Rumer Godden

Rumer Godden is one of my favorite 'forgotten' authors so I am thrilled that Open Road Media is bringing Godden's books to the reading public in ebook form. Two of Godden's Catholic novels were made available to me through NetGalley.

Five for Sorrow, Ten For Joy explores the role of the Catholic faith in the lives of women in a small, isolated community of nuns. The nuns bring baggage from their past lives, seeking refuge in the love and forgiveness of Jesus. Godden slowly reveals the journey of Sister Marie Lise du Rosaire in a series of backflashes and alternate voices.

Elizabeth Fanshawe has been in a series of prisons. As an orphan she lived with a demanding Aunt. Only 20 at the end of WWII, Lise is caught up in the wild celebrations. Drunk and lost, she is taken home by Patrice, a wealthy, older man. He takes her in, and she believes he loves her; this illusion is another prison since he wants her for his brothel--another prison.

"I was green as a lettuce leaf...I thought he loved me...It didn't occur to me I was a whore."

Lise became Madame Lise Ambard, working in a high class house of ill repute. Scared in a fight, she is reborn as La Balafree and at twenty-three manages the brothel for Patrice. She still is under the illusion that he loves her best.

Lise rescues a drunken waif, Vivi, a fourteen-year-old girl who had been living on the streets for two years. Her Papa had abused her and her sister; the sister secretly gave birth to a baby which they left to die. Lise found Vivi clutching a rosary in her hands. Lise hopes to sent Vivi to school but Patrice is stunned by the girl's beauty and takes her as his new favorite lover, displacing Lise. When Vivi lusts for a local boy, Lise assists her to run away with him. The results are disastrous. Lise's illusions bring her to murder thinking she is saving a former whore, Vivi, from reentering the brothel. She justly serves ten years in prison.

While in prison for murder, Lise meets the Dominicaines of Bethanie nuns whose message of love and forgiveness changes her life. Upon her release at age thirty-seven she enters the convent, intent on becoming a novitiate. When asked if the convent were not another prison with its rules and obedience, Lise replies, "Not prison, freedom. That's the paradox. I believe it will be such freedom as I can't imagine now.'

Lise's past catches up to her, meeting Vivi again. She is impelled to help the irredeemable Vivi, which results in another murder.

Although the novel is about faith and redemption, another aspect of the novel is especially relevant today: The treatment of women by men.

"There were, of course, the irrecuperables, the unrescuable, who seemed to have evil in their skin, as if the devil had sown the seed that made them bad through and through--but many, Lise was certain, were in prison not because of what they had done, but because of what other people, especially men, had done to them, and some of us, like me, thought Lise, were in prison for their illusions."

A fellow newly released prisoner, Lucette, follows Lise and wants to stay where she stays. Lise explains Lucette must have a calling. "It's as if God put out a finger and said, "You, " Lise explains. Lucette retorts, "God hasn't got a finger. He can't have because there isn't a God. If there were he wouldn't have let what happened, happen to me--or you." "That's what I used to think, but that wasn't God; it was us." Lise responds. "Us? Not us, it was them...I see you are going to escape here where there are no men..I don't blame you...I hate men, all of them."

Lise, Vivi, and Lucette were all victims of men who abused them. A side story of Jackie, a girl the Bethanie nuns tried to save, ends in suicide; the girl could not recover from a gang rape. Reading this book I was reminded of The Real La Traviata by Rene Weiss, how as a child Marie Duplessus was forced to trade sexual favors for food, was pimped by her own father, became a mistress and the inspiration behind Hugo's novel Camille and the opera La Traviata.

Lise and Lucette find solace in faith and the religious life, the community of women whose acceptance is transformative. It was prison that sets Lise free. She sees the divine spark in all lives, especially the wicked. Marie Lise is able to use her experience to help other women in prison. She never gives up hope for Vivi's redemption.

The novel has it's flaws. I wish there was more about post-war France and how it impacted the women who take refuge in the brothel, and Lise's role as Madam is given as historical fact but lacks authenticity; I can't imagine her as a procuress of young women. But Lise's story is compelling and the theme is still relevant.

Black Narcissus is Godden's most well known novel, especially because its the film adaptation starring Deborah Kerr.  The novel again concerns a group of women, Anglican nuns, in a closed, isolated community, struggling with personal demons and their commitment to God.

