Santa’s Workshop

I’ve always been a good sleeper.  Why?  My dream state is a very exciting place to be. My dreams are amazing.  I get to be whatever I want to be in my dreams.  I meet exciting people and visit amazing places.

Thus, I am not a morning person.  I am not now, nor have I ever been.

My family spent a few weeks on vacation every year in Vermont.  We rented a cabin and simplified life.  Sun, lake, cards, food and family.  That about sums it up.

My bed in these rented cabins was always lumpy.  The proximity to the lake always make it feel a little damp.  But, by the time my head hit the pillow……….I was out…………..and the only thing that got me out of bed in the morning was the smell of bacon.

My Daddy was a no nonsense person.  My mother was the one that was full of stories of leprechauns and the Saints.  Daddy was math and being on time.  Mommy was Santa Claus and Christmas.  Daddy was chores and allowance.  Mommy was flowers and fairies.

One morning at camp I got a surprise.  My father sat next to me on my lumpy mattress.  He gave my pillow a shake and said “Open your eyes on a new day, Little Girl.  All kinds of surprises await you.”

I didn’t smell bacon.

I put my hand out and touched his unshaven face.

“Go away Daddy.  I’m dreaming.  You shouldn’t take someone’s dream away from them.” I said as I pulled the pillow over my head.

“But, Little Girl!  Today is the day that I’m taking you to meet Santa Claus.” Daddy said.

That sentence cut through my dream like a knife through a sponge cake.

I sat up on my lumpy mattress.

“What, Daddy?  What did you say about Santa Claus?” I asked.

“Today is the day. Today you get to meet Santa Claus.” said Daddy.  “Up and at em.  Put on this little outfit Mommy laid out for you.  Brush your teeth.  A piece of toast.  A little ride in the car and then onto the ferry.  We’re off to meet Santa Claus.”

He left the room.  I looked at the sundress and sandals lying at the foot of my bed.  I got up and put them on.

I thought out loud, “Daddy might be losing it.”

But, he wasn’t.  We left the lake.  We drove down winding dirt roads.  We got onto asphalt and drove up to the lip of Lake Champlain.  Daddy drove the station wagon onto a ferry and it took us across the big lake.  It deposited us in the North Pole.

Daddy took me to the North Pole to meet Santa Claus.

It was a long time ago.  I remember a courtyard surrounded by beautiful cottages painted in white and red.  A big frozen pole in the middle of the court yard where kids were sticking their tongues to the frost of the pole.  Fudge.  Cotton candy.

I remember a barn that smelled like a barn.  There weren’t any cows.  There weren’t any horses.  I met reindeer.  Reindeer lie in their stalls.  The stalls had names on them.  Dancer. Prancer. Donner.  Blitzen.

Daddy took me on a tour of the workshop.  The elves must have been on break.  I hammered pegs into wooden toys.  I looked at walls lined with stuffed animals and dolls.

A lady stopped in front of us.  She introduced herself as Mrs. Santa.  She asked if I’d like to see where she lived.

Well, duh!  Yes.

She took my family through her house.  The little kitchen had freshly made cookies spread all across the table and counters.  The living room was only missing a television.  I saw The Good and Naughty List spread out on Santa’s desk.  No one gave me enough time to check that out.  But, I was pretty sure I was on the good list.

I mostly remember Santa’s bed.  It was shaped like a sleigh and it stood against the wall.  The mattress wasn’t firm and it wasn’t soft.  It was just right.  And there were curtains that could be drawn against a cold winter’s night.

Mommy and Daddy fed me a sandwich and potato chips.  Daddy said it was almost time to go.  We had to catch the last ferry across the lake.  That ferry that went from the magic of Santa’s Village back to vacation land of Vermont.

But, we had time for one more thing Daddy said.

“Would you like to meet Santa?” he asked.

Why, yes, I would!

I stood in line.  My parents sat on a bench and smiled at me.  They waved their hands at me to encourage me to bump up the line.  I thought about what a surprise this was.  To be meeting Santa Claus in the middle of August.  What would I say to him?  Would I get all shy and act like a nincompoop?  Would I find my voice and all of a sudden tell him my biggest deep seated wish?

I got to the head of the line.  Santa Claus sat in front of me.  He put his arms out in welcome.  He smiled at me like he already knew me.

“Come up and get on my lap, Little Girl!  Remind me what your name is! “Santa said.

He already knew my name!  Little Girl was my name.

“Have you enjoyed seeing my village?  Have you gone to the candy shop yet?  Oh, ho!  You’re not a shy one are you?  I can tell you’re not!  What is it that you wish for Christmas, Little Girl?  You can tell Santa.  Whisper right into my ear!” he said.

So, I did.

I imagine all these years later ……………I told him I wished for baby dolls and carriages.  Golden kitty cats and a typewriter.  I wished to be a writer and a mother.  I wanted to be happy with babies of my own.

Santa smiled at me.  He gave me a squeeze and he said as I got up “Santa wishes that all your dreams do come true.” as he put his arms out to the next child in line.

Twenty years went by.

Another day at camp in Vermont.  My Daddy woke us all up and said we had to hit the road.  It was time to get into the car.  Go down the dirt roads that lead to asphalt.  To the ferry that would take us across the lake.  Across to Santa’s Workshop.

My husband woke up and said “What?”  My little girl woke up and said “Let’s go!  Santa!  Yes!”

