My Memories of Growing Up in Tonawanda: Early Elementary School Days

I want to thank everyone who visits my Saturday family history posts! I have a little more of Dad's memoirs to share, but wanted to pause and interject my own Tonawanda memories.

Today I will continue to share my childhood memories of growing up in Tonawanda, recalling my early elementary school days.

Philip Sheridan Elementary School. Unknown source.

I was excited to start Kindergarten at Philip Sheridan Elementary School. I couldn't wait to make the new friends that Mom promised I would meet in school. Of course, many of the girls I became friends with lived RIGHT DOWN THE STREET! It seems silly that I had to go to school to meet my neighbors. But I also meet people I would not have known if not for school, especially through Brownies.

Walking to School

To get to school I walked down Rosemont Avenue to Elmwood. The Rosemont houses had been built about the time I was born. The street had the coolest metal street lights, green painted fluted posts with lights like old fashioned lamps.

I was a daydreamer, always wrapped up in my imagination, making up stories and scenarios. Sometimes I scared myself thinking about sad things. This made me pokey, and I often got to school late. Mom couldn't figure it out, since she sent me out the door on time. If the flag was being raised when I got to school I would stand and pledge my allegiance which made me late to class! Otherwise we kids waited outside until the doors opened.

On my yard with Rosemont Avenue behind me.

My dog Pepper walked me to school. One day she hung around the school door and got inside. She came trotting into my classroom and right to me her tail in a lazy wag. The teacher was furious and I had to walk Pepper home again. Mom had to keep Pepper indoors when I left for school.

I hated trash day. People threw away perfectly good things, and it made me very sad. I come from a long line of folk who see the worth in things others toss away.

I was a very sensitive kid and little things drove me crazy. Like when my socks worked their way down my ankle until they were balled up under my foot! I was always pulling up those socks. And my shoe laces never stayed tied. Mom bought me Saddle shoes, which I hated. Later in life I was told I tied my shoes backwards, and it occured to me that Mom was left-handed. That's why I couldn't tie my laces to last.

I did not have a book bag or back pack like kids today. I had to carry the heavy books in my arms. I dreamt about having my own mini airplane for an easy school commute. I also dreamt I could fly. I had dreams about floating. I floated down the stairs, or above the streets. In my waking hours I was sure once I had really floated. I knew I had floated above Rosemont Avenue on the way home from school.

Winter at my Military Road house

Winters were harsh with heavy snowfall. There would be high banks of snow along the sidewalks and driveways. I remember walking along the deep snow at the curb, climbing up and down the banks...And likely knocking the snow back down on the sholved driveways! One winter I noted the boot tracks in the snow, and one pair of boy's boots made a pretty track. I tried to figure out who they belonged to, which house they led up to.

There was a boy who teased me for being fat. I started carrying an umbrella in case I needed to defend myself. I remember having that umbrella made me feel powerful.

I don't know why I was fat. I recall my folks telling me to settle down, calling me Antsy Nancy, so I know I was moving a lot as a kid. There are home movies showing me pretty hyper. Maybe it was the school lunches Mom packed: peanut butter sandwiches made with Wonder Bread; a piece of fruit; a whole package of Hostess cupcakes or Snowballs! Sometimes she put in a hard boiled egg with a little packet of salt, or leftover meatloaf in a sandwich with catsup, or a boloney and cheese sandwich. I bought chocolate milk at school. I hated milk and drained it off my cereal, but I would drink the chocolate milk.

I loved to swing. Dad built this swing set on our yard
along Rosemont Ave.

Philip Sheridan Elementary School

The school seemed huge. It had a playground for the Kindergarten and another for the older grades. I loved to swing and I loved to climb the monkey bars. I was pretty fearless. I loved to climb the willow tree at home, too.

There was a real gym. I remember learning to dance the cha-cha in gym!

I remember the display cases with the seasonal themes, including Hanukkah. The classrooms also had seasonal themes. Purple and yellow, tulips and eggs for Spring. Autumn leaves and pumpkins, gold and brown, turkeys with multi-colored tails for fall.

I loved the art hanging in the school hallway. I remember near the entrance hall was a painting of a blacksmith shop under a spreading tree. It may have been Paul Detlefsen's Horse and Buggy Days:

http://ow.ly/uX8c306kHCY

Another painting I remember was of three horses, perhaps Grazing Horses by Franz Marc,

http://ow.ly/ssto306kHFG

My Kindergarten teachers were Miss Slawinski and Miss Kowal. We took naps after lunch, laying in rows on rugs, but I was always talking and got into trouble. I remember enhoying the kid's sized play kitchen in the classroom with its little dishes. I liked to play house then.