"They saw the great slope of hill and the valley and hills rising across the gulf to the clouds; then they saw what they had missed at first, because they had not looked as high. Across the north the Himalayas were showing with the peak Kanchenjunga straight before them."

The General's Palace at Mopu has been offered to the Sisters. The Brothers had been invited first but only lasted five months before leaving. The Palace had been built by the General's father, a country palace with the finest view in India; he installed his wives in the palace and it became known as the House of Women, from which light and music emanated all night. The current General is Progressive. He turned out the women and hopes the sisters will turn the palace to good--a sanctification. A Holy Man, once famous and rich, sits near the path, his eyes fixated on the god of the mountain, unmoving and detached from the world.

The General's agent Mr Dean warns, 'It's no place for a nunnery." But Sister Clodagh looks at the orchids on the terrace and the eagles flying in the clouds and cries, "It's an inspiration just to stand here. Who could live here and not feel close to God!" Sister Clodagh has been overconfident and authoritative, but Mr. Dean recalls to mind her youthful, unrequited love.

"We call it Kanchenjunga and we believe that God is there. No one can conquer that mountain and they never will. Men can't conquer God, they only go mad for the love of Him. ..You have to be very strong to live close to God or a mountain, or you'll turn a little mad."

Each sister is drawn to worldly joys, gardening or becoming too attached to the children, slowly forgetting their commitments, order seeping away. Beautiful young people enter their doors for education, the young heir scented with Black Narcissus, dressed in silks and jewels, and the wayward beauty Mr. Dean hoists upon them when he tires of her pursuit. Oh, the ever present Mr Dean, so unsuitably dressed, with such a bad reputation, whose very presence arouses memory and inspires jealousy and desire. Especially in Sister Ruth, a troublesome nun who seeks 'self-importance'.

The novel ends in a whirlwind of disorder, with a thrilling Gothic climax.

Open Road Media has acquired twelve Godden titles and I am thrilled to think of her rediscovery. I have been collecting copies of her titles for years...

I especially love her novels set in India and her wonderful portraits of children and the young.

Learn more about the remarkable life and career of Rumer Godden at
http://www.rumergodden.com/index.php

Rumer Godden, 1947 portrait for Vogue magazine
http://www.rumergodden.com/biography.php

World War II Quilts

Sue Reich's extensive research on quilts made during World War II was a labor of love, inspired by her father's service. Drawing from newspaper accounts and articles she presents the history of the war and the home front as seen through the quilts of that era.

The result is a mammoth book with a whopping 335 color photographs, many quilts featured full page and in detail. Accompanying news articles, pattern sources, ephemera, advertising, and photographs illustrate war time history on the home front.

Woman were called upon to do their part in the war effort, not only in factory work but in employing their sewing and needlework skills. With manufacturing geared to war efforts families had to 'make do'; women mended and altered old clothes. Scraps were used to make quilts, which were promoted in newspapers as part of the patriotic 'waste not, want not' lifestyle. Feedsacks were printed with patterns and used for clothes and home furnishings.

Reich identifies the kinds of quilts made during the war: Patriotic quilts in red, white and blue; quilts with iconic Military themes; Red Cross and other organization related donation quilts; fund-raising quilts; and common pattern quilts made during 1920-1950.

The quilts shared in the book include an amazing array of construction: pieced, applique, embroidered, and even hand painted. Furthermore, there are quilts made of various textiles such as Sweetheart Pillows, feedsack, parachute fabric, home furnishing fabrics, pre-printed Military theme linens, and with even quilts Navy and Army Insignia badges.

Quilts presented include those made by well known quilt artists such as Bertha Stenge's OPA (Office of Price Administration) Quilt and her Four Freedom's Quilt. An embroidered Remember Pearl Harbor quilt; includes images of President Roosevelt giving a radio talk and Eleanor Roosevelt, the USS Oklahoma, female service persons, Uncle Sam, and  in the center"X+Y+X=V". Quilts commemorate President Franklin D. Roosevelt, his wife Eleanor, and even FDR's beloved Fala. The Roosevelt Rose quilt by Minnie Pearl Pardee Barrett used a 1938 applique pattern by Ruth Finley. An amazing quilt by Callie Jeffress Fanning Smith, The Eleanor Roosevelt Alum portrayed the First Lady from childhood to the White House through applique, embroidery, and hand painted faces.

