Run Away

Time marches on and nothing stays the same….  The gremlins in Bobby begin to stir and boil and before long he is back at his wretchedness… and it is pouring out all over us. He manages to stay kind to Polly and this is miracle.  Just the thought of him hurting her was enough to make me want to kill him dead in his sleep.

Running is what I dream of everyday now. Leaving Polly is breaking my heart. But staying here in this mill apartment with fits of anger and hatred spilling into me. Hate is what I feel. His ugliness is too big and powerful and it casts a dark shadow over all of us. I don’t want hate to win, but it is consuming me and I want to run.

I had been planning my escape for a long time. Long before Polly was born.

I did not have to go far to find two friends who wanted to run with me.

Denise and Donna both lived on Aspen Street.  If you lived in my town and you said that you lived on Aspen Street or Gills Alley….well that just about summed it all up.

Aspen Street was a long street that went about three or four blocks down. The street was lined with one crappy looking house after another.  Each house had two to four apartments in it.  Rural American slums. There was a lot of poverty, crime, drugs, drug dealers and despair on Aspen Street and it was not safe for a young girl to be in that neighborhood…..Denise and Donna woke up there every day.

I had managed to keep my promise to Mom that I would never go to Aspen Street until Denise moved to town.  Denise moved to Aspen Street in the beginning of sixth grade.  I am not sure where she moved here from… but she just showed up at school one day and we were friends immediately.

Denise was living with her older sister and she had it pretty rough.  Her sister had a couple of kids and she was very young.  Their apartment had hardly any furniture and it had that familiar stench of poverty.  Denise was soft spoken but had a hardness to her that was deep and subtle. She was kind but not mushy.  She was soft but not passive.  She was sad for sure…but she was looking for happiness.  She still had hope and that made up for so much. Her hair was dark brown and very long.  She always wore her hair down.  She was very pretty…… her eyes were dark brown. She seemed older than me…she had a wisdom about her that was beyond her age.  Perhaps she had seen more in her short life than she needed to see.  She often looked away and was in her own thoughts.  But she was never mean….not once. Denise had the most beautiful smile.  She sort of worked into it, as if she was hesitating to smile at first, almost like it was a decision to smile, not natural.  But then her eyes would soften and the smile would start to appear slowly across her face, subtle but extremely warm and meaningful.  I remember feeling relieved when her smile appeared.  I loved her and wanted her to be happy.  Then her smile would start to fade.. a look would come across her face that seemed to remind her that she had nothing to smile about.. and then the smile would be gone.

Donna lived a few houses down from Denise and she had a bunch of brothers and they were all trouble.  They got into trouble all the time…  But on Aspen Street you did not have to go far to find trouble.  It practically came to your door knocking.  I never knew anything about Donna’s Dad and I think her Mom worked in the mills.  Donna was a hoot. She was really funny and had a very sassy personality. She had dark skin, dark hair and dark eyes.  She could make a joke out of anything.  Sometimes she joked about the things in her life that were not funny. But I suppose laughing at it was the only thing she could do.

Both Donna and Denise were up for an adventure at anytime. They were kind…they were not mean girls at all.  I really loved them and we had things about us that bonded us instantly. Mainly that our fathers were non-existent and we were searching for a better life.  Searching for ways to get out of where we were. We all hated our homes and were angry at our fathers for leaving us behind. We all knew what it was like to live in poverty and uncertainty.  Most importantly we all made each other laugh and feel free!

Both Denise and Donna were a lot more courageous than I…or maybe they were just more desperate than I. They were a lot tougher than I was.  Aspen Street was tough..and to survive there you had to be tough right back or it would destroy you.

We often went to cemetery that bordered Aspen Street..  We would sit on the hill and look out over the grave stones. We always talked about getting out of this town and heading to California or some other place.  Anywhere but here.

I had a plan and Denise and Donna immediately wanted in my my run away adventure.

First we needed to know how much money we had.  They each had a couple dollars but thought that they could get a couple more.  I had a five dollar bill in my pocket that my Mom gave me to buy milk and bread with. We thought we had plenty enough to run away. We decided that we could use our gym bags to carry what we needed.  We made a list together on what we all thought we should bring.

We decided that we would leave the next day.  That we would pack some clothes and snacks in our gym bags and get up in the morning like we were going off to school.  But instead we would meet in the park near my house and sneak down to the train tracks.  We made a pact to not tell anyone. and than once we got settle we would come back for Polly.