It was a hot summer’s day.  The reindeer barn smelled like barn.  My daughter loved feeding the reindeer.  She ate cotton candy.  Raggedy Ann and Andy sang for her in the courtyard where kids had their tongues stuck to a frozen pole.  She went on kiddie rides and then it was time to tour Santa’s house.

She ended up in a line waiting to see the great Saint himself.  Santa.  My brazen little girl that was afraid of nothing…………….all of of a sudden got shy……..she put out her hand and begged me to join her with her eyes.

So, I did.

She sat on Santa’s lap.  He worked his spell on her.  She laughed and loosened up.  She talked about My Little Ponies and other such things.

Santa looked up and saw me.  He saw the tears that streamed down my face.

“We’ve met before.” he whispered in my direction.  “A long time ago to you………….but, an instant to me.  Santa lives forever.  But, you remember me?”

It was the very same Santa from twenty years before.

“Oh, yes, I remember you, Santa.” I told him from my daughter’s side.

“And, did all your dreams come true?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, they did.”

A photo was taken of me sitting on Santa’s lap that day.  It was sent to my aunt who was an artist.  She took that photo and painted this portrait of me.  I took this portrait and made it the front cover of my first book of Christmas stories.

Yes, Santa, my dreams did come true.

 

Follow The Leader

There is an organization here in the good old USA.  It is a group comprised entirely of girls.  They wear sashes.  With badges.  They sell a lot of Thin Mints.

I’ve never been a fan.

Oh, I understand that being a part of this group might be one of your fondest childhood memories.  I’d say that you’re lucky.  That a leader was good to you.  That you made friends and enjoyed making necklaces out of painted macaroni.

I’m happy for you.  Really, I am.

I was a happy little girl wearing a brown uniform and sash.  I made my fingers bleed sewing on my own badges before I was old enough to earn my Sewing Badge.  That first year was great.

We had a lovely Mom Leader.  We met once a week after school.  We took over the Teacher’s Lounge at school.  It smelled great.  Like coffee and cookies.  We played games.  We made greeting cards.  We painted macaroni and made necklaces.  We ran off after school steam.  We played in a heap like a bunch of happy puppies.

I put on my brown uniform happily that second year.  Happiness was dashed very quickly.  Our wonderful Mom Leader had gotten a job.  Our troop of macaroni crafters were added to another troop.  It was led by a leader that didn’t want us extra girls.

She made it known.

“All my girls……………from last year…………come over here.  The rest of you can wait.” said this wonderful example of female leadership.

She only got worse from there.

I think it was the third meeting when it was all over for me.  This new leader found me staring at her while she gave instructions to “her” girls …………leaving the rest of us out.

“What are you staring at, young lady?” she asked.  She couldn’t call me by name because she hadn’t been bothered to learn it.

“I was just wondering why you’ve shaved off your eye brows and then you’ve drawn them in with an orange crayon.  I’m thinking your mustache is something you’re not proud of……….and I’ve only seen Lucy color in a fake upper lip like yours.” I exclaimed.

I really wasn’t trying to be mean.  But, these are the things I was wondering about as I stared at her face.

And, hey!  She asked!

The next week…………my mother told me to forget the brown uniform and sash with the blood stained badges.  It seemed I had been uninvited.

I never got to sell Thin Mints ever again.

I got over it.

Then I had a daughter.  She grew up enough to go to school.  She came home one day with paper work.  It seemed she wanted me to sign something so that she could put on a brown uniform.  So she could paint macaroni.  So she could sell enough cookies to earn a plastic charm bracelet.

“Oh.  Dear.  God.  No!  You really don’t want to put on a brown uniform and make pledges do you?  Do you really?” I asked in a horrified whisper.

It seems she did.  All her little friends were joining.  She couldn’t wait to get a sash and earn badges.  And, you can bet your sweet patootie she was going to make me sew those badges on for her.

We bought the uniform.  She played with her hair to see which way the brown beanie looked the best.  I couldn’t watch.  It made my stomach heave a little.

And, then the phone rang.

It was some lady from some headquarters.  She barked at me.  I asked her to keep the yipping down and speak in full sentences.  I finally made out that my daughter……….and our neighborhood girls…………..and her classmates were going to be left out.

They didn’t have enough leaders for this troop of brown clad girls.  She was calling to talk me into taking the pledge once again.

Oh, I hemmed and hawed.  I told her that I was not a fan.  I wouldn’t stand in my daughter’s way but …………………………..then, I just shut up because my daughter was looking up at me with her big sad green eyes.

No leader?  No troop.  It was all up to me.

I went to an indoctrination meeting the next afternoon.

I stared at the directions in the car.  I wound down little village lanes and back streets.  I pulled up in front of a yellow house that leaned a little to the right.  The front porch was held up by discarded washers, dryers and I think what was an old hot water heater.

Hey, whatever works.

I sat in a small living room with five other women.  That made six of us that didn’t want to be there.  Six mothers that had daughters…………..that had already paid for that little brown uniform…………………all of us that had fallen for the sad little girl eyes staring at us.

The Grand Poopah of leaders stood in front of us.  She was not impressed with our lack of  enthusiasm.  She was not happy that we were not volunteers.  We were the coerced.

She handed out sheet after sheet of instructions.  A stack of manuals landed at our feet.  She talked at us for half an hour.  I didn’t take in much of what she was saying.  She didn’t seem to have eyebrows.  She had a full lustrous mustache.  She wasn’t wearing lipstick.  I was in a different state many decades later……………I was pretty sure this wasn’t the same woman.

