The house was the oldest in the neighborhood. It would seem that the front faced our house since it was directly across the street. That was not the case even though everyone viewed it that way. The front was actually on the other side facing the neighbor’s backyard. The house was older than any of the roads and in time a few pieces of the property were sold off to others thus making the actual back of the house the new front. It was not the house, as grand as it was, that interested the children in the neighborhood; it was the long, sloping hill directly below the home that caught our attention. Where my house faced, the property was dotted with many trees, including a massive, ancient weeping cherry, and directly beside the house was another massive azalea that almost kissed the roof of the looming three-story dwelling. Directly behind the azalea was what we knew as “Keller’s Hill”.
George and Ann Keller and their two children owned the home and the large lot on which it sat. By the time I arrived, the two children, a boy and a girl, were older than most of the kids who flocked there each and every snowstorm to enjoy the marvelous ride that the hill offered. The older of the Keller children, a boy, had graduated college with an engineering degree and moved southward and the girl was in college, soon to land a job in the mayor’s office. By the time I arrived on the scene, neither was around during the day, even in the snowy wonderland of their property. The neighborhood kids were there, in droves, each and every time it snowed.
The owners did not mind the flux of sledders using their hill for sport; it was a simpler time when people allowed children to cut across their property or to use their hill for sledding and were comfortable knowing that the parents would not sue them should a mishap occur nor hold them responsible. In those days, the parents took responsibility for their own children.
There are many stories that emanated from Keller’s Hill, almost as many as there were kids using it. Several, though, have remained in my memory for all these years, resonating with whelps of laughter, whelps of pain, and whelps from a simpler time when “going out to play” was the mantra of the times. My most vivid memory of Keller’s Hill was on a glorious January day when the snows had recently fallen in such a manner that sledding was imperative. The snow was just right for a slick, quick, exhilarating ride. The sun shone brightly and the hill was dotted with no less than twenty kids, all with their own Fearless Flyer sleds, none named Rosebud, but that feeling was certainly in the crisp air.
We took turns careening down the hill; then the laborious task of walking back up, looking forward to the next ride. We were careful of each other, guiding our sleds to avoid collisions with others, even at times rolling off to avoid an accident. It was Louie’s turn and he, a typical adolescent boy, decided to take the ride bravely backwards. He mounted his sled with his back to the front, much like the mansion behind him, and faced the rest of us standing on the dock awaiting a clear path to our next trip. He kicked off and, as each of us had experienced on the slick hill, accelerated to an almost blinding pitch. He waved, happily, as he sped down the slope, and standing in the bright afternoon sun, we watched. It soon became evident that a disaster was about to occur. The trees dotted the upper area of the house, but there was one on the slope, one which all kids knew to avoid and thus would steer their vehicle away. Louie did not see the tree coming, he only saw the children with gloved hands frantically waving. His look of glee told us that he could not hear our screams of “stop” and “watch out”; he was only thinking of the thrill and speed that he could feel as he glided down, towards certain pain, if not more dire consequences. The crack came instantaneously with his howl of excruciating agony as he collided with the tree. We ran to him, he seemed lifeless, still yet somehow his cries emanated from his surely broken body.
As unlucky as it would seem, Louie had luck with him that day. As he cried out, a compassionate stranger was driving towards the train station on his way to work. He heard the cry as well as the agonized pleas of the rest of us and stopped and ran towards the site of the crash. He knew what to do; I seem to remember that he said he was a doctor as he instructed the boys to remove the gliders from the bottom of a large sled, and told the girls to not move the frightened boy. He quickly reviewed the damage and gently moved Louie on to the makeshift litter, with the help of the bigger lads, and carefully took him to his car, while instructing Louie’s brothers to notify his mother that he was hospital-bound. Louie recovered but he was not in school for quite some time. Keller’s Hill was still a fun place to gather on a snowy day, however, none of us ever ventured to take the slope without face forward.
