Lee and Joanne

I first encountered her while doing laundry one afternoon, wordlessly, robotically, tending to our clothes. She taking them out of the dryer and me, placing them in. I can still recall that subterranean, no frills room, whose stark walls and dismal atmosphere would make the perfect backdrop for an Alfred Hitchcock horror film. That was, until the day I met Lee, and the mundane chore of doing laundry suddenly became a shade brighter.

She stood five feet tall and as the saying goes, appeared no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, but possessed a jauntiness that masked her slight frame. Her short white hair was cut in a blunt, bobbed style, and just grazed her chin. I loved her hair, so sleek, straight and perfect, like a Barbie doll’s and when she laughed, swung side to side. She wore a pair of dark, Jackie’ O style glasses which hid a pair of almond eyes, deep chestnut in color and if you looked close enough, reflected a life of both hardship and soul.  The few times I saw her with her glasses off, I recall how her eyes, often cold and suspicious, could change in an instant, and sparkle with delight when I told her a particularly funny story, of which I had many.

Though well into her late seventies, she possessed a youthful spirit, shuffling around the laundry room in her signature style; a pair of faded, Levi jeans cuffed at the ankle and flip flops embossed with daisies. I still remember Lee’s Flip Flops as she stood at the washer, arms teeming with clothes. Those tiny, yellow, delicate daisies in direct contrast to her fierce nature.

Before our friendship materialized, she cast an imposing and stoic figure frequently visible around the apartment complex where I noted with some dismay, she was often arguing with someone. And as I recall, always won. I vowed to keep my distance as I generally disliked confrontation.

But a shared love of the sea sparked a connection that was instant and a memory that remains, though Lee is long gone. She had admired a tee shirt I was folding, pure white in color with just one perfect, turquoise blue wave splashed boldly across its center amid the evocative words, “California Dreaming.” “I love the beach,” she told me.

Her fondness for the seashore was instilled as a young girl. Growing up her family had owned a small cottage on Breezy Point located on the western end of Jamaica Peninsula in Queens, NY. Lee had inherited the cottage after her parents died. She loved this getaway from the chaos of the city and would visit at every chance possible. She described a grueling journey involving a bus ride, followed by the subway, two transfers and a decent walk before she reached her final destination. Breezy Point! and paradise found, her port in the storm. I hailed from Long Island, home to the epic Jones Beach, just a stone’s throw away from my home. And like Lee, found any excuse to escape to the seashore which we visited in abandon as children, teenagers and young adults.

I was a young mother during my friendship with Lee and we would sit in the apartment complex’s playground, mid-afternoon, as my young son raced in and out of the sprinklers. Those green park benches, ubiquitous back in the day, though scratched and chipped with age, offered a simple comfort and I imagine, could tell countless stories of the many who sat there before us. And during those lovely, endless summer days, we talked of life. The ebbs and flows, the highs the lows.

Lee was married to Marty a kind and gentle man who worked as a Super in a nearby NYC building and who I had met only a handful of times.  Her only daughter Joanne, who lived with Lee and Marty on the ground floor of their two bedroom Stuyvesant Town apartment, often sat with us on the park bench contentedly. Her age, was unknown to me, as she could morph from six to thirty-six during the course of a simple conversation.

As my son sat happily in the playground’s sand box one bright and sunny afternoon, Lee shared with me one of her life’s most dark and secret tragedies, describing how Joanne as a young girl fifteen years prior, while home alone in their apartment, was attacked by a maintenance man she had innocently let into the apartment. I never knew, nor had the heart to ask, if the incident, which clearly left Joanne traumatized, caused her innocent, childlike behavior, and the reason she did not work or have an apartment of her own.

We eventually moved from my beloved “Stuy Town,” to the Connecticut suburbs leaving Lee, Joanne and those comforting green benches far behind. On the morning we were leaving, Joanne, bestowed to my toddler son as a parting gift, her beloved teddy bear, its knotted fur, bruised and worn no doubt from years of hugging it close. “I don’t need this anymore,” she said simply. “I want him to have it…” Lee, who sat on the bench watching intently, nodded wordlessly.

Lee and I, as if in mutual acceptance of our impending loss, never spoke in person again but continued to exchange Christmas cards, each year penning a special note of remembrance to each other.

One year I quoted a Charles Dickens passage in my card, recalling how she had loved him. It was from one of her favorite tales, “A Christmas Carol.” Lee replied shortly thereafter with a note of her own, penned in her typical hurried, but artistic script:

“Only you could find this beautiful quote. You were always different. Stay that way.”

I have kept that sentiment tucked away in my dresser drawer, forever special to me as a compliment from Lee, rare in occurrence, was a thing to be treasured. I knew this one, had come from the heart.

Ironically, it was Joanne not Lee who I kept up with after we moved away. Every two or three months I sent her notes or cards often containing photos of my two sons as they aged from toddler, to teen, to adulthood. I would choose bright and colorful cards adorned with owls which she loved, and write of our lives in Connecticut. She would reply with a note of her own and always included an expression of gratitude for my friendship and a mention of love, from her mother Lee.

Before he left for college, my son approached me holding Joanne’s teddy bear gifted to him so many years before. “Let’s send it back to her mom, maybe she needs it more.” And we boxed it up with a heartfelt note, and returned the bear to his rightful owner who I imagine, welcomed it back with open arms.

And then one day, a letter from Joanne, more difficult than usual to read. She scrawled that she was frightened. Lee was sick and couldn’t remember things. She had something called, “Alzheimer’s Disease.” She didn’t know how to talk to her mother. 

I responded, “Ask her about Breezy Point…”

Not quite six months later, she wrote to tell me Lee had died. A life now folded away neatly, like those laundry days we once shared.

I continued sending brightly colored cards and notes to Joanne, throughout the years. My sons were now young men, off in college. I would tell Joanne of my oldest, a springboard diver who had won his first competition and that my youngest was attending university in Ireland, the land of his grandmother’s birth. She wrote how she loved to receive my cards. She wrote of how she missed her mother. She wrote of how she loved me and my family and wished we still lived close.