The mother of Robert Howe, who was serving in the Coast Guard, made a quilt with embroidered details of  their family history and her son's service. The Bataan Death March Quilt made by Ida Johnson Beattie and a Gold Star Mother's Quilt by Callie Shaeffer with embroidered names perhaps brought solace to the grieving.

Victory quilts featuring "V" were made in applique, embroidery, and pieced blocks.

There are patriotic red, white and blue quilts including many star variations. American symbols on the quilts include the flag, eagles, stars, war related slogans, government agencies, and branches of the military. Airplane quilts in various patterns were popular.

The Music Teacher's Quilt is made of embroidered music and words to thirty American songs, from My Old Kentucky Home, Old Folks at Home and The Quilting Party to Call Out the Navy, America he Beautiful, and A Gold Star Mother's Prayer.

Honor Roll Quilts gave tribute to those called to serve during wartime. The Clinch/Locust Methodist Church created an Honor Roll Banner to represent the 155 men and women from the church who went to war.

Fundraising quilts included embroidered names. Red Cross Quilts with official labels reading "American Red Cross Chapter-Not to be sold" were sent to European victims of war. 

Reich presents an amazing history of the Changi Quilts, including details of the makers. women who were trapped in Singapore and sent to the Changi Jail internment camp. Under inhuman conditions, the women created three quilts for the British, Australian, and Japanese soldiers. Using flour sacks and bed sheets the women appliqued and embroidered personal messages and images from their life present and past.

New quilt patterns were published in newspapers and magazines, and fabrics with war related themes and in American colors were printed. One of my favorites are the Rainbow Block Company Victory quilt, beautiful designs of floral "V" blocks.

The quilting enthusiast and those interested in Women's History will find World War II Quilts a wonderful resource.

Reich has also written World War I Quilts, Quilts Presidential and Patriotic, and Quilt News of Yesteryear, all available at Schiffer Publications. 

I received a free book from the publisher in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

World War II Quilts 

Sue Reich

Schiffer Publications

$39.95

ISBN 13: 9780764334511

My Favorite Books of 2016: American History

One of my reading themes in 2016 concerned American history. Events from places I have lived and the times I have lived in, presidential history, Native American history, African American history, and the American Revolution continue to be interest areas I am drawn to.The books were galley ebooks, Arcs, or books provided by the publisher. All were my choices to read.

Terror in the City of Champions: Murder, Baseball and the Secret Society that Shocked Depression Era Detroit by Tom Stanton brought to life a city thrilled by its team's sport wins while The Black Legion, a hate group spawned from the KKK, pressed unsuspecting people into membership at gunpoint then sent them out to kill.

The Electrifying Fall of Rainbow City: Spectacle and Assassination at the 1901 World's Fair by Margaret Creighton peels back the tinted postcard memories of the Pan-American Exposition to reveal the seamy side of American society a hundred years ago. 


67 Shots: Kent State and the End of American Innocence by Howard Means was a moving, important, and disturbing book, particularly for my generation.

Of Arms and Artists by Paul Staiti shows how artists of the American Revolution created a national identity.  

The Civil Wars of Julia Ward Howe by Elaine Showalter reveals the complicated life of the woman who penned our national anthem.

Five Days at Memorial: Life and Death in a Storm-Ravaged Hospital by Sheri Fink reveals how the lack of preparation by a for-profit hospital resulted in avoidable deaths.

Just Another Southern Town: Mary Church Terrell and the Struggle for Racial Justice in the Nation's Capital by Joan Quigley is the story of 90 year old Terrell's fight to end segregation in Washington D.C. in 1950. It is the inspiring story of how age has nothing to do with standing up for what is right.

The Parker Sisters: A Border Kidnapping by Lucy Maddox is a historian's study of the Fugitive Slave Law through the kidnapping of two African American teenagers.

Truevine: Two Bothers, a Kidnapping, and a Mother's Quest: A True Story of the Jim Crow South by Beth Macy concerns Albino African Americans enslaved by a circus and their mother's endeavor to protect them.


