To Each His Own

Within the home lived three very different persons.

My grandmother, short and plump, even of disposition and tolerant of nonsense, was our ally and conspirator at times. The sharp emotions of so many years had left her a stability which nothing seemed to move too deeply any more. With easy grace she finished each culinary chore in her domain—the kitchen.

Sometimes of an evening, having had more than my fair share during the day, I would help myself to more of the chocolate peppermints which some thoughtful guest had brought and which were kept in Grandmother's neatly arranged bureau drawer.

If the pilferage were soon discovered, I dropped to my knees at the bedside as if for evening prayer, peeking out from behind clasped fingers at the progress of the chase and secure in the knowledge that my devout grandmother wouldn't disturb the child while she was "talking to God". In this way the moment of retribution was postponed and the incident always purposely forgotten by the time my "prayers" were finished.

Rain drops drumming on the window never failed to summon her to cross the sea in spirit and to stand again, a gray-eyed lass beside the Shannon or to walk the Limerick road. The present slipped away. In song and verse she had learned long ago and now repeated letter-perfect and always fraught with longing, I met her fisher folk, I listened to the winds that moved the boats or watched the mounting clouds, the flight of birds that tell of the storm. In dark and misty bogs, the Faerie lights of Ireland would begin to twinkle while eerie leprechauns were busy at their pranks…

But should a sudden rainbow flood the sky with green and red, we would hurry back again, my grandmother and I, the visit still unfinished, to await the story-telling hour of another rainy day.

The business aspects of the home were precisely managed by Aunt Mary. Taller than the rest of us, thin and always delicate of constitution, she never spared herself. The fingers of her hands were knotted with unceasing toil. Spare of word and keen of judgment, in her nature early hardships had left their mark, and much of Puritan severity remained. All things were measured by the yardstick of their eternal values.

No time was wasted in idle gossip or in visiting. Yet she was hospitality itself when company came. She made things pleasant, often giving up her own bed that they might stop overnight and doing, herself, much of the "fancy" cooking for the guests. Aunt Mary might tell you bluntly that the question to which you sought an answer was not your affair, but there would be no dealing in evasion or "white lies". Her word was her bond. With the landlord, her spoken agreement held more weight than the signed lease of our neighbor. A shipment of fine-quality yard goods might arrive solely in response to a verbal request. Mrs. T's dress promised for Tuesday, would be delivered on that day, through its completion required an all-night sewing session.

As I grew, great admiration developed within me for my aunt. I found the strict adherence to the letter of the law was chiefly for herself. An overwhelming kindliness for others evened up score.

To me, no word of praise was ever given, lest I grow conceited. Yet, she would shield me from all things that were a hardship to her, as a child. An unexpected bag of candy appeared when funds were low. A new school coat was bought, when season after season she had been wearing down the cuffs and elbows of her own. Here was a gift, hand-made while orders waited, if one could not be bought, that I might be present at someone's birthday party. A bunch of pink sweet peas might blossom on a winter morning for a little girl in bed with tonsillitis. So many different things revealed the deep devotion of which, like any true New England daughter, no one ever heard her speak.

A whiff of drifting perfume, gay laughter, brown eyes beneath a veil, a feminine gesture, violets and fur waiting on the table—my Mother had passed by; and, trailing her, a cluster of admiring glances. All things frivolous and social came her way. She loved them. Visits to relatives, plays at school, friends in to supper on a Sunday night—these were no small part of my mother's life. And beaus came, too, to play cribbage or to take us for a carriage ride. They came, but just so far—no further. The gay exterior was but the armor of a promised heart.

Have you ever seen a woman walking through a dark and empty hallway, carrying a candle, its sputtering flame protected by her hand? Just so I've seen my Mother walking down the years—the stealthy years that slowly make so many subtle changes. In time, her quick light step grows slow and falters. Brown hair turns to gray and then to white. Shoulders straight and strong grow frail and rounded. The gay, high voice is low and very seldom heard.