When the teacher asked where I lived I said, "Next to the biggest tree." Well, it was true did. The willow in my yard was huge. The teacher complained to Mom because I could not get my galoshes on, would not stop talking, and did not know my address. She concluded I was 'spoiled' because I was still an only child. I don't think Mom spoiled me at all. I was just inept, clueless, and well, lonely.

I was lousy at physical things and could not somersault or do cartwheels or tumble. Also, I couldn't see! I had bad astigmatism and didn't get glasses until the school identified the problem.

I loved school things: the notebook and paper, the pencil case and erasers, bulletin boards and chalkboards and books. It was a priviledge to be asked to clean the chalkboards at the end of the school day.

I liked to play teacher. For a long time I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up: first an art teacher, then a music teacher, then a junior high teacher.

Playing teacher to my cousins Sue and Mark

My first new friend was Christine M. who lived on Rosemont Ave. Christine had siblings and friends and knew a lot. She asked if I was Catholic or Protestant and I had to go home and ask Mom. I had no idea about denominations. She asked if my folks were voting for Nixon or Kennedy. I had no idea about presidential elections or political parties. I had to go home and ask Mom. Christine was a lot more savvy than I was!

I got a Brownie camera and this was one of my first photos!

There was a garden in Christine's back yard, and one time she pulled out carrots and we ate them. Her brother was watching King Kong one time I was there, a movie I had never seen. Scary, impressive, and exhilarating!

Christine introduced me to the girl across the road from her house, Janet L. She was a year younger than us. Janet had a sand box. I loved playing there, even if we found sometimes cat poop in the box. We would play there for hours.

Janet L. at my house

Janet and I played cowboys. I don't recall any Indians, but there were bad guys. We watched Gene Autry and Roy Rogers movies rerun on the television. I liked that Autry sang, but Rogers had the great Palomino horse. We would argue over who would be Autry and who would be Rogers. Neither of us wanted to be the cowgirl! That was just lame.

I did not always play nice. I wanted my own way, and one time when I was miffed I imitated what I'd seen on cartoons: Janet was bending over and I gave her a backside a kick. I got into big trouble, rightly so. I was lucky her mom still allowed me over.

I joined the Brownie troop, likely Mom's idea since I was pretty shy in groups. I loved Brownies, everything from the uniform to the songs and crafts. Mrs. Mildred Newhall was our troop leader.

Sporting 'pig tails' and my Brownie uniform.

I loved singing so I always remembered the songs, like the round "Make new friends, but keep the old; One is silver and the other gold." It taught me to hold on to friends, but always be open for new friends.

I also remember the silly songs:

Ooey Gooey was a worm, 

and a mighty worm was he; 

He sat upon the railroad track

--the train he did not see. 

Ooey Gooey!

*

A peanut sat on a railroad track

His heart was all aflutter.

Down came the 8:15

--choo-choo-choo-choo- Peanut butter!

*

Do your ears hang low,

do they wobble to and fro?

Can you tie them in a knot?

Can you tie them in a bow?

Can you throw them over your shoulder

like a Continental solider?

Do your ears hang low?

Another song I remember was Little Cabin in the Woods, which had hand motions:

In a cabin in the woods
Little man by the window stood;
Saw a rabbit hopping by,
Knocking at his door.

"Help me, help me, help me," he said
Or the hunter will shoot me dead."
"Little rabbit, come inside,
Safely to abide."

I think therein lies the root of my never wanting to shoot a gun. I was later a good shot with the B-B gun, but they held no appeal for me. I'd rather shelter the bunny than shoot it dead.

Earning Brownie and Girl Scout badges taught me skills like embroidery. We went hiking and camping, three to a pup tent. We each brought a can of SPAM to cook over a fire. I thought it was gross. Of course, the best part was the campfire and the singing and the S'Mores! We only got one each and it was hard eating just one.

Our troop had a girl, Mary, who was in a wheelchair. And for a very short while an African American girl.

The troop leaders gave us a book about a white, yellow, and brown bunny that learn to get along. And then before one meeting a woman in a pill box hat and heels came to the door, bringing her daughter to the meeting, her older son next to her. They were African American. I don't recall any problems, but sadly the girl did not stay very long. I didn't know about segregation and the fight for equal rights going on at the time. But that bunny book made its mark on me. I cherished that book, but at some point it was tossed out, perhaps when we moved.