Massacre at Sand Creek: How Methodists Were Involved in an American Tragedy by Gary Roberts was commissioned by the United Methodist Church. Leaders in this attack on 'friendly' Native American women and children were Methodist. It is a warning of how 'good people' can be led by cultural norms to commit crimes against humanity.

The Apache Wars: The Hunt for Geronimo, The Apache Kid, and the Captive Boy Who Started the Longest War in American History by Paul Andrew Hutton is a dense and comprehensive history, another revelation of treaties broken and genocidal military leaders.

The Thunder Before the Storm: The Autobiography of Clyde Bellecourt is a raw, honest, and moving relating of his journey from juvenile delinquent to the leader of the American Indian Movement.

John Quincy Adams and the Politics of Slavery by David Waldstreicher and Matthew Mason draws from Adams diaries to trace his evolving understanding, personally and legally, of slavery, culminating in his eight year battle to end the Gag Rule that forbade the House from accepting petitions to end slavery.

Bobby Kennedy: The Making of a Liberal Icon by Larry Tye is a fascinating biography focusing on Bobby's evolution from McCarthy staffer to Civil Rights spokesperson.

Herbert Hoover in the White House: The Ordeal of the Presidency by Charles Rappleye is a great study on how the Great Humanitarian, a successful business man, failed as president.

The Gatekeeper:Missy LeHand, FDR, and the Untold Partnership that Defined a Presidency by Kathryn Smith is the first biography of President Roosevelt's constant companion for twenty years in the office and out, the first female 'chief of staff'.

Eleanor and Hick: The Love Affair that Shaped a First Lady by Susan Quinn considers the friendship, and possibly love affair, that supported the First Lady to blossom into leadership.

Valient Ambition: George Washington, Benedict Arnold, and the Fate of the American Revolution by Nathaniel Philbrick shows that our country's founding was pretty messy and the ramifications of leaders obsessed with image, personal power, and monetary success.

Washington's Spys: The Story of America's First Spy Ring by Alexander Rose is the book behind the series Turn, the real story of the Culpepper spy ring.

Love Canal: A Toxic History From Colonial Times to the Present by Richard S. Newman was another upsetting read of how industry used Niagara Falls for profit, leaving a legacy of chemical waste, Activist Lois Gibbs work helped establish the Superfund, which almost immediately was defunded. We are all affected by industrial toxic waste.

A History of New York in 101 Objects by Sam Roberts is a more lighthearted look at our past, considering the things that made New York, and America and the world, what it is today.

Dead Wake by Eric Larson is the moving tale of the Lusitania.

I hope you found something here to put on your 2017 reading list!

Snow Days

1953 Tonawanda NY

I grew up with Lake Erie lake effect snow. Two years ago we moved away from Lake Michigan lake effect snow.

We got about 9"-10" of snow for our first snow fall yesterday--no laughing matter--but I've seen worse...

1960, sleding down the plowed snow at the Kuhn's barn

In the 1950s & early 1960s in Tonawanda NY, we had several snow days a season. Those were snow days! We stayed in the kitchen with the gas range running. Mom hung blankets up to keep the heat in. The bedrooms were unheated; I wore a flannel nightgown and was buried under heavy blankets.

Our snow covered willow tree, 1963

One year Dad had to climb out a window because the snow had piled against the door and he couldn't get out. Dad had a snow plow and worked at night to clear the factory parking lots. One night he came home with frostbite.

We would drive up to Niagara Falls to see the ice jam in the Gorge. The trees would be covered in ice.

Niagara Falls in Winter. 1963

The Gorge below the Falls. 1963

Sledding in the front yard. 1963

A shoveled walk at the Kuhn's house. 1963

When we move to Metro Detroit we laughed at the 'snow' days. It started snowing in December and we got a little bit every day or week. In those 'mini skirt' days, before tall boots, I'd get to school and have to warm up my cold, red legs.

I married and we lived in Delaware, Ohio for three years. The snow melted by noon. Sometimes there was ice. It melted by noon. 

Then we moved to Philadelphia where the snow was cleared with a broom and people used umbrellas in the snow. There was one huge storm while we lived there. In February I recall wearing a velveteen jacket one year. I had a lightweight jacket that served me for 'cold days'.

