Second and Third Grade

Second Grade was not very interesting. The teacher found that I was scratching my head too often and discovered that I had head lice. I thought it was from our laundry tub where we got a bath every Saturday. My mother got coal oil, whatever that was, and my head got soaked every night and washed every morning, and finally they disappeared. I had my hair combed with a fine tooth comb every day just to make sure.

The rest of the year was not that interesting. We walked through a long double meadow, split in the middle by a copse of tall trees. Once I got threatened by a heavy set boy, but I ran and he did not follow me.

Snow om the winter was no fun. It was knee deep in the meadow which made walking to school difficult, but not impossible. Summer made up for it all. The buttercups and for-get me-nots would bloom one after the other. I would pick some for my mother. One day I did find a dime, so when I got home I went next door to the country store, owned by Mr. Disascio (never knew how to spell his name) and his wife and son, Tony.
[Mrs. Disascio made the most delicious spaghetti, and waffle cookies filled with some sort of cream. His father ran the store and used produce from his own garden to sell during the fall. Those days were idylic.]

At the store, I bought some candy and a cone of ice cream and took the candy to my mother. She was pleased with the 'gift.'

Third Grade was not what I liked, but only after my teacher punished me by sending me to my twin brothers's first grade class.  I had found a small sparkly disk on a chain and had given it to the classmate who did wonderful elocution poems for us in class. Dorothy was her name. She knew Hiawatha and The Face on the Barroom Floor; all of both long poems.  Well, I told my mother about it, but she misconstrued what I told her and insisted that I get the bauble back. I did try . . . even visiting the girl at her house. But she refused to return it to me. My mother asked about it often, but I could not say I had gotten it back so she was unhappy about it.  I made one last effort. Dorothy was sitting behind me in class and I turned around and asked her one more time. When she again refused, I got out of my seat and fought with her.

The natural result was I had to be punished and the teacher knew exactly what would hurt the most. My mother found out about my visit to First Grade at lunch time, and later when Dad came home from work, I received a spanking for fighting in the school room.

From that time on, I never made another 100 in spelling and never got another 100 in any class I attended.
No one had asked me why I did it, but I never forgot. I guess even my penmanship went downhill a bit, even though I like to draw the slanted up and down bars and the round over and around tubes of lines meant to teach us the correct method for writing legibly.

I almost forgot . . . my twin brothers, being in first grade . . . got to have their First Communion that year and I happened to be a pink Angel to guide them on their way down to the altar.  The picture that was taken for that even portrayed me as a very grouchy angel. The ceremony must have occurred after my spanking, because I was not a very happy angel.

One thing about the school I was in that year (3rd grade): I learned in religion class that the church made a big effort to convert a lot of people during the Middle Ages. I don''t know why the subject came up but I do remember that it seemed to be a bad time for the church. [Later in college when I found out how they had done the conversions, I was so shocked that I could not talk about it for over two years.]

That summer, I was playing in the peach tree in our yard with the angel robe on and the robe caught on a branch. I fell out of the tree [not very far down thank heavens, so I broke no bones] but it did take my breath away for a moment.  It was also the last time I ever went into the tub outside with only panties on. I figured that I was too grown up to be bare chested any more, so wore T-shirts from that time on, when my bothers and I went for a summer dip into the old tub. I did not learn to swim until years later.

It was also around this time that I went to Chester Creek with my cousins and my aunt. We were having a lot of fun, but one of the more cheerful ones, turned over the inner tube float that I was using. I thought I was going to drown, but my other cousin pulled me up out of the water right away. It was not as frightening since my cousin was so quick to get me out of the deeper water. She turned to be my favorite cousin, Sophie.


A short note about my penmanship. When I grew up and someone invited me to a Calligraphy class, I cheated by printing a calligraphic script phrase on thin paper. So that I could just write over what I could see under my good page.  It always made a good impression then with the teacher. But that was after seven children and a lot of grief from the marriage I thought was a good one.  Oh well.

Skipping to First Grade

First grade was something that was a bit of a memory lost for me. Previous to going to school, I was put into a dance class (to make sure I could perform like Shirley Temple, I surmise) and at  home, my father read me the comics every night, thank heavens.

