We had settled in to our new apartment, with a flurry of commotion. My mother needed to have us inoculated and fitted for uniforms, from beanies, to oxfords. On my first morning's ride in the school bus, the driver set my hair on end. He was scary, like a Halloween monster. I was a painfully shy child and was so frightened of him, this driver, that I took to hiding deep in my seat. This way I could avoid his beady eyes that would scan us though his rear view mirror. One morning, my sister, Geri, was too sick for school, so, I had to ride the bus without her. Petrified, I filed off in line well enough, using the other kids as shields from the driver’s stare. However, on the trip home in the afternoon, I had to pass him alone, in order to get off the bus. Thus, I missed my stop. One by one, the rest of the kids got off at their designations . . . places I had never even seen. I knew that I was in deep trouble, but didn't know what to do about it. Soon, I was the only child left on the bus. Instinctively, I hid on the floor. The driver, thinking his job, was finished, lit a cigarette, pulled the bus into the terminal and locked it up for the night. Left alone, I whimpered quietly, as the afternoon turned to darkness and the fiends in my mind, tried to break into the bus.
Unbeknownst to me, a frantic search party, had been looking for hours and finally found me huddled, down in the fifth row. My panicked stricken mother, relieved though she was, gave me a sound spanking . . . so much so that, in spite of my horror, I stoically faced the bus driver, four times a day for the rest the school year. This became such a stressful period of the day for me, that I subsequently developed nervous tics. My mother’s scolding over the tics, only compounded the problem. I was a little mess. My eyelids would rapidly blink while I scrunched my nose, stretched my neck, and munched on my upper lip; unless, I was sucking my thumb.
Then came the night, when my parents presumed that I was tucked away safely in bed. Of course they did, for I was there every night, picking little balls off of my flannel sheets, and rolling them between my fingers, dropping them on the carpet, picking more; roll, drop, pick, roll, drop, pick, until I fell asleep. But, that night, dressed in my pajamas, I crept out of our apartment and took the elevator up to the seventh floor where my friend, Gail Ferber stood, waiting. Together, we took the elevator down to street level and raced for the swings on the dark lake shore. I planned it well, and we were in ecstasy, swinging away with not a care. I loved the swings, above all else. My plan went off without a hitch, until lights from automobiles and flashlights, flashed across the beach with people yelling "We found them! They're over there!"
I received many spanks from that little escapade, but a fine game resulted. We called it Gail's. It was a hide and go seek game, my dad would play with us until we were almost in our teens, saying in a gruff voice, “Have they gone to Gail’s again? They are they going to get it.” We’d all giggle with delight. It seemed odd that, even though I was extremely shy, I was always busy trying to escape . . . or busy, getting lost.
One of the most frantic searches of all, in my parent’s memory, took place, late on a very cold and brisk afternoon in November. The sky was gloriously ablaze in pinks and gold, from Santa Claus making cookies. I needed to be free, I felt like playing forever. So, my girlfriend and I raced around for a while and then decided to bunker down under a blanket in the back seat of her parent's sedan; where no one could find us. There, we could play "Doctor." As it grew dark, my parents and those of my partner in crime, presumed that we were together and set out to find us. They were desperately worried, as we weren't in any of the usual play spots and it was just luck on their part that they finally found us ‘in flagrante,” . . . caught with our pants down, so to speak. I knew that "doctor" wasn't an acceptable game, but it didn't warrant such resulting hysterics from the adults. I thought they had lost their minds and didn’t understand at all why they were running about and crying, throwing us into cars, racing us to the hospital. I didn't understand that my friend who had slipped out of her house to play with me was deathly ill and in quarantine, from a contagious disease, called Polio. At that point, Jonas Salk's vaccine, was new, and was in still in experimental stages. People stricken with polio, became crippled, deformed, severely fatigued muscularly, or paralyzed, many needing an iron lung to help them breathe. Though my parents rushed me to the hospital, where I drank some pink liquid, I was still kept isolated in my bedroom for three weeks until the doctors deemed me safe, for me to take up my life, as it once had been..
I am glad you think so. I was just wailing to my sister-in-law about how boring childhood stories are, and I forced her to listen, before I posted this, (although, it is important to the over all picture). she said, I never realized you were such a rebel even then. I personally would like to hear your tale my dear. hint hint.
This brought back to mind crazy stuff I did when I was a kid too I once get the crap beat outta me for hiding up a tall pine tree. I didn't want my mom's scissorhands friend to cut my hair. They always made me look like a boy!
Your story is going to resonate with all kinds of people & remind them of stuff. I always say people's base personalities don't change. Most people don't believe me.
I only played doctor with boys, not that there's anything wrong with girls playing doctor. I'm sure that girls have just as much of a right to play doctor as anyone does with anyone else
As my Uncle Albert grew older, he started cutting lawns and doing any and every odd job that was available. Over time, he learned a great deal about gardening By adulthood, he was a respected landscape artist. Aunti Annie, (Netta) workedlong hours in a factory that made swimsuits, helped with the housework and raising of my mother. Like her father, Bortolomeo, she battled the bottle; butdomestic by nature she married and raised five children. Both, ever so responsible brother and sister fussed over my mother, their little tow-headed sibling. They were fiercely protective of her. She gave them a run for it, for, she was quite voluptuous by twelve, and attracted boys by the droves. She drove my poor uncle nuts.
