("God Forbid..." excerpt & printed Yesterdaysmagazette 3/10)
In the summer of 1944, when I was five and my twin friends were six, we decided to fetch the little red wagon from the shed behind my house. As I pulled the Radio Flyer, the twins pushed. The huge oak trees arched our way along the sidewalk. We scampered towards busy New York Street in that quiet northern Illinois town. The street had to be crossed to reach their house and backyard sandbox.
We knew we had almost reached the corner when we passed by the three-foot brick wall surrounding Mrs. Jennings aging, southern-like home. At the last thirty feet or so before reaching the corner, the sidewalk narrowed due to the overlapping and crumbling brick wall. When we got to the corner, I pulled the wagon into the street glancing to the left, but the twins let go. Halfway across, a car struck me. All I remember is the two girls’ screaming before I blacked out.
At the hospital, I opened my eyes to see my mother’s worried expression. She stood next to the bed holding my hand, and then said, “You were hit by a car… and not just any car. It belonged to your sister’s high school teacher.” Mom added, “She’s waiting down the hall to hear how you are.”
I was still in a daze, but sat up and sipped some water. “What were you thinking?” Mom asked. “Didn’t you look both ways like I taught you to do?”
After admitting I’d forgotten to look to the right, the doctor strolled in and said, “She’s going to be fine. She just has a sprained ankle. The nurse will wrap it and then she can go home, but keep her off that foot for awhile.”
Mom thanked the doctor, turned towards me, inhaled slowly, and then exclaimed, “Don’t you ever do anything like that again.” I sunk back down in the bed. When the nurse brought a wheel chair, Mom wheeled me down the hall, stopping to thank the music teacher for waiting and informed her that I’d be okay. Then she hastily ushered me out of the hospital.
Just as Mom was about to lift me into the car, I asked, “What about my little red wagon?”
“There is no more wagon,” Mom said plopping me down in the seat. “Not now, not ever. Furthermore, you won’t be crossing any streets without an adult for a very long time.” Then she shut the door and marched around to the driver’s side.
On the drive home my ankle ached. I wished I had remembered to look both ways. As my ankle throbbed still more, I groaned and thought, I don’t care about my little red wagon and if I never cross another street— that’s okay too.
"The Rascal in All of Us" is available at Amazon.com where you can "Look inside" for more on my memoir of an Imp growing up during WWII and the Great Depression, full of laughs. Many Articles published in yesterdays magazette.net, Cappers.com,More.com, and dozens more. Thank for Stopping by Please leave a comment.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Easter Box
In a small western suburb of Chicago, in April, 1943, I turned four a month earlier and sat on the living room floor playing with a birthday gift—paper dolls. The open front door let in a warm breeze through the screen. Suddenly, I heard a knock at the door.
Knowing I needed permission to answer it, I darted to the back laundry room where Mom stood hanging wet sheets. "Mom, Mom!” I yelled. “Someone’s at the door. Can I get it?"
Speaking through clothespins held snugly in her mouth, she mumbled, "All right, but be careful.”
I ran through the house, flung open the screen and darted outside. No one was in sight, but I spied a box on the front steps with a crinkled yellow bow and my name scribbled in big black letters on top. I reached down and grabbed the small, but heavy, box. Holding on for dear life, I ran lickety-split through the house to the back room. “Mom, it's for me,” I shouted. “Can I open it, please, please?"
Mom frowned as she looked up from the washboard, where she stood bent over rubbing the dirt out of the sudsy shirt. Finally, she nodded approvingly as she stood up straight. She leaned back down and doused the shirt in a tub of warm water. I didn’t need any more encouragement than that.
I sat down right there on the splintery wooden floor, ripped off the bow and tore open the box. I imagined the Easter Bunny had delivered an early gift of candy or toys and couldn‘t wait to see what the box contained.
But my delight turned to dread. “A box of rocks!” I screamed. “Who would be so mean?” Tears rolled down my face and onto the rocks.
Mother dropped the wet shirt she was wringing out and ran to my side. Before she could comfort me, I heard laughter coming from the front lawn and jumped to my feet, darting through the house.
