Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Once A Reader, Always A Reader

I recently moved and when getting the new house together, I went through photographs I hadn't seen for a while, trying to find some interesting ones for my walls.  Though a lot of them simply went back into the box to go into storage, there were several that inspired some fond memories.  One of them is of my oldest/best friend, Therese, and me, spread out on her front steps, books in our faces.

We probably were in third or fourth grade in the photo, judging by the length of our skinny legs.  Growing up, we both shared a love of books and though we grew up in the projects and spent a lot of time outside, we also read as many books as we could throughout the week (twice as much during the summertime).  I can pretty much guarantee that we were probably deep into a Nancy Drew book.  I would bet any amount of money that she and I read every single Bobbsey Twins and Nancy Drew book ever written.

Every time I went to my local library, I loaded up with the maximum number of books you could borrow, and I'd take a break from the walk home by stopping at my grandparents' house.  My grandmother lined her driveway with lilies, gladioli, daisies and pansies.  Her kitchen windows overlooked those colorful flowers, so I would sit there with my grandfather, eating one of our favorite snacks and talking about the books I'd just borrowed.  He didn't say much (wasn't much of a talker) but he listened to me tell him that I'd chosen some biographies of Annie Oakley or Amelia Earhart or that I'd been the first one to borrow the newest title in the Nancy Drew series.

No matter how hot it became, we sprawled on the concrete steps or took our books across the street to the city playground near our school.  I wonder now how we spent so much time in the sun, but we were there.  All day, every day.  By the middle of the summer, we'd be as brown as nuts and our hair lightened by at least three shades.

Looking back at those moments is always fun, but I never would have known at that moment that Therese and I would still be friends to this day and that we'd still be talking about books.  My house is full of books, at least one little pile of books-in-progress in each room, and these days, when Therese and I check in with each other, one of the first questions invariably asked is "what are you reading?"

I wonder sometimes whether children read as much as we did then.

What are your thoughts?


Saturday, June 2, 2012

Godmothers are stronger than the Godfather: Aunt Sis

When I was growing up, I had a lot of aunts.  Some were funny, some were worldly, some could dance, some were women of the world, but only one was my godmother.  Only one was truly Zen.  More peaceful than any other, more balanced and thoughtful.  Only one was my Aunt Sis.

Florence Gordon Bodvar, as my Aunt Sis was "officially" known, had been born a twin -- the second set that my grandmother, Laura Gordon, birthed.  Sis was the other half of Sis and Bud (Bud being my uncle, "officially" known as Donald Gordon).  I never really did get the whole "twin thing" when I was growing up, because Aunt Sis and Uncle Bud really didn't appear to be anything other than brother and sister.  In fact, my mother and my Aunt Sis appeared more likely to have that special connection twins have than my Aunt Sis and Uncle Bud did.  They didn't even really look alike.  Aunt Sis had a placid demeanor and expression.  Never a beauty, in the movie star sense of the word, Aunt Sis more closely resembled a nun, except when her rather dry sense of humor showed itself.  She dressed somberly, acted slowly and thoughtfully, and had a quiet way about her that brought peace to the room. 

Yes, she had a sense of humor.  Yes, it was obvious that she loved entertaining (a visit to her house never ended without coffee and cake on her best china, complete with porcelain cups and silver service set).  Yes, her home overflowed with antiques I didn't appreciate until I started dealing antiques myself when I was in my early thirties.  She never lost her temper, didn't yell at her three boys when we were around, and spent the latter part of her life carving for Uncle Ernie after a debilitating stroke without complaining.  I often wonder whether she simply held everything in check or whether she truly did feel the peace she exuded.  But with all of that came a sense of peace that I didn't notice in any of my other aunts.  Though she never practiced anything other than the Salvation Army Christianity her sister in law espoused, I think Aunt Sis would've been interested in my Buddhist beliefs and would have understood Zen quite easily. 

When I was born, my mother and father had chosen my Aunt Sis and Uncle Ernie as my godparents, and from the first memory I have of them, I knew that I was special in their eyes, and that was the way a child should feel around the people who would essentially take over if their own parents died.  I trusted them more than any other members of my family, even though they had three children of their own (Ernie, Carl and Wayne).  I knew that my Aunt Sis and I had a special connection, one she didn't share with my siblings or even with her own boys.  I was the daughter she never had, and I loved her with the same quiet devotion she showed me.