By her teens, she realized the implications of her more natural attributes, and used them to her advantage. More than a few Hollywood film agents, approached her for screen tests, but my grandmother would not have it. Not her daughter! She felt all actors were "putas" and the one Grandma detested most was Marilyn Monroe.
So how else would she get away? Mom wanted out of her circumstances. She wanted riches and figured, as most women did, then, that the best way to achieve this goal, would be through a marriage. Someday her prince would come, of this she was sure. As she grew old enough to step out on to the town, she took that time to study the evening women of style and sophistication; copying their mannerisms, and their dress. Before long, she managed to create a style of her own; a style which was not only seductive, but classic. She was always dressing up for some nightclub or another and absolutely loved dancing to the big bands . . . and they loved watching her. Yes, the single life was riveting, with lots of eligible men who showered her with gifts. It was no wonder that her thoughts of marriage simmered on the back burner.
But, at age twenty-four, when she met my father, something about him, made her want to settle down. She was quite happy with the choice she made with her dashing affluent and ambitious actor. As my father changed, mom felt gypped. Only now, there was the added worry of two children to support, for I had come along. Without a clue of what to do, Dad kept drifting from job to job and scheme to scheme. In turn, Mom grew more and more bitter, infuriated with my father for his weakness and false promises. The more she undermined him, the more animated were his dreams . Never-the-less, two years after I was born, my younger sister, Alona June came into the world.
Things picked up when I was about three. My father landed a lucrative job selling televisions for Dupont. His new job demanded that the family move immediately to Chicago. It was all very hustle-bustle. Our excited family arrived by train and settled into a swank brick high-rise on Lake Shore Drive, a stone's throw from Lake Michigan. My mother was in ecstasy. Finally their ship had come in.
Although I was painfully shy and clung to my mother, when she'd let me, I seemed to get lost more than the average child. Adventure struck at the most inopportune times, like when my family was at the train station about to embark for Chicago.
My mother began screaming, "My daughter! Where's my daughter?" The stations security calmed her down enough to get a description. "She's a little redhead in a green dress." said my mom.
In spite of the hysteria, a handsome security officer found me just in time, following a pair of sparkling black stilettos. My only explanation was, "I like shoes." Those sparkly black high heels were the first vivid memory from my youth. Every other recollection came after.
Our new Chicago apartment building was plush, with carpeting in the entry, elevators and a foreboding, dark, stairwell. Down the street was the play park, on the shore of the lake. While the cold winds of autumn whipped through my parka, I played fearlessly on the swings. Fallen leaves, swirled past me in an array of deep oranges, purples and browns and into the rough waters they landed . . . taking to the waves like fearless little surfers. For a while my childhood proved idyllic.
My first kindergarten was at a Catholic school. The huge entry floor room was encased in walls of glass and furnished with a fine grand piano, long, low, tables and little yellow, wooden chairs. Every morning our teacher set the tables with colored paper, crayons, cardboard and scissors, along with pots of aromatic paste. We children worked diligently on our art until the clock struck eleven. That was our singing hour. Happily, we'd sit around the piano, chirping it up for the lookie loos. It was our time to shine.
Outside, the sun reached through the enormous firs that swayed over our church made of brick. The breeze on the branches caused a shifting of light upon the stained glass, bringing the religiosity to life. We were still too young for proper religious training. Instead of going to church in the blistering cold, like the older kids, we stayed snug inside, sipping cocoa and watching the snowstorms.
During the summer months, we'd run wild and free, around our apartment building and on the lake shore. In the warm rains of the afternoons we’d chase the frogs. At twilight to the background din of chirping crickets and croaking frogs, the fireflies would dance. Crickets absolutely terrified me. I knew they were lurking in the bushes, just waiting to pounce. "Do you hear em?" I'd whisper in fear. "Ssshh! Do you hear em? Do you hear those Booker Crookers?"
Ha Ha, yes I love shoes, but, I am trying to be a minimalist. Less confusing. I'm not good with a superfluous amount of things. I get confused, except for, maybe, books. but a sexy pair of shoes, you know the "come ffff me" type are a work of art.
Booker Crookers! That is so funny Mom! Just catching up here. I have not been on Myspace that much. Enjoyed this very much and am moving on to the next post!
My father’s siblings were all faring well, however my father was floundering. My mother gripped to anyone who would listen, "All I do is worry . . . worry, because of that man. Every time he starts a new job, I find out a month later that he hasn't even been there. How am I supposed to put food on the table?"
Dad, in his defense would mumble, "It's not my fault. What can a man do? Every time I start a job, there's a cut back. 'Last hired, first fired.' That's how it goes these days." Looking down, he would shake his head in resignation.
