Memoir

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Transformation

       By the age of ten changes as in transformations fascinated me. One summer day I ate a peach and buried the pit in the backyard. My mother planted tomato seeds in her garden. Cellular structures transformed the pit into a peach tree, and the seeds became Beefsteak tomatoes. Where did the power to make such changes come from? Yes, I wanted to know.

In the 2nd grade our class visited the Walker Gordon Farm, a dairy farm. In the circular “barn” with tall glass windows cows stood motionless on a rotating platform. Suction cups attached to their utters drained milk into hoses connected to storage tanks. Kids asked the guide questions: what do the cows eat, do they go outside, do cows sleep standing up, how much milk goes into the bag, do those “things” (the suction cups) hurt?

Back in the classroom, Miss Beck invited a Newark News photographer to watch six of us make butter. Publicity about our field trip might impress someone. (I still have the newspaper clipping.) For the photo shoot Linda Lott wore an apron and was first to whip the heavy cream. Five of us stood around the table looking bored and, eventually, took turns churning cream into butter. I was amazed that grass became milk, and cream transformed into butter.

Fast forward to many years later. I taught in the LEARN program at Pima County Adult Probation (Tucson). My students lacked a high school diploma and many had felony charges. To change things up a bit, I planned a Let’s Make Butter lesson that included some math. Students did not know much about fractions or the lines on a butter stick wrapper. The big whoop came when Carla, a GED student, transformed the heavy cream into a thick, greasy solid.

“I never knew where butter came from,” said one student after another. Some of the guys were good at dividing marijuana and other drugs into ounces. That day they learned one stick of butter weighed four ounces and could be cut into eight tablespoons. Best of all, they watched the transformation of heavy cream into butter.

Another phenomenon occurred in my childhood kitchen. Mother often baked lemon meringue pies. I learned why the egg whites and yolks were separated. Yolks went into the cooked filling; whites became meringue. My mother used an egg beater and the whites gradually formed bubbles, hundreds of thick bubbles. When stiff mounds of shiny white fluff filled the bowl, we had meringue. I was amazed and curious. Who thought of this I asked. “Martha Washington,” was her answer. Actually, Google credits Gasparini, a Swiss pastry chef who lived around 1720.

Sunday school introduced me to another transformation. In the Russian Orthodox Church children made their first Holy Communion around the age of ten. For the event my mother sewed a lovely white, dotted Swiss dress that still hangs in my closet. I spent hours memorizing the Before and After Communion prayers. On Saturday, the day before the all-important Sunday, I made my First Holy Confession. When I think about innocuous childhood sins like hitting my sister or talking back to my father, I roll my eyes and smirk. What are childhood sins, anyway? Was defending myself a sin? I had to say something to the priest. Playing with matches might be considered a sin. I did not have much to confess.

Holy Communion centers on accepting the body and blood of Christ. I had no idea as to it’s significance and still don’t. As usual, that Sunday parents and parishioners filled the church pews. The choir sang their repertoire of liturgical hymns and incense scented the air. The stained glass windows glistened from sunlight. I stood patiently in the Communion line and waited my turn.

When I reached the front, Father Stroyan bent slightly to spoon a little red wine into my little bird mouth. The wine had something to do with the blood of Christ. Beside the priest stood an altar boy who held a tray of Holy Bread. Those small pieces represented the body of Christ. After I swallowed the wine, I took a piece, put that into my mouth and returned to my seat. Now the blood and body of Christ were inside of me. The day was one of celebration, a rite of passage that continues in the Orthodox church.

Transformation occurs in science, religion, and life—all life. In the 1800s, a French philosopher with a long last name noted that the more things change, the more they stay the same. From my viewpoint, I do see things change. Most often they do not remain the same.

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The Furnace

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      On an ordinary, run errands afternoon, I drove from place to place listening to Eli Wiesel’s recorded book “Night.” When Wiesel was fifteen the Nazi’s sent him and his family to Auschwitz. “Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky.” Wiesel used the word incinerator, and its meaning awakened a childhood memory.

The eerie cellar in our 3-family house on W. Runyon Street in Newark also had furnaces that sent smoke to the sky. Chunks of coal were incinerated and transformed first into heat and then into smoke. At the end of the cycle ashes were saved and mixed into garden dirt as fertilizer. Some ashes were stored and sprinkled on winter’s icy sidewalks. All those ashes at Auschwitz — what happened to them? I don’t know, but the story my mother and Wiesel told made the furnace an instrument of death.

