Moments in Montclair: Clubs Part 2

There came a moment when I knew.  Something was going on in the attic, and I wasn’t invited.  My older brothers, David, Timmy and Todd, came down the stairs in the afternoon, smug and suspicious, and swaggered into the living room.  Timmy flipped the channel to Hogan’s Heroes acting like they didn’t notice I was mid-Father Knows Best.

“Hey, I was watching that,” I said standing up and crossing my arms in anger.

“So,” David said as he smoothed his dark bangs down into his eyes.

“So turn it back,” I demanded as the three of them would laugh.

“I’m telling Mom.”

“Go ahead.”  They knew I wouldn’t.  I wasn’t a tattletale as I knew what that would get me… a mouth full of teeth. So I stormed off into the kitchen for a few Mallomars and a glass of milk with Nestles Quick.  Something was different and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Perhaps it had something to do with the red ink drawing on all of their right forearms of a sword piercing a bloody heart.

The next day I followed them up to the third floor and watched them disappear through a tiny half-door at the edge of the third floor landing.  A space I knew was reserved for Christmas decorations and dead bodies.  It could only mean one thing… a new club had formed.  And that sickening feeling of not belonging enveloped me like Linus’ cloud of dust.  I tip-toed over and placed my ear to the door. I heard murmurings and chants, something like “We Are the Sole Members of the Death Club.  Susan, Kevin, and Joe are not allowed.” I wanted more than anything, at that moment, to be in that club.  Sure I hated the thought of Death, it scared me out of my wits…  but it was cool, and I, clearly, was not.

We lived in a three-story (four if you count the basement) house that had a fair share of odd-shaped closets, dark corners and three attic spaces with separate doors  all of which were home to a secret club at one time or another. The six of us took turns declaring ownership, writing up rules, and deciding who could belong.

One year the Fireball Club was all the rage where you had to be able to suck on a fireball without any facial expression as your tongued burned in order to join. Then came the Let’s Play War, Go Fish is for Sissies club, the Dad is Mean Because He Makes us Do Chores club, the Let’s Light Matches in the Basement club, and the Our Gang knock-off He-man Woman Hater’s Club of which I was not a supporter. The closet on the stairs was home of the Hide From the Monsters club, and the other attic room off the bedroom on the third floor was the perfect spot for weekly meetings of the Seance, Ouija Board and Levitation club. But my favorite, and most memorable club, was The Dance Club.

I was about nine years old and Soul Train and Laugh-In were about the coolest shows a kid could watch.   One Saturday, noticing the house was suspiciously empty, I ventured into Todd and Kevin’s room and heard dance music coming from the closet.  I knocked and pulled on the doorknob and felt it pulled shut from the other side.

“Hey! What’s going on in there?” I yelled through the door.

Silence, the music shut off.

“Open the door!”

Murmuring on the other side.

After a few long minutes, the door opened and Todd, dead serious, stood in bell bottoms and his best shirt with the Nehru collar. His metal medallion glinted as he said, “Come in.”

Timmy sat like an Indian chief with a cassette player on his lap. Patchouli incense smoked in snake-like curls around his head. A lone lightbulb overhead shone down between clothes on hangers pushed to the side. Kevin, my younger brother sat to his right, his chest puffed up beneath his patterned vest.

“We have a new club,” Timmy announced as if the U.N. was listening. “Are you interested?”  Does Dan Rowan love Dick Martin?

“Yes!” I exclaimed with just the right amount of enthusiasm… not too much. “How do you join?”

“You have to wear your coolest clothes, then you have to pass the dance test,” he said matter-of-factly.

“The dance test?”

“We get to pick the song and you have to dance for three minutes here in front of us.  Then we get to vote if your dancing was good enough.”

“Ok.”  I ran to my room and searched for the new tangerine and cream paneled mini skirt my Aunt Catherine had recently bought for me.  I pulled it on, rubbed the six gold buttons to a gleam, and then zipped up my white vinyl knee boots and strutted my stuff back to that closet.