Teachers & Classes

In First Grade I had Lucille Peterson, Miss Hurley for Second Grade, and Mrs. Erickson for Third Grade. Miss Hurley and Mrs. Erickson were not warm to me, but somehow it did not affect my love for learning. My Fourth Grade teacher was Miss Vanden Beukel, who Mom said was "prettier than Marilyn Monroe." My Fifth Grade teacher Miss Dozoretz was Jewish and taught us about Hanukkah. She gave us dreidels and taught us how to play. I loved Miss Dozoretz, who I remember as cheerful and upbeat. I felt she really loved us all. She married after school ended and we were all invited. Sadly, we moved that year and I couldn't attend.

My favorite subjects in school were music, art, and reading, science and social studies. So, yeah, like everything but math! I was lousy at math. Mom helped me memorize the multiplication tables, but spring break ended before I learned the x8 table. To this day I can't keep numbers in my working memory. But I can finally balance a check book and sometimes figure out the tip.

I liked the songs in Kindergarten, especially Do You Know the Muffin Man? Oh, to have a muffin man walking down the street! And we played the Hokey Pokey: "Put your right hand in, take your right hand out; put your right hand in and shake it all about."

In music class we learned American and world folk songs. A favorite was The Happy Wanderer. 

I love to go a-wandering

Along the mountain track,

And as I go, I love to sing,

My knapsack on my back.

I also loved The Erie Canal--since the canal was just down the road! And folk songs like I Ride An Old Paint and Drill, Ye Tarriers, Drill.

Art was my first school subject love. At home coloring was a favorite activity. My favorite Crayola colors were Periwinkle, Sea Green, Robin's Egg Blue, Aquamarine, Cornflower, Mulberry, Thistle, Salmon--clear bright pastels with lovely names. I still love playing with color, only today I use fabric.

I also loved paper dolls. My grandmother taught me how to cut with scissors, a skill I still use in quilting! I remember I had Dinah Shore paperdolls. She hosted the Dinah Shore Chevy Show which I watched with Mom. I pretended I had The Nancy Show. My acts included a trio of singing horses named Sugar, Coffee, and Cream. I believe the names were inspired by a song I liked, Sugartime, sung by the McGuire Sisters: "Sugar in the morning, sugar in the evening, sugar at super time./ Be my little sugar and love me all the time."

Learning to read came easy to me. I had grown up with Little Golden Books and illustrated books. When I was invited to join the school chorus the teacher scheduled reading while I was out of the classroom. I have sang Alto from third grade until today. We met in the school auditorium. I remember we learned the May Day Carol:

The moon shines bright, the stars give a light

A little before tis day

Our heavenly Father, he called to us

And bid us awake and pray.

Another song I remember learning was The Holly and the Ivy:

The holly and the ivy

When they are both full grown

Of all the trees that are in the wood

The holly bears the crown.

O, the rising of the sun,

And the running of the deer;

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing of the choir.

I was Martha in The Christmas Carol in the school play. Actually, I played Martha in one scene and another girl played Martha in the other scene. I memorized everyone's lines, and to this day I remember the lines. It remains a favorite story.

Teachers read out loud to class at school and I was transported by the books. Each class had its own mini-library. I read all the books after the teacher shared them: Mr. Popper' Penguins; Charlotte's Web; Ben and Me; Follow My Leader; Homer Price; Bed-knob and Broomsticks; Mrs Piggle Wiggle. Hence my love of fiction! I loved A Child's Garden of Verses and when I found a biography of Robert Louis Stevenson I read it. Such a romantic life! And so my interest in biographies began.

When I learned there was a public library I begged Mom to take me. My first visit to the Sheridan Park Public Library I brought home Follow My Leader, D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths, and a history of Australia. It was hard to choose, there were so many lovely books.

During the summer Mom sent me to Day Camp at Herbert Hoover Junior High. We meet in the gym for activities and crafts. I recall crafts making hand loom potholders, wood burning, etching on copper sheets, and painting plastic kits of parakeets.

We went swimming at Day Camp. I didn't know how to swim plus I hated it when my face went underwater. I got an ear infection one summer and was able to skip swimming.

Janet also went to Day Camp and her big sister drove us to Day Camp a few times. I heard Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Tiny Polka Dot Bikini on the radio one day when she drove us.

I went home and told my Grandmother Gochenour that I didn't like popular music, it was inane, and she approved. I told her I would only like classical music and musicals, and also that I would never like boys because girls acted silly over them. I kept that promise for a long time.

With Grandma Gochenour, who lived with us.
This photo is from about 1959, because that is when Mom bought
her turquoise couch!

My first awareness of time, other than as a reassuring cycle of the known, came in 1959. Next time, I will share my memories of my brother's birth and meeting the best friend I could have ever wanted.

Born a Crime: Stories From a South African Childhood by Trevor Noah

My decision to request Born a Crime has nothing to do with star power or fandom. I have to admit I have never seen Trevor Noah on the Daily Show. I requested this book when I learned it was about Trevor Noah's childhood in Apartheid South Africa.