When I was probably about nine years old, my mother wanted me to know about a woman, her baby, and a furnace. As a newborn I lived with my parents in an apartment building on South 15th Street. Ralph Martinelli, a roughly cut, good-natured Italian, or wop, as my father might have said, worked part-time hours as the building superintendent. Mazie, his wife sold lingerie at Bamberger’s, a downtown department store. Already married five years, Ralph and Mazie wanted a child of their own, yet nothing ever came of their desire.

On an afternoon of her choice when my mother and I were alone, she began a story. Upon reflection, I did not need to know about the Martinelli’s or their son. His birth and adoption made no difference to me, especially at age nine. The two couples stayed friends for years, even after Ralph moved his family out of Newark. I suppose my mother wanted me to know that families are formed in more than one way.

“Ralphie, Jr. is adopted. He’s not the Martinelli’s real child,” my mother began as if telling a secret. “Ralphie’s mother wanted to throw her baby into a furnace. Big Ralph saved the boy’s life, and they raised him as their own.”

My mother said an unhappy and poor woman took her baby to the cellar. I imagined a cellar likes ours on W. Runyon Street — a dirty, dank place with shadows, coal bins, and storage cribs where feral mother cats gave birth to litter after litter. On winter nights I hated going to the cellar. Scary down there when I had to set the damper and adjust the flue. A winter fire needed to be banked just right. 

Back to the story —the sound of someone in the cellar brought Ralph out of his workroom. As I listened to my mother, I imagined his shock. A woman stood in front of an open furnace fire with a baby in her arms.

“What are you doing, Anna?”

“I don’t want the baby,” she cried. “I’m going to throw him into the furnace.”

“Are you nuts, Anna? Gimme that kid!” Ralph grabbed the child from her arms.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she sobbed. ” He cries all the time. I’m going crazy. I don’t want him.”

The horror of what might have been had a happy ending. From the cellar to talks in the upstairs apartments, the Martinelli’s and the woman reached an agreement. My mother never explained the legal details, and those would not have matter to me. She said that after a few months and with great joy, Ralph and Mazie adopted the baby. The birth mother turned away, moved away, and never looked back.

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A Few New Images

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I love the juxtaposition and humor of street scenes. Anonymous, creative people make travel fun, especially as I try to figure out what’s going on. Then there are those nuanced images I see with my own eyes and record just because they are unique. A few months ago travels took me to Boston, Quebec, and Montreal. That said, here are a few new images.

Woman texting on the train from Boston to Salisbury.

On a morning walk along Newbury Street, I saw two retail stores that might attract similar customers.

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Here’s an inspirational message left in the ladies room of North Station, Boston. One anonymous woman giving encouragement to another. Thanks for the kind words, sister.

The Montreal Museum of Fine Arts will exhibit works by Alexander Calder until February 24, 2019. Hens and roosters are favorite creatures, and here’s a Calder that makes me smile.

On to Old Town in Montreal with its cobblestone streets and plenty of restaurants. A great find was the Stash Café on St. Paul Street, W., serving Eastern European food.

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Last stop was Old Quebec. A funicular takes passengers up top of the city, then you can walk down. I did not photograph historic buildings or statues. Images of a clothing store with an audacious name and a restroom dispenser concluded my trip.

#MeToo

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When I was a 16-year-old high school student, I worked part-time at Sears (Newark, NJ). Since I could type Louise Gleason hired me to work with her in the personnel office. After graduation and on to Rutgers, I kept my little job. On Saturdays I finished clerical work for the store manager’s secretary. The upstairs offices were empty, few people were around. The telephone operator and I might be the only employees on the 3rd floor. Merchandise managers and the store manager rarely showed up. Saturdays were quiet.

Harry P., the manager of store 1044, was a good-looking guy in his 40’s, married with kids. On two separate Saturdays he interrupted my work by inviting me into his office. Each time he began with small talk, then wanted to know what my boyfriend and I did on our dates. (I was dating a Sears management trainee.) I figured Harry out for a voyeur and decided not to feed his perversion. The next Saturday he evened the score. I had stacks of paper and five file cabinets in front of me – sort and file, that was my job for the next few hours. Harry, the snake, approached silently from behind and clamped his hands on to my breasts. I swung away and screamed. His response: “I just wanted to see if they were real.” I don’t need to explain what “they” were. That Saturday Harry P. showed himself to be a predator. I needed my job and I loved working at Sears. That’s my store. The secret had been mine alone until #MeToo became an option.

Mr. Griffith, the previous manager, had a carved wooden sign above his office door. The sign read: A Peacock Today, A Feather Duster Tomorrow.

As women continue to react to sexual injustice, more men will become feather dusters – a euphemism for all washed up.

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Final Stop – Sitka, AK

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Our week-long cruise on Wilderness Discoverer ended in Sitka, a city I had missed on previous trips to Alaska. Yes, we had rain. Then the sun came out until the rain began again. Alaska had an exceptionally wet spring and summer. That’s what a friend who paints houses in Juneau said.