With the seriousness of the Pope in heaven,  the door opened. I stepped below the hanging bulb and Timmy pushed the shiny black button of the cassette player. Bend Me Shape Me  blasted and I shimmied like I was Goldi Hawn trying out for Laugh-In.

When the music ended I was politely asked to leave and the ballots were cast.  Ten minutes later I was inducted into the Closet Dance Club of ’68.  It would be one of my finest moments, a time when I knew who I was and how I fit into the family. I was a sister who mattered and a mighty fine dancer. What more could a nine-year old want?

Looking back, I have plenty of memories of trying to make it. Plenty of memories of wanting to get in. Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I admitted people into my clubs and sometimes I didn’t.  The funny thing is that I have very little memory of clubs lasting more that the initiation phase, because, after that, we lost interest. After that it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that we made it, that we belonged; we were someone others wanted in their club. We felt like a person who counted, someone who deserved to know the secret handshake and the secret password.

And, funny, after all of these years…  it’s still what counts. That we matter to people and that we make them feel that they matter to us.

Peace is a Group Effort

Kindergarten Can Be a Tough Place

Grove St. School

There are plenty of folks who claim that their first memories reach all the way back to the womb or at the very least, toddlerhood.  I am not one of them. Squeezing my eyes shut and searching my inner filing cabinet, I thumb through the folders and land squarely in Mrs. Kreager’s kindergarten class at Grove Street School. There are three memories to be exact, and I find it interesting that they were seared into the hippocampus of my brain by the driving emotions of anger, fear, and power.

It all started with my white jewelry box. Adorned with pink roses and a golden latch, it set a tulle dressed ballerina a-twirl every time I opened it.  She danced in a circle on her satin toe shoes before an oval mirror and guarded the rings and necklaces that lay perfectly arranged below her. It was my most precious possession and I had brought it in for Show-and-Tell. Dutifully, I placed it on the Special Shelf reserved for Show-and-Tell treasures that was off-limits to the class.

Mid-morning, as I carefully inserted a half-circle shaped block inside a larger one to complete a block tower of architectural excellence, I heard the familiar tinkling of a music box. I turned my head and saw two boys, Tommy and Robert, trying on two of my rings. As I charged toward them, Tommy slammed the top shut and they both ducked into the corner playhouse.  Incensed, I gently opened the box to make sure all was okay, and to my horror, my lovely ballerina laid sideways, limp and broken at her slender ankles. I carried it, sobbing, to Mrs. Kreager who decided, in the end, that there simply was not enough evidence to convict Tommy and Robert of wrongdoing. The weight of injustice and the accompanying anger covered me like my electric blanket when I turned the control dial-up to number ten.

Tommy and Robert, however, were not happy that I would have the gall to tell on them. So during lunch hour they cornered me by the jungle gym and proceeded to scream in my face and push me to the ground. I curled into a ball and protected my head as I imagined my own legs bent sideways forever like the ballerina’s. To make matters worse, they followed me as I walked home pushing me into pricker bushes and threatening death if I told anyone.  In 1964 we didn’t know about bullying, I didn’t have words for what was happening. Petrified, I endured these attacks for a week until Mrs. Powers, our neighbor, drove by one afternoon and witnessed it.  A few phone calls later, Tommy and Robert were doomed.

Suspiciously, they went missing from class for a few days so I was able to regain my composure.  When they returned, Mrs. Kreager reseated them on the opposite side of the patchwork gathering carpet that everyone knew was just a bunch of samples from the rug store across the street. I saw them whispering throughout the morning and I felt that familiar panic rise though me as we lined up for recess. As we streamed out the door onto the black top, I ran for a swing thinking I could kick one in the face if I pumped hard enough.

Then, the most curious thing happened.  To this day I wonder about the dynamic of it all as it surprised me as much as anyone else. How easy it was to indoctrinate a mild-mannered five-year-old girl into a life of crime.  Tommy and Robert grabbed my arm and then stood on either side of me creating an uncomfortable bully sandwich.  Instead of pummeling me, Tommy said, “We’re sorry.  To make it up to you, we will beat up anyone you want us to.”