And then one night, after a lapse of communication from Joanne for more than three months, I returned home to a phone call on my answering machine. A male voice, unrecognizable, wracked with grief, his words delivered stuttering and stammering. After re-playing numerous times, I at last interpreted the garbled message and from whom it came.

“Kathy, this is Marty. Kathy, Joanne died.”

A long, painful silence followed, then his final words, “I never knew it would be this hard…”

I called Marty back the next day. He did not answer and has never returned the call.

I wondered from what illness, if any, did she die and searched endlessly for an obituary, desperate for an answer. I hoped she was remembered. I struggled for weeks seeking closure but could not bring myself to call her father again.

And then I realized, I never really knew her. And how she died mattered little. For I am certain I brought her joy through my cards and friendship, just maybe, during a time in her life she needed it most.

And that was all the closure I ever needed.

I sometimes think of those long-ago days as that young mother, sitting beside Lee and Joanne in the serenity of Stuyvesant Park. I can hear their voices still; Lees’s tone is shrill, her words tumbling out knowingly and confidently, Joanne’s is slow and steady, lilting, with a warm innocence, always aiming to please.

It is said that people come into your life for a season or a reason. I believe I was lucky enough to experience both, in my short good fortune of knowing Lee and Joanne.

,

Memories of Bear Mountain

Everybody in the Pool! The iconic swimming pool at Bear Mountain State Park circa 1967

It’s the tiny bear trinket I remember, possibly more than the place itself. A delicate little figurine with a soft sprinkling of fuzzy fur on its body, which I loved to carry around and stroke as if it were a real pocket pet. My dad bought this cherished gift for me and my three sisters one summer afternoon at Bear Mountain, a frequent day trip we took from our home in Queens, New York.

I recall as if yesterday kneeling in front of the glass enclosed case of the bustling gift store and seeing the wee bear which sat forlornly in the stark enclosure. It was positioned away from the other bears just begging to be taken home. “We’ll take four!” my father sang out in his lovely baritone voice, whose accent betrayed a touch of his childhood years raised in Glasgow, Scotland. “Gifties,” he called all souvenirs and presents. I believe he took more pleasure in buying them than in the souvenir itself, though I could tell he too admired the look and feel of the little bear. When my sister Anne dropped hers only moments after leaving the shop, she cried and pleaded for him to buy her a second but alas it was not to be. My dad did not budge and although I know it killed him, taught us a lesson that day in responsibility and the value of a dollar – though she did get a new one on our next trip.

I often wonder, fifty years later, what became of my little bear but that is not important. I still have the memory of those day trips to Bear Mountain that magical destination situated in the rugged mountains rising from the west bank of the Hudson River.

Although Fall was a popular time to visit with the gorgeous colors that framed the mountains, we often went in the summer to escape the heat of the city. Its expansive pool held promise and delight for hundreds of children and parents alike who arrived in droves weather permitting. On one visit when I was around five-years old, I slipped through my inner tube and a woman sitting nearby jumped into the pool, fully clothed to save me. I remember my father insisting I go up to her and say thank you afterwards and how embarrassed I was in doing so. The photo above was taken by my father. I discovered it in a box of old Kodak slides last year and on a whim, posted the iconic shot to a Facebook group called “Historic New York City.” Within hours it received over 1,000 likes but it was the comments I read that made me realize the memory of Bear Mountain did not belong to me alone. Scores of New Yorkers and others from surrounding areas most now likely in the twilight of their years, recalled their own special memories…

“Beautiful Bear Mountain Memories..”

“I think Bob Dylan wrote a song about going to Bear Mountain…”

“We would take the ferry up the Hudson from NYC to Bear Mountain with our cousins. We still talk about those days…”

“We would sometimes sneak into the pool late at night as I lived close by..”

“Possibly one of my favorite childhood activities was leaving the city for Bear Mountain, picnics and swimming with family, hikes, sledding in winter. Such good times.”

“Did you see the guy on the high dive?? He is doing a handstand!!!”

“My brother Warren got his head stuck between the bars and had to be rescued!”

“My high school graduating class took a day trip to Bear Mountain. One signature in my yearbook reads “Bear Mountain till the bears turn bare…”

“That’s me in the red swim suit!”

Then, the one comment that made my heart stop..

“I still have my little bear ornament from the Bear Mountain gift store…” a stranger wrote. Accompanying the sentiment was a graying and faded but still recognizable photo of the bear souvenir. Not exactly the one in my memory but there it was nonetheless.” I wasn’t the only one…

I have not returned. For reasons I am uncertain. Too painful to visit without my beautiful dearly departed parents by my side? Too much of a heartache to see how the Bear Mountain of yesterday overshadows the reality of today? But it really doesn’t matter. have my phenomenal photograph of the pool with that forever unknown guy doing a handstand on the high dive.

And always in memory, that tiny, bear ornament my father bought me so many years ago…

The wee bear I loved

Whisked Away

If there was one word to define the exact opposite of a hoarder, it would describe my mother. A minimalist who disliked clutter of any sort, our home was beautiful, warm, open and airy but devoid of any type of knickknack, or paraphernalia she deemed unattractive or cumbersome. A snapshot of our living room: simple sheer white linen curtains, a cherry wood, baby grand piano adorned with one family photo and a small Belleek Scotty dog atop its finely polished finish.  Two or three tasteful paintings hung amid otherwise bare white walls and a crystal Waterford bowl which sat center on the coffee table. 

We all learned quite early on not to leave anything within her reach or it would simply disappear, forever.  We had a theory, my sisters and I, that all those belongings, mostly certain items of clothing, were shipped off to her beloved homeland Ireland.  We imagined our relatives or their friends or friends of their friends were the delighted recipients of the new American fashions which arrived in a package stamped “overseas.”