 

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I’ll remember Sitka for gorgeous flowers blooming everywhere a flower might grow. I thank the drivers for not taking aim at tourists. They were easy-going, patient people who slowed down to let wayward pedestrians cross the street. Next best – the dogs. In Sitka people walk the nicest, friendliest dogs, and I missed my Abby. Most of all, I will be grateful for Ana Dittmar, the heritage museum curator at St. Michael’s Russian Orthodox Cathedral. Ana agreed to accept my mother’s prayer book.  (See WP post  Sept. 2, 2017.)

 

 

Even though I had a map, the entrance to the Russian Orthodox cemetery was hard to find. Eventually, I met a tourist who had visited the cemetery, and she gave a simple direction – walk straight up Observatory Hill. Pass the houses and go to the end of the road. At the end, a dirt path snakes into a forest with topsy-turvy graves, triple-bar Orthodox crosses, headstones, and flowers. Visitors like me stepped into a eerie place of  lush plants, moss, and slipper slopes that were magical and spooky.

 

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Jackson Hole & Other Places

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First impressions — the city center plaza of Jackson Hole reminded me of Santa Fe. Western art galleries, shops ’til you drop, and restaurants line the square and trail along the side streets. Tourists love the place. In winter elk do, too. They live outside of town on the vast National Elk Refuge. To get started we drove straight to the visitor’s center for information and maps. Our list of places to see — National Museum of Wildlife Art, Grand Teton National Park, the Laurance S. Rockefeller Preserve, Teton Village tram ride, and the byways that took us away from the main road.

Snowmelt cut our Snake River float trip time in half. The water raced along carrying logs, branches, and debris. Eagles, herons, pelicans, and beavers didn’t seem to notice the high water and flooded riverbanks. On our fifth and final day we returned to an old favorite, Yellowstone and the Hayden Valley.

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Memories of First Grade

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How many of us remember our First Grade? Luckily, I have newspaper clippings, report cards, and letters. I decided to post a photo and text from the Winfield Park (NJ) annual school report. The school is gone. Destroyed in a fire years ago.  Where am I in the photo? I’m in the second row from the top – bows and braids atop my head. I’m standing next to Carol Simon. The cute kid behind me is Robert Peters. Marie Lupo is in front of me. I loved school and, amazingly, I remember the names of so many kids.

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Miss Beck

How exciting First Grade has been. At first we studied about the dairy farm. We made a large frieze with cows, chickens, ducks, and other farm animals. One day we visited the Walker-Gordon farm. We saw real baby calves and big cows. Miss Pietrowski and Mrs. Lulic ( Mary, my mother) took pictures of us at the farm.

We enjoyed very nice parties at Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and Easter. Miss Holton helped us make Jell-O for one of our parties.

Playing in our grocery store was fun, too! Our own churned butter made a big hit and was pictured in the Newark News. We had real cans, all kinds of groceries, a register for money, and a telephone in our store. Each day two children were storekeepers.

In March we studied about the wind and airplanes. Our kites and windmills were very gay. In April, we took a trip to the Newark Airport. It was thrilling to see the big airplanes land and take off.

Spring came and we studied about the circus and the zoo. Our frieze of lions, monkeys, tigers, and giraffes made our room look like a real zoo.

Our best trip was to the Bronx Zoo. We talked about this trip for days and days. Then along came the great day for our May Festival. Will you ever forget our Tom Thumb Wedding with Miss Pietrowski’s First Grade?

It’s been lots of fun this year! We hope that Second Grade will be just as exciting next September.

Miss Pietrowski

This was the very first year we attended school both in the morning and in the afternoon. This was the first year we became such good actors and actresses. Just read on and you shall see what many different roles we played.

First of all, we were farmers who took good care of their farm animals. And since we like farms so much we went all the way down to the Walker and Gordon Milk Farm to see the cows and calves as well as the Rotolactor machine.

Next we were Indians who lived in wigwams and beat upon tom-toms. We made feather headdresses and painted our faces for our program.

Right before Christmas we decided to stop acting for awhile and be as good as we could –for Santa Claus was coming.

Santa was very good to us and so we decided to resume our acting. This time we were Eskimos who made igloos and loved the Northern Lights.

Last of all we were animal keepers at the zoo. We got to know all these strange animals quite well, especially when we visited the Bronx Zoo.

For the May Festival we helped Miss Beck’s first grade with a Tom Thumb Wedding but no one really got married.

Actors and actresses must be kept busy. We learned to read, to write, to count, and to work together cooperatively.

We are really very good at our play-acting and since school must go on, we are ready now for Second Grade.

♥