I say, thank heavens, because by October, I got sick. I had measles, mumps and whooping cough, one right after the other.  During that time, I was able to read a lot of my children's books, including the Night Before Christmas, my favorite.

My first day out of bed was Christmas morning. I got up and got dressed in a neat dark blue sailor dress with a red bow tie in front.  I had asked for a bicycle for Christmas and I got one. OMG.  It was there leaving against the banister of the newest apartment we had, that over a shoemaker shop. My heart dropped. It was the wrong bicycle.  Was Santa a fault or . . . ?

The bicycle was a light green boy's bicycle with fat balloon tires. I had wanted a bicycle, but, . . . I was a girl, not a boy. The poor bicycle never got ridden the whole time I had it and even after we moved across from my father's work, I never even considered it mine

First grade after I returned to school, I remember being on stage at school in a cute red satin Russian outfit. It had short skirt with a white feather hemline trim, and red vest with a white blouse, and a tiara of red satin like the skirt, trimmed in silvery ribbons and a lot of long colored ribbons hanging down from each side.

A doll visited our first grade. She had all sorts of clothes to wear, even pajamas. She had a toothbrush and a hair brush and her own soap and washcloth. She was beautiful. Her owner said that she herself, never used soap on her face, but she neglected to tell us that she used creams and ointments. It took me a long time before I figured out that the creams and ointments had more to to with the face of the doll's owner than the doll that used soap and water.

Regardless when spring time rolled around, and the whole school was having a morning recess in the school yard, there were several wagons outside the school yard.  One in particular was a Bread wagon, all green and gold with big wheels with yellow spokes and a red or brown rim.

For some reason, the horse pulling the wagon spooked from something on the road, and it frightened him so that he ran right over the curb, breaking one wheel on the wagon, and headed straight into the school yard.  I was way in the back leaning on the small metal bannister because I had just recently returned to school and was still not able to play with the children. I was taking it "easy."

All the children started screaming at once, and running to get away from the horse and wagon.  A man, from a different wagon ran into the yard from the street, grabbed the horse's harness and stopped him in his run towards the children. I could not understand why everyone was screaming and crying. I saw who the man was and he was perfectly capable of stopping the horse. It was my father in his milk  run, or he was checking up on whether I was doing well in school.

I never told anyone who the man was, nor did anyone ever ask me about him. I did think it was neat, but no one, not even my father at home, said a word about catching the horse.

Back in the school room, probably one another day, I was reading my reader.  I said, "Oh, Nuts!" A common cuss word for children. My seat mate was aghast. "You said a bad word."  My response was, "No, I did not. It is here in our book."  And I showed her the page next to the picture of a nut tree right next to the text. That was that. She never said another word.

In the class, we had only one black boy learning his ABC's. but most of the time he fell asleep. When my sister went to that school 16 years later, she was the only white girl in the class. The neighborhood had changed that drastically.  In the early years, though I had to walk home and the shortest route was through the black neighborhood. I only could do that one time, because the children there ganged up on me and I guess they threatened me, so I never went through the area again.

By summer time, we had moved across the street from Miller and Flounder's Dairy, where my father worked. It was a white house with two floors. My father put in an oil heater in the fireplace and a plywood, high step-over door in the archway to the porch.  He then rented the upstairs to an older couple who, although I would go upstairs and read the Sunday comics where my father stored them in an extra room on the second floor, I never met them.

Not even when we got the chicken coup from the neighbor behind us who was moving to the city. Mom would make the attic into a nursery for the new chicks and I would visit them all the time.
We would have Sunday dinner, a chicken that she would prepare in the morning, starting with cutting off its head, and we would eat him in the afternoon. We also had eggs every morning for breakfast.

First View of the World

           Many years later, I came about a dream sequence that happened regularly. However, it belongs here in this part since it seemed to have occurred the day I was born, a bit earlier than my first post.

          I would dreams of a person whose finger I was holding. It seemed to me that the whole body of that person had the same thickness as that single finger i held. I dreamt this particular dream for several years, during hte time I was married and living in Miami, Florida. It was comforting dream, and I never knew why it occurred so regularly.