I don’t know how this idea was formulated among us.  Had we heard my father in anger accusing her of this rather underhanded deed when he could not find his adored sweater? Had we seen a large UPS box tucked away in a hall closet? Had we heard my mother speaking to a distant relative in hushed tones, promising a shipment would soon arrive? No I do not believe we ever had absolute evidence, it was just a truth we knew existed, though one we could never quite prove.

My best friend once left her prized jean jacket at my house. I swallowed hard three days later when she came to my door ready to reclaim it.  Ransacking the house together I finally shook my head in defeat and told her she must have left it elsewhere. But deep down I knew, it was no doubt en route that very moment, via Aer Lingus, to greener pastures.

Another time, my college roommate came home with me for the weekend and left her favorite sweatshirt in my room. She too would never see it again. I imagined another teenage girl, but this one Irish by birth, clad contentedly in the Manhattan College sweatshirt, perhaps strolling the banks of the Liffey on one of those chilled and damp Irish morns or sipping a Guiness in a local pub hugging the sweatshirt close.

My sisters and I were swimmers and divers and over the years accumulated many trophies as a result of our efforts.  Years later as young adults, we noticed their absence and asked my mother where the trophies had gone. Silence.  Our school yearbooks too had a short shelf life as did report cards, photographs and artwork.  And at Christmas, our annual tree trimming, generally a happy and festive time, on more than one occasion ended in angry words and confrontations as ornaments usually of the bulky or unattractive variety, evaporated into thin air.  “Check another box,” my mother would suggest.

I think it was my father who bore the brunt most deeply.  He would sit in his recliner on Sunday mornings, peacefully reading the papers. Leaving for a short time to drive me to a friend’s house, he returned to find the papers he had left at the foot of his chair, not fifteen minutes before, gone.  He would later find them stacked neatly in the garage, whisked away before he even had the chance to get through the sports page.

Was there a method to her madness? I think she simply disliked excess and when she felt we had too many items of clothing we had not worn in a while, decided it was time for them to be on their way.

You might think that this habit of my mother’s caused anger, frustration and hurt within our family. Sometimes true, but it only lasted a day or two being that we could never really prove it was her doing. Though while looking at a Christmas card one year of my four beaming Irish cousins, I could swear the youngest was clad in my old rolling Stones tee-shirt.

As an adult, I too dislike over accumulation and clutter. I am of the school that less is more.  I understand my mother’s obsession with less more clearly now. I don’t agree with donating others belongings without permission though have been tempted on more than one occasion, to “whisk away” a number of my husband’s KU sweatshirts.  I refrain.

And on those days I long to look at an old high school yearbook, I return to my old friend’s house. The one whose jean jacket went missing.

Irish Summers Remembered

My wonderful dad

Describe your most memorable vacation…

“Last night I had a pleasant dream I woke up with a smile. I dreamt that I was back again in dear old Erin’s Isle” (Lovely Leitrim)

“Now this looks interesting!” pondered my father a hint of excitement in his voice as he sat studying the Irish paper. It was the summer of 1974 and our family’s very first day in Ireland. We had found a two week rental in a suburb of Dublin, which served as the perfect base to explore the city and take day trips to the countryside.

Stretching back in the tidy living room’s handsome leather recliner, he was truly in his glory. General Manager of an Irish restaurant known as Rosie O’Grady’s in New York City, my father relished these trips to Ireland. My Irish born mother too was in heaven as she loved returning home and visiting friends and relations. Adjusting his reading glasses my father continued, “Live music tonight. Drinks and refreshments included. “And girls! Would you believe it is right up the street?”

I glanced at my sister who lay sprawled on the floor lost in an Irish book entitled “Tales from the Bog.” Being teenagers in a quiet suburb we were at a loss for what to do our first night – but things were looking up! I envisioned the evening unfolding as we stood amid a crowd of handsome Irish lads chatting us up and then with even greater aspirations, imagined a surprise appearance from Bono the U2 superstar who was often said to drop in at venues and perform with local musicians.

We flew upstairs and amid a flurry of makeup and hairspray, readied ourselves for a night in Monkstown with the highest of hopes…

Walking up the barren street, the distinct smell of peat filled the air, a scent for me that is always reminiscent of Ireland. Searching the house numbers we approached a stone cottage which from the outside appeared deserted but then I noticed a sign “Live Music Tonight,” carelessly taped to the front door.

Entering we stood face to face with two nuns who smiled in delight. “Ah, some young people. Welcome now, welcome. Enjoy, enjoy.” Avoiding the dejected eyes of my sister, I glanced at the stage where the live music had just begun. No Bono, but six Irish step dancers kicking high into the night. We were ushered to a table where thick slices of Irish Soda Bread lay neatly on simple white dishes, alongside pats of butter. Not a cocktails or pint in sight. The crowd consisted of middle-aged and older locals, chatting amiably as they tapped their feet to the lively tunes.

My sister and I sat glumly, the sole two teens in the packed room. Attempting to make the best of it, I poured us each a cup of steaming tea. I thought of my father and imagined him smiling to himself at that very moment. I vowed to somehow get even.

But things changed dramatically shortly after meeting Chris, a bespectacled, Irish boy who lived next door and vowed to show us the best of Dublin city. One night while in route to a popular bar, a song from Michael Jackson, came on the radio. The title was “Pretty Young Things.” “Oh, I am mad for this song!” shrieked Chris as he blasted the volume and sang along in abandon. At each chorus he banged on the hood of the dash to further accentuate his delight. But Chris’s version was unique as he dropped the H in “things” to “tings.” To this day, whenever I hear the song “Pretty Young Things,” I fondly think of Chris and always sing along with the Irish version he coined. In appreciation for his friendship we asked my father to hire him as a bus boy at Rosie’s the very next summer where he learned to be a waiter in New York City.

In contrast to vibrant Dublin lay the Irish countryside, hypnotizing in its beauty and people. Each visit we would stay at a bed and breakfast called “The Tooman House” and in our younger years, would jump from the barn loft into the loosely piled hay below as two resident Border Collies nipped at our heels.