On another occasion, my brother’s friend, George, a tall lanky young man decided to take me for a ride. At that time I believed that riding with a larger person would give the sled a decidedly quicker pace. I also thought that it would afford me a chance to take the entire hill without bailing before the end point of a small, cold spring that separated the hill from the road. I was mistaken on each point. As I happily hopped on in front of George he told me that we would have a terrific ride. I agreed. I was wrong. I believed that with George’s long legs at the helm that we could swerve and turn in such a manner that I could never dream. I was wrong. As the sled took off from the dock, we did move quickly, watching the returning children go by as swiftly as if in a speedboat. By the time that George mentioned that he had no idea of how to guide the sled, I wished that I was in a boat. He also asked me if I knew how to stop. No, I had no idea, I had always bailed out, but with this giant of a boy, there was no bailing. We came to a screeching halt as we careened into the cold, sloppy, wet creek. With clothes dripping wet, and hands turning to ice, we started the arduous walk up the hill. It was fun, even though our landing was a disaster. I headed towards my warm house with George close behind. We laughed all the way into the living room where we were questioned and both offered dry clothes. I never got on a sled with George again, in fact, I never even ventured into a car with him, thinking that perhaps he still hadn’t learned how to steer or stop.
There was still another occasion that stands brightly in my mind, chasing the shadows of childhood into adulthood. It was New Year’s Eve and our family invited some of the neighbors into our home to welcome the coming year. The young people consisting of Linda Keller and my brother, who were both of an age to cheer the New Year as an adult, my sister and myself decided to attack Keller’s Hill in the still hours just after Baby New Year was born. My silver, round sled was to be the chariot of the night as we headed across the street to the revered hill. Linda was bright and savvy, she had no intention to sled down the darkened slope, but she could entice my “idiot” brother to tackle it. As we toasted the night she challenged him to take the hill on my shiny, metallic, fast, unsteerable, sled, standing up. This was a feat that couldn’t be done in the bright of the afternoon, stone-cold sober by the flying Wallendas. Of course my brother was game. He stood and took off, he fell, and Linda baited him again. The scene repeated numerous times. Linda howled with laughter, the intrepid rider betted again and again that it could be done. He hadn’t even noticed that the girls never put a toe on the sled; we just watched and learned that men could be easily baited into foolish endeavors simply by telling them that it can’t be done.
As the years passed, new children came to the hill in the daytime, and the older ones took to it at night. I had one last ride as I entered adulthood and then it was quiet. Eventually, the Kellers moved away, George passed away, no longer tending to his beloved property, Ann moved closer to her daughter until she too eventually joined her husband. The hill did not remain; the lots were sold off to newcomers and one neighborhood “kid”. The old cherry tree was taken as was the giant azalea. The home still remains with new people, just as kind as the old, but a pool now graces the area between the lots at the true front of the house. The spring at the end of the hill has dried up, but the memories of Keller’s Hill still flow in the minds of the minions of neighborhood kids who danced across its icy passage.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
What is Your Name?
It is the first Christmas Eve that we will celebrate without out our patriarch and father sitting at the head of the table. The emotions are still raw and it will bring with it sadness. In all honesty though, we were blessed with him for many years. I had fifty-eight Christmas’ with him, my mother seventy. He had a long, fruitful life, passing away at ninty-two. Not all are so blessed.
It is Christmas Eve and for the last fifty years a little child has wandered into my mind. This child and her family never got to share many bright, Christmas mornings with toys and joy. They learned of sadness early on and I would think that the Christmas season for them would bring heartbreak and tears.