I started reading my ebook galley as soon as I was approved.

I have to love a guy who finds comedy in tragedy and who gleefully spins yarns about experiences that would keep most of us in therapy for a lifetime. There is a genius in comedy that allows us to encounter devastating truths through the protective lens of laughter.

The heroine of the book is Noah's mother, a feisty lady with a solid rock faith, a gal who snubs her nose at things that don't make sense. She makes mistakes, but always out of love. She takes huge risks but somehow Jesus is always there to catch her mid-fall.

Noah was "naughty as shit" and a challenge to raise, but never hateful or mean. He learned to navigate Apartheid society's complex system that divided people in to three groups: black, white, and colored. How one was categorized was senseless. Japanese were put into the 'white' slot but Chinese into the 'colored'.

"The genius of Apartheid was convincing people who were the overwhelming majority to turn on each other. Apart hate, is what is was."

Noah was 'colored' with a 'black' Xhosa African mother and a 'white' Swiss father, his very existence implicating his parent's crime. Had the police discovered them, his parents would be sent to jail and Noah sent to an orphanage. He spent much of his life hidden away, indoors. His parents could not be seen together with him, and his mother had to even pretend he was not her child.

Noah was "colored by complexion but not by culture." He spoke multiple languages, Xhosa and Zulu and Afrikaans, and English, could fit into most groups, but felt affiliated to black culture.

The book is a series of episodic tales, thoughtfully constructed, saving the climax of his family history until the end of the book, after we have come to know and understand them.

"I saw the futility of violence, the cycle that just repeats itself, the damage that's inflicted on people that they in turn inflict on others. I saw, more than anything, that relationships are not sustained by violence, but by love."

The book is funny but is more than a diversive read, it enlarges our understanding of the world. Noah offers an understanding of South African history, colonialism, and Apartheid that is engaging and relevant. He shares the important things he learned and offers them to us. We should listen. We should learn.

Born a Crime
by Trevor Noah
Spiegel & Grau
$28 hard cover
ISBN: 9780399588174

From the publisher's description:

A collection of eighteen personal essays, Born a Crime tells the story of a mischievous young boy who grows into a restless young man as he struggles to find himself in a world where he was never supposed to exist. Born a Crime is equally the story of that young man’s fearless, rebellious, and fervently religious mother—a woman determined to save her son from the cycle of poverty, violence, and abuse that ultimately threatens her own life. Whether subsisting on caterpillars for dinner during hard times, being thrown from a moving car during an attempted kidnapping, or just trying to survive the life-and-death pitfalls of dating in high school, Noah illuminates his curious world with an incisive wit and an unflinching honesty. His stories weave together to form a moving and searingly funny portrait of a lovable delinquent making his way through a damaged world in a dangerous time, armed with only a keen sense of humor and a mother’s unconventional, unconditional love.

Behind Closed Doors by B. A. Paris

Behind Closed Doors, the first novel by B. A. Paris, is a Domestic Noir thriller that catapults your interest. Told first person by Grace, in alternating chapters set in the present and the past, the story has psychological intensity. It's hard to put the book down; I read it in one day.

Grace and Jake Angel are the perfect couple. Jake's movie star looks and successful career as a lawyer is combined with a never flagging interest in making sure everything is perfect for his newly wed wife Grace. He even embraced Grace's upcoming custody of her younger sister Millie, who has Down's syndrome. Grace's past lovers couldn't handle her commitment to Millie's guardianship.

Grace's happiness didn't last past her wedding night, when she discovers the nightmare of her new reality.

During their rare socialization with other couples, the other wives note that Grace has given up a career she loved and doesn't carry a cell phone or use the computer. They don't really buy her line that keeping house and waiting for her man to come home is filling her days and fulfilling her every need. But Grace can't reach out for their help, for with every act of escape brings punishment. As the day of Millie's coming to live with Grace and Jack nears, Grace must figure out how to free herself, and save her sister, from Jack's control.

The novel is not without its faults. I would have liked a more subtle and measured revelation of Jack's background and character. Cold and dispassionate with an evil scientist intellect, Jack's restraint, given his professed obsession, is remarkable. He is a character readers will love to hate; he is totally one sick puppy without a redeeming trait. Jack is more about threat than acts, and his most heinous acts are off camera--thankfully, because I can't deal with graphic violence!

Grace suffers isolation and starvation but her amazing strength makes her a modern heroine that female readers will appreciate.

Millie is a savvy girl who relishes Agatha Christie murder mysteries. She knows how to play the game and ultimately suggests a solution to Grace's dilemma. The story has a quick wrap up and a neat ending.

