My block was a little universe for me. Not unlike so many streets in a community, each street had their own dramas, the best place to hang out, the right spot for punch ball and the correct telephone pole to count off for hide and seek. No matter what the age group were that you either aspired to, or properly belonged in, there was a true camaraderie when it came to holidays. Whomever you did not play with, or family you generally had nothing to do with, were suddenly allies when it was a holiday. Everyone was a patriot and played nice.
To me, Memorial Day was such a sexy holiday. It was the launch of the summer you'd been dreaming of all year. Anything could happen in summer. I always thought there was incredible promise leaving Spring and launching into the hot, long days and night to come. Of course, all too many of those summers were actually listless days and those sultry nights that I hoped would find me, were thick with humidity and little else.
I was barely twelve.
Is there an age when girls aren't dreaming of what will be? I don't think so. I watched a lot of old movies and wished there was a courtly boy that actually like me and wasn't just angling to get with my bust line. Where was this prince coming from? Not my street, but a girl could dream and with the summer stretching before her it seemed everything was possible.
The night before Memorial Day was just as exciting as the day itself. There were preparations for whatever guests were coming over, shopping, cooking and cleaning. That wasn't the thrill of course. It was after the tasks were completed and the last huge bag of charcoal was hoisted into the garage, with lighter fluid, that the magic web of summer was spun.
Lying in bed with the windows open, you could feel a cool breeze and hear the rumble of cars with radios blaring coming down the Avenue. Then a stillness, and odd silence after the punctuation of car mufflers and gunning engines racing to the next red light. You would wait for it. Wait for it, and then you would hear a single, distant POP.
I would wait a few moments with a catch in my breath for another, and when it came I would race to my window. Someone had fireworks, and that meant a real party.
I'd scan the sky for the tell tale lights that would scatter and drop like fallen daisy petals over the blocks surrounding my street. People always went to the nearby playground to set them off, but these were further away and higher in the sky. These were grown-up fireworks.
It was rarely anyone on my block. There were punks, and sparklers for the kids. Some parents let you have real firecrackers, but if you were too young for matches you could crack them in half and make "Genies". You simply broke the firecracker neatly, then made a small pile of the gun powder before laying the fuse in the middle. You could light this heap with your punk for a quick flash of smoke.
Older kids had M-80s which were loud and violent. Those were generally placed under garbage cans for a hollow, echoing boom. Cherry Bombs were stunning red and packed a punch when buried next to a tree, under the dirt with only the fuse peeking out. It was common for a kid to hide behind the tree, and reach around the trunk with a long punk to ignite the fuse. The unlucky passerby coming along the sidewalk would jump up in the air, screaming at the thunderous noise and flying soil. It was simply the thing to do.
No one ever lost and eye or a finger doing this. In the evening, after dinner and before your guests left for the drive home, the lawn chairs would be dragged to the front of the house and people would gather on their stoops for the fireworks to come.
Even as you scanned the sky looking for the free show, you identified with those brilliant lights streaking across the night. I never felt more alone and never more attached to the excitement in the sky. Solitary is not lonely. The way you wish upon a star, and hold a personal, magical moment to yourself is the way I would dream of my summer to come and the blaze above me.
Happy Memorial Day to you and yours. While I wonder what this year will bring for me, I wish you the hypnotic pause of a night sky and the hopeful dreams that a summer can bring.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Chopmeat and Spaghetti
I grew up in a town that was middle class and white as snow. Italians were considered "dark" and as a mixed breed that was half Syrian, I was considered Italian. We did have one Greek family, but they were considered Italian, too.
My Mother had said once that we (meaning the town) were really lower middle class not Middle Class. I didn't understand what made that difference at all, and I suppose it was the neighborhood household income that decided it, but I was shocked to suddenly learn we were not what I thought we were.
We were not poor. We did not live in an apartment building (we owned a small home). We were not rich. Middle class thought I.
My Father worked many different jobs through the years, and I do not recall a time he only had a single paycheck. He had a steady part time job that helped with his steady full time job. My Mother was talented in finding bargains and feeding the four mouths that were her children. She was an uninspired cook, that would just as soon have a slab of coffee cake than dinner but we all ate hearty meals that meant a protein, a starch and a miserable vegetable.
Miserable vegetable? Oh, yes. There was a time in America when frozen vegetables were preferred by housewives and served more often than fresh veggies. The quality of these products were absolutely awful. A carrot is a carrot is a carrot, but the frozen peas were faintly blue tinged when you squeezed one open and had the silky consistency of concrete.
Anytime the meal roster changed up was a good thing in my book, and a frequent classic was Chopmeat and Spaghetti. We were going international and eating Italian.
Now I know that the meat is really Chopped but I remember my impression of the spelling as I heard it said. This dish grew to be the bane of my existence, but it meant there was no waxy veg on the dish beside it so the grumbling was kept to a minimum at first.
There was an old black iron skillet which was used to construct the dish. Ground beef was browned with bits of minced onion and drained to eliminate the remaining grease. My Mother despised meat as a rule so there was always some comment about how this was for you kids. My Mother also despised cooking. We did not speak the same language about most things.
In a separate pot boiled water which was salted, in later years oil was added to keep the pasta from sticking (which myself and all the real Italians I knew were dead against). Ronzoni spaghetti, never linguine or angel hair, was added and left to boil away. I forever was at the stove stirring things that should be, and later adding spices and raising or lowering the heat. My Mother's lack of passion in the kitchen meant if you wanted pasta that was not left in the pot to be glued together from lack of attention, you better step up.