"So that’s why you buy drinks for everyone at the bar?" Mom, quipped.
She hated alcohol, except for crème de mint, of which she kept a bottle of, to pour over her vanilla ice cream. Dad was a changed man and my mother was notGrandpa's dream was coming true and he felt even more blessed with the children his wife was bringing forth. Grandma gave birth to one boy and two girls. My mother, the youngest child, was born on September 14, 1914, with hair so white, that her father refused to acknowledge her as his. He banned her from all family photographs. Angry, as hell, my Grandma, finally got sick of his attitude and said to him, "Well, if she isn't yours, she is surely mine!" impressed. Mom's priority was money and the security it bought. She had endured enough of poverty's sting when she was growing up and wanted more for herself and her children. She never blamed her impoverished childhood on her widowed mother, for Grandma had worked hard her entire life. Caterina Morengo Servetti, a tall Northern peasant from Cherasco, in Provincio Di Cunio, Italy, had a giving heart and a quick temper. She immigrated with my grandfather, the debonair Bartolommeo, to America, on the La Gascogne, from Benevagiepna Italy, in 1907. He was thirty-four years old and she was twenty-six. They pushed on to California, where my grandfather, on an earlier solo voyage had bought land. It was a very fertile piece of earth in Culver City, where farming grapes was proving successful.
The couple had a chance at a good life, but unfortunately, my grandfather began drinking from his fruits. Later in life, Grandma would often explain this to us in her broken English. "He was a bum!" Her hands would wave in the air. "A, bum!"
As the story goes, my grandfather went out for one of his frequent nights of drinking and gambling. He was driving his horse and wagon, with his seven year old son, my Uncle Albert,riding in the back. Upon returning home, my grandfather was so inebriated, that he lost control of his horse. His wagon flew into a ditch, rendering him unconscious. My young uncle bravely ran out into the dark for help and found some people who rushed Grandfather to the hospital. His lungs were crushed. Within a few days, infection set in and he died.
My grandmother, who barely spoke English, was suddenly alone. She couldn’t speak much English and she had three children to support, my mother being just a babe in arms. My grandmother was forced to sell their land for pittance to the Pathay Studios, in order to pay off my grandfather's debts. Managing to find janitorial work for the Board of Education, scrubbing floors, she provided for her children as best she could. Home, in the rough section of Boil Heights, was a tiny walk up with two rooms and a community latrine at the end of the hall. It wasn't much, but Grandma was a determined woman. She would earn her citizenship and then later, buy a home of her own in a safer neighborhood. During World War II, she finally bought her cozy clapboard, but hitting her broadside, were the new plans for the Hollywood Freeway. The lanes, in the name of progress, were to run directly through her house, but Grandma was not ready for defeat. She hired movers to take it to London St., near the Silver Lake area, where the house still stands today.
Uncle Albert was a loving and brave little boy with a sense of responsibility far beyond his years. He dropped out of school in the second grade to help support the family and never went back. He sold newspapers from door to door. They lived near the Union Station and my uncle remembers riding home on his bike and running into people who were putting up ropes in the streets. Once you were let through the rope you couldn’t go back. My mother also happened to have a little friend spend the night, the night before, which was a big deal for her. The adventure gave way to a disastrous conclusion, for her little friend was running a high fever and delirious by early morning. Later that day, the nervous authorities, pronounced the little girl quarantined. By the end of the day the neighborhood was in a panic, for it was clear, that deadly the Bubonic Plague had invaded their lives. My mother remembers a group of people all in white and wearing protective gear, coming into their flat and putting her on the floor while they thoroughly inspected her body. She was terrified. It seemed that her friend was bitten by fleas from an infected rat and had caught the disease. Soon, to everyone's horror, the Bubonic Plague was raging through Boil Heights taking victims helter-skelter. Huge bonfires soon burned in the streets, in order to destroy bedding and anything that could carry contagions. Grandma not knowing how to protect her family scrubbed their flat, continually. There was nary a rat nor flea ever to be found there. Her children survived, but many others were not so fortunate.
Fascinating! I'm so glad you're writing this. Do you remember your grandmother well? That's a lot of good, iron will your women were handed down in that family. Ahhh, good old alcohol again.
I remember my grandmother's perfectly, skin, her scent, her courage, her strength and her temper! I loved her ver very much. She was the main stability in my life. There has never been a woman such as she was since, in my life.
Once again, you have put us there in the moment! Ahhh yes, the alcohol! A disease that destroys every glimmer of hope for happiness with everyone involved! On to the next Chapter!
You know the written word is strong. I knew it was a factor, but reading this over, and putting it out here, made me realize just how much of an impact alcohol did make. Thank you Betty.
EASY TO BE HARD
Often, there was the question of how, when or where. What matters most is why...
They say there is but five degrees of separation between all of us.
This is my story and observations about growing up under the infamous Hollywood Sign, in the 50's 60' and 70's. This is also a story of my entering the fast lane, and finding that if I wanted to survive, I had to get off it, but... it wasn't that easy.