I peered out the front screen door while wiping my tear-stained face on my sleeve. There stood the boy who lived just down the street. Seeing me, the teenager fell to the ground laughing and gasping for air. His friend stood at a distance holding his hand over his mouth squelching giggles.
"Did you like my gift?" the bully choked out as I dashed out the door.
I thought of running back inside, slamming the door in his face and never speaking to the bully again. Instead, I blurted out, “No, David! I did not like your box of rocks. You are a very mean boy.”
Recalling what Mom always said, it’s the thought that counts, I added in a high-pitched voice, “But thanks for going to all that trouble, just for me.” Then, I turned on my heels, scurried inside and slammed the door. I ran to the comfort of my mother’s waiting arms, never again to be that naïve child.
Today, I remain wary of strangers bearing gifts.
That, I must admit, I learned from the neighborhood bully so many years ago.
Note: This story is in her book "The Rascal in All of Us"
(3/10 More.com)
Leaving the Gangly, Awkward Girl Behind
I felt inept, alone and out of place most of my life. My sisters were nearly old enough to be my mother--ten and fifteen years older than I was. On my own most of the time, even before school age, I attempted to keep up with the older kids on the block, tried to impress and be just like them. Believe me, that always got me into hotter water than I ever wanted to feel in that old galvanized tub we used for weekly baths.
Once, at age three, I received a bag of rocks for Easter from a teenage neighbor playing a joke on a naïve child. And around age two, I pulled off my blouse while the neighbor kids cheered and applauded. Anxious to please, I shed my clothes and stood naked on top of the loft in the big old garage that had once been a barn. The opened garage stood right on the edge of the alley behind my house for all passersby to see.
I remember Mom showed up in a tizzy, grabbed me down and wrapped me in a blanket. With me in her arms, she marched into the house and up the stairs to a neighbor’s apartment. Hearing her words, I realized I’d done something really bad. I buried my head in her shoulder and cried as she recounted the horror to her friend.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bond fire. I wasn’t caught, but the stench stayed with me. In my zest to impress my peers, to be part of the group, I fell for more of their shenanigans. One time, the two older girls from next door invited me to a movie. Mom said okay if I cleaned up. So I dashed inside to change into my Sunday best, but when I returned, I was crushed to discover the girls had run off without me.
At age ten, some older boys took my classmate’s hat and tossed it up on a high fence. Gangly me retrieved the hat, but the boys poked fun at my unusual height, leaving me humiliated instead of pleased with myself. Also that year in ballet class, I was the only girl wearing a bra—an oddity for my age in those days. Already full grown, I stood five foot five inches towering over the other ballerinas. Needless to say, I ditched ballet class.
In grade school the nuns didn’t take kindly to me. When I sang like a bird, but not to their liking, they called me beautiful but dumb. Or when I spoke too loudly in class, they smacked my hands with a ruler. My being left-handed also irked them, calling my penmanship horrendous, making me practice my name over and over, hour after hour.
For minor infractions, Sister Mary Jerome would stand me in the dunce’s corner. And, although I was innocent, she blamed me for breaking the school’s antique juke box that stood next to where we all silently filed past, one by one, on our way to the lunchroom.
It also seemed to take a lifetime to learn not to leap into situations—to look, study and think long and hard before jumping in. I married too young, on my second go-round, I married an abusive man; later I had my heart broken again in two separate relationships. I always wanted to please, to be accepted and belong. Marriage, it turned out, would not bring about this elusive goal.
Now it doesn’t matter if I fit in. People can accept me or leave me. My friends like me for who I am—a sometimes bull-headed, often outspoken, at times intense, but always ready to lend a hand…not to please these day, but simply because someone needs help.
In my journey through life, I’ve learned the hard way not to leap into the abyss. I’m completely content now with this imperfect being I’ve turned out to be. And mercifully, that stumble-bum, gangly girl no longer exists; for she is safely tucked away where she belongs—in the past.
Leaving the Gangly, Awkward Girl Behind
I felt inept, alone and out of place most of my life. My sisters were nearly old enough to be my mother--ten and fifteen years older than I was. On my own most of the time, even before school age, I attempted to keep up with the older kids on the block, tried to impress and be just like them. Believe me, that always got me into hotter water than I ever wanted to feel in that old galvanized tub we used for weekly baths.