That night when I went to bed I had a sense of hope.  I thought that I would change everything by running away.  I thought that I would be free from the pain in my life.  I was afraid but nowhere near as afraid as I was to stay in this life that I dreaded every day. I woke a few times during the night and I was not full of fear.  Interesting that I was hopeful for a new beginning.  A life with Denise and Donna….  I wondered what they were thinking about as they feel asleep and I prayed to God that they would show up the next morning.

The next morning, I left the house just as if I were heading to school.  I hugged Polly for a long time and told her what I was doing and that I would come back for her. I felt somehow that she knew what I was saying. Linnea was still sleeping and I kissed her on the cheek.

I got to the trail first and shortly after I could see Denise and Donna running down the trail towards me.  Once we reached the tracks we knew we would be out of sight for a long time. We were all frightened to death and as soon as we saw each other we said “let’s run”   We ran through the park and headed for the tracks.  We were full of excitement and fear. We jumped over stones and tree trunks we ducked under low hanging branches and we ran as fast as we could.  I felt a sense of freedom as we ran. I just wanted to run and run and run. Once we reached the train tracks and were out of sight we all fell on the ground in exhaustion. We were all out of breath and quiet.  For a few minutes all you could hear was the sounds of us breathing. Once we caught our breath the realization of what we were doing was beginning to sink in. We all started laughing in disbelief and excitement. We gathered our things and began walking.  I was in the middle with Denise and Donna on both sides of me. Walking with our arms around each other down the middle of the train tracks.

I had no idea how long it would take to get there but I knew if anyone could make it, we could……

Polly

After church on Sundays, piled into the old green dodge, we usually made at stop at Harper’s Market.  Bobby would run in to buy fresh Polish rye bread to have with our Sunday dinner.  On this particular Sunday, when Bobby got back in the car, he asked my mom, “Are we going to tell them Lynn?”  “Go on Lynn, tell them.” Then Mom blurted out happily, “I’m pregnant! We are going to have a new baby.”

We all sat quietly in total disbelief for a moment and then the excitement began to rise.  We were all just so happy—genuinely, truly happy. I felt instant love for the baby­—absolute, unconditional, pounding out of my heart, LOVE.  I had never felt such a deep emotion before. I made Mom repeat what she had said at least ten times because I just couldn’t believe that something so amazing could be happening to me.

I had never seen Bobby so happy; even his anger seemed to fade a bit. He had a new fresh happiness because the baby was coming, I think he had the same pounding in his heart as I did in mine.  The kind of love that only a baby can bring.

Finally, the day came and this perfect baby girl came into the world. Named after her Polish Grammy, Polly.  When I first saw her I thought she was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. I felt such a burst of  love coming from every part of me.. The loving feeling just filled me up.  “How could it be possible to love someone this much?” I helped Mom with everything…. I picked out her outfits, I fed her, bathed her, changed her, pushed her in the stroller and as she grew and grew my love for her grew stronger and stronger.  She started calling me “sissy”…. Polly adored me and I adored her. We are sisters for life. And there was no question about that.

She is a chubby, blonde baby with the biggest happy eyes.  Her hands are gentle and soft and her cheeks are plump and rosy.  She is endlessly smiling and she seems to be happy where ever she is…  we all adore her and gather around her as she grows and grows.  She is the light and love of the house and she shines her love all over us and it unites and bonds us…. grounds us and reminds us that we are a family and we are capable of deep, deep love.

Bobby was a different man around Polly, he was soft and sweet and gentle.  My brothers and sister immediately fall in love with Polly too. Our love for her formed an amazing bond between all of us. For the first time since Mom and Bobby had married, we all had something in common; we loved Polly.  We all could see that love in each other and even Bobby saw that love in us.  He saw the way we loved Polly instantly and unconditionally.  Even though Bobby loved Polly the way I wanted him to love me, I was never jealous of her, not for one second.  The more I witnessed him love her, the more I started to feel connected to him.  I think Bobby was also able to see another side of me…. and he seemed to love that I loved Polly.  He never took Polly away from us and seemed amused at the way we cared for her…loved her.

Polly was the life of the house.  Where ever she was we all wanted to be there with her. As she grew, she giggled and made sweet noises. She loved to snuggle and was an easy baby to care for. She rarely cried and  we would all gather around her and talk with her and laugh at the cute things she would do. We would sing to her and play with her little toes and fingers. There was always a lot of commotion and excitement around Polly.

For the first time in my life, I couldn’t wait to get home! I would run home from school as fast as I could so I could see Polly. I would scoop her up, snuggle her into me and hold her as close to me as I could, all the time telling her that her “sissy” loves her more that anything else in the world.