Returning to my mother’s childhood farm in Cloone, Leitrim was always bittersweet as is often true with leaving and returning to a past place and time. Her best friend from childhood who remarkably shared the same first and last name, was Mary Kate Foley. They grew up together and in later years attended the same Dublin nursing school. At age twenty-five, Mary Kate died suddenly from a burst appendix. One trip back, my mother expressed a desire to visit Mary Kate’s home which she had not entered in over thirty years. Sitting in the car with my father, I watched as she hesitantly made her way up the walk. I recall the front door slowly opening and Mary Kate’s elderly father standing before my mother. It took a few moments but then his eyes widened in recognition. Embracing her he broke down and wept for his lost daughter they both had loved so well.

My family over the years, spent three summers in Ireland each one holding a special place in my heart. Both my parents are gone now but my memories of those summers in Ireland stay with me always.

Here are a few of my favorites:

☘️Getting lost in Blackrock and a blind man showing me the way home.

☘️My father buying an Irish Wolf Hound puppy from a nearby farm who we named Connell. Each year until his death, Connell represented his homeland by proudly marching in the New York City St. Patrick’s Day parade, alongside my Irish mother.

☘️The Dublin Horse Show

☘️Meeting the Irish author Maeve Binchy in a pub in Dalkey. She invited my mother (a huge fan) and me to sit with her and was as just as lovely as the books she wrote.

☘️Friendships with the many Irish neighborhood children who called us “The Americans” and welcomed us so warmly. I remember their joy racing to the beach when a “heat wave” was proclaimed.

☘️Sitting atop a small, ivy covered brick structure in our Irish friend’s backyard having “tea” as Gilbert O’Sullivan sang “Alone Again Naturally” on a small transistor radio beside me.

☘️The taste of my very first 99 ice cream cone. The sun staying out until 10PM.

Ah and what a splendid time it was.

Finding Mary

A visit to a cherished next door neighbor, fifty years later, revealed a surprising revelation; you can go home again.

When my father died, the memories that encompassed me, swirling in and out of my consciousness in the futile hope of comfort, were not of the time and place I spent the majority of my life with him. Rather, my mind returned to a tidy, brick row house where we lived my first six years and whose address remains forever etched in my mind. 34-52-73rd Street, Jackson Heights.

It was not so much my childhood home in Queens to which I longed to return but instead, to a woman I cannot seem to forget. An Italian born seamstress who lived next door to my family and who will forever remain in my heart,

Mary Balducci.

She would be nearly ninety years old I calculated.  Her husband Alfred had died unexpectedly shortly after we moved and her only son Johnny, had long married and moved away.  We had not kept in touch after leaving Jackson Heights though in the weeks and months after, while driving home from New York City where my father worked, would make impromptu visits.  On those trips I would recall my father suddenly announcing in a jovial voice “Who wants to stop and see Mary?” and as my two sisters and I shrieked in excitement he would turn the car around for the short detour to 73rd street.  While my father sat curbside, we would race to her front door, ring the bell then wait hopefully. Mary never disappointed. She was always home.  Embracing us tightly with the same words, repeated again and again “my babies, my babies.”  Over the years these visits became less frequent and as we settled into the rhythm of life, eventually ceased all together. 

And I tucked the memories of 73rd Street and Mary Balducci neatly away.

The search was simple really.  No intense sleuthing, no years of tracking down leads on where she had gone.  No heartbreak in discovering she was no longer alive.  Just a google search revealing her address, followed by a phone number.  A chance to return to a past lifetime suddenly lay before me; Maria Balducci, 34-52-73rd Street, Jackson Heights.  She answered on the eighth ring, in the warm, lilting Italian accent I recognized immediately.  “Mary?” this is Kathy your old next door neighbor. My father died.  Can I come see you?”

They say you can’t go home again…

She greeted me in a simple faded housecoat and pink slippers, her black hair still thick and luxurious, defying her ninety one years.  “My baby, my baby,” she repeated over and over as I entered the hallway. “Come! Walk around! Go upstairs! Look! Remember!”

I tentatively entered her dining room and stood before the breakfront. I recall the bottom drawer always being filled with Juicy Fruit gum which Mary allowed us in abandon.  As she nodded, I grasped the two gold rungs and the drawer slid open easily, gratefully, as if all these years awaiting my return. It is said that our sense of smell is more closely linked with memory than any of our other senses. The aroma of Juicy Fruit gum filled the air.

They say you can’t go home again…

I walked into the kitchen where I had sat countless days at her table eating bowls of “skinny spaghetti” on top of which she painstakingly grated Parmesan Reggiano cheese bought from a market in Little Italy. Gazing out the window I spotted across the way, the neat line of row houses and then my eyes fell upon the one I sought out most, that of my childhood crush, James Latieri.

Years later after we had we left Jackson Heights, I encountered Jimmy quite by accident, at a Chaminade High School dance in Mineola, Long Island. After the dance , later that evening, I sat with my best friend Janet in the outdoor pavilion. We were soon joined by another group of teens we did not know but it was of little concern, being young and carefree we became friends in short order. Smoking cigarettes and contemplating life, the conversation somehow evolved to where everyone was born. The next few moments remain in my memory jumbled, but I recall the words “Did you say Jackson Heights?” I glanced at a lanky boy seated next to me. “Whoa! My best friend Jimmy was from Jackson Heights and he is on his way here right now!”

And then as if in a dream Jimmy Latieri, my six year old crush, materialized before my very eyes. Sauntering up to us, cigarette dangling from his lips he flung back his mop of long black hair and listened silently to the story of our connection. Trying to maintain his aura of cool, he lost it for a minute when he excitedly asked: “Kathy, is it really you?” We laughed together that balmy night transported from six to sixteen in an instant. His family like mine had moved to Long Island though he would never return to Queens or to 73rd Street. I imagined because Jimmy never had a Mary Balducci living next door.