The novel was a best seller in England.

Read the first five chapters at
http://us.macmillan.com/static/smp/behind-closed-doors/

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

Behind Closed Doors
B. A. Paris
St. Martin's Press
$25.99 hard cover
$9.99 ebook

My Memories of Growing Up in Tonawanda

I have been sharing my dad's memoirs. Before I continue with his writing about leaving Tonawanda I want to add my memories of growing up in Tonawanda.

I had finished Fifth Grade and was still ten years old when my family moved from Military Road to Michigan. I really did not understand the implications of 'moving'. I spent three years resisting calling Michigan 'home', filled with nostalgia for Tonawanda and my friends and family left behind.

Childhood was a magical time, filled with the newness of discovery and the comfort of the known. I was surrounded by family, and their friends brought laughter and joy into our lives.

Joyce Ramer Gochenour and baby Nancy. 1952

I was born in 1952. My parents were very young, just 21 and 22 years old. Mom was tired of working at Remington Rand, and all her friends were getting pregnant, so she told Dad she wanted a baby, too.

I was supposed to be a boy and I was to be named Tom. It threw Dad for a loop when I turned out to be a girl! As the only son he longed for more guys in the family. Mom wanted to name me Nannette but her friends talked her out of it, saying, how would it sound calling out the door, "NANNETTE!" So I was named Nancy. Mom said she knew a pretty cheerleader at school named Nancy. I figured that was what she hoped for me, to be pretty and popular and coordinated.

I was a colicky baby, Mom was frazzled, and so we moved in with my Ramer grandparents for a while. Grandma helped relieve Mom.

Grandpa Ramer and baby Nancy. 1952. At my grandparent's
Sheridan Park Project home.

I was baptized in the Episcopal church. My grandfather Ramer was a deacon in the church. But my parents did not attend church. The few times they went and left me in the nursery I was terrified and cried.

I won Dad's heart with a smile. He was left in charge of my care and I smiled at him. After that, a daughter was OK. But he still wanted that son, Tom.

Nancy Gochenour baby photo

We lived in the upstairs apartment in the Military Road house belonging to my Grandparents Gochenour. My Aunt Mary, Uncle Clyde, and cousin Linda Guenther lived in the larger downstairs apartment, and my Gochenour grandparents lived in a smaller downstairs apartment. I was surrounded by family!

Grandma Gochenour with her daughter Mary and my Guenther cousins,
with a neighbor, outside the smaller apartment

Mom was always a night owl who liked to stay up late and sleep in. My cousin Linda was a year older than I. She would come upstairs and take me from the crib and play with me before Mom was out of bed. Other times, Mom would put me in the playpen and nap on the couch next to me. 

Mom made a fenced in area in the yard for me to play outdoors. When I was bored and cried she opened the window and threw me down a bag of crackers.

The play yard Mom made for me.

The apartment living room had high south facing windows covered with Venetian blinds. The view looked across Military Road at Ensminger Road toward the Niagara River. The other rooms included a small eat-in kitchen, two bedrooms, and the bathroom. There was a steep, long set of stairs. At the bottom was a laundry area, a door to the front of the house, and a passage way to the apartment where my cousins lived.

My earliest memories are of the sun coming through the Venetian blinds, lighting up the dust in the air. I remember Mom playing records. I remember the music and later identified it: Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White and The Poor People of Paris. I remember the 1951 television and being scolded for sitting too close. It wasn't until I started kindergarten that my astigmatism was identified and my vision corrected. My poor vision made me clumsy. I fell down those long stairs several times, and hit my head on the bathroom sink!

I remember watching Lassie, and Sky King, Romper Room, and the Mickey Mouse Club.

I do not remember when my Grandfather Gochenour passed in 1955, or my Great-Grandfather Greenwood passed in 1956. I do have a memory of an older man in a rocking chair, the light from a window behind him so I can't see his face. I don't remember when my Ramer grandparents moved from the Sheridan Park housing project when Gramps took a Chevy job in Detroit around 1955.

I do remember when my Ramer grandparents came back to visit!

Here I am about 4 years old, 1956

I would always run and ask what Grandmother Ramer had brought me. And my Grandfather Ramer would take me with him to visit his old friends in the Sheridan Park project. I remember visiting someone in the Project with him when I heard the kid's new record The Purple People Eater, which I loved. "It was a one-eyed, one-horned, flyin' purple people eater..." That had to have been in 1958.

Nancy, Stephen and Linda at a wedding
at the Tonawanda Baptist church

Following my cousin Linda came Steve in 1953 and Elaine in 1955. We four played together. There was a stone driveway to run up and down. Lilac bushes with a hollow spot that we turned into our own gas station. A big yard. A long porch to jump off. Willow trees whose long branches we turned into fishing poles, stripping off all the leaves but one at the end to be our fish.