“Yeah,” added Robert, his fists pumping, “just point ‘em out.”  Now, I was not the aggressive type and had no other enemies that I knew of. The last thing I wanted to do was beat anyone up.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, shaking my head.

“I said point ‘em out,” Robert repeated through gritted teeth.

“Come on,” said Tommy,”recess is only ten minutes.” They started to squeeze against my ribs and visions of the broken ballerina began to swirl around me.  The memory of pricker bushes and the taste of raw fear bubbled into the back of my throat. This was survival of the fittest.

“If you don’t pick someone we’ll do it for ya,” said Robert. “We might even pick you again.”

And then I heard these words come out of my mouth, “That kid in the red jacket.” And off they ran.  Seconds later the kid in the red jacket, whom I had never seen before, had a mouth full of dirt.

This scenario played itself out every day until it started to feel good.  It was like I was the queen of the playground. All I needed to do was point, and the girl who had taken the last snack that morning was shoved into a tree trunk, the boy who had hogged all of the Lincoln Logs was pressed against the chain link fence until diamond shapes imprinted on his cheek. I was suddenly drunk with power. I felt like a player, a somebody, a contender.  I had no idea I had become a bully myself until Tommy and Robert were apprehended once again and sang like canaries in the principal’s office.

Then the three of us disappeared for a few days to learn a few lessons about kindness and how to control base human behavior. Upon our return, the patchwork gathering carpet had been divided into three sections and each of us sat at a different one.

Looking back on this I realize the power of human emotion to override what we innately know to be harmful to others.  Powerful, instinctual emotions can rise up, like flood waters, and carry us to a place we never wanted to end up.  Anger, fear, and power rule our decisions and our world in many ways.  It takes patient and loving guidance from parents, teachers and friends to help us understand ourselves and develop empathy for others. Our schools have come a long way in educating  us and our children in the arena of bullying, but I dare to say that as a nation, we have a ways to go.

More Moments in Montclair

More Moments in Montclair

My older brother, Todd, wrote a book one year and gave it to the family for Christmas.  It is a treasure.  A small, unassuming book titled Moments in Montclair, it lists various memories of our childhood in random order. I can’t read it without laughing myself to tears or crying myself into a fit of giggles.

I don’t assume that our childhood was any better or more magical than anyone else’s but I do know that the mere fact that I grew up with five brothers and no sisters provided much entertainment, physical activity, and subterfuge.

In honor of my family, whom I continue to adore beyond words, I am feeling pulled to those years more than ever.  Perhaps it is because my own children are now off on their own, or perhaps I am feeling that summertime nostalgia that hits me this time of year. And part of me would like to do put my reminiscing down on paper so that when I am moved into a nursing home, hopefully some time far in the future, I can whip it out and read it to the kindly nurses and candy stripers who feign interest or, in the dim light of evening they can read it to me.

My childhood spanned the 1960’s and 1970’s.  Our family of eight shared a modest four bedroom house in Montclair, NJ. It was pre-computer, pre-cell phone, pre-everything digital.  Looking back, I would argue that this “Pre Era” had a power all its own. A magic that surpassed anything one can purchase at Best Buy or the Apple Store.  It was an era that demanded creativity and initiative, when kids had to work issues out on their own and parents rarely stormed the principal’s office except to agree that their kid was a schmuck.

As an experiment I am going to write a short memory every other Monday. Please feel free to share this backward journey with me as it just may stir up wonderful memories of your own. Comments and personal sharing are encouraged and welcomed!  Let the trip begin~

Our House Looked Like a Yellow Version of This

Let me introduce you to my family:

My dad’s name is Harry. Back then, we referred to him amongst ourselves as H-Bomb since he was a force to be reckoned with.  The quintessential Wonder Years Dad, he left every morning in a slate grey suit carrying a briefcase and drove to a place called Kearfott.  We had no idea where that was or what happened there, but it was important.  He returned precisely at 6:00 PM.  The air in the house changed when he walked through the door. Our steps became lighter, our words more carefully chosen. Six PM was the time to straighten up, set the table, and get washed up for dinner. He’s the one who taught us all to “have a little class for God’s sakes.”