Aunt Sis lived in Malden, in a three-story Victorian at the top of a steep hill where you could hike up another steep hill to the top of what some would call a small mountain.  Hiking up that hill always gave me the feeling of breathlessness that I never felt even when striking out to walk all the streets in our two-square-mile expanse of Everett.  It was always an adventure to maneuver the small, rocky paths that led to the top of a promontory that overlooked the city of Malden and offered a view of Boston in the distance.  To me, it was a little scary to be up that high, yet it was that height I associated with visits to her house.

My mother teased her older sister that she learned from the Swedes (my uncle, his mother, and unmarried sister) about making coffee so strong that it would "put hair on your chest."  The way Aunt Sis brewed coffee seemed to require at least an hour of preparation and percolating and once it was done, Dad and Ma used all of the milk in the creamer to cut the "molasses" (as Dad called it).  I didn't drink Aunt Sis's coffee until after I married, but for years, I had the pleasure of choosing one of the dozens of tasty pastries she set out on porcelain plates for us kids to sample while the adults gossiped about their siblings and drank endless cups of coffee.

At Christmastime, we always visited her house, as we visited my Aunt Till, Aunt Jean and my grandmother, but trips to Aunt Sis's at Christmastime were quieter.  Her tree, decorated in wooden figurines from Sweden and glittering crystal ornaments, made me sit and stare in wonder.  The holiday season in my aunt's house seemed like it was being celebrated in another country.  None of her decorations or the way she celebrated the season seemed anything like what we had at home or remotely resembled the more modern decorations at Aunt Jean's house or the kid-oriented holiday we celebrated at Aunt Till's.  Even though Aunt Sis never told us to sit down or to fold my hands in my lap, it did seem that she expected our manners to be impeccable and that the parents/adults had earned the same respect we did -- matter the age;

There were times during special occasions at my mother's house that my Aunt Sis simply sat in a quiet corner, watching.  What she thought, I don't know, but I got the impression that she didn't need to listen to people gossiping and that she wouldn't lower herself to talking about others since she wasn't perfect herself.  It's weird, but I do believe that she had a better vision for the company she was working for then when the majority of my mother's family wouldn't have.

She had an abundance of love that she showered on those who needed it most (she had a fond spot for my first husband that no one else felt), and I remember that appreciation best.  I miss being able to tell her my secrets, miss her appreciation of me -- not expecting me to be anything other than who I was, and I miss the way she made me feel everything would be alright.  Out of all my aunts, I truly believe she was the strongest, though she seldom said more than ten words when she was among her siblings.  I do hope that I inherited some of her patience and subdued restraint, and if not, that I at least understood from her demeanor the way in which a woman can quietly control a room and influence those around her without raising her voice.


Monday, May 7, 2012

The Women of My Childhood: Thelma Crocker

I've decided to write about each of the people important to my childhood, starting with the women, then the men, then the children, and finally my parents.  I suspect that through each of these blogs will be woven other stories that depict what it was like growing up in the 50s/60s and that everyone will find something of themselves in the stories.  I'd love to hear about what connects with you.

There is no rhyme or reason about starting with Aunt Till (aka Thelma Crocker), except that she happened to come up in my mind as I was planning my next blog.

Aunt Till was the oldest of my aunts, and ironically, the most like my maternal grandmother.  I say ironically because, though she was my aunt, she was not born of my grandmother Laura Gordon.  Aunt Till's mother had died young, and when my grandfather met my grandmother, they took the children both had (my grandfather had my Aunt Till and my Uncle Ernest; my grandmother had my Uncle Jack) and blended the families . . . then had more children:  a set of twins who died very young, then another set of twins (my Uncle Bud ((Donald)) and my Aunt Sis ((Florence)), my Aunt Edie, then my mother (the youngest). 

Though I never really knew my grandmother Laura (she died when I was 7 months old), the pictures of her show a beaming, motherly woman, a bit chubby, though not obese, rimless spectacles on a softly-round nose, dark hair parted in the middle and pulled to a roll, dark shirtwaist dresses with buttons down the front, and black "sensible" shoes tied in a bow.  Aunt Till looked a lot like my grandmother, yet she didn't wear shirtwaist dresses . . . sensible shoes, yes, because she walked everywhere.  And I mean that literally.