We went to see the reenactment of Washington Crossing the Delaware on Christmas Day, 1975. It was a tradition at Washington Crossing Park, PA.

Washington Crossing Park, PA

The Delaware River, Christmas Day 1975

When we moved to Hillsdale, MI and I had to buy a winter coat, gloves, boots, and a hat! We taught our son how to sled and how to make snow men.

Snow day in Hillsdale, MI my son and husband making snowmen

We lived in Lansing, MI for nine years. There were some early and some late storms while we lived there. 

2005 Lansing MI

A heavy snow bending the trees. 2005

 March 2005 we had a late snow that covered the tulips! 

2007-8 we were in Montague, MI in a house in the woods.

 They got the Lake Effect snow there--93" our first year!

Even in March there was snow...

We had one winter in Norton Shores, MI. There was a brutal wind off Lake Michigan. The back of the yard was all wooded and untamed. Turkey, deer, and Pileated Woodpeckers visited daily.

 Norton Shores, MI, just on the other side of a sand dune from Lake Michigan.
 Deer bedded down in our yard

We lived two years in Delton. The parsonage view was of farm fields. 

Delton Dec. 2011

Then we lived in Pentwater, MI, once again on the Lake Michigan shore. In 2013 my husband conducted Christmas Eve worship so we couldn't leave until Christmas Day. It was miserable with horrid visibility, and our son was a four hour drive away. In good weather. This was NOT good weather....

Trees were bending and splintereing under the heavy snow.
The damage was evident in the spring.

First rest stop...we had to clear the snow off our car.

Winter 2014 in Pentwater we had about 190" of snow! Every day my husband had to dig out the mail box...

As if a resort town wasn't empty enough in the off season...it looked like a ghost town in witer 2014.

Our dogs had a tiny shoveled patch in the yard to use. The streets were icy and unsalted, so no walks for doggies.

So, I am feeling lucky if 10" of snow is all we have today.

Snow today

A Coromandel Sea Change into Something Rich and Strange

Many people are bewitched on their first encounter with India. Bewitched or repelled.

Blaise hated the bazaars, the smell of human excrement in the gutters, the cooking smells of mustard oil and ghee, the over ripe fruit with their cloud of flies, the starving children, the cheap, man made goods. But his eighteen-year-old, newly wed wife had spent a lifetime sheltered in school. "I want to see it whole," she insisted. She was tired of club people and westernized Indians.

Blaise and Mary's marriage was perhaps doomed from the beginning. After they had made love, Blaise asked her father for her hand in marriage--because her father was his boss and it was the right thing to do. She had thought she was in love. Their unsuitability is brought into deep relief at the Patna Inn on the beautiful and dangerous Coromandel Coast.

The hotel and city was buzzing with campaigning before the local election, the hotel rooms full. The young couple are given a romantic, open beach house. Mary loves it. Blaise complains about the lack of running water and privacy. When they are visited by a donkey, Mary wants to give it sugar; Blaise wants the dirty beast away.

Wandering alone at night, Mary meets the charming Krishnan, a Western educated candidate posing as Krishna to draw voters to him. He is taking a vow of silence, and dressed in a loin cloth, his lips painted blue, he will parade through the streets, his hand held in blessing.

Remember all is fair in love and war. Politics now are a war, a bitter, greedy war and I have to fight Padmina Retty in every way I can...Indian politics are corrupt, venal..."

Krishnan's idealism and personal charm draw Mary to assist him in his campaign. He sends a message inviting her to be on his lorry dressed as the goddess Radha, a Hindu goddess. The plain Mary is dressed in a gauze and gold tissue sari, her face is painted, and she decked with beads and flowers and bracelets of gold.

"It's this Kirshnan. You're under a spell...Lots of girls go in at the deep end when they first meet Indians....He's using you."

Mary will not behave appropriately as the wife to a man in Blaise's position as a rising young diplomat. In the meantime, the provocative and treacherous dark skinned beauty Kuku has fallen in love with the handsome Nordic Blaise. Things spin out of control, and no one can stop it. But in the end Mary learns how to love--everyone, anyone.

Mary doesn't know, doesn't dream...This isn't England or even Europe. It's such a violent place.