Lois, our mother, won a Shirley Temple contest when she was five years old for two reasons: she looked like Shirly Temple and she sang Red Sails in the Sunset on the radio. None of us could get over this.  Who else had a mother who sang on the radio?  In our eyes she had experience with fame. She also was voted Homecoming Queen in High School and went on to become a nurse in a white hat.  Luckily none of this went to her head. First and foremost she was our MOM.  A whirling dervish of cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping, nursing, and confidant when we needed one.  For one half hour a day she sat and read The Star Ledger with an open-faced PB&J. No one was allowed to to talk to her during that time unless there was blood involved.

David was the oldest.  The only one of us too cool to have a nickname, unless you regard  ‘Dave’ as a nickname.  He was the Greg Brady of the family only more mysterious. He wore his hair down over his eyes to the horror of my father, had his own pool cue in a narrow faux leather protective case that zipped, and dated an older women who had a driver’s license.  My parents cleaned out the attic so he could have his own space. I can still feel the delight of parting the hippie beads that hung in the doorway to enter his groovy pad. A bit of an artist, he hammered numerous nails into the paneled wall and created a mural of string art that remains to this day.

Timothy, Timmy, Timbo, Tim was the opposite of Dave. He was the all-American kid who loved sports and girls. He played football, hockey, and baseball during various seasons but boxed and wrestled with David all year long.  Sometimes my dad would order them into the backyard to “figure things out”. Once I had to disturb my mother during her half-hour break because blood was involved.  I think this all had something to do with David getting his own space.

Todd, Toddio, Toddio Potatio, Odd Todd Half Turtle and Half Frog, was a year older than me.  He was our Eddie Haskell with wiry blond hair and an innocent face. If there was something amiss, if we could smell smoke, hear firecrackers, or hear a friendly game ending in an explosion of “not fair’s!” Todd was usually involved.  After he got in trouble he would always invite us into his bedroom to tell us about it and then laugh as hard as he could.

Susan, Susan Boosan, Sue, is me.  I was the only girl and thus the only one with my own room.  No one thought this was fair except for me. The only thing that I thought was NOT fair was that I was not allowed to put a lock on the door. My parents assured us that we needed to learn to respect other’s property and privacy by exercising self control.  That never happened.  I was the perfect follower.  When you are surrounded by brothers who are ready at any moment to give you red ears, a dead arm, a charlie horse, an indian rub, a purple nurple, or pin you down so they can drip saliva over your face, you learn to do what you are told and not to tattle under any circumstances.  The only place I could exert any power was during board games when the rules were written on plain white paper so no one could take over by making up his/her own rules on the spot.  We went through three Trouble games one year because we wore out the pop-o-matic dice popper. Eventually we had to move to Hand’s Down.

Kevin, Kev, Kevvy Baby, Devon, Devonport Chesterfield, was two years behind me. He was the brother who always (and still does) make us all laugh.  He was emotional, funny, and the constant brunt of Todd’s mischief. He had the misfortune of being born with a huge freckle on his cheek that we all claimed was a beauty mark. The teasing was relentless and that premature dead front tooth the color of a stormy sky didn’t help matters for him.

Joseph, Joe, Hobart, Hoey, Hoey Joey Come and Mow My Lawn, was born when I was seven.  Cute and docile, he was our real life doll that we loved and stuffed into various costumes.  He was especially useful at Christmas that first year when we put on a play about the Nativity in our basement.  For the first five years of his life he probably thought he had two mothers.  He was the first one I was able to boss around. But I did it with love.  With five older siblings, Joe grew to be good natured, creative and wise beyond his years with the diplomatic savvy of the leader of the UN.