A Sad Day Indeed……

Upon one of Dads short visits, he borrowed Uncle Gilbert’s car and managed to scrape up enough money to take us to Friendly’s for a soda.  It was the first time he picked us up at 56 Park Street. He was driving bare foot and his feet were dirty and enormous. His hair was a bit of a mess and was blowing in the breeze. His was wearing a thin cotton shirt that was untucked and the last button undone, faded jeans…. big long, strong legs. A pipe sticking out of his mouth. He was a site to see…. and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.  I stared at every bit of him.  His hands, his face, his whole body slouched a bit in the seat.  I thought he was the most fabulous looking being on earth.

We all piled in the booth with excitement and ordered our soda, chatting away.  We were all dying for ice cream but were happy just to be there.

“How’s Mr. Lincoln” I ask. Dad answers without a thought… “he died”. At first I  don’t believe it because Mr. Lincoln and I had a pact that we would never leave each other, no matter what.  But I could tell by Dad’s expression that it was true. Sitting in the booth at Friendly’s, I learn that I have lost what means most to me….  I softly sob…”no, it cant be true”….. then I cry so hard it seems like days….and my heart aches so much that I think it may never stop.

Seeing Dad Again

Mom told us at the dinner table “your Dad is going to be visiting you at the farm this weekend”.  I felt a deep ache in my tummy, excitement and afraid… all at the same time. Mom saw how shocked we all were and tried to make it seem alright.

When I saw him he seemed so unfamiliar and so familiar all at the same time. I went to him and hugged him but my brothers wouldn’t go to him. I am not sure if they were frightened or angry, but I was the one who went to my Dad—hugged him, sat on his lap, touched his face, and tried to remember what it felt like to love this stranger who was my father.

Somehow I knew that I could not fully open my heart to him again, not as much as I wanted to. I felt an absence that I cannot really describe. The rest of the visit was a blur but I do remember him talking to us and being very kind and soft. I think we all felt awkward, but in the moment we weren’t able to put words to how we were feeling. The visit with my dad seemed very short. It seemed that it ended before it started and although, he felt distant I hated to say goodbye to him.

I wish I could say that this was when it all changed for us, that my Dad was finally back in our lives to stay and that he came every week to visit us. I wish I could say that we spent vacations with him, that he supported us emotionally and financially.  I wish that I could say that he was our Dad again. But that is not what happened. He went missing again after this one visit and we didn’t see him again for a long time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quite a few years later, Dad would randomly come see us when we were at the farm on the weekends. He didn’t have a car so he would hitchhike.  Sometimes he would come walking up the country road alone and just walk in the door; other times he would come with a girlfriend or some friends. Sometimes he would say he was coming and not show up; other times he would just show up unannounced. He was carefree and not dependable. Even so, I  thought he was so cool.  He had long curly hair and was so handsome. He always had kind things to say to me when he came to visit. He would encourage me with his words and his gentle voice. I remember him asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up… I said “a nurse ” and he said “why not a Doctor” ….. “oh Dad….girls cant be Doctors.”  and he said “oh yes they can and I think you would be a wonderful Doctor”.

I would follow him everywhere and he would hold my hand….. he would talk a lot and tell us funny stories.  Sometimes he would go on and on and on about really boring stuff but I didn’t mind. I needed him.  Then off he would go and we wouldn’t see him again for a long time.

I would miss him deeply and my heart would ache for him. If I stood in just the right spot on my favorite stonewall, I could see very far down the road. I would look for him from that spot, hoping to catch a glimpse of him coming up the road. Sometimes I waited and waited. I would sit on the wall and position myself where I could see the farthest. And I would wait. Sometimes I would squeeze my eyes shut really tight and pray really hard that when I opened them I would see Dad coming up the road. I would be filled with excitement just before opening my eyes, but then as I opened them, the old country road would be just that, with no Dad walking towards me. Sometimes I would just sit there and imagine him coming, imagine him strolling up the road with a smile, just so I could feel that excitement inside again. As time went on, I would not allow myself to look anymore because it hurt too much.

Imagine being loved that much, where someone longs for you so greatly that they dream about your arrival and wait on a stone wall with great anticipation. And they look down an old country road over and over again, waiting and wishing to catch a glimpse of you.  What a fortunate man to have been loved so much.

Mr Lincoln

Grandpa & Grandma come every Friday afternoon and pick us up and take us to the farm for the weekend.

