside it was so- so. I had to share a bedroom with my brother, but there was also a long skinny hallway with no windows that was perfect for a super game of dodge ball. -
February 4, 2010
Peace, please
Now I know this comment is a little after the fact- but it is still relevant. I was a bit nervous posting it because of the political subject matter. Even some of my own family members disagree with some of my views. Still, I’ll risk it, proud that I live where I can express my opinion.
I had lunch with a friend, someone I hadn’t seen in awhile. Lots to catch up on, we talked much more than we ate, and sort of glazed over a multitude of topics. Kids and schools, movies, crazy events, what’s called news- the usual. After our 2nd try at goodbye, when my friend really had to get back to her job, she said “Oh, we didn’t talk about Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize Speech”, and she said it in the way that meant she hated it. That was surprising. My main thought on the drive home from downtown was I need to get a copy of that speech. I had seen parts of it from an airport lounge during a particularly stressful trip. To me he seemed regal and distinguished, though I kept scanning audience shots for Will and Jada Smith. Weren’t they supposed to be there? (That seemed such a random choice of guests, though if I was president, I’d have my lists of wannameets too- you know they are not gonna turn down Oslo on Air Force One!) While driving the typical traffic jammed late-afternoon roads, it occurred to me that I couldn’t recall any part of what he actually said, nor why there is any sort of discussion that needs to be had with my fellow Obama supporter. -
December 2, 2009
Horror movies have never really been my thing. I think it has something to do with THE OMEN. I was just a kid the summer that came out. I spent much of every summer with my grandparents on the Jersey Shore. Pretty idyllic memories of being barefoot, and sandy. I knew all the kids on the block. Some were summer kids like me, others lived there all year round. All day it was fishing, crabbing and clamming, swimming and boating. Evenings were spent sitting on the fence at the corner, hanging out and comparing tan lines. Some of the kids were older. They were the ones who told me about THE OMEN, told me how I definitely had to see it. The way they said it, I felt like I had to too, then I could talk about it and tell other kids to go see it.
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November 2, 2009
My debut as an actress happened at West Street School in the 2nd grade, according to me.
According to my parents, my debut was the day I was born. All the women in my family were young when they had children. Hence, when I came into the world I was surrounded by doting aunts, uncles, grand-parents and great-grandparents. Family get-togethers inevitably morphed into a giant circle with me in the center. Everything I did was met with ooohs and aaahs.
Regardless, in the 2nd grade I was on a stage. The play was “The Wiggly Worm,” and yes, I was that worm. I remember my mother made my costume out of some swirly orange and white material that used to be one of her hippie tunics or dresses. It was a simple costume, probably just a tube I stepped into, otherwise she couldn’t have made it.My Mom was not much of a homemaker. I did the dishes and we all cleaned the house for a couple of hours on most Saturday mornings. I used to complain that when my friends came home from school they would find pans of Lasagna (remember it’s a predominately Italian town), and fresh baked brownies on the counter. I would come home to some healthy crap like dried apricots, piles and shelves of books everywhere, and an animal or two that needed to be walked, fed or something. Not even a tv. The only one was black and white and tiny enough to fit on the dresser in my parent’s bedroom.
The fact that my parents were incredibly smart, interesting people that I could talk to about anything hadn’t become important yet. The famous story told over and over has me announcing in no uncertain terms at ten years of age they “were the intellectual type, and I was the social type!”
Anyway, I’m onstage, in the school’s cafeteria, as the orange and white worm, and my/our performance is a smash hit. Supposedly I loved the applause so much that I stood beaming long after the rest of the cast had exited stage right. My teacher had to come escort me off.
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September 16, 2009
Growing up in Geneva, NY: My house, my neighbors, my bully
The next house was ‘a double.’ You know, the same house divided in two. It seemed huge to me. My parents had to make furniture because we didn’t have enough to fill it. First, Mom got carpet remnants - big squares of shag in cream, green, and orange that she sewed together with thick thread. So the carpet looked like a really big checker board which frequently needed new stitches. Those squares had a habit of coming apart. Next, out came the paint and shellac. Two orange crates were painted green and made shiny. Voila! Our coffee table. A picnic table was brought inside. Each wood board was painted a different color and shined. The amazing Technicolor Dining Room.