          After a particularly difficult day, sometime during the seventh year of my marriage, I stopped to think more deeply about it.  I reasoned, that if I was holding only a finger of my comforter, it had to be just after the moment of my birth. I  was wrapped in a warm blanket and I was being cuddled, as all babies are when they are first born.  But it did not appear to be by my mother. It was someone else.  Who, i do not know. I never heard any details of my birth, only afterward, when one of my aunts, who my mother did not like very much, was helping her out during the time of her recovery.

           Neverthelsss, once I decided that it had been that very day and hour that i was born, I NEVER dreamt that drream again.  Apparently, I was having a particularly rough time during my marriage, but did not understand why it was so difficult.  My husband was never rude or contrary to me and it actually seemed that it was a strong marriage. Seven children were loved and appreciated. So, at that time I had no inkling of any difficulty.  Or maybe I did and refused to admit it to myself.

          As it was I later found out that a divorce would be better than staying in the marriage and with a little bit of help from a friend. i was able to do that.  Things actually got a bit worse, but with my dream in my corner (how if dream can affect one's feelings, i don't know, but it did seems to happan that way to me.) I actually survived and all the children are here near where I live and they are very content with their lives.  A good feeling that I got them all grown and happy in what they do finally. Hurray!

Irish Gandfather and Polish Grandmother

         Somewhere between two and three, it seems that we were homeless for a while. First we lived with my Polish Grandmother in Wilmington, Delaware, and then with my Irish Grandfather in Chester, PA.

My Polish Grandfather, I never knew, but my Grandmother was one I could never talk to since my father forbade my mother and I to speak Polish at home. My time in grandma's house, was one of getting drops in my eyes every night and waking up every morning, my eyes glued shut,

I had to walk down the stairs carefully, to find my mother in the dining room.  She would then unglue my eyes with a wet cloth.  My Aunt Anna would fix chicken soup for us children and she gave us special bowls. Each bowl had a different story or poem in the bottom and we had to eat all the soup, so we could have the story read to us, until we finally could read them ourselves. The kitchen had a big black wood stove where the most wonderful food was cooked by my Aunt Anna.

My Grandmother, had a outhouse in back yard where the garden was. Next to the outhouse, a big grey wolf-like dog was on a very heavy chain.  Apparently, it was let loose during the night, but in the day time, we children were just warned to stay away from it.  The garden had vegetables and flowers all summer long.

          My Grandmother had a problem with her legs so she was in her bed in the dining room. She was able to greet people and be taken care of when no one came by. Gradually, she lost parts of her legs to gangrene over a period of time and finally, she died. Her casket was in the living room in the front of the house.  My aunt Anna did the cooking and other relatives and friends brought their food offerings.  We all took turns going into the front room to pray at her casket.

          Later we moved to my Grandfather's house, after my Grandmother there died. Her casket was also in their living room. A steady flow or people came and went. My Grandfather sat in his chair by the front window saying his rosary every day after that time, and sometimes my uncle Tony would sit in the other chair across from him. Many times, I would see them together that way.

          I remember learning to tie my shoelaces, sitting on the commode seat cover by the back window in the upstairs bathroom. The window was open since it was early spring and the peach trees in the back yard were in full bloom. [The bathroom was large compared to bathrooms today.] There was on one wall a strop for sharpening a flip-open razor for shaving. I vaguely remember getting spanked with the strop at least one time, but I must had done something I was not supposed to do.

          One day I was sitting with my mother downstairs in the dining room. A neighbor came to visit and gossip a bit. She told my mom that a man was in the field across the way exposing himself and she should be careful. It was then I learned that there were good men and bad men in the world. Never thought much about it though. But did remember that one should stay away from some men.

          The dining room had a vintage chandelier shade made of colored glass over the dining room table for many years, It was there even after I grew up and visited my uncles on my own.  I do not remember when my grandfather died. It must have been shortly after we moved into an apartment over a shoemaker shop nearby.