On this Friday afternoon, I am anxiously waiting on the front steps. Bobby is at it again.  He is yelling at Mom and all of us and smoking one filter-less Lucky Strike cigarette after another and another. I hate him.  I cannot remember a time that I do not hate him.

Sometimes, I still find myself drawn to him.  Perhaps I am hoping, longing for attention.  Even if it hurts, at least it is attention.  I will regret it though: his rejection will always hurt worse than I think it will…

“Don’t you have something better to do,” he grumbles.  So I pick up my bag and go outside and wait on the porch, longing to see that big gold Dodge come around the bend and take me from this mill town, back to the farm, back to nature and all that soothes me.

I know that soon they will come and all will be alright.  Grandma and Grandpa will help me make my escape.

When we arrive back at the farm we are all in the kitchen and Grandpa announces that he has a surprise for us.  “M & M’s?” we ask.  “No,” he says with a serious face.  ”You have to guess,” he says.  So we all start guessing.  This goes on for a while.  “Is it bigger than the kitchen table?”  “Is it living?”  “Does it have two legs?”  “Four legs?” “Yes, yes, yes” he says.  “Is it a dog?”  I say with excitement!  “No” he says.  “Is it a horse?”  my brother says.  Grandpa doesn’t answer at first, just smiles.  ”Is it, is it?” we are all asking with pure excitement.  “Well not exactly,” he says.  We are all gazing at him with wide eyes as he says very slowly, “Well, it’s actually a half pony, half horse!”

When he said these words I actually could not even take it in.  “Really really really!!!?”  “Yes,” he says, “I promise!”  I was so beyond thrilled that I fell backward and landed straight on the floor, banging the back of my head really hard.  But it didn’t faze me a bit.  I just jumped up and all of us were jumping and yelling in excitement and disbelief.

Did Grandpa know that I loved horses more than anything?  Did he know I spent hours in my room putting together scrapbooks of cowgirls on their horses, cutting pictures from outdated horse girl magazines that I got at the library for free? I would imagine that it was me on the horse wearing wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat.  There would be articles about caring for horses, brushing them, cleaning their hooves, cleaning their stalls, braiding their manes, barrel racing, and everything to do with horses and horse ranches. I would dream for hours of just riding a horse someday and never allowed myself to dream that I would actually have one.

“Mr. Lincoln” is his name.  He is the most spectacular animal I have ever seen. As I walk towards him it is cold enough to see his breath coming out of his large soft nostrils.   He looks straight at me.  He is reddish brown, his mane is thick and darker than his coat and his body is stout and solid and strong. I cannot believe my eyes and that I am about to touch him.  I have imagined this moment for so long.  I reach out and I touch his nose first.  It is softer than I could have dreamed.

He lets me touch him and I put both hands on his face.  He lowers his head and I rest my face on his.  He is warm and soft and he smells like the earth.  We breathe in and out together; I feel his breath on my chest.  I know in this moment that we are one – Mr. Lincoln and I – and I make a pact with him in that I will love him until the end of time.

I tell Mr Lincoln everything and he listens.  He chomps on grass and wanders around me.  I talk and talk and he often lifts his head and looks at me.  He never goes too far.  I talk and talk.  I talk as I brush him and as I lead him through the pastures.  Sometimes he follows without me holding the rope.  He listens as I talk.

I tell him that I have dreamed of having a horse my whole life and that I love every inch of him.  I tell him about Bobby and how much I hate him.  I tell him about my dad and how much I miss him.  I tell him about my best friends: Patty, Lori, and Cathy.  I tell him about my teacher – how handsome he is and how kind he is to me.  I tell him everything and he listens.  He looks at me with his dark, black eyes and he seems to understand it all.

He knows without me telling him that I love the sky, because he watches me as I lie in the grass and stare at the clouds.  He knows that I love the trees because he watches me climb the branches and try and climb as high as I can.  “Look at me Mr. Lincoln, look how high I am.  I can see for miles.”  He knows how much I love the smell of fresh hay as he watches me hold it in my hands and bury my face in it as I breath in deeply.  He knows that I hate shoes as he sees my bare feet with dirt between my toes.  He knows everything about me and he stays, he stays right there by my side and he loves me, quietly, with all of his beauty and courage and strength.

It was magical learning how to care for Mr. Lincoln.  I loved all of it!  I loved cleaning his hooves and brushing him.  I loved combing out his mane and kissing him on the tip of his nose.  All the while I am talking and talking to him, touching him gently, telling him everything.