There were not too many types of pasta back then. Spaghetti, Lasagna noodles, Pastina and those little alphabet pasta were the most common. If you wanted wide egg noodles you found the ones in long clear plastic bags that the Pennsylvania Dutch sold, and if you wanted Elbow Macaroni that was always Muellers.
As the spaghetti was drained into an aluminum colander in the kitchen sink, my Mother would shake the pasta using the two handles to remove any excess water. It was the only time I saw enthusiasm, but when she stuck her face directly into the rising steam she'd say it was her facial.
This squiggly pasta would make it's way into the black skillet along with the browned meat, onion and at least two cans of Hunt's tomato sauce. I saw quite a bit of Del Monte's, too, but I think whichever had the best price won. I don't recall salt or pepper being added but there was a healthy shake or two of oregano, dried. A bit of stirring and within 15 minutes the dinner was on the table.
Not a vegetable in sight. For a long time, Chopmeat and Spaghetti was a dinner to revel in, and a respite from any vegetable medley that included lima beans. Maybe life was looking up.
Not really.
My Mother had said once that we (meaning the town) were really lower middle class not Middle Class. I didn't understand what made that difference at all, and I suppose it was the neighborhood household income that decided it, but I was shocked to suddenly learn we were not what I thought we were.
We were not poor. We did not live in an apartment building (we owned a small home). We were not rich. Middle class thought I.
My Father worked many different jobs through the years, and I do not recall a time he only had a single paycheck. He had a steady part time job that helped with his steady full time job. My Mother was talented in finding bargains and feeding the four mouths that were her children. She was an uninspired cook, that would just as soon have a slab of coffee cake than dinner but we all ate hearty meals that meant a protein, a starch and a miserable vegetable.
Miserable vegetable? Oh, yes. There was a time in America when frozen vegetables were preferred by housewives and served more often than fresh veggies. The quality of these products were absolutely awful. A carrot is a carrot is a carrot, but the frozen peas were faintly blue tinged when you squeezed one open and had the silky consistency of concrete.
Anytime the meal roster changed up was a good thing in my book, and a frequent classic was Chopmeat and Spaghetti. We were going international and eating Italian.
Now I know that the meat is really Chopped but I remember my impression of the spelling as I heard it said. This dish grew to be the bane of my existence, but it meant there was no waxy veg on the dish beside it so the grumbling was kept to a minimum at first.
There was an old black iron skillet which was used to construct the dish. Ground beef was browned with bits of minced onion and drained to eliminate the remaining grease. My Mother despised meat as a rule so there was always some comment about how this was for you kids. My Mother also despised cooking. We did not speak the same language about most things.
In a separate pot boiled water which was salted, in later years oil was added to keep the pasta from sticking (which myself and all the real Italians I knew were dead against). Ronzoni spaghetti, never linguine or angel hair, was added and left to boil away. I forever was at the stove stirring things that should be, and later adding spices and raising or lowering the heat. My Mother's lack of passion in the kitchen meant if you wanted pasta that was not left in the pot to be glued together from lack of attention, you better step up.
There were not too many types of pasta back then. Spaghetti, Lasagna noodles, Pastina and those little alphabet pasta were the most common. If you wanted wide egg noodles you found the ones in long clear plastic bags that the Pennsylvania Dutch sold, and if you wanted Elbow Macaroni that was always Muellers.
As the spaghetti was drained into an aluminum colander in the kitchen sink, my Mother would shake the pasta using the two handles to remove any excess water. It was the only time I saw enthusiasm, but when she stuck her face directly into the rising steam she'd say it was her facial.
This squiggly pasta would make it's way into the black skillet along with the browned meat, onion and at least two cans of Hunt's tomato sauce. I saw quite a bit of Del Monte's, too, but I think whichever had the best price won. I don't recall salt or pepper being added but there was a healthy shake or two of oregano, dried. A bit of stirring and within 15 minutes the dinner was on the table.
Not a vegetable in sight. For a long time, Chopmeat and Spaghetti was a dinner to revel in, and a respite from any vegetable medley that included lima beans. Maybe life was looking up.
Not really.
Getting started ~ what's the point?
I've been torn about discussing my family life experiences online. There is always a part of me that keeps my chin up and moves fast through whatever slings and arrows find me. There is a bigger part that keeps shameful things at bay and never speaking a word against my family, no matter what their actions.
I find as I grow older, small explosions of thought hit me at odd times on ordinary days. I am surprised what comes back to me, and realize now that none of it, spoken out loud, would do much more than have a few people clucking, "That's too bad".
I do not mean to make a villain out of anyone. I do hope it can be recalled that the time when I grew up was a very different era than where we are living today. This is my journey to the center of my life, which may or may not, lead me to any specific conclusions. Sometimes it will be funny and many times deeply sad. I pledge to be as honest as memory serves and as fair in the telling to myself as well as the other characters I have never exposed before.
I find as I grow older, small explosions of thought hit me at odd times on ordinary days. I am surprised what comes back to me, and realize now that none of it, spoken out loud, would do much more than have a few people clucking, "That's too bad".
I do not mean to make a villain out of anyone. I do hope it can be recalled that the time when I grew up was a very different era than where we are living today. This is my journey to the center of my life, which may or may not, lead me to any specific conclusions. Sometimes it will be funny and many times deeply sad. I pledge to be as honest as memory serves and as fair in the telling to myself as well as the other characters I have never exposed before.
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