THE EARLY YEARS

 

As far back as I can remember, my grandma was always there.  We called her Nanny, she loved us so much.  This was the beginning, the first of many lives to come.  I was two years old when my brother was born.  I don’t remember much of that but from looking at pictures; I am guessing I found him to be a great toy.

Come in here now and drink your eggnog my mother shouted across the relatively small Long Island house.  In the shaker she put 2 raw eggs and milk. Now drink up, this will make you strong and healthy.  Oh my god how slimy and disgusting the taste was.  It made me gag as it slipped down my throat.  Does everyone really have to drink eggnog?  It must be some kind of torture or secret potion no one else knows about except my mother.

Many times during dinner she would have to get up to talk on the phone. The telephone was in her bedroom.  She would lie across the bed and talk for hours, all the while doodling on the telephone book. The book was completely covered with all sorts of geometrics, sketches, dots and stars.  So worn through with all her creativity the paper was wearing thin.  Very often the food was disgusting.  Some type of silver fish with big bulging eyes, which I had watched her cut the heads off, that part was great fun.  After the phone call she would be going out again that night.  She would get dressed and go pick up her friends.  A night of chatter and drinking would follow, with all her best friends.

One time one of those friends moved in with her little boy.  He shared the bed with my brother and the two of them often got into all kinds of trouble.  I took the heat for them more than once.  One morning I was awakened by the sounds of giggling and laughter.  As I approached the hallway I could see the two of them stirring a pot on the floor filled with powdered chocolate pudding and milk.  Slopping it all over the rugs and wooden floors, in horror I stood frozen.  The first sound of my mother coming sent me into action…get out of here you two let me clean it up so Mommy doesn’t get mad.  That was my mistake, while they slid into their bed like they had been sleeping all along my mother walked out to find me and this big pudding mess all over the floor.  Those wooden paddles with the little balls on them were fun to play with and Mommy used them to spank us, I was spanked often with those paddles.   I don’t know how long they stayed with us, but chances are it helped my Mom with the rent and food and I’m sure having her friend around was comforting to her.  Sometimes she seemed lost so friends probably helped with that.

Before that we lived with my brother’s father.  She married him and my brother Tom was born 2 years after me.  My stepfathers name was Joe and I do not have any memories of him other than when he threw me down a flight of stairs.  That night he and my mother were in the other room watching TV and he was drinking beer.  My baby brother Tommy was in his crib and in the same room I was laying still in a small twin bed or maybe a cot.  Joe yelled into the room for me to be quiet.  That puzzled me because I wasn’t making a sound, it was Tommy doing all the crying and whining.  Again, his loud angry voice shouted for me to stop crying and go to sleep.  As Tommy continued to cry I was whispering for him to be quiet. That is when Joe came into the room picked me up by my hair and threw me down the flight of stairs that lead to the front door, all the while yelling “I told you to BE QUIET” as I tumbled down the stairs; head over feet.  It was a fall night when I finally hit the bottom of the stairs on the landing; I just lay there crying.  He came running down the stairs, stepped over me and out he went. Through the front door with my mother right on his tail.  She told me to go back upstairs and ran after him.  He wasn’t around much longer after that.  They had changed my last name to match his but once he was gone they changed it back.  I was glad he was gone though I never knew what happen to him.  To this day my brother nor I have any idea what happen to him.  For my brother it’s sad because he has never had a relationship with him.  We have never really had any male figure in our lives.  My father left before my mother gave birth to me.  To my knowledge I have never met him.

She had a boyfriend now, Skippy who lived behind us.  Our backyard touched his and he lived with his parents. They were a happy Italian family, which we spent every Sunday with.  Our whole neighborhood was Italian with fancy Italian names like Sarinario , DiEsso and LasAtosta.  Our names were very different and everyone in our house had a different last name, not one of which sounded even close to anything Italian, it was evident even to such a young mind that we were different.  Sundays were very special in the neighborhood.  The neighbors all got together and cooked up a huge Italian feast.  Tomato sauce with pig’s feet and homemade ravioli stuffed with meat and cheese.  Oh there were meatballs to die for and sausage too, but the best part was the pig’s feet, a real delicacy.   Most often Aunt Rosie and Uncle Pappy (Skippy’s parents) would let me press out the ravioli with a glass against the pastry.  I was very proud to be included in the weekly traditional feast.  The cooking would go on all day and climax early in the evening with everyone having a bowl of ravioli and sauce.  All those delicious calories and carbohydrates always brought about a full, comfortable and tired feeling that all enjoyed.  The television would be put on and all would settle in.  Before we knew it bedtime had come in a sleepy haze.