But, this was the kind of stuff I was thinking while she paced and gave us the facts of being a leader.

I tried to pull my attention back to what she was saying.  But, that’s when I got a gander at the dead moose head hanging on her wall.  I wasn’t drinking my coffee because I had found someone else’s lipstick on the rim of the cup.  The end table was very sticky when I set it down.  Now, I was staring at long shimmering strands of spider webs hanging off the moose’s nose.

Oh, the moose also had Christmas garland looped around his neck.  It wasn’t Christmas.

The overhead fan had the dusty strands and garland moving and shimmering in the over head light.

I was mesmerized.

So, let’s say that I became a leader of young girls…………..after hearing not a word of instructions.

I had to wing it.

I was a leader of young women for three years.  I became the leader that all girls wanted for their own.  I bought great cookies.  I gave rides home.  I picked kids up.  I built up self esteem.  I told girls they could be all they wanted to be.

Then, I’d plop that manual down in front of them.  We’d spend a meeting flipping through the pages.

“So, it’s up to you, ladies.  Do you want to earn lots and lots of badges.?  Do you want to win a little plastic trophy at the end of the year banquet……….where you will be forced to eat luke warm spaghetti…………..and warm wilted salad?  Or, do you want to have fun?” I asked.

They democratically voted to have fun.

I now had girls from other troops wanting to join ours.  I let them.

I’d get a phone call from the Grand Poopah.  I wasn’t allowed to just let girls in my troop without her approval she told me.

I pretty much said “What are you going to do about it?  The more the merrier.  I’m molding young minds here……………..I’m feeding hungry kids………….I’m playing taxi driver to girls with working parents.  You got a problem with me, lady?  Well, rewrite your manual.”

Yes, I was still not over being treated so rotten as a kid.

We did all kinds of fun things.  I often got calls telling me that I was doing it all wrong.  But, the reaction I was getting out of all these little girls told me I was doing it all right.

I had years of my dining room being full of boxes of thin mints.

I had laid back girls and little go getters in this group.  I let them be themselves.

I pushed back all my furniture when the cookies were all gone.  I taught mothers and daughters a country line dance.  Each troop had to perform at a banquet.  You should have seen that dance to “Achy Breaky Heart.”  They brought the house down!

I knew I wouldn’t be putting in a fourth year as a fake leader.  My daughter was losing interest.  She had karate lessons to get to.  Voice lessons.  I think she may have even tried out fencing during those years.

It was so busy back then……….it’s a bit of a blur.

I had a year to go when the phone rang.  It was a new neighbor.  Her daughter was in my girl’s class.  This new little girl had a bad start.  The second day in class she had come down with a head full of lice.  The mother was crying.

I calmed her down.  I told her that her little girl wasn’t alone.  Lice had gone through that class twice that year.  You buy the special shampoo.  You wash the bedding.

“You finally get to burn up all those freaking stuffed animals you hate anyways.” I advised her.

She tried to laugh.

She had another problem.  Her daughter felt so lost in her new school.  She missed her horse back in the country.  She missed her troop of sash wearing girls.  Mom had called the Grand Poopah and had been told there was no room for her girl in any of the troops.  She would have to wait until next year………….if she was lucky.

“Oh, ignore that woman.” I said.  “I’m the leader that breaks all the rules because I never read the rule book.  You tell your daughter to join mine on Tuesday afternoon.  Tell her that we’re working on our horse riding badge.  I’d appreciate if if she brought in photos of her horse.  She can tell the girls what it takes to actually care for the animal.  And, then, next week she can be at the head of the line when we all get on a horse for the first time.  She’ll be our expert.”

That mother sobbed as she tried to say thank you on the phone.

I’m glad that I never read that rule book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What’s That?

You remember those baby books?  Almost every mother I know……………feels deep guilt about the almost empty pages.  We shouldn’t you know.  We were so busy being mothers…………and trying to grab a few minutes of sleep now and then………..there wasn’t much time for writing in baby books.

I have two children.  They were born 3 1/2 years apart.  Their baby books are sparse.  I jotted things down now and then.  All I can say is that I didn’t play favorites.  I was bad at documentation with the first …………….and the second.

I did mark down “first word” in both books.  My daughter’s first word besides Mama and Dada was “Moo”.  The girl loved cows.  We lived in the country.  She saw many cows out the car window.  She’d point and say “Moo” so often…………….I actually remembered to write it down in her baby book.

My son was a late talker.  Oh, he could do it.  His vocal chords were working just fine.  But, he had a big sister.  She did all the talking for him.

They’d be playing in the back yard.  I’d be watching out the kitchen window while I made them a sandwich for lunch.  The baby boy would be crying about something in the sand box.

My daughter would march into the kitchen.  She’d put her hands on her hips.  Point her finger in my face and say “My baby is out there crying.  Do something about it!”

She’s always been a little bit bossy.  We love that about her.

The notation in my son’s baby book under first word is “He started with full sentences.  And, it was usually a complaint to management.”

This made me laugh like hell when I came across it in my hope chest.  I remember those days.  I despaired of ever hearing my son’s voice.

But……………….then one night…………..he crawled over the railing of his crib that he was outgrowing.  He belly flopped down two sets of stairs………..he walked up to his mother and father in front of the television.

His first words were “I’m trying to sleep up there, people!  Does this TV really have to be on this loud?”

Who knew?  He was great with words.  He eventually earned a ‘Professional Writing’ degree in college.