I never put the saddle on him.  I love riding him bareback.  I love the way my legs felt, in the warmth and softness of his body as they draped over his big belly.  I would scoot forward as far as I could and I would lie straight back on his back and my head would lie right on his rump.  I would stare up at the sky and the big white fluffy clouds and talk and talk and talk while Mr. Lincoln just meandered about the pasture grazing on grass.  It didn’t seem to bother him that I would just lie up there on his back.

It doesn’t take long for me to find him.  He is always in the upper pasture eating grass. His head jerks a foot when I call out to him and he walks towards me hoping I have an apple for him.  I jump onto his back and off we go.  I lean on his strong neck and wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his mane.  I tell him that I love him more than anything and would never let anyone or anything hurt him.  He listens.

The sight and sounds of him galloping across the pastures:  his mane blowing in the wind, his hooves banging on the earth, his spectacular muscles that form as his hooves lift and fall.  It is the sight of freedom – full freedom – and connection to the earth.

I can depend on Mr. Lincoln.  He is always there for me.  Our connection is deep and when I am back home at 56 Park Street, I dream of him. I dream about the way he smells, his beautiful eyes, the softness of his coat, the sounds of his hooves on the earth and as they walk across the old wood floors in the barn.

No matter what happens at 56 Park Street, when I return to the farm on Friday afternoon, Mr. Lincoln is there waiting for me.  I can count on that.

The Farm

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.  Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.  The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. 

~John Muir

This time when I awaken in the middle of the night, it is to the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves of the gigantic maples trees outside my bedroom window. In this moment, I know that I am safe. As I peacefully drift back to sleep, I am comforted by the thought that in a few hours I will awaken to the sound of my grandparents in the bedroom right below me. I will hear grandpa’s big bare feet walking across the old hardwood floors and I will recognize the distinct sound of his limp: that discernible pause as his right foot takes longer to hit the floor then his left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not long after moving to 56 Park Street, my grandparents; my fathers parents, came back into our lives. This miracle changed our lives for the better for evermore.

Grandma and Grandpa were dairy farmers and they were extremely proud to say so. They loved farming more than anything else in the world. I am not sure which one of them loved it more, but I do know that you could never separate my grandfather from farming. It was where he began and where he ended, and there was no question about that.

I loved Grandpa the moment I set eyes on him. He was a good man and a decent man, the kind of man that one rarely finds these days. He knew what was important. He knew the freedom that comes from having no debt and from not trying to be someone you are not. He stood strong, took pride in a job well done, and he loved us deeply. He had a way of looking at me and talking to me that made me feel like the most important person on earth.  When he hugged me, I felt his warmth and strength surround me.

Grandpa knew how to make the most dull activity or task fun…. and he knew how to do it without spending a dime.  He was a jovial man with his bald head and big belly. He was the best and funniest story teller and he would captivate our attention for hours. Most of the time he was wearing blue jean overalls and they often had big patches on the legs.  In the winter he wore a flannel shirt and in the summer he wore short sleeved, button down, cotton shirt… often washed so many times that the material was very thin and worn..  Grandpa had two pairs of shoes, work boots and church shoes. Both were brown.  When he went outside, he wore a hat.  He looked best in his straw hat, but he also wore a baseball cap…. and for church he wore a dress hat…..it was brown too and it had a small feather in the band. His hands were large and strong and showed the signs of aging and a life of working the farm.  But they were also gentle and kind.  A gold tooth shined in the corner of his smile….I thought it was the shiniest thing I had ever seen. He smelled like a mixture of sweat, hay, grain and the old barn.

Grandpa seemed to love everything about the farm; the open clean air; the way the hay smelled on a hot day just after it had been bundled into bails; the freshly churned butter; the raw milk; the smells and sounds of bacon and eggs sizzling in the cast-iron frying pan on those crisp fall mornings; the scent of the cow barn; the way the brook sounded in spring as the ice melted into it; the way the snow crunched under his feet as he mended fences; and the soft westerly summer breeze that swarmed him on a hot day. But mostly, I believe, it was the freedom of it all: the freedom to wake up each day and do what he chose to do, to walk on his own land and have no desire to be anywhere else but there on his farm. He could stand strong and confident, knowing what he had built there, knowing it like the back of his hand, knowing it throughout his entire body. And never once did he have to doubt who he was.