Grandpa would come over and pick me up sometimes so I could visit with him and Aunt Dot.  She was his wife but not my grandmother so she didn’t want to be called grandma.  She said she was too young for that.  Mommy and Grandpa didn’t really like each other.  They fought all the time and mommy often hung up on grandpa when he would call on the phone.  I never knew why but it always made me feel bad.  Going over to grandpa’s house was usually a lot of fun.  They had a pool and I had gotten to know the kids down the street so I always had someone to play with.  Grandpa had a typewriter store in his basement where he repaired them.  I would sit for hours on end with him while he worked on the typewriters and adding machines I would sit at the desk right next to him and pretend I was a secretary and try to type and add.  To this day I remember “the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog”, the sentence that included all the letters of the alphabet.  He would encourage me and tell me I was doing great, it always made me feel good.  They never ever talked to me about my mother.  It was as if she just didn’t exist when I was over at their house visiting.  They had two sons, Jimmy and Gregory. Both of whom I called “uncle”.  It never really occurred to me that they were Joyce’s brothers, but they were.  Perhaps they were raised to be ‘distant’ to her, they were always that.  Jimmy was the older of the two and I didn’t see much of him.  Ahhh, but Gregory, he was my hero.  He was in the marching band at school and played all types of instruments.  He taught me many of them, the trombone and drums to name a few.  We would sit up in his room for hours on end playing these instruments.  Those were times I truly enjoyed, until Aunt Dot would make me come down and help with dinner. As I look back now, I wonder if he cherished those moments as much as I did or perhaps I was a nuisance five year old.  Either way, it never occurred to me that I was anything but his favorite cousin or niece or whatever I was.  It was never really clear to me who I was related to or who I really was.  That would haunt me for years to come.

At Grandpa’s house I usually had the time of my life.  They had an above ground swimming pool and a huge back yard. Often we would swim or play ball in the yard.  There were times when grandpa and Gregory would be in the pool with me and somewhere along the line they got the idea that it was really funny to hold me underwater and maybe for good measure tickle me.  At first I would laugh until the air and breath was gone, as I struggle to get air I vividly remember them laughing and dunking me under again. The moments seemed like eternity before I was able to get a quick breath of fresh air and would be dunked under again.  It seemed to go on for hours, though I’m sure it was only moments, I remember being terrified and thinking this is not funny. Finally, when I could get away I would jump out of the pool and be finished with ‘swimming’, they called me a sissy.  I suppose to be brave I should have remained to my last breath.

Sometimes my mother would put me in a taxi cab and I would travel all the way over to the next town to spend the weekend with my great grandmother.  My mother loved her and the feeling was always mutual, which was very obvious to everyone that cared enough to pay attention.  Going to her house was always exciting because most often it involved taking a train into the city and somewhere along the line riding on a subway.  My great grandmother was affectionately named “Nanny” by my brother and I, and lived in a big 3 story house where she rented a room from a woman she worked with.  She worked in the cafeteria at school and was good friends with all the cafeteria ladies.  Occasionally, one of her coworkers would come over and visit our house which was always strange because they were a different color than us.  I didn’t mind at all but Nanny would say “it made people talk” and I really never understood what that meant. They were all very nice ladies and they thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company, which was obvious, they were like a family of their own.  Later on, she retired from that job and came to live with us.  I don’t really know if she had to retire or it was just time.  She was a hard worker all her life and had withstood many difficult situations in her life.

The newspaper story title read “Man murdered by drifter he helped”.   The article told a story of a ‘young couple’ that had helped a young man during times of need.  The husband aided in his obtaining employment and the couple agreed he could stay at their house while he got back on his feet.  As both men went to work daily, the wife stayed home and cleaned, laundered and prepared meals.  It’s unknown to me how long he stayed with them but that was her first husband, Charlie Brown.   She was so good and already had so much sorrow in her young life.  An acquaintance told me the story and eventually I found the old newspaper article, folded with deep creases etched into the aged paper.  Decades had passed and much more sadness was to fill her life.  More sadness and struggle than one person should ever have to withstand.  More than most could endure.

Maybe some people are born to endure.  Just simply to endure.  If the possibility of that exists, she would have been the one to have been blessed with that plight.  Seems that is a special category reserved for only the caring and loving souls that are full of unconditional love and relentless strength.   Perhaps there is some type of invisible target on those persons that only life can see.  Her second marriage brought her two wonderful children Clement and Dorothy.  Dorothy was the eldest and passed away, as did that husband.  That left her to raise her son on her own until her third marriage.  Three marriages may be commonplace in the twenty first century but they were surely not in those days.  She was not a martyr or one to whine.  She did what she had to do, to do what she needed to do.  She always managed to get the job done and have a little extra to give to someone less fortunate, and never without a smile and a kind word.