Gazing out Mary’s kitchen window, I noted the tall looming high rise apartment building still standing adjacent and in that moment, remembered the terror of “the gray-haired lady.” As we played in the garden below she would appear at the window, ten stories above, fling it open and then toss an empty Vodka bottle out which always seemed to miss us by only inches. It was not being hit by the bottle I feared, but the strange, calm smile that would appear on her face right after she threw it. I often dreamed of the gray haired lady for years after we left who unlike Mary, represented a darker side of life during my short six years in Jackson Heights.

I asked Mary about the turtles. Could we walk out back to her garden? The line of row houses each had a small, fenced in yard behind them, a backyard of sorts. Mary’s husband Alfred, tended to several Box Turtles which he kept in a beautiful pond he had created in the corner of their garden. As a child, I loved to help him feed them and attribute my lifelong love of turtles to this early introduction. As Mary and I entered the garden we stood silently in front of the pond now dry, overgrown and turtle-less. But in that moment I felt the spirit of Uncle Alfred beside us and knew in my heart he was once again caring for his turtles, in another place and time.

She had remained in her home on 73rd street, at ninety one years of age, a testament to her will and independence. She still left her front door unlocked and insisted she was not going to any “old age home” as her relatives urged. She continued to take the subway to Little Italy to purchase the finest ingredients for her Italian recipes. She told me of old neighbors on the street, the ones who had gone and the few that remained. I told her about the lives of my sisters and how we had remained as close as ever but it was an unspoken understanding that she and I had always shared the closest bond. I expressed to her the heartache of losing my father; she told me she never quite got over our leaving Jackson Heights and the loneliness she felt after.

And then it was time for me to leave her once again.

Six years later, my mother died. I had no contact with Mary since our last visit but once again felt the need to see her. She would be ninety seven years old now. What were the odds? I waited for weeks then picked up the phone. After several rings a recording. The number had been disconnected. I was not surprised but nonetheless felt I needed closure. I pondered my next step. And then I recalled that Mary’s only son Johnny, lived in Bayside Queens. As a child living next door I had met him only a handful of times. I searched for his name and found the address. But instead of calling, I wrote him a letter. Maybe because I did not want to hear of Mary’s dying through an impersonal phone call, maybe to buy a little more time to process she might be gone. I wrote him of my visit with his mother six years ago. I described how I sat in his childhood kitchen eating tri color ice cream at 10AM in the morning from a china bowl. I shared the indescribable feeling of walking around his home and how it had felt exactly the same. I told him about the still faint aroma, fifty years later, of the juicy fruit gum. I wrote of my memories of feeding the Box Turtles with his father. I told him how much I had loved his mother and my need to know what happened to her.

I ended my letter to Johnny with the simple words “you can go home again.”

Johnny called back two weeks later. I was strangely relieved not to be home that day, as if to be spared the dreaded news. He spoke to my husband and told him how much he enjoyed my letter. He loved the part about his father and the turtles, he had not thought about the Box Turtles in years. He recalled how much his mother and father loved our family and Mary’s heartache when we moved away. She never quite got over it, he said. Yes, she was still alive but they had sold the house on 73rd street and had moved her to a nursing home just last year. It was unsafe for her to live alone and she had experienced recent dementia. He had the address if I would like to visit…

There is a portrait which hangs in the family room of my home. It shows myself and my sisters as children, alongside my beautiful and youthful parents. A picture that if I brought to show Mary in the nursing home, would be easily recognizable. Her babies. Four smiling girls, frozen in time. I have taken the picture down off the wall so I can easily place it in my car. It sits waiting in the corner of the living room. Waiting. It has been there for a while now. Yes, next week for certain, I will visit her.

Maria Balducci died in 2016, at the age of 99 years.

Memories of a Popover Girl

What jobs have you had?

My father always instilled a strong work ethic in me and my three sisters.  I never lacked for a job whether it be putting on a marionette show for a birthday party when I was twelve or waitressing at Rosie O’Grady’s in New York City during college break.  My fourteen year old son recently asked me for some ideas on how he could get a summer job to save up for a computer.  Since sixteen is the legal working age, I was at a loss, but it did bring back some vivid memories of my own past summer jobs as a teen.  I have highlighted below, three that I will always remember.

Popover Girl – Lorraine Murphy Restaurant, Manhasset, NY

“Miss!  watch those tongs! You almost took out my eye!”  I smiled apologetically as I placed the still oven warm, feather light popover, on the angry patron’s side plate and hastily made my way to the next table.  Flashback to age sixteen, on the very first evening, of my very first job. “Murphy’s” as it was affectionately known, was a rite of passage for Manhasset youth. Everyone knew someone who had worked there, whether it be sister, brother or cousin.  Lorraine Murphy was a family run restaurant catering to “the geriatric set.” I still recall the line of walkers and wheelchairs lined up in the lobby.  But it was their popovers that will always be remembered and whose recipe is still rumored to be undiscovered. Sadly, Lorraine Murphy is no longer but the memories of my time as a popover girl remain fresh.

Pros – All the popovers you could devour.

Cons –  During the holidays, the hostesses were required to go from table to table singing Christmas carols. I still recall the beet red face of Cynthia Pierce, frozen in smile, the only one among four of us, singing. One of the girls started laughing which set off a chain reaction. Cynthia however, refused to succumb.  She sang the whole last stanza in solo. I always admired her for that.

Fitting Model – Haseena – I was hired as a fitting model for a small store specializing in traditional Indian clothes such as wrap around skirts and henna tee shirts.  I would stand silently as the nervous tailor draped fabric around me, tucking and pinning aside the eagle-eyed owner who barked orders.

Pros -Discounted fashionable clothes, calling myself a model even though it was a gross exaggeration, and location within walking distance of my high school.

