Mental Musings from
The Marginatrix
...because sometimes I just need to share my thoughts.
Remember when ads for toys made you believe in magic? Remember when the play you watched in an ad seemed like something tangible, something that could exist in your own home if only you could have that toy? For a short time it was the Easy Bake oven that filled me with a sense of possibility. That hope was quickly quashed when my Mom announced that it was likely a fire hazard and we could just use the actual oven in our very own kitchen, with supervision, of course. Now, I realize she must have been appalled by the thought of something so banal coming into our home. Her Italian instincts would not allow for anything less than authentic homemade food in our house.
So I set my sights on something else and it became my most fervent wish, of which I frequently reminded my parents. On some level, I knew it was probably too expensive, but I bargained that it was the only thing I wanted. So when Christmas morning arrived and the large box sat under the tree, I could barely contain my excitement. My brother, too, was anxious to open his similarly large gift, but that was immaterial to me. Like the perfect angels we were, on this morning at least, we waited for permission before tearing into the wrapping. I'm sure I had tears in my eyes when I uncovered the covered Barbie's Friendship Airplane. I was overjoyed and couldn't wait to play with it. Meanwhile, my brother opened his gift--Big Jim and his Sports Camper. Who was Big Jim anyway? He certainly wasn't Ken, but what did I care? We had our own individual toys that could be used together. And something funny happened. I discovered that Barbie's airplane wasn't actually magic after all. The snack cart was not self-propelled. The clothes hanging in the wardrobe were flat images printed on vinyl. There were two seats and a table and Barbie couldn't even sit comfortably. Meanwhile, Big Jim's camper was exciting, with lots of accessories, and best of all, we'd had no preconceived notions, no shattered expectations. Secretly, I liked my brothers gift better than my own, but I would never tell my parents. They'd gotten me the one gift I'd requested. I appreciated it. But I watched commercials with a much more skeptical eye after that, determined I'd not be fooled again. Barbie's Friendship Airplane was an expensive lesson, but I believe it is one that has served me well. 2019-12-11
0 Comments
The first home I remember was a little Cape Cod located in the suburbs of New York, out on Long Island. It was a quiet street of little houses that lined both sides of the thoroughfare. Friends lived close enough to walk alone to seek playmates. It was safe.
It seems our house was the popular place to be. I'm sure my parents installed the jungle gym in the backyard to assuage my mom's overprotective instincts. After all, what better way to assure lots of friends while also ensuring your children remain close to home? We spent many hours on that jungle gym, swinging and singing and engaging in contests of who could scream the loudest, and I'm sure my mother was absolutely delighted. Though the backyard was fun, the front yard contained an attraction the backyard never could. A sprawling crab apple tree stood in the center of the yard, with branches low enough to entice even the most reluctant climber. We'd challenge one another to climb, never too high, and enjoyed hours sitting in that tree. The tree was thick with green foliage in the summertime, but autumn brought the changes expected from any deciduous tree. Wintertime meant just bare branches. But it was the pink blossoms of springtime that were absolutely breathtaking. Ours was known as the house with the crab apple in the front yard. No other descriptor was necessary. Springtime also brought the appearance of little white blossoms to the lawn. No matter that my father mowed the lawn every weekend, pushing the reel mower laboriously over the terrain, those flowers were persistent and reappeared almost immediately. And they continued throughout the summer. Summertime would find us sitting in the shade of this majestic tree, weaving these tiny buds into flower chains. At first, we made rings, bracelets, and necklaces, but there were so many, we quickly moved on to garlands which we used to adorn the tree. We were so proud. I don't recall ever seeing dried flower chains on our tree. Somehow, whenever we sat down to make more, the tree was bare. I always assumed they blew away. It didn't occur to me until many years later, my dad probably removed the unsightly dead flowers every week before mowing the lawn. It seems we, like most children, effortlessly created extra work for our parents without ever being aware of it. 11-13-2019 There was a part of me that knew it was coming, but I was wholly unprepared. And in retrospect, I'm sure my mom was not looking forward to what was coming and how she would explain it. It's never easy to explain death to a child. And so it may have come as a bit of a relief when I said, "Please don't tell me if he dies. I'll ask if I want to know."
After my little brother, Blacky was my best friend. Not a very original or creative name, I know, but I was only four when I chose him and he was black from head to tail so it made sense. And naturally, he was the runt of the litter. Even then, I was attracted to the underdog, or in this case, undercat. Blacky was an indoor/outdoor cat. On Long Island, the worst predator for a cat was a car, and there wasn't a lot of traffic on our street. His litter box was in the basement and he was not allowed in the bedrooms. That didn't stop him, of course. I shared a room with my brother. After being put to bed, I'd whisper his name and then I'd hear his kitty paws patter up the stairs. He'd wait for me to pat the bed, then crawl under the covers to cuddle. On more than one occasion, I'd hear my dad calling Blacky, but we'd pretend to be asleep. It was our secret. Blacky was no angel. A Tom cat, I imagine he'd prowl the neighborhood every night looking for a fight. And all too often, he found a willing participant. One morning, he returned to the house with a gaping wound on his back haunch, evidence of a vicious foe. At the time, I didn't understand how little extra money my parents had. Nevertheless, they took him to the vet, who stitched him up, covered the wound, and admonished them to keep him indoors until it had fully healed. My parents explained that they would not be taking him back for further treatment so he had best behave himself. Unfortunately, Blacky didn't believe them. Within a few days, he'd escaped the confines of his prison. When he limped home the following morning, his side once again oozing, my heart sank. My father took him back to the vet. I wanted desperately to believe that he would stay there until he'd recovered. The days passed and turned into weeks. Slowly, I came to terms with what I suspected just be true. One day, I approached my mom. "Blacky's not coming home, is he?" My mother has always prized honesty above all else. She stopped what she was doing and lowered herself to my level. She looked me in the eyes and said, "No, he's not. He's in Heaven now." I nodded in understanding and said, "Okay." It wasn't until much later I asked her for details. It was years before I learned just how hard it had been for my father, a funeral director, no less, to hold Blacky as he took his last breaths. In his typical manner, he joked about it, but there was this underlying sadness that was hard to miss. He had held Blacky in his arms as he'd closed his eyes for the last time. I was no stranger to death, but it had never seemed quite real to me. My father's family owned a funeral home and he worked there part time as a mortician. His parents lived upstairs and when we used to visit, we would take the side door into the building because the front door was all the way on the other side of the building. That door led to the storage area, where rows upon rows of caskets sat silently, expectantly in the darkened room. My brother and I would race to the door on the far wall to enter the public area, and safety. We'd threaten to lock one another in the haunted room, but neither of us actually had the heart to do it. One day, while wandering through the hallways and viewing rooms,I happened upon a girl younger than me. She looked so peaceful lying there, her dark brown hair framing her angelic face. I gazed at her in confusion, no doubt scrunching my brow, as I attempted to square my vision with what I knew to be true. Only old people die. I couldn't understand, and my younger brother was no help in this endeavor. So we sought my mother's help. I imagine this was a conversation that, even if anticipated, was certainly not relished. And somehow, like so many other times, she had the right answer. Sometimes God takes children because he needs more angels, but not to worry, he doesn't do it often and he chooses judiciously. He only takes those who are so good that He cannot bear to be separated from them any longer. I think my brother and I both breathed a sigh of relief, confident in the knowledge God wouldn't be taking either of us any time soon. |
Elizabeth J. Connor
|