When I was growing up, not a day went by that my mother and my Aunt Till either had a telephone conversation or met face-to-face at one of our houses for tea and cookies (while us kids ran in and out of the house, nesting on a lap, asking for cookies, telling on one of the cousins).  The connection between them was perhaps the strongest of any of my aunts, and I often wonder now if it's because Aunt Till had already had a houseful of kids when my mother started having us and offered plenty of timeworn advice about how to raise children successfully.  She seemed to do that with a great sense of humor and a lot of love. 

I have many memories of holidays at the Crocker household, days when the two-story duplex on Bucknam and Linden Streets rang with my cousins Butch and Donald running down the hallway shooting at each other--and me--with Roy Rogers pistols.  They were the closest to my age, but they were boys and less likely to play with me than they were to terrorize me.  During one of those visits, they roughhoused with me on the porch and one of them (I think it was Butch) inadvertently pushed me into my brother's carriage.  The pram was a large navy blue kind of carriage that had a brake on the front wheel.  Unlike the one picture below that has a safety stopper on the end, the brake on our carriage did not, and it was that brake I fell against.  The brake stabbed my upper thigh and an instant rush of blood soaked my shorts and spilled onto the porch floor.  Aunt Till and Mom lifted me atop the wringer washing machine in the pantry, sticking my legs in the sink where the blood made rivulets that circled down the drain.  Though they bandaged me tightly and got the blood to stop, they never took me to the doctor's, so I didn't have stitches and to this day, the two-inch scar is still visible.  Throughout the emergency, my Aunt Till calmly took control while my mother did a little bit of freaking out -- and neither one of them believed my cousins had anything to do with my fall.

There were many other events that happened at that household, most of which were happy.  Christmases were legendary -- a huge tree in the living room decorated with ornaments that each child in the family had made (Dottie, Barbara, Jim, Butch and Donald), noisy trains running the track around the base of the tree, what seemed like thousands of gifts piled beneath, and a happy chaos throughout the entire house.  Aunt Till, flush-faced and aproned, in the kitchen with her turkey and all the fixings, and once everything was ready, all of us crowded into the dining room to eat.  After a few years, us kids were relegated to a folding table set up in the living room (where an adult -- usually Dottie -- supervised and made sure we didn't kill each other).

Whenever Aunt Till was around, I could be assured that I wouldn't be punished by my mother.  Aunt Till was soft-hearted and loving, especially toward us, for some reason.  I distinctly remember a day when my mother was giving away some of my clothes, which I'm sure Aunt Till was bringing to a needy family, and I noticed that my favorite pair of shoes was in the package.  Foretelling times to come, I threw a hissy-fit that the shoes weren't going to be mine anymore (I still have a thing about shoes!  LOL.)  Aunt Till practically had to sneak out of the house with that bagful of clothes/shoes, and I thought for sure that she was laughing about it until years later when my mother told me that Aunt Till had actually been crying.  I know that soft heart was her most endearing trait.

And we all knew not to get her laughing!  She would giggle uncontrollably at Uncle Charlie (her husband) or my father (who knew how to tease her) or at something she and my mother found hysterical, and before too long, she'd squeal, "Stop!  Stop!  You're going to make me pee!"  And she'd have to take off her dress, wash it out and wear an old housecoat of my mother's until her clothes were dry enough to put on and go home.

When the kids were gone and Uncle Charlie moved her into a small apartment on Glendale Street, collecting salt and pepper shakers became her passion.  She lined shelves around the walls of each room with S&P shakers of every shape, size and description, from the Mammy ones that are now worth hundreds of dollars to pairs that came from every corner of the world.  Barbara (who traveled widely in the Air Force) and the many boys Aunt Till had befriended during the holidays when she opened her house to servicemen/women who wanted a homecooked meal would send her the shakers to celebrate every occasion.

Grandkids started coming, and still those Christmases exploded with gifts -- and somehow, she managed to still include us in her gift-giving, though she had what felt like hundreds of kids and grandkids of her own.  Her heart kept expanding with each new baby that came into the world -- and when I had my own, she became my babysitter for a while until her own health couldn't handle the daily routine of supervising a child.

There is not a time that I think of her that I fail to see a smile on her face or a quip from her lips.  She might have been small, like my grandmother, but she was feisty and funny and loving, and as I'm sure many of you who read this might realize, she is missed by all of those whose lives she touched.