Cons – The occasional pin prick and standing for long periods of time.  I was fired less than a month into the job as the owner thought I was “too skinny” and my thin figure did not do her fashions justice.  I heard my mother tell her friend that I quit because the tailor was peering in the fitting room at me while I changed, a total fabrication possibly because she couldn’t face the fact I was fired.

Cashier/Concession/Usher –  Manhasset Cinema – By far, my favorite job.  The cinema played upscale, foreign films so I never had to deal with unruly teens.  The amiable manager wore a tuxedo nightly and the cool, darkened art deco theater was serene and beautiful.

Pros – Free movies and popcorn.  Learning about Fellini films at a young age.

Cons – Having to pass a March of Dimes donation box throughout the audience at intermission. The shock of Julie Andrews (known until then for her role as Maria in Sound of Music) baring her breasts in Victor/Victoria.

Salesgirl – Lane Bryant – Another of my most enjoyable jobs though a bit of a departure as fashions were for full-figured women and as mentioned above in my short stint at Haseena, I was very thin. I loved selling shoes at Lane Bryant and would often busy myself in the stock room taking a little extra time if I had a particularly busy day.  I received an extra commission for each pair of shoes sold.

Pros – Creative license in selecting outfits for customers. My best friend worked there too.

Cons – I recommended my sister Sheila for the job when I left for college and she was fired her first day.  The manager pulled back the dressing room curtain to find her “resting” inside, after only a few hours on the job. My reputation was tarnished and I never returned to Lane Bryant though my memories remain fond.

To the toils of my labor over summer jobs past.  I miss you all, each and every one!

Paper Plate of Positive Traits

As the end of the school year draws near, I am reminded of a lovely moment on the last day of my son’s kindergarten class, now twenty years ago, I am re-sharing.

 

The instructions were simple, even for a kindergartner…

circle

Write something positive about your classmate on the paper plate, then pass it on to your neighbor, to do the same.

The plates were created then given to the children on their last day of class. A keepsake and memento of year end and their first foray in the serious business of kindergarten. 

This simple but lovely exercise always touched me. Heartfelt and honest words, scrawled with earnest sentiment in the hands of a child.

One phrase, that appeared on my son Owen’s paper plate several times, was the phrase, “You are always so nice to me!”  I loved that compliment. Being kind to others. So easy to do and forever remembered. 

Yesterday, I found Owen’s paper plate, tucked atop a closet. Taking it down gingerly, I re-read the words of the children, some long gone from our lives, others who still remain.  A bittersweet moment; a reminder of the fleeting passage of time. Yet the words on his plate remain true to life. Owen is still a kind soul.

Today, I am going to take a page from that very fine kindergarten teacher, who shared this wonderful keepsake with her students, so many years ago. I will tell someone I care about, something I find positive about them – a virtual paper plate of positive traits.

And who knows? just maybe, they will return the gesture to a special someone in their lives.

Full circle.

 

 

 

 

On the Road Again, A Mother’s Day Tribute

“On the road, again, just can’t wait to get on that road again.

Going places that I’ve never been.

Seein’ things that I may never see again.

And I can’t wait to get on the road again.”

Willie Nelson

“Your mother,” began Jimmy Dillon, who sat contentedly perched on the bar stool next to mine. It was Christmas Eve and the atmosphere rang of merriment and festivity. Publicans was our beloved hometown bar; a place where many had enjoyed their first legal drink and to where they returned once again on these holiday weekends, to bask in friendship and bygone days.

I studied Jimmy, a boy I had known briefly from my neighborhood who had gone on in later years to become a fire fighter. Close to 50 now, his twinkling blue eyes and shock of red hair still mirrored his sixteen year old self. He continued on, his tone a mixture of fondness and fear. “Probably the nicest woman I have ever met, but the day she picked me when I was walking home from school? I saw my life pass before my eyes!” He took a long swig of his beer in an attempt to quell the memory, then proceeded to mimic how my mother would ask him a question while driving and then turn full around to where he sat in the back seat, for his answer. He weaved and bobbed on the bar stool his hands flailing wildly as he re-lived the moment. The last thing I remember him saying as he made his way into the crowd was “would you give her my best? She was just the nicest lady…”

We had heard it all before you see, my sisters and I, as my mother was somewhat of a legend for her driving. Our father perhaps bore the brunt of these mishaps most deeply while fielding numerous phone calls in regards to the fender benders my mother had incurred over the years.  Our Insurance Agent, Joe Kilhenny, was a fixture at many our family’s Sunday barbecues and in later years attended my wedding.

Growing up on a farm in rural Leitrim my mother’s mode of transportation was her trusty bicycle which she rode around the countryside. Growing up she often told me, just how much she loved riding her bicycle. She described a nearby orchard where she would stop and pick apples on her way to school, and she laughed at the memory of being chased by a farmer after tucking a choice few into her pocket one visit.

 In her mid-twenties she left her cherished Ireland for New York City and became a pediatric nurse at St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village. Meeting my father shortly thereafter, they married had four daughters and settled in a suburb of Long Island. And for a good awhile she survived without the need to drive, walking to the nearby market and relying on the kindness of friends when needed.  But as the years passed the kitchen calendar grew full. Sports, birthday parties, doctor’s appointments, the rhythm of life – all requiring a car and a licensed driver. She could put it off no longer. And so it began.

It is always debated among our family exactly how many times she took her road test.  We settled at nine though the exact number will always be a mystery. The eighth time she failed, her fiercely loyal best friend Eileen Anello, outraged at the injustice of it all claimed she “knew a judge.” And whether by the hand of god, my mother’s ability or that nameless judge, my mother at 50 years of age at last passed her road test.

When I was in Middle School, she drove through the McGuire’s backyard. Claiming the road was slippery from a recent rain, she careened through some hedges, jumped a curb and stopped dead set in the middle of the tidy backyard. Finding no one home she left a note with her name and number, no other explanation needed. I recall the childhood chant… “your mother drove through the McGuire’s backyard!!” echoing through the school bus, haunting me and my three sisters for years.