Elaine, Nancy, Linda and Stephen. 

 I also went to the same church as my Guenther cousins and my Grandmother Gochenour, the Tonawanda Broad Street Baptist Church. I remember the shock of seeing a girl dunked into a tank of water and I remember the stained glass windows. Grandma taught Sunday School. I watched her preparing the class crafts. I remember singing before class and learning In The Garden. I remember coloring Joseph's coats of many colors.

I also had my second cousin Debbie Becker to play with, the daughter of  Dad's uncle and good friend Levant. Her parents were both redheads, and Debbie was as well. Born just a month before me, we played and rolled across the floor in laughter because of the 'laughing gas' that always got us giddy. We had so much fun!

Me, Mom and Debbie Becker at Christmas

When my Guenther cousins moved into their home on Grand Island, Military Road became a very empty place for me. I missed my live-in friends. I was lonely. Mom told me that the next year I would start school and I would meet kids and make friends.

Here I am in those cats eye glasses Grandma Gochenour is
at the sink. That table is still in the family.

School awaited on the horizon with all the lustre of untold hidden treasure.

****

Many years ago, after reading Ranier Maria Rilke's advice to a young poet that one can always tap into one's childhood for inspiration, I wrote several poems based on childhood memories.

The first poem is from a memory from before I was in school. We lived in the upstairs apartment. Mom and a man were talking business at the table, and I was playing, until I heard the man say the name John. I repeated it, which made him turn toward me to questions what I wanted. Was his name John? I don't know. I know I was embarrassed. I know I repeated that word to myself afterward. And that I later preferred 'J' names for my alter ego characters in my make believe play.

"In the beginning was the word"

     Nancy A. Bekofske

Recalled:

     Two figures seated at a kitchen table

     lost in the glare of unfiltered sunlight,
     shadow players, male and female,

     each with lighted cigarettes streaming blue smoke.

White light, white walls, and shadows moving

and talk about grown-up things while

     I played, pushing

     some wheeled toy across the floor

     into my parent's dark bedroom,

     into the nursery with its barred bed now forgotten,

down the narrow uncarpeted hallway,

into the slatted venetian-blind light of the living room

     the radio standing on the floor playing

     "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White"

     or was it "The Poor People of Paris," I've forgotten,

     back into the kitchen

where they sat, talking still, pushing papers about,

some business, I suppose,  

   
     when I heard a name,

     a word never before spoken for all I knew,

     and I longed to make its magnetic beauty mine:

     I stopped my play and mouthed that word

     like a sacred prayer recited in private,

     savoring it on the tongue, my ears

     ringing with pure response,

     that one word opening my mind to majestic possibilities.

"What did you say, hon?" Bending down, indulgent,

the man asked, and my mother, embarrassed

urged me to repeat myself, so they could understand.

   
     But I knew they would never understand

     the magic of that moment, even at, say, three,

     I could not utter that word, it would have been

     a misuse, like swearing with the Deity's name.

They returned to their conversation, dismissing me

a child, as having done a child-like thing

of great amusement to the wisdom of age.

   
     Only I knew the worth of the word,

     a sound so potent it could stop adult speech

     and demand their attention

     to listen to a child

    who had just learned

    the power of a beautiful word.

The second poem recounts how one day, jumping off the front porch with my Guenther cousins, I became afraid and lost my confidence, turned my ankle and sprained it.

What Happened on the Front Porch

Nancy A. Bekofske

Courage is not so much a matter of going ahead

as knowing when to stay put.

I adored my cousin,

she was older and so sure of herself.

She mothered me, I am told, the first one

to arrive at my crib mornings,

lifting me out to play.

And later, she taught and led

all our summer games: Red Rover,

Red Light, Mother-May-I?

And we hid between the lilac bushes

and raced up the wide gravel drive.

And we'd jump off  the long porch onto the grass.

I was afraid, but jumped too, landing

squarely on my feet, jolted by the impact.

The willows then were not very tall,

they did not give much shade on

a summer's day. The white wood fence

did not hide the old cars sitting

in the gas station parking lot in front.

Sometimes, we'd venture into the station

for an ice cold pop from the cooler.

I recall the smell of oil and gasoline,

the dark stains on cement and on the men, too.

They would be laughing and talking

in white undershirts with sleeves rolled to the shoulder,

some grease-monkey under a car on the bare cement.

We'd catch a glimpse of the lavatory,

with its girlie calendar on the wall.

This was our fathers' natural place,

with machines and men and oil stains.

He visited us now and then,

for dinner and lunch before returning

to work again. 