         Our doctor was next door To y and parents house, and he had a ugly, bowlegged dog, all white and brown. The dog was a nice dog though and we were never afraid of it. So I did get a lot of medical attention. Nevertheless, I was healthy and active. I remember trying to entertain my grandfather by standing on my head in the living room. I think I did it very well that time,. I had not learned at that time to use my arms as a brace for my head, as I did later, but I never did manage to stand on my head successfully again. I guess I needed a pillow for my head also.  [Live and learn, I guess was my motto at the time.]

           

Why Did I Cry?

          Way back in Neanderthal days when I was two years old or so. I remember having a
birthday party. I do not remember who was there, or if I even had a birthday cake. I was wearing a violet dress; one that I remember wearing on stage in a Shirley  Temple contest at a movie theater down by my Aunt Hedwig's home. 

          All I remember about that day, was that I was crying about something. I do not know why. Modern psychology indicates that I was too young to have such a party and it was "nerve wracking" for me. I did survive that party and continued on to have other kinds of adventures.

          During that May, the twins (my brothers) were born. Mom had started the wash as usual and I was trying to help. The twins started to cry and Mom went upstairs to take care of them.  I, thinking I would be helpful, started to lift a sheet out of the wash tub into the wringer. I seem to have tried to help the sheet along and suddenly I found my hand went with the sheet under the wringer. I know then why I cried. It hurt.  

          A neighbor boy jumped a fence between his house and ours, and I was whisked away to the hospital. It was my very first experience hitchhiking. Of course, the boy had no car at that time, very few teens did. So hitchhiking was a normal thing for him to do. The trip to the hospital was quick and I was bandaged up and returned home. Because I was trying to help Mom, I did not get a spanking or a scolding. 

          My life from that point, [until the next adventure] was quiet and uneventful. I became an ordinary little girl in "Shirley Temple" curls. I even had a best friend called Ann Lavin, who was lucky enough to have gotten a Dutch haircut (no metal curlers to sleep on at night].  It was nice then being a young "grown-up" in the house. I helped Mom doing small jobs that she no longer had time for. The twins took up a lot of her time. 

          My dad would read the comics to me every day.  Some I remember very well, and others, not at all.  Those were the days, when comics were about real people and real events. They were not what we see today, as ugly cartoons, with weird clothes and supposedly "funny" one liner jokes that are not so funny any more. University comics now are even uglier and make no effort at being funny. Oh, well. It was a time of growing up for me and I was not unhappy with life as I found it then.

       

Over 65, Take care!

             Once upon a time, being over 40 years old mean one automatically had migraine headaches. I had Carbon monoxide headaches and was told to take a medicine for migraines.

            Now, I am well over 65 yo and find that the key to my existence has been offered as Lasik surgery for my [first]: Glaucoma, then when that did not work very well, it has become Cataracts.  I have had sales people adjust my glassesusing only the nose clips that gave me splitting headaches. Push them to the left and the right side of my head hurt; push them to the right and the left was worse.  I asked if the guys in the back room used pre-cuts and did not get a good answer.

           My first faulty eye exam was a hoot. I was told that I had 20% Glaucoma in my eyes. When I presented my prescription for glasses, I was told the change was too drastic and I should return for a second exam. The next day I did just that. The partner was there instead of the 20% man and after my exam was over I was told that I had 2% glaucoma.  H.m.m.m.m.

           As a result I went to where i was more comfortable. It was a disaster also. I attempted to get the same lenses as I had in my previous pair, but was told they no longer sold them. I did not know the glass prescription was still wrong. even though it was closer to correct.

          My next adventure with such people was when a new small eye examination store opened up. I thought maybe that might work. When I got there for my appointment and waiting my turn patiently; the owner  noticed that I was the next one to be called.  He disappeared into his office. I got instead a loud obnoxious examiner. He gave me a four lens exams for each eye and turned to me and told me that what I saw on the screen was the best I would ever see.

         I thought that was crude, but he had more to say: he told me that I would never be able to pass a vision test for driving again.  It seems he did not even bother to ask if I owned an auto. Since I did not, I was not inclined to believe this joker. He then proceeded to give me a sales pitch for something, but having been through the glaucoma pitch, I told him not to say another word. He insisted it was for my own health. I repeated twice: no more! Then I left. The receptionist was going to print out my prescription but I was angry by that time and I told him not to bother, I was not paying for such a obnoxious examiner. Was he going to talk about glaucoma or cataracts, I did not  

 know, but cataracts became the "next call to arms."

