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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…