Grandma was plump and when she hugged me I felt like I was being hugged by a big fluffy cozy cloud.  She had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen.  Her front tooth crossed ever so slightly over her other front tooth in the prettiest way…. And her lips were perfectly full. She was a farm girl through and through. She dressed in simple farm clothes, mostly cotton shirts and cotton shorts in the summer… usually a soft blue or a dark blue… very light wore cotton which she probable bought at the local salvation army.  She was not one to buy anything new and she loved hand me downs… from anyone…. and she often wore a bandanna in her hair, which I loved and in the summer she always wore flip flops. She would wear a straw hat in the garden sometimes and she loved the sun.  After a long morning of working she would get a cold drink and sit out in the sun….. “awe” she would say….”That sun feels so good.”  Her skin was a perfect deep olive color and it would darken up beautifully in the sun.  Her skin was absolutely gorgeous and soft as baby’s hair.  The wrinkled lines around her eyes revealed a life of hard work and dedication, laughter and sorrow.  Her laugh was deep and joyful and she and Grandpa were rarely short on laughter.

Grandma was the best cook I knew….and she spent a good amount of her time in the kitchen preparing food for all of us. She cooked just about everything in her iron frying pans. Breakfast was usually eggs cooked “warwicks” style in the iron frying pan; egg cracked in melted sizzling butter with a piece of homemade whole grain bread placed on top and once the egg was cooked she would flip the bread and egg over so the bread would brown up nice in the butter. There would always be bacon or sausage from the pig they raised on the farm.  In the morning the whole house would smell of sizzling sausage and bacon.  Grandma’s meals were made from everything that had been grown or raised on the farm. Supper was mostly fresh vegetables from the garden such as summer squash, zucchini, green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, corn… these veggies were always served with lots of butter melted on top. Usually homemade corn bread on the side with some pork loin browned in the iron pan with butter.  Always a homemade dessert: blueberry cake or chocolate cake…  A glass pitcher was always on the table full of whole raw milk, fresh from the cow.. and it would be refilled several times throughout the meal.  Food was in abundance on the farm, all cooked in the farm house kitchen….. always delicious!!

There were so many things about “the farm” that made it the best place on earth. But it was Grandpa’s humor, storytelling, appreciation for nature and animals, grandma’s cooking and their deep love for us that made it an experience of a lifetime.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Old Green Dodge

We were able to buy our first car about a year after moving to 56 Park Street. This was a huge deal and the thrill we felt is impossible to describe. The car cost $300 and we had to borrow the money from the bank. I remember the day Bobby and Mom were going to pick up the car, Bobby had $300 in his hand and he let me hold it. He made me stand right next to him and not move. I held it in my hand and looked at it and counted the 3 one hundred dollar bills over and over. It was by far the most money I had ever heard of, let alone held in my own hand. Later that day, they came rolling up the street in our new car. It was an old green four-door Dodge and it had electric windows.

We were waiting on the front steps when they pulled up and we all went running towards them with out of control excitement.  Mom and Bobby were both sitting in the front seat smiling. We jumped in and were in complete amazement as we examined every inch of the car. Bobby took us all for a ride around the block. We put the windows down and hung our hands and arms out of the windows, feeling the breeze blow a new chapter into our lives.

Having a car put us in a whole different category.  We were now among those who had their own transportation!  The interior of the car was an olive green and in no time at all the electric windows, which once were the coolest thing I had ever seen, stopped working,  some in the down position and some in the up position. Unfortunately, the front passenger seat window, where Mom always sat, got stuck in the down position and of course we could not afford to get it fixed. So it stayed that way for a long time.  Until winter came then Bobby taped plastic over it.

The car was often needing repair and it had a duel exhaust system which seemed totally luxurious until they needed to be replaced.  Duel exhaust meant duel the price, leading us to be roaring around town for a while until we could afford to replace it. Bobby had NO patience for breaking down, or anything for that matter. When he lost his temper, which was often, the f-word started flying. Fuck this, Fuck that…Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. We had a flat tire once and before he even got out of the car he was swearing. He then proceeded to kick the “fucking” tire repeatedly. Of course it happened on a hill so as soon as he jacked the car up, it slid off the jack…. and came crashing down…..”fucking jack, fucking tire, fucking kids, what the fuck.”  We all sat in silence on the side of the road praying for the episode to be over. I must admit that at times his ridiculous tantrums were hilarious.  He looked like a raving maniac and his false teeth would sometimes dislodge and almost fall out of his mouth. This would stop him in mid-swearing sentence and he would adjust his teeth back into place and then continue on…. fuck, fuck, fuck.. This would be the point where we would start to giggle but we had to do it under our breath because if he caught us laughing at him he would go ballistic!