Yet there are things that never, never change. For to me it always seems as though she carries the candle high, the shining symbol of unwavering love. The lips are ever uncomplaining. The mind knows what it seeks. The eyes are steady, looking forward into darkness, but darkness broken by the rays her candle sheds. Beyond, my mother feels, a heart is waiting, and a hand she lost to clasp her own once more. The steadfast flame, so carefully guarded through a lifetime, reveals the lovers to each other at life's end.

Romance

A broadening and interesting factor was contact with the "customers"—those ladies of upper middle class gentility who came, sometimes by trolley or "el", sometimes in their own small carriages seeking the skill of Aunt Mary in making or remodeling dresses.

The fittings took place in the parlor. Thither my aunt would hasten, bearing pinned to her bosom a pincushion studded with pins and needles, and carrying over her arm lovely rustling taffetas or organdies, rich broadcloths, or velvets.

The fitting over, and the important lady standing before the mirror puncturing her feathered hat with hat pins of great length, an invitation was often forthcoming for the child of the family to "come in". As in all circles of life, the clientele was composed of very different personalities. With some, I was shy; with others, friendly. Some could not entice me into the room upon the second visit or thereafter.

Among the most faithful of customers were the wife of a prominent surgeon, her two grown daughters and her mother. Mrs. D. requested that a long pocket be put into the folds of all her skirts, as a convenient place for carrying small change, etc. Into this mysterious hiding place I was always invited to thrust my hand. Sometimes it would contain a pretty carved figurine from China (the two daughters had been missionary workers in the Orient); sometimes, a pair of silver buttons, a tiny doll, or a fancy pencil. The uncertain nature of the gift held fascination. Could it be this same expectant urge which pilots me today to auctions and antique shops?

The greatest thrill of the dressmaking business, however, was provided by the brides. Oh, the beautiful, beautiful brides! Every once in a while the daughter of one of the patronesses would promise her hand to a suitor. Or perhaps it would be the lady herself, a widow striving to replace in a second marriage a lost love, or a spinster coming perilously close to the brink of abandoned expectations who would present herself to be arrayed as the chosen one.

On the occasion of such a fitting, white sheets were spread over the parlor carpet in advance; the shades outside the curtains drawn down to the windowsills, the latticed blinds closed on the shades, thus excluding all possible daylight. Then at the touch of the gas lighter equipped with a sliding wax taper, each of the four frosted glass globes branching off from the center pipe burst into a mellow glow, giving somewhat the effect of candlelight.

The stage was now set; the ring of the doorbell awaited. Farther back in the dining room, I crouched in hopeful suspense. Would I be asked to "come in" today? Oh, voluminous folds of lush satin! Oh, crispness of net and lace! Oh, delicate scent of sachet, as the white-sheeted bridal outfit was whisked away through the door and disappeared into the parlor.

Pinning and snipping and fitting completed to satisfaction, I was summoned into the presence, invited to view the vision.

And a vision indeed she always was, with a flush on her cheeks, a light in her eyes, as she turned and swayed, looking over her shoulder to see the great mirror, a long swirling train, graceful narrow sleeves, the soft glow of seed pearls, the shimmer of satin.

The bride-to-be was pleased! She was joyful! Then, glancing at me, she sought confirmation. What greater proof could she ask than the speechless adoration seen in a child's wide eyes? Truly her hour of fulfillment was at hand. The white glory of the bride without, but faintly echoed the radiance within.

Business of the Day

On those delightful occasions when school was not in session, the day officially began when, breakfast over, and dressed in suitable seasonal attire, the younger generation arrived upon the street. "Equipment" which varied from day to day was carried—usually an old thread or candy box. Today, it might contain a set of jacks and ball; tomorrow, a small china doll with bits of lace, material and thread for making costumes. another day might call for a stamped table doily and strands of different-colored embroidery floss. One good look up and down the street sufficed to settle the question of who was out, who still had to be called for, what was going on and the best means of getting the situation in hand. If ever a street was played upon from dawn till dark, it was that one long block between Lexington and Third.

Besides the five families who possessed offspring and whom we descended upon in droves from time to time, we children had a speaking acquaintance with not one household. In fact, I do not remember ever having seen a single person go into or out of any other house. Did their owners stand behind the long lace curtains of the parlors and watch our antics with amusement or perhaps resignation? Or were they so preoccupied as to be unconscious of our existence? Whatever the answer, to their credit be it said that very, very seldom was a butler or maid dispatched to curb our activities. And they endured much.