I have no idea what my husband’s first words were.  I’ll have to ask his mother.  I can picture her reaction right now.  She’ll cross her eyes at me.  She’ll purse her lips really hard.  She’ll try very hard to remember.  She’ll fail.

She’ll feel the guilt I feel for not filling in that baby book.

I was the third of three children.  My mother felt no guilt when she gave me my mostly empty baby book.

“You’re lucky I even remembered your name every day.  Your brothers were a handful.  There are a few photos in there of you as a baby……………….I think they might be photos of you…………….oh, I don’t know.  For God’s sake.  You all looked alike when you were babies.”  she said.

My mother was like that.  We loved that about her.

Now………….my first words.

I had a favorite uncle when I was a kid.  I had a lot of nice uncles but this one lived the closest.  His wife and my mother were best friends.  I saw the most of him.

My father complained to me that my favorite uncle was a “Baby Hog.”

“What?” I asked my father.

“Your mother and auntie spent every minute together when we men were working.  And, when we weren’t working?  Your auntie and uncle were at our house on weekends.  Cookouts.  Card games.  Horse shoes.  He helped me build that garage.  Auntie and Mom painted every room.  They sewed curtains.  Joined at the hip.  And, your uncle.  He was a baby hog.” he explained all those years later.

“I worked sixty hours a week.  On a Saturday I wanted to hold you.  My beautiful little baby girl.  I finally had a girl.  But, no, your uncle wouldn’t let go of you.  He’d walk around the house and point to things and say “What’s that?” to you.  He’d point to a picture on the wall and say “What’s that?” and then he’d say “That’s a picture on the wall.”   On and on and on.  He wouldn’t give you up.  He was a baby hog.” my father said in disgust.

“Your first words were ‘What’s that?’  Pissed me off to no end.” my father said in a grumpy voice.

My father could be grumpy about stuff like that.  We loved that about him.

My little family was visiting at my parent’s camp in Vermont.  The kids were little.  My son was in a high chair.  He was given the last piece of cake.  It was vanilla with raspberry jam between the layers.  He had napped through cake time and we had saved him a piece.

My aunt and uncle came through the door.  A surprise visit.  They sat down to have a little something to eat after their long drive.

My uncle was now a diabetic.  I had been told this.  I was also told that he was a dieticians nightmare.  He was cheating all the time with the sweets and driving my auntie crazy with it.

I had my back to the table.  I made extra sandwiches.  I cut up fruit into a salad.  I didn’t add sugar to the fruit.  I knew Uncle couldn’t handle sugar anymore.  I hoped that the seasonal fruit was sweet enough without it.

I was in the cupboard looking for another bag of chips when I heard my uncle talking to my baby son.

“That’s a pretty piece of cake.  That’s too much cake for a little boy like you, isn’t it?  You’re probably too full of strained prunes or baby food peas to eat much cake.” Uncle said in a sing song voice.

Uh oh!

I turned around in time to watch my uncle play “What’s that?” with my son.

Uncle pointed his finger toward the window and said in an overly dramatic voice “What’s that?”

The baby followed the direction of the finger and stared at the window.

While my uncle stole the cake from the tray of the high chair.

Yes, my uncle would steal cake from a baby.  We loved that about him.

The baby turned around and looked at his empty tray in confusion.

That piece of jelly cake had just turned into a lone pretzel.

“Oh, boy!  A pretzel!  Yum, yum, yum!  You go ahead , whatever your name is…………you eat your pretzel!  Yum, yum, yum!” my uncle said to the cakeless baby.

My auntie went to say something.  I waved my hand to shut her up.  My father leaned back in his chair and put a hand over his smile.

Daddy was going to let me handle this.  He knew I could be tricky.  He loved that about me.

I walked up to my uncle and said “Uncle!  What’s that?  What’s that?  Do you hear that?  What’s that?  Is that your car alarm going off?  Don’t you hear that?  Oh, my God!  Are you going deaf?  You really don’t hear that?”

Uncle jumped up and went to the camp’s porch to stare at his shiny almost new car.

He couldn’t hear anything.  Everything looked okay out there.

He came back to the table and found my son eating the last piece of cake.  His little fists were full of it.  He had raspberry jam up his nose and between his toes in a half a minute.

My uncle looked down at his place at the table.  He was looking at a bowl of fruit salad.  Unadorned fruit salad.  No sugar.  No whipped cream.  No vanilla ice cream.  Nothing.

“What’s that?” he asked forlornly.

 

 

 

 

 

War With Words

I’ve never been a gossip.  I’ve never stabbed anyone in the back.  I’ve never gotten my own way by repeating something I should have never heard in the first place.  I never used this kind of information for my own good.

Okay……………..well……………..except, for that one time.

I was a quiet little girl.  I wasn’t shy.  I was quiet.  I was taking it all in.  I was remembering.  I noticed things.  I remembered words.  I asked what they meant.  I learned to read early so I could look things up for myself.

I remember being a baby in the crib.  I remember wondering why my parents couldn’t understand what I was saying to them.  I watched the mobile of circus animals spin over my head.  My eyes grew heavy watching colorful things spin round and round.  I told myself that soon………………soon, my people would be able to understand what I said to them.

I think I was born knowing that words have power.

My parents bought their home in 1951.  They were the proud new owners of a brand new Cape Cod house in a subdivision of Cape Cod houses.  A fleet of moving vans arrived day after day when those houses were completed.  The new houses were full of people just like my parents.

Their new house came complete with a street full of new friends.