Before long we would be back on the road rolling along to the tune of Bobby swearing his last bit of frustration. “fucking car, fucking tire, fucking life.”

56 Park Street

56 Park Street

56 Park Street was set in a row house that had 6 apartments. We were the second apartment from the end. The front steps landed on the sidewalk with no front yard. The backyard had six sets of clotheslines that filled up the backyard. We used to drape blankets over the clotheslines and hold the ends down with rocks, making big tents that we called “our forts.”

Our rent was $22 a week and our landlady, Doris, came to collect it every Friday. Doris was sort of a slumlord. She also owned Gill’s Alley and several other mill apartment buildings in town. She was old, unattractive, and smelly. Her belly stuck way out, but the rest of her was skinny. Her hair was a ratty mess and she always wore the same brown polyester pants. One day, my brothers figured out that the couch smelled in the spot where she was sitting. We were all grossed out about it and every week after she came to collect the rent, none of us would sit in the spot where she had been sitting. We would all be holding in our giggles when she visited. When Doris would get up to leave, my brothers would plug their noses behind her back and point to her butt. We would all laugh so hard. Even Mom would be trying to hold in her laughter.

Mom worked hard to make our new apartment warm and comfortable. She took a lot of pleasure in cooking for us and I could tell that she was coming out of her darkness into the light of a new life. She did a lot of sewing and sewed just about everything. She would buy material at Goodwill and make curtains, dresses, shirts, pillowcases, and couch covers. She also knitted hats, scarves, and mittens. She once knitted me the coolest poncho. It was many different colors and I loved it so much that I wore it with pride. Mom also knitted blankets for all of our beds and even made braided rugs for the floors out of twines of wool that Bobby brought home from the mill. She was extremely talented in this area and was somehow able to provide everything that we needed by creating it with her own two hands. She did all of this quietly without notice. The things would just appear as we needed them: a new shirt I needed for school, a spring coat, or curtains for my bedroom. She even made me bathing suits! They would just magically appear. Mom seemed to be happy and this was a nice shift in the house. This apartment seemed much brighten than Gills Alley, especially with Bobby working second shift at the mill. He would often be gone by the time we got home from school and we would be in bed when he got home from the mill.

Bobby’s Polish mother, who we called Grammy, was an amazingly kind woman. She loved us and we loved her. She did not drive, always wore cotton apron dresses, and never said a bad word about anyone. She was soft spoken and plump…. She taught my mom how to cook Polish food and we all loved it. I was always so amazed by mom, by the way she could just learn how to do things and make them come out perfect. She learned how to make kapusta, galumpkies, and porogies perfectly—probably better than Grammy herself. Bobby and all of us loved the Polish food that she made. “Alright Lynn,” Bobby would say as she served the meal.

Mom was always home. I knew I could count on that. She would be doing something in the kitchen or sitting at her sewing machine. She always had something delicious made for us when we got home from school and her Bible was always nearby. She always went without so that we could have; she wore the same winter coat for as long as I can remember.

Bobby managed to stay sober and this was definitely another big improvement in our lives. He was going to church regularly, to ask forgiveness for his sins….. and working lots of hours at the mill. But he often had unexpected bouts of anger and rage and this made it difficult to form a bond with him or to trust that things were going to be okay. His rages came at such unexpected times and for what appeared to be no reason at all. The hardest part was trying to figure out what caused them so you could try to avoid them. Any attempts at doing so always failed because the rages came and went without any warning or reason. Of course “the kids” were always the reason, but there was never any real rhyme or reason. Once you stopped doing the thing that made him rage, something else would just replace it. He would also take it out on my mom, which made me sick inside. I wanted so much to protect her from him, a pattern that would last a life time. When I tried to stick up for her, it just made him more angry and it made him hate me more. The hatred went both ways, I started hating him the day I stuck pins in his violent hands.

Bobby’s Hands

After I jabbed pins in Bobby’s hands, I knew his hands like my own. His fingers were short and stubby with big wide finger nails….and he had cracks on the tips of his fingers that were full of grease from working so hard at the mill. Between his pointer finger and middle finger he had a nicotine stain from smoking so many filter-less Lucky Strike cigarettes. To me his hands are now evil. I had a sick feeling in my stomach for months after I stuck pins in them.  I felt like I had done a horrific, unforgivable act. I began to hate Bobby. The hatred crept in slowly over time until I hated him with every bit of my being.  I hated him for what he would become when he drank, for being forced to be in his dark presence…… so entangled in his destructiveness and even worse, to know that the next time I see him after one of his drunken episodes, he will not beg me for my forgiveness….. but instead he will act like nothing ever happened. I mostly hate him for how worthless he makes me feel.  He is a reminder to me that just like my Dad…. Bobby is incapable of loving me.