            One examiner even called me down and asked if I had Social Security Medicare and when I said No, he said. "Of course you do. And Medicare will pay for an eye operation."  $50.00 I was told later by a recipient.

          Glaucoma starts with a halo around the object you are looking at and includes pain in the eyeball and headaches.

             Cataracts starts with a white speck somewhere in the eyeball, usually the iris while pain and headaches are there also. These can be removed, maybe. . . . the Glaucoma can not be cured by any known factor. But my books are old—Tabor's #19 being one of them.

Funny how age puts one in the forgetful stages. All assume that we know nothing.

Strange,  I just had my current eye exam rechecked against my earlier exams and found out that my 2006 eye exam has the same prescription that my last exam yesterday has.  H.m.m.m Now I wonder why that happened. I think it is pretty obvious that when one gets older, one would need a stronger prescription, but never one that is eight years younger.  It is so strange to tell me that I need something that is not even here yet. I spend a lot of time reading, many times without my glasses…yes, I do have to wear them…but the glasses themselves have been getting worse, apparently it is a deliberate way to get one into surgery, since even Social Security will pay for it.

If I am older than I was in 2006, why are my eyes exactly the same?  Does that mean that I am not being suspicious—because I am a crochety old lady—of faulty eye exams for the last eight years or so.  Especially when I had such an interesting time with the "obnoxious examiner," He really was fresh out of a sales pitch seminar geared for selling houses. The speaker that I remember from that particular seminar was a presenter who bounced out on the stage in a red, white and blue Uncle Sam outfit, complete with a similar top hat.

His actions and advice was just as crude as the "obnoxious examiner." No one in their right mind would survive in sales if they took the advice of the fake "USA" presenter.  He must be old and grey by now though. The seminar I remember so vividly was in the 1960's. The O.E. must have had a video of that presentation of Uncle Sam. GADs!

              

THE ECLIPSE THIS YEAR, APRIL, 2014

        

Xiao in my Hammock

        Well, I went to bed early last night and thought I would sleep through the night. But it did not happen        that way.  My live-in companion Xiao refused to believe I wanted to sleep, so off we went and did some advance procedures. 

          He insisted we had to go outside, for what reason I did not know. I think we made about three trips outside before I actually checked my e-mail and the weather which had turned almost as cold as Easter Day in 1973 in Connecticut.

           Oh, my, I should have known. The eclipse was being broadcast from Hawaii.  Since I did not live in Hawaii, there was no problem, but a later newscast proved me wrong. [As usual]  

           There was to be an eclipse tonight. . . . .  I already up and it was after midnight. So I set the alarm for one hour later and set to work on a speech I intended to make Wednesday at Toastmasters.

Checked for my timing and it was to be 6 to 8 minutes long. A whole three minutes longer than I usually got. 

            Being so late, it seemed that I made more typos than usual. The print-out made 4 pages and five lines of text.  Since each page of double spaced typing is approximately 2 minutes, I figured that I had done pretty well . . . . but those typos. . . . .  Ugh.

             I spent the time correcting and adding a bit here and there and since it was a reading of a poem,  I figured it was good for about 5 minutes max. Put in lots of space markers because a good pause is worth its weight in gold.  If it is done correctly. 

              The first speech I ever gave was in a Technical Writing class at the university. I had my key notes set out on about 4 index cards and managed the first card very well, I thought. But when I went for the second card, I realized that I had already done it. Will try again later.

              Got an idea to make a scroll for the poem, but with all the odds and ends I keep, nothing fit the idea I had of a "rolling-up-at-the-top" and unrolling, "without falling-to-the-floor" bottom that I wanted to engineer. I did want to use my hands a little bit; not flailing, mind you, just a little bit. Had to give up the scroll idea for another time.

              The moon actually did look very Red and Yellow. It was worth staying up for it. AND I got the poem corrected to NO typos. Wunderbar.