My mother was one of Nanny’s biggest fans and I think it was mutual.  That always made me happy since my mother and her dad never got along.  It always seemed as though Nanny was her only family, at least the only one she would claim beside my brother and I and whoever she was married to or dating at the time.  She had a lot of girlfriends.  They would call and talk on the phone for hours on end.  While talking on the phone my mother would be draped sideways across her bed, all the while doodling on the telephone books and chewing gum blowing huge bubble and popping them, it always made me laugh.  There was hardly an empty space on any of the books with all the doodling.  My mother must have loved to draw because sometimes while playing up in the attic I would rummage through her things.  There was a huge old cedar chest that was filled with my mother’s most secret possessions.  Hours were spent by me going through each and everything like it was a rare find of a gem.  Often I would stumble across pencil and charcoal drawings done by my mother.  More often than not they were drawing of semi-nude women, with some type of fabric draped across their body as they sat with legs bent and head back.  Great detail went into the fabric and every shadow on these women.  My mother must have been very artistic and talented, none of which was passed onto me.  The women in these drawings were all very beautiful yet dark and obviously so alone.  That was my mother I would someday realize.

She often went out at night with her girlfriends or her boyfriend and my Nanny would come over and stay with Tommy and I.  That was such a great treat and with all the love she gave us, it felt very natural.  When mother was home and not on the telephone she would be in the kitchen cooking or maybe doing some type of craft.  She would sit for hours on end and do crafts of all kinds.  Vividly I remember making Styrofoam Christmas Balls with gems of all colors. Glistening and shining when the Christmas lights would be strung around them.  There was an entire city built under the Christmas tree. The city was focused around a train station with a train that wrapped around the tree and made various stops along the way.  City folk were all entrenched in their own drama as they hustled about in an attempt to get home to their loved ones and catch up on last minute Christmas rituals.  Almost twelve train cars all attached made their way around out Christmas tree, passing the bus stations, the trees and benches.  The whistle would blow and it was an amazing sight to see, especially through the eyes of a five year old little girl.   With each passing of the train, I admired my mother more for her ingenious sensibility of setting up the whole city.  She enjoyed it as much as we did.  The tracks and trains were all made of steel and the little benches on the side along with the bushes and trees and various buildings were never to fall, they were all built of heavy steel and placed carefully along the train route.   My mother was still a little girl inside.  She watched over her little train city with vigilance.  It often crosses my mind whether or not she watched over my brother and I with the same care.  I really don’t know.

Most often, it really did not matter because I’ve hung onto the times that I remember her being very protective of me.  One time in kindergarten my hand was slammed in the car door of the neighbors that brought me to school.  My fingers were flattened like pancakes and several of my fingernails were black and bleeding.  The pain was excruciating and I remember crying in school, it was early in the morning.  Sometime after lunch my mother arrived and yelled at the teacher for not calling her sooner to come get me.  I remember feeling cared for and loved even though I was hurting really bad.  I do not remember what happen when I left school with my mom but that never really mattered either, I knew I was loved and that was all that mattered.  I could have lost my hand I didn’t care.  I think I sought that feeling of being protected and loved all my life, just desiring the knowing sense that someone cared.  Actions always spoke louder than words.  Many words have been spoken over the years but very few actions.  Those that did display actions were always held dear in my heart.  The rest of my life would be spent searching for those small displays of affection.  Often overlooking the glaring negative behaviors a person exhibited and clinging to those small tidbits or deeds that meant I was loved and important.  That search for adoration was the driving force for the rest of my life in so many ways.

What is it that causes an innocent little girl the burden of always searching for affection, attention and love?  How does it develop in such a young mind the belief that you don’t matter and you are not good enough?  Are we born like that, I don’t think so.  When each of my own children were born I remember looking at them and knowing I was in the presence of an angel.  There was a sense of knowing with every fiber of my being that they were perfect exhibits of God’s love and presence.  There was never a doubt in my mind or soul.  These children like all the rest, were born perfect, innocent and pure.  They were as pure and clean as the driven snow that had fallen freshly on the ground.  Like the snow it doesn’t remain in that perfect state for very long.  Nature along will change the design of the way it had originally fallen.  Small animal footprints begin to litter the snow and the wind blows it in so many different directions. Then eventually that same beautiful, pure and innocent snow is besieged with footprints and debris.  After awhile you have to look very hard and very specifically to see the beauty of that same fallen snow.  Look up at the tree branches and remember how calm and peaceful that snow was.  Its essence is still present but somehow has been marred by life. It was changed in a way that will never return to its original state.

So as with the rest of nature, we change with each footprint that is left upon us. We are never to return to our original state.  Perhaps some footprints are deeper than others, some are careful while others are reckless and destructive. Thus, are the footprints left on our soul, in our mind and heart… changing us and shaping our vision of the world and of ourselves.  Some changes to our soul are so subtle that they are barely noticed, while others are drastic, life shifting, changing our perspectives forever. As the snowplow comes to “move” the snow from the streets it is pushed and swept to the side, so changing its original nature forever.  The snowplow operator is simply doing his job, not necessarily there to cause any damage but rather to assure safety to the masses.  In that simple act, even without his knowing he has changed the landscape in a way that it will never return.  As people enter each life, so changes the landscape of our lives.  Sometimes they may not even know they have become a part of what will be imprinted on us forever, they may be simply doing their job or living their life.