Between the two worlds

a fence and a row of iris.

For behind the station was our patchwork house,

walled into three apartments,

with a dreaded dank cellar

and a forbidden attic I longed for.

A Frankenstein built from other buildings--

wainscotting from a bar, a room tacked on

for a sunporch. 

And inside, my mother in the beige and turquoise living room,

ironing shirts, watching "Guiding Light" on TV.

The lamps had frills and sat on plastic doilies,

the tables were rock maple colonial,

the couch a scratchy nylon. 

Sometimes our mothers came out, for a BBQ with

roasted corn that was first soaked in a tub of water,

or to sit in the shade of the willow
while the children swam in a small pool. 
But their natural habitat was indoors, 
reading "Pageant" or cooking pork roasts 
or vacuuming and dusting.

We children ruled the rest of the world in between: 
the gravel drive, the old carriage barn, 
the trees to climb, the weedy yard, 
the swingset, porches, and crannies, all ours.

"Hold hands," my cousin demanded.

I was afraid. I knew I could go it alone.

But jumping together, who knew?

I wanted complete control, to jump

when I willed it, not tied to another.

I resisted, but she scolded me,

called me 'fraidy cat,

so I gave up my hand, jumped,

panicked, fell the wrong way,

leg buckling, my ankle turned.

My mother ran out, too late,

she could not protect or save me now.

I'd given myself over to another's will.

My father was called to carry me in.

The doctor arrived and said

my ankle was sprained.

It was the only hurt reaped in all my childhood. 
Later, when I understood life's risks, 
how we have a choice in this world

of going it alone or chance being hurt,

I understood I would always choose the risk,

the possibility of pain over safety.

News and a Morning In Detroit

I've been busy but we took the morning off to see the new exhibit Bitter/Sweet at the Detroit Institute of Art. Coffee, tea, and chocolate had a huge impact on Europe in the 1600s, and the wealthy folk liked pretty, expensive ways of serving these exotic drinks. On display are coffee and tea sets and art and prints showing the imbibing these drinks. They are presented in a historical perspective--plus we had samples of hot chocolate! See photos at http://ow.ly/NgeX306jUVJ

Bitter/Sweet exhibit: Pineapple coffee pot

Wednesday we went to TWO book clubs! Our local library club read Black River by S. M. Hulse, which I loved when I read the galley in late 2014. The author also Skyped and joined us for a brief question and answer time. We had a great discussion.

Blair Library Afternoon Book Club talking to S. M. Hulse

That evening we attended another local book club to discuss A Man Called Ove. I won't comment....I didn't finish the book. But 90% gave it 5 stars.

We are nearly finished redecorating our bathroom! Nothing major: paint, new shower curtain, new hardware. But the change is amazing.

The White Lake Lighthouse, Montague MI

Our newly decorated bath

And more books are coming my way. I won Bridget Jones's Baby by Helen Fielding. I enjoyed Bridget Jones's Diary and love the movie, so I hope this will be a great read to lift the spirits. I also got Born a Crime by Trevor Noah and started it right away.

Today we went to the Detroit Institute of Art to see the member preview of their new exhibit Bitter/Sweet: Coffee, Tea and Chocolate. I forgot my camera....but you can see photos of the exhibit at these websites:
http://www.freep.com/story/entertainment/arts/2016/11/15/dia-coffee-tea-chocolate/93880440/
http://www.mlive.com/news/detroit/index.ssf/2016/11/see_coffee_tea_and_chocolate_f.html#0

The back of the DIA from the parking lot. Yes, it is downtown!

I finally realized it is the 21st c and my cellphone had a camera! So I did get a few photos.

I had not seen this great African Adinkra cloth before. It is made of cotton, vegetable dyes and colored thread. The design symbols have special meaning. Adinkra cloth is worn at funerals.

Adinkra cloth detail. DIA collection

Adinkra cloth, DIA collection

Adinkra cloth detail, DIA collection

I was glad to return to the American collection to see some of the artists discussed in the book Of Arms and Artists by Paul Staiti. (see my review at http://ow.ly/QFaG306jQAV)

John Singleton Copley's portrait of Colonel John Montresor

Several school classes were at the museum. I saw three teenage boys looking at Copely's painting Watson and the Shark and could not help but share the story behind the painting as told by Staiti in his book!

We had to visit the American landscape art to see Frederick Church's Cotopaxi. He painted this vast landscape of an erupting volcano which dwarfs a human figure in the foreground. The grandeur of nature and our puny part of it is a major theme of American 19thc landscape artists.

Another Church painting caught my eye. It shows the ruins of many civilizations, representing the temporal nature of human works against nature's eternal sun.