In groups we sat upon their lower steps for hours. When the summer sun burned, we retreated up the stoop and entrenched ourselves beneath their front door awnings. Area gates were mounted and swung upon. Across their sidewalks in winter were formed sliding ponds of thinly-fallen slow. Icy igloos and forts were built before their coal holes. Heavy solid marbles, the size of a plum, were bounced hundreds of times without a miss upon the flagstones—often glancing off up into the air and teetering dangerously near the area windows. The center of the street and sidewalks were covered with great chalk "potsie" circles in which we jumped through the spider web from "start" to "home". Lines formed to wait a turn at jump rope. When hide-and-seek was in vogue we hid behind their outer opened doors. Yet the greatest trial of all must have been to watch and listen as whole armies of shouting roller skaters flew up and down the sidewalks or skated clockwise on the wide spots.

Whatever their destination in another world, may tranquility descend upon them as, in bygone days these long-suffering proprietors granted us our unmolested freedom.

We played with gusto and a directness that would have confounded the theories of many a philosopher. If a game was good, we repeated it again and again till we were exhausted; if we didn't like it, it was taboo. All, without exception, turned their attention to the same recreation at the same time, as though a gong had been sounded for the ending of one sport and the beginning of another.

With the exception of a few rousing games of "Cops and Robbers" or a few good snowball fights, the boys kept pretty much to themselves. A girl was considered a tom-boy if she had much to do with them.

A most peculiar feature of those years was being "best friends". The basis upon which the selection was made is hidden in history. If you decided to be "best friends" with Mary, from that moment forward, you were her partner in all games, her second in arguments; you shared her secrets, candy, and skate key. In other words you became each other's shadow. The system had many advantages, not the least of which was moral support in a crisis. The alliance might last for ten minutes, for a day, or for years. Either party could terminate it at will with the brief and blunt statement that she no longer wanted to be the other's best friend. Yet, while it existed, no documented and signed contract between individuals or nations was ever maintained with greater fidelity.

Like No Other

When weather cleared the street of the noisy flock, novel local spots were to be visited. The bakery around the corner, owned by Helen's father, claimed first attention. There behind windows frosted with steam, Mr. G. presided over shelves of tempting pastries. Small, ruddy-cheeked, dark-eyed and sound as an apple, his good business management always succeeded in making a very fine living. Mrs. G., blond and gentle, arrayed in a long white apron like her husband, assisted behind the counter as did the older sister and brother—although the latter could most often be found rising from the basement stairs to the sidewalk like a white apparition, carrying high above his head immense tin trays laden with cakes fresh from the oven.

As Helen's "best friend", I was granted carte blanche to the premises. We roamed through the family's apartment above, looked in on the goodies cooking in the kitchen pots, had kaffee klatch or supper at the back tables of the store and, occasionally, were even permitted a trip through that mysterious region: the basement. Here, beneath the sidewalk, squads of bakers working day and night took care of all those amazing processes which resulted in the masterpieces displayed on counters above. It was a privilege allowed to no others, to roam below unsupervised and tantalized by the odors of fresh dough, of dried apples, cherries, citron, raisins and nuts, and snatching a morsel here and there as we passed.

No more generous family ever lived. A dozen rolls always numbered thirteen. One day a pair of fine ball-bearing skates arrived for Helen, and a second pair for me. Weekly, the square, black carriage of the Little Sisters of the Poor pulled up before the entrance. A huge empty clothes basket entered the store and in a few minutes emerged creaking under its weight of food donated. The blessings of the departing Sisters must have lingered for this family prospered. "Bread cast upon the waters" seemed to return with the success of every new store opened.

Not far away, the pungent odors of tobacco circled. Two of our playmates, noses pressed flat against the rain-spattered door of their father's cigar store, gazed out past the painted wooden Indian posing erect and virile in the torrents. Entering, we stopped to chat, unimpressed by case after case of gold-banded cigars. In the rear behind a curtain, a half-dozen workers stooped over tables laden with brown, dry leaves. The rolling, shaping, clipping, and boxing of cigars went on hour after hour with monotonous precision. No color, no prettiness, no pleasing flavor arose to greet our appraising senses. A visit here might help to kill time on a dull day, but one or two such would suffice for the year.