Connell, our Irish Wolfhound caught on early.  We never knew exactly what happened but one morning, after numerous trips driving with my mother to the dog field and other shopping excursions, he stubbornly refused to get in the car. Nothing worked. Tugging, pushing, or dog treats. He sat calmly before my mother, who stood before him, dangling a piece of bacon in a futile attempt to lure him into the passenger seat of her car. But Connell stood firm, a silent declaration that he was forever done as my mother’s driving companion.

In our early months of dating my future husband was unaware of my mother’s driving escapades. Visiting our home for the first time through the garage he noticed a refrigerator positioned against the back wall sporting a severely dented door. Entering the house he asked my father, “Bill, what happened to that refrigerator’s door in the garage?” Without looking up from his paper came the weary reply, “Oh, Mary uses the fridge as a measuring device of sorts. When she gives it a good whack, she knows she has pulled in completely.”

Then there was the time my sister was homesick at college and my mother as mothers often do, came to the rescue. Never mind we lived in New York and my sister’s college was in Pennsylvania or that my mother had never before driven on a major interstate highway. There was no question she would go. So she called on the service of her best friend Lily, an Irish cousin who lived close by and in their youth grew up on an adjoining farm. And off they went that Saturday morning, my mother at the wheel and Lily riding shotgun, to visit my homesick sister.  As night fell, I watched my father pace back and forth. It was before cell phones and I had never before seen him so nervous. He clearly realized the seriousness of the situation. And then a phone call from my sister…Mom and Lily had arrived!  They were a little later than expected having ended up first in the state of Ohio due to a wrong turn but all was well as they prepared to go to dinner. I always wondered if Lily had aged a few years during that ride to Villanova University as I believe we all did.

Though my mother had a series of accidents throughout her life, what saved her I believe was the fact that she always drove far under the speed limit, an unseen angel on her shoulder or more likely, the brake pedal. A good deal of the trouble was that her attention was simply elsewhere, like the day she sheared off the side view mirror of a parked car while adjusting the radio to her favorite Irish station. My sister described turning back to see a dangling mirror as they drove onward, my mother blissfully unaware of the damage left behind. They returned to leave a note on the battered car’s windshield. It too a silent victim.

My wonderful mother has since left this world but her memory lives on in all who knew and loved her.  I see her now, in a faraway place and time still charming all with her brogue and still angling, at any chance possible, to get behind the wheel once again.

”I am happy to drive down to the gate to pick up our new visitors,” my mother offers. God ponders a moment always touched by her helpful nature. But he is a realist. “Well thank you Mary but it is a beautiful day. Perhaps you could ride down to meet them on your bicycle?” My mother smiles. If disappointed it does not show. She always did love riding her bicycle

The Galetti Guest House

We sit together miserably, my sister and I, on the sofa of our NYC apartment. Though close in proximity we make sure to stay at least a foot apart, not daring to chance brushing up against each other, even for a split second. The sweltering heat, still villainous at 10 PM, permeates every nook and cranny of the apartment. I dip my washcloth into a large bowl of ice and water beside me, and place it on the nape of my neck, for the umpteenth time. Our apartment development, known as Stuyvesant Town, is a massive complex stretching from East 14th St and Avenue C to East 22 and First Avenue. Built in the 1940’s for returning World War II vets, it was never wired for air conditioning. And so here we are, forty years later, slowly dying of the heat. I silently curse the Stuy Town founding fathers for their lack of insight.

It is the Thursday night before Memorial Day weekend, a weekend wherein hordes of city dwellers depart for greener pastures. A weekend where dreams of crystal blue swimming pools, sandy beaches, boating on lakes and serene woodlands, runneth over.

Yet here we sit in our stifling city apartment with no holiday plans in sight, whatsoever. It is the very first summer we opted out of a summer share house. Angry, frustrated, defeated, my sister and I spend the good part of the evening casting blame. Each accusing the other of being lax in securing a weekend accommodation in the Hamptons, the playground of the young and carefree. Being sisters, we can say cruel things to each other knowing there will always be forgiveness. But for our third roommate, and best friend Janet who has not yet arrived home from work, and who often takes the brunt of our quarrels to heart, forgetting is not as easy. I have little doubt Janet will still be sore from this morning’s unpleasant scene between the three of us, which transpired on the corner of 1st Avenue and 14th Street. Shamefully, after my sister and I finished attacking each other, we started in on Janet. Why couldn’t she have found time to make a plan for our Memorial Day weekend?

After fruitlessly going round and round again with no resolution, we angrily, leave each other, departing to our work offices, in three different directions.

Later that evening, Sheila and I ponder what mood Janet will arrive home in, then suddenly hear the sound of a key turning. She enters smiling broadly. I breathe a sigh of relief – all is forgiven. Holding up a newspaper with an ad circled boldly in red marker she blurts out in excitement, “Well roomies, I come bearing good news. This weekend, Westhampton calls! I have taken charge and just booked us for the weekend in the Galetti guest house!”

The ride to Westhampton takes less than three hours from the city and the three of us are in high spirits. We have done it! or rather Janet has, finding a last minute place in the Hamptons, on the busiest weekend of the year. We discuss numerous options for night life and anticipate who we might see. We blast the car radio in celebration of what is certain to be an epic weekend.

Pulling into the driveway, a touch of disappointment looms. The Galetti Guest House looks like any other suburban dwelling. Just a regular house in a regular neighborhood. Approaching the front door, a yellow post-it note, is stuck haphazardly, instructing, “come in and make yourself at home, your bedroom is top of the stairs on the right. See you for breakfast!” Entering the stark living room, we are greeted by dead silence. A church organ, prominently positioned in the corner, just begging to be played, beckons. Janet not missing a beat drops her overnight bag and races to the bench. Pounding on the keys dramatically, she sings the chorus of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebrate Good Times, COME ON!!” in abandon as Sheila and I join in. We dance around the small living room madly, jubilant we had made it out of the city or more likely, just taking advantage of having the house to ourselves.