Stephen Hawking just warned that because of climate change and threat of nuclear war humans have about 1000 years left before we die out or find a new place to inhabit. Perhaps the cockroaches will inherit the earth...

Downtown Detroit was lovely, with roses still blooming. I shed my jacket!

We lunched at Traffic Jam & Snug. It is a cool Midtown place that grows and makes much of its food including cheese, ice cream, beer, and baked goods. I had their home grown, home made Strawberry Lemon Basil tea and a braised beef brisket panini and sweet potato fries. (Too much! I brought half home!)

Best wishes for a wonderful Thanksgiving this weekl!

The Real Right Stuff: Spaceman by Mike Massimino

Space, astronauts, and the exploration of outer space fired my childhood imagination.

In junior high I filled scrapbooks with clippings of everything NASA was doing. I had a poster of the Solar System on my wall. I dad's telescope into the back yard to gaze at the moon.

In 1969 I wrote a poem about Apollo 11 and men walking on the moon. And much later I created my quilt, When Dreams Came True, to celebrate the men and their achievement. I used photos from NASA for the fused applique images.

Showing my quilt When Dreams Came True

When Dreams Came True

detail When Dreams Came True

Detail from When Dreams Came True, the astronauts

A Goodreads friend raved about Spaceman, saying it brought back all her girlish dreams, and I eagerly requested Mike Massimino's memoir when I saw it on Blogging for Books.

What a joy to read! Massimino has achieved remarkable heights in his career, yet he comes across like a regular guy who just happened to get a few lucky breaks thanks to the efforts of others.

"We have this idea in America of the self-made man. We love to celebrate individual achievement...I think the self-made man is a myth....I can honestly say that I've never achieved anything on my own...I owe everything...to the people around me---people who pushed me to be the best version of myself."

Massimino's personality just shines through the book. Concerning his flight training on the T-38, he recalls The Right Stuff astronauts and the glamorous lifestyle they led, "astronauts racing Corvette convertibles across the California desert" and laughs at himself "rocking out in our Nissan Quest mini-van."

Team work, he insists, is the real 'right stuff,' trust, character, and service, being there for each other as part of a small, select family. When Massimino's dad faced a health crisis, everyone pitched in to support him. When his dad needed blood, they donated. When he needed plasma, they donated.

"I'd only been an astronaut for a year...I knew that teamwork and camaraderie were an important part of it, but I didn't understand what that really meant until my father got sick."

A self-avowed people person, a man who never backed down from a challenge, these attributes brought him to be chosen to be on a Hubble mission team. The highlight of his career was to switch out a Hubble array, 350 miles above the earth. Viewing Earth from space was a transformative experience, bringing an epiphany that altered his perception of life and the world.

You don't have to be a rocket scientist to read this book. You do need to love an inspiring story told by a man whose love for his work, his family, and his friends shines through every page.

I received a free book from Blogging for Books in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

Spaceman
Mike Massimino
Crown Books
$28 hard cover
ISBN: 978-1-101-90354-4

Obsessing over Jewish Identity and Oppression: The Mechant of Venice, Updated

I have to admit that after 86 pages of Shylock is My Name I skipped to the end to see how Howard Jacobson dealt with the pound of flesh problem in a modern setting. (It was pretty clever.)

Did I return to page 86 and read what was in between? No, I did not. For all my reading 20th c Jewish writers and Holocaust literature, this book taught me I don't understand what being Jewish is like at all. 

A man once told me about the hostility he faced just walking home from school. He was Jewish in a Michigan city with few Jews. I know the history, the persecution, the genocide---as fact not experience. 

The characters in this updated telling of The Merchant of Venice obsess about Jewish identity and oppression. And when their daughters are old enough to date, these father obsess over the horror of their daughters marrying a Christian.

I was not taught racism in my family. Christian vilification of the Jews was something I read about in history books. 

"Being a stranger is what we do. It's the diaspora, they are at pains to assure me, that brings out the best in us....they feel no embarrassment in proclaiming that the proper Jew is a wandering Jew."

As a woman, I resented the men's controlling paternalism-- which seemed to drive their daughters to rebellion.

"As far as you're concerned, he retorted, "I am the police."

"The universe decreed that father should love their daughters not wisely but too well. And hat daughters should hate them for it."

The novel does not have much action and the conversation between Shylock and Strulovitch is intellectual, about ideas. This is not a novel for someone who prefers story and plot driven books.  I have read all of the Hogarth Shakespeare novels released so far. This one was the hardest for me to connect with, 

I received a free book from Blogging for Books in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

Shylock is My Name
Howard Jacobson
Hogarth Shakespeare
$15 paperback
ISBN: 978-0-8041-4134-5