Rumer Godden's dramatic novel is filled with memorable characters with interesting side stories and vivid descriptions of Godden's beloved India.

I received a free ebook from the publisher through NetGalley in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

Cromandel Sea Change
Rumer Godden
Open Road Media
ebook
Publication Dec. 20, 2016
ISBN: 9781504042055

My Old House

It was my home, my community, my playground. The center of a secure world, the place that gave me roots. My first home, that when lost, was mourned over and recalled with vivid regret.

1865 Military Rd in 1965, from Rosemont Ave
Taken on a visit after we moved.

1865 Military Road in the 1940s. Those are Lilac bushes along the side.
The front porch was not yet enclosed.

My girlish dream was to grow up and buy the house back. Instead it was torn down. Lucille Kuhn took photos of its destruction. She said it resisted, its ancient frame still strong.

My Grandfather Lynne O. Ramer once wrote that the house dated to the 1830s and had "Indian arrows" embedded in the wood frame. I don't know who built the house and first owned it, but a 1915 Tonawanda map shows that H. Kuhn owned the land up to Maplewood except for a strip belonging to H. May, right across from what may be Ensminger Rd.

I have a visual memory and think in pictures before words. My memories are like looking at snap shots from my life.

I remember once going to the top of the attic stairs to watch Mom search for something stored there. I was not allowed to follow; Mom said the floors were not very strong. But I saw the light glaring in from the octagon window and wanted to look out it, sure I would see the Niagara River and Grand Island bridge. It was forbidden.

I hated going into the basement. The stone walls and dirt floor were lit by windows on the Rosemont side. On the other side was a storm cellar door, the kind I'd seen in movies like The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy's family goes into the cellar as the tornado is coming. But there were spiders and webs and dark corners and I knew there were rats in the house. Mostly I hated the spiders.

When I wanted to make Barbie clothes, Mom sent me down to find a box of fabric on a shelf. Instead I found a box of clothing. I didn't know if that was what she meant. Inside was a beautiful white blouse with white embroidery. I snipped a piece off. Somehow it would not turn into a Barbie dress. Later Mom retrieved the box, which were hand-me-downs from Patty and Lynda Greenwood, meant for me. She held the blouse up and wondered what had happened. I felt sick thinking of that beautiful blouse.

Mom and I at the front of our apartment. The steps were new, replacing
the long wood porch, and Mom's garden yet to come.

Each side of the yard had its own personality. The front yard was separated from the gas station by a white fence. In the spring Crocus popped up there, and later the Iris bloomed in a row. Mom had a small garden in front of our door with Portulaca that blossomed in the sun and daffodils in the spring.

The first photo I took with my Brownie camera
was of the crocus along the fence between
the house and the garage.

1965 photo of the front of the house from Military Rd
One more willow planted by my grandparents!

The side yard along Rosemont held lilac bushes grown large and dense. I would gather large bouquets in my arms, and smother my face in them to enjoy the perfume. I remember selling them along the road once. A man stopped and bought some. It was where Dad installed a swing set. The biggest Weeping Willow tree was also there, the tree that towered over Rosemont with its newly built houses.

Dad and I on the porch on Easter. I don't recall that oil tank.

The side of the house had an open, deep porch. I don't remember my family sitting on it. But I climbed over it, leaned over to grab the willow tree branches, and played fisherman dangling over a willow branch stripped of all its leaves save one at the end to be my catch. My brother learned to go up and down the step to the porch. We had a movie showing him going up and down again, intent and placid even when he fell.

Entrance to the smaller apartment in back.
Grandmother Gochenour with her daughter Mary and Mary's children,
and our Rosemont family friend Lou Randall

At the door to the smaller downstairs apartment where my grandparents was a Hollyhock bush. My grandmother showed me how to make a 'doll' out of the blossoms. And I remember there was a large horseradish plant that came up every spring.

Rosemont, the willow, and me

Then came the driveway with twin posts at its entrance; the photo above shows a dirt drive and no posts. My cousins and I would race up and down it. Below is a photo I took several years after we moved showing one of the posts. You can see the L shaped branch of the tree which I liked to climb.