Wind and rain tearing around the corner assisted our flight halfway up the block. A white stone building boasting of two entrances gave greater promise and here a halt was called.

Hopefully we rang the bell. Perhaps the horses would be out! "The horses?" a stranger, startled, might have enquired. "Out?" Yes. This was the carriage house where dwelt others of our tribe.

Mr. F., thin and wiry, Mrs. F., plump and patient in spite of the brood clinging to her skirts and the baby carriage always standing in anticipation of the next arrival, lived on the top floor. The second floor housed the animals. On the street level were numerous carriages opened and closed, awaiting the summons of the owners to banquet, ball or burial.

A Gothic arch spread high and wide across three-quarters of the front; a small ordinary door was squeezed in at one side. Through the first impressive portals pranced the chestnut darlings of the rich, coats brushed to a luster, hoofs blackened and polished. Liveried coachmen perched upon the seat of the delicate carriage might well have been made of wood. Through the narrow side gate flowed the life of the family, their bundles and friends.

Should the stalls be occupied, there would be no fun today. If the horses were elsewhere earning their oats, we might jump in the hayloft, play hide-and-seek in the dark corners of the harness closet, race up and down the ramps and prance between the carriage shafts like the best-trained of quadrupeds. Our liking for our playmates who dwelt there was not lessened by the privilege which knowing them entailed.

I wonder. Did Queenie and Prince, Jerry and Beauty, upon our return, resent our intrusion, much as the Three Bears when they discovered the use of their chairs and bowls by Goldilocks?

The Sea

Each year when vacation securely locked the doors of schools an excursion was in order. A sizzling July morning found a group of neighbors burdened with blankets, bathing suits and boxes of lunch climbing the narrow stairway to the "el".

Via this means of transit the first half of the trip took us to City Hall. As we were transported through the lower sections of the metropolis, children with arms outspread on car windowsills watched the houses whirling by and received an introduction to some of life's less pleasant phases seen without.

At Brooklyn Bridge, mothers clutched the sticky hands of children and transferred the group from train to train. Barely had the last empty seat been filled when several discoveries were made. A doll and pocketbook were missing and little Tommy was not with us anymore. With one accord we rose to search. Tommy, discovered standing on the platform, his finger in his mouth and weeping copious tears, assumed a new importance, since his absence had the power to stay the whole excursion. The other errors were beyond correction. Again we took our seats. The snake-like string of cars pulled out and meandered through the various parts of Brooklyn and Flatbush, as though uncertain of their destination, finally pulling to a standstill not far from Luna Park.

Car sickness and excitement were by this time accounting for many throbbing heads. Grown-ups, too, were beginning to question the wisdom of the trip and to wonder who had first suggested it. The mingled scents of roasted peanuts, sawdust, corn cooking, monkeys, and the sea came to meet us. Vendors' shrill whistles, hecklers calling, carousel music, the splashing of the waves bade us hurry.

Through the hot streets of Coney Island to the still hotter sands the party wound its way. At last, the first sight of the water! An unoccupied tent was soon captured and filled with our possessions. Blankets, stretched from center pole to sides, formed individual compartments in which each child disrobed and dressed for bathing.

We raced each other to the shore as if the ocean were about to pull away. A few hesitant footsteps with soapy foam licking our ankles. Cold. Cold. Icy cold! A few shivering dips and we were really wet all over.

As though from earth's distant inlets, strange herbs had been gathered and brewed beneath the sun into a healing infusion, the ocean now drenched our bodies with its life-giving waters. Who can explain this mysterious gift of the sea?

With luncheon spread out upon a checkered cloth, the last sandwich unwrapped, the last ripe tomato peeled, a summons was sent out for all hungry members to report. No sooner had we gathered round the fringes of the cloth, our appetites whetted to a razor's sharpness, than some passerby would cast a pail of sand close enough to cover exposed morsel with grit.