The ladies in the houses didn’t go out to work.  That wasn’t heard of in the late fifties and early sixties.  They decorated.  They cleaned.  They threw kids out the door to play.

The ladies of the street became good friends with each other.  They drank tea.  They ate cookies.  The men of the street went to work and heard all about the rest of it over dinner.

I came along a few years later.  Life on Columbus Street was settled by then.  Friendships were steadfast.  Lawns were established.  Trees and flowering bushes were now young adults.  Hammers rang throughout the neighborhood as garages were erected.  Swing sets squeaked in back yards.  2x4s were banged together and became sand boxes.  Flimsy kiddie pools came and went on the blacktopped driveways.

I was happy growing up there.  Every mother watched over me.  Phone numbers were memorized and those phones rang off the hook when any kid caused any kind of trouble.  That phrase “It takes a Village to raise a child.”……………..oh, I understand that phrase.

I took tap dancing lessons when I was six years old.  My mother decided that I was shy.  She didn’t want me to be a “wall flower”.  Mom figured dance lessons would bring something out in me that I was lacking.

Yeah, I don’t know what she was thinking.

Moms hung out against the back wall during some of those dance classes.  I suppose it didn’t make sense to go home and back again in the hour that was allotted.  My mother met foreign mothers there.

Mothers that didn’t live on Columbus Street.

One woman’s vivacious chat caught Mom’s fancy.  Mom liked the outfits she wore.  “You can tell she only has one kid and a charge card by the way she dresses.” Mom told my father when she described her.  My father grunted just like he always did when he heard the words ‘charge card” used in a sentence.

“She lives two streets over, but you’d think she comes from a different world.  She has the sweetest accent.  Her clothes are to die for.  I don’t think she even owns an apron.  She has a clothes dryer ; can you imagine?  A machine that dries her clothes.  She’s not Catholic but I guess I can get over that.  Her little girl is Darlene’s age, but she’s two grades ahead of her.  She’s so smart that she’s skipped two grades!” my mother prattled on at dinner.

My father chewed and tried to pretend he was listening.  My mother had lost him at ‘charge card” and ‘dryer’.

I was listening.  Mom was using words after all.  I can’t ignore words.

This little girl that had skipped two grades sounded like a Grade A pain in the ……………to me.

“This little super girl is in my dance class?” I asked as I stabbed another sausage onto my plate.

“She’s the girl with the pixie cut.  Her hair is black and she was wearing all pink.  The rest of you were told to buy a black leotard………………I wonder why she’s in pink.  But, she’s a very pretty little girl all in pink.” my mother said as she took the extra sausage away from me.

She put it on Daddy’s plate.  He stabbed it and put it back onto my plate.

“Let’s see, Mom.  Why does a girl dress in pink when she’s told to wear black……………….um, to be noticed?  To be different?  To prove that she’s two grades ahead of the rest of us?” I asked.

I mean, come on!  It was obvious to me.  Not, to my mother.

“Oh, don’t be silly.” she said to me. “You weren’t put on this earth to judge.  You are here to be happy.”

She split that last sausage with me.  I didn’t judge but I would have been happier if she’d left that whole link to me.

The next few weeks found this new lady and her little girl dropping by quite often.  My mother wasn’t available to have tea with her real friends.  She was entertaining the new folks.

They never called.  They just dropped in like “real friends”.

One day they caught us in a mess.  I had The Three Stooges on and was intent on eating a whole bag of Hershey Kisses.  My mother was having a fit in the living room.  Her vacuum cleaner bag had exploded dust all over everything.  She had torn her mother’s Irish lace curtains from the rods.

She was soaking them in the kitchen sink full of Downy suds and warm water.  She deemed the washing machine’s “gentle” cycle too rough for her mother’s curtains.

Mom tried to entertain the new lady in her kitchen as her living room was a dusty mess.  She filled her tea kettle in a sink full of curtains.  She popped open a can of store bought cookies.  She chatted with the other woman while I tried to entertain Little Miss Perfect in the den.

“You’re allowed to watch The Three Stooges? That is just wrong!  They are a good example of everything that was wrong with the old Vaudeville days.  They promote violence and bad taste.  Your toys are a mess!  Why are your coloring books all mixed up with dolls and puzzles.  We can’t begin to play until we straighten up this mess.” the little pink girl scolded me.

I sat back and ate Hershey Kisses while Curly, Larry and Moe poked each other in the eyes.  The little interloper cleaned and straightened out all of my toys.

Then, she actually turned off the television.

“I think we should color.  And, we don’t need the distraction of those grown up idiots.” I was instructed by this little girl that was two grades ahead of me.  “Put away that new box of crayons.  We do not use new crayons when we need to use up all these broken bits.  And, you don’t color like that.  Scribbling away.  You outline each part of the drawing.  The wax from the crayon helps you stay in the lines.  Where did you learn to color?”

She was no fun.  I could tell from a mile away that she didn’t live on Columbus Street.

I had enough of this little bossy thing.  My mother had about another week of trying with the perfectly coiffed mother.

I got around you see.  Every mother on Columbus Street was my other mother.  I got cookies, Kool-aid, band-aids, kisses and hugs from every woman on that street.  I talked to those ladies.  I asked them how they were doing.  They usually just laughed, grabbed my face and kissed me but sometimes they answered.

They were trying to warn my mother in their own way when they talked to me.