Mom did not have it within her to stand up for herself or for us. I guess she thought that this was the best that she could do and she taught me that this was the best that I could do.  I began to not feel safe with her….  I began to know that she would not protect me from this violence.  She always let him back in… even after all of the craziness and violence… she let him back in. My nightmares continued and got worse and as soon as the sun started to go down in the evening, the fear would begin to stir within me knowing that with nightfall my nightmares would come again.  I felt very alone with my fears and started to believe that if Mom did not protect me from Bobby, she could not protect me from my nightmares.

Bobby somehow managed to stay sober long enough for Mom to finally marry him. Of course  he “accepted the Lord Jesus Christ into his heart,” asked “forgiveness for all of his sins,” and committed to living the life of a “Born Again Christian”.  Sadly…this was enough for Mom. If Jesus could forgive him, then so could she. I decided very early on that if this is the way “Born Again Christians” treat children.. I want no part of it.

Mom made her wedding dress with fabric she bought at Grants Department Store.. It was floor-length with white lace over light blue satin. She looked beautiful. Everyone seemed happy and I just could not figure out why. This was a very sad day for me…. I could not figure out why she wanted to marry him and why she was happy… why would anyone be happy about this?  I tried to be hopeful and to believe that things were going to be better… but mostly I was sick to my stomach all day knowing that I could not escape him now….  he would be in my home forever and there was no one to protect me from him.

When Mom married Bobby it was the key that opened the door to freedom from Gill’s Alley. Because of Bobby and his paycheck from the mill, we were able to move out of “the alley” for good. At first it seemed to be a pretty good trade-off: real potatoes, real milk, fresh veggies, a nicer, mill apartment on the other side of town. However, this was all in exchange for hatred, violence, confusion, and fear. It was a cruel trade-off after all.

USDA Food

The kitchen was the brightest room in the apartment, especially when Mom was cooking. She always seemed happy when she was cooking and I thought she was a food magician because she could take the most disgusting food imaginable and make it into a masterpiece. The kitchen was the life source. This was where we ate and talked and laughed. This is where we were all together. I think it gave her satisfaction that no matter what else was falling apart around her, she knew how to create a meal with the little she had. She could not give us much at all materially, but she could give us a meal, and that she did.

Thanks to the USDA Food Commodities Distribution Program, i.e. free food from the government, all the kids in Gills Alley had food to eat. We would pick up our food in bulk once a month. Since we did not have a car, we walked to the distribution center and carried the boxes of food home. The boxes were stamped USDA FOOD and were filled with non-fat dry instant milk, dehydrated powdered potatoes, canned chopped chicken, dried split peas and beans, raisins, butter, shortening, rolled oats, rolled wheat, peanut butter, cornmeal, flour, big blocks of very orange cheese, farina, canned green beans, canned tomatoes, and bagged rice. No fresh fruit or vegetables. Each can, bag, and box had no color, no decoration and no paper label. Just stamped in blue ink.

Luckily, the distribution center was not far from Gill’s Alley and we only had a short walk on the main street, leaving little time for anyone to see us. The walk home felt like the “walk of shame.” None of us said a word about it but I can’t help but think that we were all thinking the same thing:…   we are poor and everyone knows it because we are carrying home boxes stamped USDA FOOD.

Once home we would unpack the food and “Mom the cooking magician” came to life. She would put the canned chopped chicken in a pan with butter and add a little water and flour and make a chicken and gravy dish and serve it over rice or hydrated potatoes. It was a true transformation of this chopped, canned chicken that looked like dog food when you opened it and smelled like it too. If any of us were in the room, we would all moan and groan at the site of it and Mom would just go about her business transforming that USDA chopped canned chicken into a meal that warmed our little bellies.  She also made us farina or oatmeal for breakfast with raisins and powdered milk that she would make ahead of time and cool in the refrigerator. Sometimes the bags would not be sealed properly and we would have little bugs in our farina. We would all gross out and Mom would respond very calmly while picking the bugs out of her cereal saying  “oh these little things won’t hurt you… (while taking a bite)…. yum…” and instruct us to do the same.  We followed her lead…. like it was the most normal thing in the world to pick the bugs out of your morning cereal and keep right on eating.