Sand castles were built, holes dug, shells gathered to take home, numerous dips made into the waves, a constant bronzing took place beneath the sun. So the day passed. At sunset we were no longer the wan creatures who had set out that morning, but instead a tribe of husky, reddened warriors.

When evening came, against the darkening sky, Steeplechase and Dreamland flung their strings of lighted pearls, competing with the crescent moon hung low above the sea.

How grand had been the day! How lovely was the night! But, oh, the price we paid was high. Most of us were restored to normal by a rest of several days in bed: sunburns, upset stomachs, swollen tired feet our memoirs. And yet, we'd like to go again.

Temptation

Who, living in that era, could remain long unaware of that institution known as the corner saloon? Here it squatted, two-sided, with the eye of one window looking west on East 70th Street and the other watching South on the Avenue as if fearful lest the housewives of the section descend upon it in wrath.

Its swinging doors were indeed functional. Deep scroll carvings shortened them at top and bottom, allowing plenty of air and light to enter the dark and questionable cavern beyond. Yet the opaque quality of the wood so concealed the customers within that nothing was visible except legs, in their usual inoffensive activity of standing. The absence of locks or handles made egress a simple matter, too, for one whose brain might not at the moment be functioning to full capacity. Swinging freely back into position of themselves, the wooden panels allowed the departing guest to leave in haste, wiping his moustache with the back of his hand, his mind innocent of any plan for closing the doors behind him. (With what welcome, indeed, would he be received back into the bosom of his family?)

This front entrance, all but reeking of brimstone and sulfur, was considered the first step in the downward descent which would eventually lead to an uncomfortable and fiery hereafter. Mrs. X., whose husband was known throughout the neighborhood as a regular patron, was looked upon coldly and with lifted eyebrows. Children passing by walked with averted eyes and kept close to the curb, thus putting all possible distance between themselves and contamination.

Yet, illogical though it was, Mrs. Z. might with impunity stand upon the threshold of the side, or "Ladies", entrance, ringing the bell and holding a black cotton bag tightly by its drawstrings and partially hidden in the folds of her full skirt. A portly bartender with white towel draped crosswise over his broad stomach answered the summons. Admitted into the small vestibule, the lady slipped the cotton casing from a tin beer can. A few words were softly murmured; several coins changed hands. The can disappeared into the inner region and returned shortly, its sides beaded with sweat, its character forever sullied. It was again encased in the black bag. The gentleman bowed, thus concluding the transaction. Mrs. Z. departed, flaunting the perky little feather of her hat in a most righteous manner and smoothing the pleats of her skirt with a nicely-gloved hand. Nor did she forget, in passing the swinging doors, to cast a look of withering scorn at the standing legs whose owners were, no doubt, engaged in the dastardly act of quaffing a glass or two of beer beyond the range of vision.

Enchanted Evening

Leaden skies brought swift ending to a gray afternoon. A sudden chill penetrated deep into one's bones. The scent of snow was in the air.

By the time supper was over, the first spitting flakes of the season were tapping at the windowpane. This was the signal! By long-standing agreement, Helen and I, each in her own house, prepared for "The Great Adventure".

Long, inner drawers, always worn to the ankles in winter and covered by thick black stockings, were now encased in padded leggings, the latter buttoned up the sides and slipped over shoes and rubbers. Wooly hat, scarf, mittens, sweater, a blue chinchilla coat lined with red flannel were added and the squirming creature within was ready to play with whatever breath and movement might be possible beneath such armor. Out we went, like two bullets released from opposing batteries, out into the cold darkness, with the tingling touch of snowflakes on our cheeks—to meet beneath the great iron clock which stood towering high above the jeweler's shop, halfway between our two houses.

The street was deserted. Together, we ran around the block, skidding, sliding, kicking up the soft fluff. In a few hours, the new-fallen snow would lie like whipped cream, thickly covering sidewalk and door post, stairway and tree trunk, in the rich darkness of a winter's night.

Silence and softness and whiteness were still untouched by footprint or shovel. Diamond-dust sparkled in the blue and orange flame of lamp posts! Diamond-dust, strewn freely for rich and poor alike, the beautiful gift of Jack Frost.