Outside of Todd and Kevin’s salamanders,  geckos,  gerbils, guinea pigs, fish and rabbits, we had two dogs and cat at various times… but we’ll get to them later.

Hey Guys, Come See the Butterfly

I took a break from my morning chores and walked to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. Glancing absentmindedly out the window toward a solitary orange tree that sits against our garden wall, I was caught off guard by a majestic yellow and brown Monarch. Its wing span was at least four inches and it fluttered, almost frantically from branch to branch, a butterfly ballet in the hot September sun.

I turned, instinctively, to call to the kids, Hey guys, come see the butterfly!  But the physical turning of my head pulled me to the present.  Katie was twenty-three years old and two states away teaching fourth graders, and Matthew was sitting in a college classroom in Ohio. I don’t think either one could hear me.

There was a time when such a sighting would incite a frenzy of motion.  Two sets of feet would come running from the playroom and the three of us would note, in whispered tones, the butterfly’s every move. Matt would point and try to bang on the window and Katie would scold him like the big sister she was, imparting wisdom like she was the expert of How to watch a butterfly without scaring it away.

And there we’d stand, noses pressed against glass.

“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Duh, Katie, it doesn’t have any babies with it. It’s a boy.”

“Look, it’s sitting on the top branch!”

“What if it falls?”

“Can we catch it?”

“Where does it live?”

Then off it would flutter, its magic along with it, though the moment would live on though rudimentary etchings of crayon on white printer paper and countless remember whens before bedtime.

I miss sharing those moments of innocence.  My heart still calls out to my two babies when these everyday delights are revealed to me at odd hours. I have a feeling it always will.

It catches me off guard, this new stillness. This empty house of mine, the now quiet car rides, the lazy almost reckless way I can saunter through the market.   I am realizing that emptiness is not always solitary. I am startled to discover that these quiet spaces are inhabited by ghosts.

This strange new phenomenon is putting me on edge. I am being visited by my children at their various ages.  They haunt me, these younger versions, like they are trapped in time and I am separated from them by a clear glass wall.  A blond head with a coloring book at church, a giggle of silliness that erupts from a toddler at the mall, tanned skin and baggy swim trunks digging a hole to China at the water’s edge, and a pre-teen with gleaming braces and a long pony tail.  Katie and Matthew’s faces are everywhere, their voices fill my head.

I know I am grieving the end of an era. Grief always involves mysteries of one sort or another. Our two children have grown up.  And these little sightings I can handle, explain away as the musings of a mom who’s moving on.  But there is a presence of two other beings that I can’t explain.  Two blurred faces who have recently begun to roam the halls of my house and sit on the edge of my bed.

After almost sixteen years, long past the days when I accepted that two of our babies had not made it to term, I am wondering, once again, who they would have been. How their lives would have blessed us and the world.  They would be in high school with boyfriends and girlfriends and displays of acne that would curse their days.

This shocks me.  To tell you the truth, I never would have guessed it.  Miscarriages happen all the time.  A natural process, the doctor had assured me, making perfect sense. Of course it was a disappointment, but I was young.  I’d have more babies, she promised.

But she was wrong. We didn’t.  Years passed and we didn’t have a number three; no number four.  I cried my tears and then, one balmy Spring day, I surrendered.  We accepted and stopped trying. That was that, or so I had thought.

It can’t be coincidence that the door has sprung open to these memories at the same time I am grieving the empty nest.  There are four spirits wandering in this house, not two.  How can it be that I am just now considering that?  Of course it impacts a universe when a pregnancy ends in miscarriage.  There are souls involved, and the souls of children claim their mothers with a bond stronger than time or distance. This thought comforts me, two little ones who will always remain.

I dry my hands on a kitchen towel and fold it just so, knowing that it will not end up in a heap on the floor or secretly used to wipe peanut butter crumbs off the corners of a teen aged mouth. The Monarch flutters past the window again, and then a second one joins it.  I study them as they hop from leaf to leaf, unaware of me and the two little noses pressed to the glass.