“So, your mother’s new friend……………from two streets over.  She’s been dropping in on all of us.  Did your Mom’s vacuum cleaner really blow up?  She could have borrowed mine.  Is your washing machine not working?  I heard she was washing curtains in the kitchen sink.  Tell your mother that I’ll wash them for her.  Is your oven broken too?  I hear your mom is actually serving cookies from a store bought tin.   Don’t listen to certain people, Darlene.  I’m sure you take good care of your toys.  I’ve always thought you were very good at coloring.  You do things your way.  I would use the new crayons if I were you.  And, I’ve seen you dance honey.  You don’t have two left feet.” was reported to me by all the Columbus Street Moms.

Then it got worse.

Saturday morning came.  I was in my favorite corner of the beat up sofa in the den.  We called the den the “Junky Room”…………that should tell you about the condition of the furnishings in there.

My mother walked in and took the bag of Hershey Kisses out of my hands.  She replaced it with an apple.  She snapped off the TV.

“No more Three Stooges for you.  They promote violence and are just plain stupid.  Next thing I know you’ll be poking your friends in the eyes with sticks.  Kicking footballs off their heads.  Throwing them down the stairs.  Take your apple.  Go outside and get some air.” she said as she sauntered out of the room.

This was now……………….war.

Don’t mess with my chocolate.  Don’t mess with my Stooges.

My strategy was clear.  In times of war?  Use what you have.

I had words.

“Mom?” I said as I bit into the apple.  “Mrs. S next door says that every one up and down the street has been getting surprise visits from your new best friend.”

“Oh?” my mother replied as she threw my Hershey Kisses into the cupboard that I couldn’t reach.

“Yup.  Mrs. S says that she’s heard your living room is a dusty mess.  If your vacuum cleaner is broken you can borrow hers.” I said as I gagged a little on an apple peel.

“What?” asked my mother.

“Yup………….and if your washing machine is broken Mrs. L says she will wash your curtains for you.  Her gentle cycle is really gentle.  She said it must be so hard trying to get them really clean in the kitchen sink.”  I added.

“Oh, dear, God!” my mother replied.

“Yup…………and Mrs. H says that store bought cookies aren’t bad.  She cooks dinner at five.  You can always use her stove before or after that if ours is broken.” I added.

Then I brought out the big guns.  I know my mother didn’t think I was perfect.  But, she was a fan of mine.  She always stuck up for me.

“And, well………..” I said with a believable sob…………”I know those dance lessons are wasted on me.  I know there are much better things you should be spending your money on.  I like my black leotard…………..sob……………but, I know I have two left feet.  Maybe you could use that money to buy more sausages.”

I knew I had her with the words “two left feet.”

I’ve never been a gossip.  I’ve never stabbed anyone in the back.  I’ve never gotten my own way by repeating something I should have never heard in the first place.  I never used this kind of information for my own good.

But, like I said……………………this was ……………..war.

I sat down at the kitchen table and gnawed that apple down to the core.  My mother sat across from me……………..just staring over my head………………thinking her own thoughts.  I gnawed some more.  I was down to seeds when Mom took action.

She picked up the phone off of the kitchen wall.  She punched in some numbers with considerable force.

The perfect lady with the sweet accent didn’t even get to say “Hello”.

“Who the hell do you think you are?  Walking up and down Columbus Street…………..sipping tea……………and trying to poison my friends against me.  Oh, you turned my head for a good five minutes…… you….. you viper.  I can’t be bothered discussing everything you’ve been saying about me behind my back.  But, I will tell you one thing.  My daughter doesn’t have two left feet.  And, another thing.  Do your kid a favor.  Buy her a black leotard like the rest of them.  Dressing her in pink just shows her up as the spoiled little thing that she is.”  my mother said into her Princess extension.

She banged that phone against the wall.

“That’s called taking out the trash, Little Girl.” she said as she went to the kitchen cupboard.

“Taking out the trash.” I repeated because I love words.

Mom took me by the shoulders and sat me down in my favorite corner of the Junky Room.  She turned on the TV just as Curly was about to walk under a ladder.  Moe was standing on the top rung holding two cans of paint.

Mom dumped a half a bag of Hershey Kisses into my lap before leaving the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Little Girl In Church

My mother was a stay at home mother with three children to watch.  My father worked and brought home a pay check.  He took care of the cars and shoveled snow.  He drove us wherever we needed to go because my mother didn’t drive.

My mother took care of everything else.

She was totally immersed in bringing up her children.  That meant cooking.  Laundry.  Homework.  Mending and ironing clothing.  Helping with science projects and dioramas of dinosaurs.  She supervised the Sears Wish Book and letters written to Santa Claus.

She was present.  She was a little bit good at everything.  She was a wonderful mother.

My mother was no pushover.  She didn’t think that her three children were royalty.  She expected good behavior but didn’t go nuts when one of us got into a little spot of trouble.  She loved us with all her heart but she didn’t worship us.

She saved that for church.

The Catholic religion was very important to her.  She said her prayers.  She burned candles and said her rosary every night.  According to her…………she had her own personal hot line to the Virgin Mary.  Mother to mother.

I believed her.  I still believe her.

I was a squirmy child in church.  I had good reason.  The pews were hard.  The incense made me sneeze and my nose run.  I wasn’t allowed to turn around and look at the choir in the loft.  Eyes straight ahead.

“Quit twitching!” my mother would hiss down at me.

Twitching was squirming to an alarming degree.  Twitching happened when I was dressed up like a doll for church.  My sturdy school clothing made from soft cotton was exchanged for dresses with crinoline under the skirts for church.

