I have a very “old” friend ….. something not to be
taken lightly…
Gingerly approaching the
famous category of women- of-a- certain-age,, an old friend often reminds me , “We go back the better part of six decades,
you and me”. I cherish a tiny, (also “old”) black and white
photo to support this fact. My uncle, John
appears on his knees, offering a white dove to the seemingly fragile little
girl in the photo that is myself. A propitious
gesture and omen, no doubt you’ll agree.
Uncle Dunkle, as I first called
him, introduced me to my first pony: a ride around the kitchen on a broom before I could
walk. He continued to appear at all
significant events ranging from the many catholic rites of passage of my
childhood to the many holidays we shared at table with the Polish babka,
stories and laughter.
But thank God for my
personal memory bank which needs no photos to support the facts. This bank never runs short of memories to “cash
in” for a laugh, a tear or a comment. There,
safely within the vault, John and his brothers, are still clad in striped
shirts, handsome, strapping and capable of all things physical. In those same memories which never fade, they
often return to our childhood home in Mahwah. NJ. We abandoned the stately home nearly fifty
years ago, but yes, every season thereafter, alongside my father, they return
if I open the memory bank vault. I spy
them now: crawling through an attic window, hanging a TV antenna from
the roof, putting up the winter storm sash, taking down the summer
screens, lifting rocks out for the new grass, carrying slate in for
the new patio, even turning over my mother’s victory garden, but never
turning down a ham sandwich.
(I know because I was
the poodle-skirt clad server of those sandwiches in the fifties. “My mother says you will have to eat the ham
sandwiches on the train back to Bayonne if you do not hurry,” I chided. We all knew my mother, Selene, was a force of
her own to be reckoned with,)
The one constant is the
joke they never tire of: “Next time, who
will dig out the boulder….yes, boulder….. wedged in the basement floor! The entire three story brick English tutor
home in Cragmere Park had been built around
that boulder rather than remove it but the joke, earned John the nickname “Digger”. The name stuck over the years and put a smile
on the face of my father, Gramps, each and every time he accessed the same
memory vault.
(I know because
countless telephone calls back and forth during my dad’s final days, began the
same way, “Digger? Is this you? How ah
ya?)
In more recent times, John
and his able-bodied family made expeditions
in a van with living quarters for six. Of course, they had re-conditioned it themselves.
Following I-95 and I 40 to an endless To
DO List of new projects, they arrived
en masse at my door in Maiden, NC. in 1987.
“Those are some fancy horses, you
got there, Kid,” John mused, “and this is beautiful country and all, but I’m
just tellin ya, you got a lotta work to
do. And, how much do YOU know about
horses and farms, anyway?” We, the
assembled ten in total…. kept our heads down,
knowing there was more to come., as John is a man of many opinions and a
voice which can surprise like the blast of a fire siren. But rather gently and simply he added, “Circumstances
dictate all decisions.” Next thing we knew, everyone
had a job and the wash pits for the horses were built.
(I know because I was
the rolled-up shirt-clad server who doled out the ham sandwiches, according to
tradition.”
Now-a-days when I
telephone the residence of “babka and bolts”, I am more than lucky if I can
catch the eighty-something year old Polish American for a chat. He’s certainly not cat-napping in his easy
chair, waiting for old friends to call. After all, he and my mother, Selene, were cut
from the same mold. But my “Otha Motha”, his more than lovely and
loving wife covers for her partner.
“He’s workin’ on a project in the basement.” Why am I not surprised? Still, I wish he would learn one thing…..a
nap is not a crime! - niece, and cousin, Mary Ellen.