1965 photo of 1865 Military Rd
Note the Texaco sign next door on Military Rd

At the end of the driveway were the garages with the 'rabbit coop' at the end. I didn't know that Dad has raised rabbits there as a teenager. And next to the 'coop' was a fenced in area where, Mom told me, the outhouse had once stood.

This photo of Janet L. shows the garages behind her. 1962.

Tom on the slide. Rosemont in background.

Tom near the swing set; the gas station in the background.

Snow hill in our front yard, behind the gas station
Aunt Alice Eniss and kids

The far side of the house parallel to Rosemont had a fence separating our yard from the shops next door: the Schwinn bicycle shop, the Texaco Station.

This photo of lil' me shows the side yard and fence
and behind where the Schwinn store would be built

And of course in front of the house along Military was the gas station built by my grandfather Gochenour, where my father worked.

The gas station in the 1940s

Our apartment consisted of a large farmhouse kitchen, a living room with an enclosed porch at the end, a bathroom on the first floor. The stairs went to a landing with a wall scone to light it, then turned, a few more steps leading to a hallway and the four bedrooms.

On the left was a small room with a large closet. You could see out the window to Ensminger Road and towards the river. Then came the largest bedroom at the corner. It was mine as a little girl, with gray wallpaper of black and white kittens playing with a ball of yarn. I was frightened by their eyes, black pupils on white, that glowed in the dark and needed my pink duck nightlight. There was a shelf along the wall on which sat my Little Golden Book collection. I read books by the nightlight when I was supposed to be asleep.

At the other end of the hallway were two bedrooms, parallel and equal, that I am sure were once one big room. They had folding doors. I was later moved into the bedroom parallel to Rosemont, with two windows looking at Rosemont through the willow branches. My bed looked was near the window that looked toward Rosemont from across our driveway. The windows were low enough to the floor that I could lay on my bed and look out to watch  the streetlights come on. In summer mesh screens were fitted in the window and I listened to the comfort of the Robin's evening song as I drifted off to sleep.

The bedroom next door was my Grandmother Gochenour's room. I sometimes went in to visit her. She had a huge collection of pennies and a cypress tree root.

When my brother was born his crib was in the smallest, first room, next door to the room that had been mine but now was my parent's. Mom lined the shelves with her books. I would pick them up and look into them. I was told the books were for 'adults', as if they were forbidden. Later I read some of them; they were mostly historical fiction books.

In Fifth Grade we had a homework assignment to make a plan of our house. I remember Dad helping me, teaching me some basic drafting rules. Sadly all my school papers were tossed when we moved so I do not have it.

Many years later I wrote a poem about the house.

 The View From Windows

by Nancy A. Bekofske

Rescue is out of the question,

going back not an option open to me.

Gone are those lofty trees like green umbrellas,

the purple flag of iris near the white rail fence,

the fragrant French lilacs, purple and white,

my world--my first world--and a life rooted

in a sense of place, no longer exists in space.

I remember the view from every window in every room.

Windows to the wider world.

I could see traffic on the burdened road;

the pushy hopefulness of yellow crocus in sooty snow.

From a doorway, looking across the room and out a window,

a water tower seen in a flat land, horizon's sentry.

From an upstairs window, I could see to the river,

the perpetual flame of the gas works,

the mangle of pipes and tanks.

Drying dishes, a glance to the left revealed a doorway,

pink hollyhock, a gigantic horseradish plant.

From my bed, looking across a gravel drive,

ironposted streetlights lit small box-like houses,

while from another open window I could hear the wind

playing in the branches of willows

(how they swayed like a girl's long hair in summer,

but in winter were plaited in clean ice).

These trees my touchstone;

I knew my house by its being next to the biggest tree,

I told others so, believing my own veracity.

At times, an airplane--no jet, not then-- droning

overhead would shake my world of make-believe to its roots

with reality's heavy awareness.

My heart would beat a faster tattoo, and restless,

disquieted, but directionless, I rushed outdoors

to breath freer air, escape the restraint of walls,

to seek the questions I already felt swelling

in my girl's breast, the mystery I could not name.

I only knew that I must shake off

girlhood's cushioned hermitage, to live and work,

now, suddenly aware of mortality's unaccustomed weight,

because I heard, and looked up from play,

to catch sight of a mystery outside my window,

common, yet profoundly unsettling.