There is nothing itchier.  Crinolines made my skin red.  Rashes erupted.  My mother never deemed the crinolines at fault.  It was all because I had twitched and squirmed.

My father was a devout Catholic.  He didn’t start out that way.  He was some kind of protestant from northern Maine.  He fell in love with my mother.  A Catholic girl from Massachusetts.  He asked her to marry him.

She said no.

“Why?” he asked.  “You know how much I love you.  I think you love me just as much.  Your family likes me.  Your mother and father ………….your brothers and sisters.  Even the dog likes me.  Why won’t you marry me?”

“You’re not Catholic.” she replied.

Daddy became a Catholic.

The twitching and squirming were getting me into all kinds of trouble on Sundays.  The kind of trouble where my parents were “disappointed in me”.  They never said it out loud.  They said it with their eyes and mannerisms.  They were pretty quiet with me on Sunday afternoons.

Let’s get this straight……….right this very minute………..I wasn’t a little heathen.  I was in physical discomfort.

I did alright in catechism class.  I brought a sharpened pencil.  I listened to the nun.  I tried to memorize the ten commandments in order…………I never got it right……….but, hey!  There were ten of them and that’s a lot for a seven year old to remember.

But, there was one other big problem in church.  Catechism was taught in English……..which happens to be the only language I speak.

Mass was said in Latin.

An hour of a man in robes talking in a language I didn’t understand.  Itchy clothing.  No gum.  No candy.  No story books allowed……..not even my Little Golden Book of Prayers made it into my little girl purse.

One Sunday I had had enough.  I was being poked by a parent on either side of me.  My legs were on fire from the scratchy nylon of my poofy slip.  I was bored.  I was tired of being a big disappointment by just being me.

I had it up to here with listening to another language……………….I was tired of feeling like a little alien sitting between my mother and father.

I just said it out loud……………..right where I sat……………on a pew…………….in that church full of half asleep people.

“Why won’t you just say it in English so I can understand?” I said in an overly loud whisper.

I didn’t scream it.  I didn’t yell.  But, that whisper was heard.  By my parents.  By the people sitting all around us.  One brother whispered “Oh, my God!”

My mother’s face got red.  My father stopped breathing for a half a minute.

And, then it got worse.

The priest stopped talking because he had heard me too.

He left the altar.  He walked down the center aisle and stopped right next to our pew.

My mother dug her fingers into my arm.  My father stiffened up like a statue.

Oh, boy!  Am I going to get it when I get home I thought.

The priest looked at me and he raised his hands and his voice for the whole church to hear.

“Out of the mouth of babes, folks!  I don’t know if you heard what this beautiful little child of God just said………………so, I will repeat it for you.  She just said “Why won’t you just say it in English, so I can understand!” the priest said as he smiled down upon me.

“This beautiful little girl…………the one that tries so hard to learn her commandments in the right order……………..this lovely child that says “God Bless you, Father” every time she sees me…………….has a complaint.  She wants me to speak to her in a language that she understands” he went on.

“Well, sweetheart………….I have something to tell you.  Many adults don’t like change.  The mass has been said in Latin………….well, forever.  This upsets so many of the grownups here……………. because a change is coming.  Why?  Because, the Pope has heard little children like you.  He has heard and he has responded.” he said as he leaned in and messed up my hair.

“Guess what?  When you come to church next week………………you are going to understand every word I say.  The mass will be said in English.  If you were a little girl in France?  It would be said in French.  If you were a little girl in church in Italy?  It would be said in Italian.”  he explained to me.

He said it to me but, he was speaking to every person in that church.  Especially, the ones that don’t like change.

He leaned over my mother and cupped my face in his hands.

“Now, no more squirming.” Father said with a smile before he made his way back to the altar.

My parents were breathing normally again.  My mother actually beamed down at me.

We got home.  Daddy started pulling things out of the refrigerator.  He was going to help my mother make the pot roast.

“So, the Pope’s favorite……………get upstairs and change out of your church clothes.” my mother ordered me.

I was seven years old.  Santa Claus brought me what I wrote on my list.  A priest had just told me that the Pope in Rome was going to make another wish come true.

I was on a roll.

“After dinner…………….will you teach me how to say the rosary, Mom?  I need to speak with the Virgin Mary.” I said to my mother earnestly.

She swayed a little……………..it was like a mini swoon.  I don’t think I ever made that woman that happy again.

My father came out from the refrigerator with a bag of carrots in his hands.  Good thing he was already on his knees from ferreting around in the vegetable drawer.  His legs would have gone weak too.

“Of course!  I’d love to teach you how to say the rosary…………..for the twentieth time………….what’s come over you, Little Girl?” my mother asked as my father straightened up.

They were both anticipating my answer.

“I need to talk to The Blessed Mother.  I mean you won’t listen, Mom.  She’s like the mother of all mothers right?  You talk to her all the time.  Maybe, you could introduce us?  Maybe you’ll listen to her?  A priest!  A priest just asked me to stop squirming!  I need to talk to Mary about these crinolines.   I just can’t take it anymore.” I said as I lifted my skirts to show my parents the angry red skin on my legs.

My prayers were answered that day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Story Time

Story time was my favorite part of the day in grammar school.  I read quite beyond my grade level.  I was often called upon by the teacher to read out loud to my classmates.  This was so teacher could spend that twenty minutes catching up on grading papers.

I was a willing volunteer.

The only problem……it cut into my gum chewing time.