Once, at age three, I received a bag of rocks for Easter from a teenage neighbor playing a joke on a naïve child. And around age two, I pulled off my blouse while the neighbor kids cheered and applauded. Anxious to please, I shed my clothes and stood naked on top of the loft in the big old garage that had once been a barn. The opened garage stood right on the edge of the alley behind my house for all passersby to see.
I remember Mom showed up in a tizzy, grabbed me down and wrapped me in a blanket. With me in her arms, she marched into the house and up the stairs to a neighbor’s apartment. Hearing her words, I realized I’d done something really bad. I buried my head in her shoulder and cried as she recounted the horror to her friend.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bond fire. I wasn’t caught, but the stench stayed with me. In my zest to impress my peers, to be part of the group, I fell for more of their shenanigans. One time, the two older girls from next door invited me to a movie. Mom said okay if I cleaned up. So I dashed inside to change into my Sunday best, but when I returned, I was crushed to discover the girls had run off without me.
At age ten, some older boys took my classmate’s hat and tossed it up on a high fence. Gangly me retrieved the hat, but the boys poked fun at my unusual height, leaving me humiliated instead of pleased with myself. Also that year in ballet class, I was the only girl wearing a bra—an oddity for my age in those days. Already full grown, I stood five foot five inches towering over the other ballerinas. Needless to say, I ditched ballet class.
In grade school the nuns didn’t take kindly to me. When I sang like a bird, but not to their liking, they called me beautiful but dumb. Or when I spoke too loudly in class, they smacked my hands with a ruler. My being left-handed also irked them, calling my penmanship horrendous, making me practice my name over and over, hour after hour.
For minor infractions, Sister Mary Jerome would stand me in the dunce’s corner. And, although I was innocent, she blamed me for breaking the school’s antique juke box that stood next to where we all silently filed past, one by one, on our way to the lunchroom.
It also seemed to take a lifetime to learn not to leap into situations—to look, study and think long and hard before jumping in. I married too young, on my second go-round, I married an abusive man; later I had my heart broken again in two separate relationships. I always wanted to please, to be accepted and belong. Marriage, it turned out, would not bring about this elusive goal.
Now it doesn’t matter if I fit in. People can accept me or leave me. My friends like me for who I am—a sometimes bull-headed, often outspoken, at times intense, but always ready to lend a hand…not to please these day, but simply because someone needs help.
In my journey through life, I’ve learned the hard way not to leap into the abyss. I’m completely content now with this imperfect being I’ve turned out to be. And mercifully, that stumble-bum, gangly girl no longer exists; for she is safely tucked away where she belongs—in the past.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
My Terrible Twos and Threes
(Excerpt from "God Forbid..." book)
During my terrible twos and tumultuous threes, Mom discovered gray hairs popping up all over her head. One contributing factor might have occurred when I reached the age of two. I watched in amazement as Mom cooked eggs for breakfast. I wondered how that gooey stuff could turn into an edible delight. But I wasn’t the kind of child who let it go at that.
I wasn’t allowed to use the stove, so I carefully carried an egg from the ice box into the dining room, sat cross-legged on the floor, and then cracked it into the floor’s electrical outlet. It bubbled and spat at me. What a mess, but it cooked! And, yes, a spanking followed. And, no! I don’t really remember this. My older sisters told this story repeatedly, even while I plugged my own children’s ears.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bonfire. This time, I remember it vividly and, no, I wasn’t caught, but I’ll never forget that pungent odor. In my zest to impress and be accepted, I often fell prey to the older kids’ dares.
Sometimes, the neighborhood children had nothing to do with my impish behavior. At three again—and this is pieced together from others’ accounts as well as what I remember—I stood on the dining room chair on my tip toes and dialed my mother’s phone number at work:
“Hi, Mom… Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to bother you at work, but… Huh? No, nothin’s wrong, that is, everything’s okay now… No, you don’t have to come home. But Mom, I was just trying to light the stove and the match burned my finger and I sorta’ dropped it in the wastebasket. So, when I saw the smoke, I ran next door and the neighbor ran over and grabbed the wastebasket and… Huh? No, the babysitter had to run home for a minute.”