To a little girl, my house was beautiful. It never occurred to me that my young parents did not have much money. My room was in the front of the house. My bear and I were quite comfortable, barring the few problems with wild animals. There was the occasional bat that would escape from the attic. My Mom would scream, and my Dad would finally catch it - usually with a tennis racket and a laundry basket. Then there was the time that a mother squirrel was hit by a car while leading her babies across the street in front of our house. My Mom rescued the little orphans and fed them from a medicine dropper. She let me keep them in a big cage in my room. That is until one day I came home from school and found them loose and snarling in my room. I’ll never forget the sight of the biggest one stretched out across my big, white bear’s face. Gripping on with his claws, bugged out wild eyes, and hissing at me. I’m not sure what happened to them, but I don’t think it was as simple as being scooped into a laundry basket with a tennis racket. There was also the time I opened my door to find my beloved cat, Puck, dead on the floor. His eyes were white, his head still with the neck of my goldfish bowl around it. The rest of the glass was smashed and strewn across my soaking wet wood floor, my goldfish limp nearby. Traumatizing.
My Neighbors
The other side of the house was occupied by another professor and her sons. The boys were named after great writers. I think they knew that was pretty pretentious, and seemed burdened by it. We were kind of friends, but really only because they had a trampoline…way better than the babyish rusted red and white swing set in the backyard on our side. Across the street there was a girl who was a couple of years older than me. She went to the Catholic school. We were friends unless she had someone over; then she would ignore me. When she didn’t have a friend over, we would walk to the corner store, Monaco’s, the most wonderful place on earth. When Mom gave me money and sent me there to pick up an item for dinner (maybe even buy a piece of candy), I felt big. Really big. Like a teenager. When my friend from across the street and I would go in together, I knew they were all thinking how grown up we were.
I walked to school everyday from that double house, usually with G. She was super-tall and I was super-short. My pediatrician wondered if I would make 5 ft. No one thought so, including me, until the summer of 8th grade. I grew eight inches, and my parents had to rub my legs every night because they hurt so much. Anyway, G. lived around the corner and we were in the same grade. Not only was she like a foot taller than me, but she was the best student in our grade. She wore glasses and overalls, and had these long fingers that wrote the most perfect printing I had ever seen. She also had a brother and sister who were twins, and that was fascinating to me.
My Bully
G. also protected me, except on the days when she had her piano lessons. Then her mom would pick her up at school, and I would have to walk home alone. There was a girl who would hide somewhere on my route home, jump out and taunt me, push me, generally scare the crap out of me. By the time we got to junior high she had graduated to sticking me in the butt with a hat pin in the hallway when we changed classes. I knew it was gonna be a really bad day if she made a fist at me in the morning. That went on until the beginning of ninth grade when I came to school much taller and she came to school much fatter. She didn’t bully me much after that.
If G. were there, no one would bother me. She would give them "the treatment." That meant holding them up by their ankles and shaking them. Sometimes money would fall out of their pockets and we'd take it. We were like bad characters out of a Steinbeck novel. Problem was, my bully was too tough. She didn’t get "the treatment." I think that meant we took it out on those less tough. Looking back, I’m not sure how I rationalized that one.
Anyway, at the top of the hill on our street there was a little park. Actually, it was a "square" with a statue in the middle, surrounded by gardens, multi-colored townhouses and a Presbyterian Church on the corner. That square is where I tried my first cigarette. It is where years later, when I was coming out of my girlfriend's wedding rehearsal, my bully came running at me, arms outstretched, screaming my name, seemingly ready to pummel me yet again. But no, she just wanted to throw her arms AROUND me, to take a picture WITH me. I was now on "All My Children."
To be continued… -
June 16, 2009
My childhood began in Geneva, NY ...
Not that I was born there, no that was Bristol, Pa. I lived other places before Geneva as well. I vaguely recall a white house with brown shutters. Then there was the little house with the HUGE yard (would I still think so now?). The people who owned it lived up the road. They had a big red barn and lots of golden retrievers. We had a garden, a water well with a pump, lots of places to find snakes (which I did often), and a stream where I could watch my Dad flyfish. It was also where I met my first friend, whose nickname was Kiki. We both went to the same lady’s house after school. If we mis -behaved, she would put us in time -outs in separate rooms. Unknown to her, we would situate ourselves on furniture so that we could see each other across the hallway. The time -outs weren’t so bad. Kiki and I both loved Bobby Sherman, and she was born the day after me. I have no idea where she is now, but every year on October 29th I wish her a Happy Birthday.