Oh, we’d all figured it out.  You unwrapped your forbidden candy during a noisy part of a class.  You stashed it in a corner of your shoe box desk drawer.  When teacher was busy reading with her eyes stuck in a book……………you popped it in your mouth.  You stopped sucking or chewing if she lifted her eyes from the page.

Good timing was imperative if the teacher was reading a book with illustrations.  She’d look up quite often……….turn the book around so that we could all see the pictures of kids climbing trees……………..baskets full of kittens.  Tom Sawyer suckering all his friends into painting that fence for him.

Teacher wasn’t stupid.  She realized that every time she read out loud the air was scented……….with fruit and mint …………a hint of chocolate.

She caught me a couple of times with gum in my mouth.  Each time she’d pick up the metal trash can next to her desk.  She’d hold it out towards me.  She’d watch as I spit the gum out into the can.

She said the same thing every time she caught me.  “Miss Anderson?  Did you bring enough gum for the entire class?  If not………………………spit it.”

Then she’d warn the rest of them.  The ones she hadn’t caught out yet.

“If you stick gum to the bottom of your desk?  I will hunt you down.  You will spend all of July helping the custodians scrape the bottom of desks.  It’s a disgusting job.  Someone has to do it.  It could be you!”  she would warn.

That’s when quite a few of the boys in the room would swallow their gum.  On purpose.

Valentine’s Day was upon us.  My Daddy took me to the store to pick out a package of Valentines to give to my classmates.  That year they were even selling colorful little cards with cheap lollipops attached.

I wasn’t falling for that.  I knew inferior candy when I saw it.  Pretty colors but no flavor.  But, I liked the idea.  A card and a little something to gnaw on.  In school.  Where it was forbidden.

I talked my father into buying enough gum for the entire class.  He used it as an example of division or multiplication.  How many kids in the class?  How many pieces of gum in that package……………….Daddy always turned things into lessons.  Especially math lessons.  He did actually look at my report card after all.

Daddy had no idea that gum was forbidden in school.   I think I forgot to tell him that part on purpose.  I may have even felt a little guilty about it.  For about two minutes.

Valentine’s Day came.  Our desks were ablaze with streamers of red, pink and white.  We each had a decorated folder taped to the front of our desks awaiting the arrival of cards from our classmates.  Cupcakes were served by home room mothers.  Red punch stained our teeth and tongues.

We wore newspaper pirate hats decorated with hearts and sparkles.  Teacher had us in a lively spelling bee ………….we were spelling words like romance, cupid, forever and of course Valentine.

Then it was story time.  24 children full of sugar were going to be so much fun to read to.  Teacher knew that.  That’s why she asked me to do the reading “With style and voices.  Give us a little dance if you’re so inclined.” she said to me as she popped the last bite of a cupcake into her mouth.

That’s when she noticed I was chewing.

She stuck out the trash can.  She pointed.  And, she said it.  Exactly as I had scripted in my head.

“Miss Anderson!  Did you bring enough gum for the entire class?  If not……………then, spit it!”

I could tell by the look on her face she was not expecting me to say “Why, yes!  I did.  I brought enough for the whole class.  I even have a piece for you, Teacher.”

She put the trash can down.  She never stopped staring me in the eyes the whole time she did that.

“Pass out your gum then, Darlene.  It is Valentine’s Day after all.  You don’t get one though.  Readers should not chew gum.  Disgusting.  But, the rest of us will enjoy chewing like cows the whole time you read.  And, when you’re done reading…………….every one will line up at this can and give me a good spit.  You got it, Class?” she said as the redness almost left her face.

“Got it!” they all chirped at us.

So, I read after passing out sticks of Juicy Fruit.  I did voices.  I got lively.  As lively as I could make Little Women.   24 mouths chewed at me.  Teacher let me read two chapters as her eyes glanced at the clock.  It was almost time for the last bell to ring.  Almost time to send sugar filled children home to their mothers.

“Thank you, Darlene.  That was very nice.  I doubt very much they did any dancing around the bed during the big death scene…………….but, thanks for lightening that up for us.  Five minutes until the end of the day, children.  Line up.  Spit!  Collect your Valentine’s.  Put on your boots and don’t forget your mittens. ” she said as she got the kids moving.

“You stay put.” she said to me.

The last bell rang.  Kids spilled out of the room dropping mittens and Valentines all down the hallway.

Okay.  It’s not the first time I had to stay after school to discuss gum………..and Lifesavers……….even candy canes.

Teacher sat back down at her desk.  She did the tee pee with the fingers of her hands.  She may have been praying for God to give her strength.  I don’t know.  She did that hand gesture a lot while talking to me.  Sometimes she even used the hands to try to stop herself from smiling or laughing.

I’d seen my father do that with me my whole life.  I recognized the gestures.

“It seems you are a “literal” person, Darlene.  I was going to say “wiseas…..” but I don’t think that’s in the dictionary.  Tonight you look up literal.  What it means to take things literally.  And, you write that definition out for me five times.  In your best penmanship.  In ink.’

“Let me put this to you in a way you will understand.  The rule about gum……………..there will be no more gum in my classroom.  Do you understand that?  I don’t care if you bring enough for the whole school.  The whole town.  No  More Gum!” she ordered.

I went to say something.  She put up her hand and stopped me.

“One more piece of gum…………in my classroom……………chewed by you…………..I will get your parents involved.” she was almost finished.

“Now, go home and chew on that my little friend.”