Beginnings (1777 South Street)

Introduction

“Earnest” was how my sweet Aunt Anne described me in a letter of recommendation that I asked her to write for me when I first set out to capture a teaching position in 1990.  At the time, I didn’t consider the word to be particularly flattering.  To me it suggested that I could work hard at something, but it didn’t necessarily result in success or achievement.  But that’s not true.  Academically, I was – and am – an achiever.  In my career, too, as an educator, I progressed up the ladder, and took on leadership positions, even if I didn’t become a principal of my school, which I never would want anyway.  “Earnest” implies intense conviction, and, so, yes, I am earnest, always have been.  I’m a worrier, too, always have been.  And a scaredy-cat.  And profoundly nostalgic.  I have a longer list of words that describe the type of person I am, but isn’t it pointless to describe myself in that way?  Better to just dive in and tell my story.  I invite you to pour yourself a pretty little glass of wine or sparkling water, sit in a comfy chair, and let me tell you my story.  You can draw your own conclusions.  

Beginnings

I was born in 1956, entering the world with the proud distinction of first daughter after three sons.  I should have been something special.  Maybe to some I was, such as my grandmother (my father's mother), but the significance was diluted by the fact that I was the fourth child born in eight years.  There was just enough compression there to weaken the effect.

First memories trace back to life at 1777 South Street, the Farm, also known to some as “Gildeacres”.  Records suggest that the house was built in 1710, and it never rested very long in any one homeowner's possession.  With such a long history it is small wonder that it underwent so many transformations.  The changes made it difficult to categorize the house as any particular architectural style, and there was an absence of logic in the changes and additions.  At the time we moved in, I think in 1950, we were a family of only six:  my parents, my older brothers Kevin, Thomas, and Christopher, and me.  We lived in a five-room apartment above our grandparents, Papa Joe and Nana May, my mother's parents. Just saying those two names gives me such a cozy feeling.  I always thought that their names were the friendliest; how can you not but love a set of grandparents who you get to call Papa Joe and Nana May?

Although our five-room apartment was small for a family of six, for most of the year that was never an issue.  In fact, it is more accurate to say that its size never cramped our style.  We had acres and acres, and lots of farm-type stuff to keep us amused. . . over and over.  I find it strange that I can remember pretty well the games and activities played indoors in the company of my brothers, but I don’t remember my parents even being there.  They had to have been there, right?  We couldn’t have been left under Kevin’s supervision, I’m sure; there were four of us in a tight age cluster, and he was only six when I was born.  The potential for broken bones, lacerations, and brain damage was too great.   For those of you unfamiliar with Tonka trucks, those metal toys are surprisingly unforgiving when they connect with your head. 

I do remember fort building, river forging, and wild mustang wrangling all over the living room.  And Injuns (not Native Americans) needed rounding up and relocation to reservations.  As the one often chosen to play the fractious injun, I inevitably was incarcerated, to sit out the remainder of play in an improvised jail. Chris was probably the architect of that idea.  It’s also astonishing how frequent was the need to incarcerate me.  There were no peace treaties drawn up. . . ever.  I don’t even think I was entrusted with a bow and arrow; I wore my hair in braids, and I ran around drumming my open palm against my open mouth, shouting, “wooo-wooo-wooo!”  Clearly there was no cultural sensitivity in that day or in that house.   Where were you, Mom and Dad?

The world outside the apartment also provided an inexhaustible feast of creative opportunities. The hydrangea bushes in the front of the property served as a serene sanctuary within which I could – all alone – lovingly minister to my adored Thumbelina. There was nothing better than that new doll smell of Thumbelina, and no doll was more loved.  On the other hand, no doll invited more brotherly torment.  Their “ministrations” resulted in alterations of the permanent sort:  a “rustic” crewcut hairstyle, fingernails painted with black permanent marker, and muteness (of unspecified origin, but I suspect shaken baby syndrome.) 

Chris, Kevin, & me (with my darling Thumbelina)

The enormous trees on the north side of the property (beyond the impenetrable Siegfried Line of briar bushes and poison ivy) offered simply the most exhilarating experience of flying. Riding those boughs was like taking to blustery skies in a single engine prop plane, and it was endless FUN, that is, until you lost your grip and crashed to the ground, where you then flopped around like a fish tossed onto the shore, gasping for breath.  And then you immediately launched yourself back into the tree for another thrilling ride.