Heading upstairs we enter the bedroom where the three of us will sleep. Strewn about the floor are hundreds of unopened, insulin pen needles suggesting a diabetic in residence. Atop the nightstand is a large 8 x 10 portrait of a woman, with shocking red hair and alabaster skin, sporting a graduation cap and gown. Mrs. Galetti? Though oddly, her age appears to be around seventy, rather than the typical twenty-one years of a senior in college. A late graduate perhaps? Her vacant, saucer eyes haunt and appear to follow our every move. I turn down the picture quickly and put the unpleasant scene out of my head. It is Memorial Day weekend and we have made it to the Hamptons! So what if the guest house is a bit offbeat? We are only here to sleep.

We awake to the smell of bacon and the aromatic brew of coffee. Peals of female laughter ring out from the downstairs kitchen. A male voice is singing in abandon, in what sounds like Italian Opera. Making our way to the dining room we spot a middle aged gentleman, spatula in hand, standing at the stove, tending to the skillet. No doubt, Mr. Galetti. He is clad in boxer shorts and a tight, white tee shirt. A red bandanna is tied around his head which is crowned in tight curls. He greets us warmly, “Welcome to the Galetti Guest house! One egg or two? ” Three, twenty- something girls, seated at the table, shriek and laugh, hanging on his every word.

I glance at Janet and Sheila. They return my gaze, eyes widened in disbelief. In Janet’s, I detect something akin to an expression of guilt, perhaps in finding our weekend accommodation.

After breakfast, we decide to spend a low key day at the guest house. Tonight will be our big night out and we need to rest up. The Galetti Guest House boasts a salt water swimming pool and it is a scorching day. Making our way out to the backyard deck an above ground pool materializes. A rickety, three rung ladder leans aside its torn tarp. Stepping upon the ladder which sways under my weight, I glance down at the pool water below. Dead leaves and debris float aimlessly atop. A pool unfit for man or beast. I glance at Janet who refuses to meet my eyes. The kitchen curtains sway and I swear I see Mr. Galetti staring out at us from the window.

We opt to go to the beach instead.

Our last evening of that forever memorable Memorial Day weekend, Janet, Sheila and I, enjoy a fantastic night at St. John’s East night Club, dancing our cares and the Galetti Guest house far, far away.

Early the next morning, as the sun is slowly rising, we drive home in silence, bound for New York City. No words uttered, no blame or harsh accusations cast. A mute understanding is shared among the three of us. We cruise along Dune Road, Sheila at the wheel of our rental car as we take in the majestic homes situated along the Atlantic Ocean, in Southampton town. As retribution, we will stop for dinner at our favorite place, the Lobster Inn, as we did so many weekends before in summers past, when we were smart enough to go in on a summer share. Lesson learned in spades…

Motoring along windows cracked, the sea breeze works its magic; the mood is slowly lifting. We howl in laughter as we recall the vision of Mr. Galetti frying bacon in nothing but his underwear and the decrepit above ground swimming pool. We all agree this will be one for the books and a Memorial Day not soon forgotten. At the Galetti Guest House.

.

Pillow Talk

I strive to be a good host.

Our guest room contains a comfortable Queen bed, its soft, silky sheets adorned in tiny yellow, delicate daisies. A satin eye mask is within reach to ward off harsh morning rays which occasionally assault, come sunrise. A wee book I purchased some years ago at the New York Public Library gift shop, “The Language of Flowers” lies upon the night table for reading pleasure and a small Tiffany lamp casts a golden light which both warms and soothes the soul. Three Hershey chocolate kisses are strategically positioned upon the pillow, a small offering for the guest who like myself, might just happen to share a chocolate addiction.

So you can imagine my surprise and frankly, shock, when a recent overnight guest, a co-worker and dear friend of several years, looked me squarely in the eyes the morning after she had just stayed over (in said guest room) and candidly remarked, “why I didn’t get a wink of sleep! It was the pillows. They were just awful.”

I stood before her with a frozen smile, my thoughts racing. My mind conjured a myriad of responses, which for the sake of our friendship, remained unsaid. I calmly replied, “I wish you would have told me, Lisa. I have an array of other pillows I could have offered you.” She responded something about not wanting to bother me, then continued the tirade.

“Why I felt like Goldilocks, from that childhood fairy tale, wherein she could never quite find the right bed, but for me, it was the pillows. One was too hard, the other too soft and the last well, just not right…”

And then, I did what any other good host might do. I apologized for her discomfort promising next time, I would have a better quality of pillow to assure a more pleasant night’s slumber. She thanked me. Later that morning, as I watched her depart, sleepily making her way down our front path to her car, I thoughtfully pondered the pillows and her critique.

There were three I had placed on her bed, the first a firm Tempur-Pedic the second, medium-firm with down feathers and the third, a very soft pillow wherein your head almost sunk straight through to the mattress; I personally loved the very soft one.

The next day, I visited the guest room to further examine the alleged offending pillows. My friend had unleashed the most fury on one pillow, claiming it contained “little beads” that hurt her face which indeed, appeared slightly splotchy the following morning, giving the expression “beauty sleep,” new meaning. I picked it up. Its interior did feel strikingly similar to small nodules or pebbles. Moving on to pillow two, the extra firm Tempur-Pedic, which ironically cost a fortune,I found it not much better than the former, being not only heavy in heft, but as hard as a rock. The last one I examined, the medium down, was lovely but as I lay down upon it, several of the duck feathers poked out ominously in random places, like sharp talons.

My heart sank in despair as I came to a grim realization…

My friend was right. The pillows were a disaster.

I vowed to buy new ones before hosting future guests, but alas, my promise was short lived. Tossing and turning more than usual last night, my husband suddenly sprang up like a frustrated Jack-in-the Box, his pillow gripped tightly in his arms. Tossing the offending villain to the floor, quite forcefully, his words stung amid the darkness of our bedroom.

“You gave me the Lisa pillow!”