“Okay, Mom, but you should have seen Mrs. Bender running out the back door with that flaming basket… Yeah, she’s fine… Huh? I’m okay… What? Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to light the stove, but… Huh? No, the house is fine… Okay, I promise, but, Mom, you might wanna pick up a new wastebasket on your way home.”
Believe me, I didn’t play with matches again, at least not for a couple of years. Besides, I think it was simply my nature to get into mischief. I had to discover things for myself. To that end, I’ll fess up. I am responsible for most of Mom’s gray hairs.
During my terrible twos and tumultuous threes, Mom discovered gray hairs popping up all over her head. One contributing factor might have occurred when I reached the age of two. I watched in amazement as Mom cooked eggs for breakfast. I wondered how that gooey stuff could turn into an edible delight. But I wasn’t the kind of child who let it go at that.
I wasn’t allowed to use the stove, so I carefully carried an egg from the ice box into the dining room, sat cross-legged on the floor, and then cracked it into the floor’s electrical outlet. It bubbled and spat at me. What a mess, but it cooked! And, yes, a spanking followed. And, no! I don’t really remember this. My older sisters told this story repeatedly, even while I plugged my own children’s ears.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bonfire. This time, I remember it vividly and, no, I wasn’t caught, but I’ll never forget that pungent odor. In my zest to impress and be accepted, I often fell prey to the older kids’ dares.
Sometimes, the neighborhood children had nothing to do with my impish behavior. At three again—and this is pieced together from others’ accounts as well as what I remember—I stood on the dining room chair on my tip toes and dialed my mother’s phone number at work:
“Hi, Mom… Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to bother you at work, but… Huh? No, nothin’s wrong, that is, everything’s okay now… No, you don’t have to come home. But Mom, I was just trying to light the stove and the match burned my finger and I sorta’ dropped it in the wastebasket. So, when I saw the smoke, I ran next door and the neighbor ran over and grabbed the wastebasket and… Huh? No, the babysitter had to run home for a minute.”
“Okay, Mom, but you should have seen Mrs. Bender running out the back door with that flaming basket… Yeah, she’s fine… Huh? I’m okay… What? Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to light the stove, but… Huh? No, the house is fine… Okay, I promise, but, Mom, you might wanna pick up a new wastebasket on your way home.”
Believe me, I didn’t play with matches again, at least not for a couple of years. Besides, I think it was simply my nature to get into mischief. I had to discover things for myself. To that end, I’ll fess up. I am responsible for most of Mom’s gray hairs.
Birthday, Bah, humbug!
Okay, another birthday and I muddled through. The thing about birthdays is no matter how old you get, it's fun to blow out candles, which I didn't do this year. Sure, I told friends and family it was just another day, another reminder that I'm a year older, but honestly!
Many, who remembered my birthday last year with a card, a night out, a phone call, or some cash, didn't this year. Bah, humbug! Hey, did you ever think I might not be gracing your lives that much longer? Don't you want to relish each and every moment I have left? Maybe I shouldn't have asked.
I did get cards, and friends treated me to lunch. It seems, all is not lost in the tradition of honoring someone on their birthday. To these dear folks, I say thank you, thank you, thank you. Three thank you's covers it nicely.
But to the grinches, dust off that card, buy a stamp, and mark your calendar, because I'll be here waiting, with bells on, so don't foget. I'll even wear one of those upside down cones on my head if that's what it takes to get your attention. In the meanwhile, I wish you all a happy birthday, though I've forgotten the exact date.
Many, who remembered my birthday last year with a card, a night out, a phone call, or some cash, didn't this year. Bah, humbug! Hey, did you ever think I might not be gracing your lives that much longer? Don't you want to relish each and every moment I have left? Maybe I shouldn't have asked.
I did get cards, and friends treated me to lunch. It seems, all is not lost in the tradition of honoring someone on their birthday. To these dear folks, I say thank you, thank you, thank you. Three thank you's covers it nicely.
But to the grinches, dust off that card, buy a stamp, and mark your calendar, because I'll be here waiting, with bells on, so don't foget. I'll even wear one of those upside down cones on my head if that's what it takes to get your attention. In the meanwhile, I wish you all a happy birthday, though I've forgotten the exact date.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)