It was a mild, yet still chilly afternoon when the school bell rang to release the children to the waiting buses, nearby streets, or cars parked with parents at the helm. It was the day that school let out for the holiday. Children yelled with delight and danced into the waiting afternoon full of excitement and anticipation. I knew that my parents would pick me up in the large, shiny blue car, and therefore I could dawdle with my friends for a few more minutes before going out into the parking lot. The nuns kept us in tow so the busy buses could leave carrying the children to their homes a glitter with lights and decorations in expectations of Santa Claus and the baby Jesus. I was one of the last children to leave the school on that day and the sister walked me to my car. Behind her was a younger girl in a light tan sweater wrapped over her school uniform. She had long dark blond hair and looked lost and frightened. As we approached my parents’ car, my father rolled down his window to speak with the nun.
“Would you mind taking this child home? She missed her bus and it is too far a walk for her alone,” sister queried.
My father nodded in agreement and the waif scuttled into the back seat beside me.
She was younger than me and seemed to be a very shy girl. She had, though, a sweetness that permeated the car and offered a gentle sense of calmness that was elusive to children of that age, especially around Christmas. I asked her name and she replied, “Helen.” Then I inquired about her desires for the gifts she wished to appear magically under her tree in the coming days. She shrugged and said that she did not know. She seemed to be a content person with the simple joy of life and hope. Dad had a good idea of where she lived from speaking with sister, but he asked Helen to point out her home as we rambled down her street. She pointed to an unassuming house with a string of colored lights placed happily on a tree on the front yard. It was a house of a struggling family, one where only few gifts would be offered.
“Is someone home,” my mother asked.
“Yes, my older sister,” she quietly answered.
She seemed almost an angel as she slid from the car and with a heavenly smile said, “thank you.”
We watched as she went into the home and left when my parents were satisfied that she was safely inside with another there to watch her.
On Christmas Eve our family, at that time, went out to a fancy dinner and then home to happily await the arrival of toys and presents under the gaily decorated tree the next morning. Then after seeing what the “elf” had brought for us, we hurriedly dressed in our nice clothes and headed off to the children’s Christmas Mass at 9:00. This year was no different, almost.
As school children, we were herded into special pews reserved just for us. On this bright Christmas morning, the nuns, as they always did, awaited in the aisles as we entered and kneeled for our prayers. On this Christmas though there seemed to be a pallor draped around the adults. The nuns bowed their heads, not in worship, but in sadness. The altar boys rang the bell and everyone stood for the entrance procession and the start of Christmas Mass. The priest entered and bowed then immediately walked to the podium, instead of the center to begin the service. He looked over the crowded church and glanced at the votive lights in memory of those who have passed on.
“Today is Christmas,” he started. “Today I ask for each and every one to keep in their prayers a family of our children who perished in a fire early this morning.”
The church was hushed, no child made a sound, no adult whispered. Then there was a small, soft, sob.
We learned on that Christmas that some are called to God, even on Christmas Eve, even children. In the deep of the night the parents and one child worshipped at Midnight Mass. The wonderfully decorated, tinsel strewn tree, with glittering lights that awaited with some few gifts for the children’s delight, ignited. The flames licked the sky rising forever towards the heavens, taking with them little, angelic, waiflike Helen and four of her siblings.
I heard in the following years that the parents moved away and eventually had more children. Brothers and sisters that Helen would never know. They rose from the ashes and still retained a faith that was everlasting. Perhaps it is because they know that their little girl is still remembered even after fifty years by some stranger, some other little girl who once asked their child, “What is your name” on a chilly December day so long ago.
It is Christmas Eve and for the last fifty years a little child has wandered into my mind. This child and her family never got to share many bright, Christmas mornings with toys and joy. They learned of sadness early on and I would think that the Christmas season for them would bring heartbreak and tears.
It was a mild, yet still chilly afternoon when the school bell rang to release the children to the waiting buses, nearby streets, or cars parked with parents at the helm. It was the day that school let out for the holiday. Children yelled with delight and danced into the waiting afternoon full of excitement and anticipation. I knew that my parents would pick me up in the large, shiny blue car, and therefore I could dawdle with my friends for a few more minutes before going out into the parking lot. The nuns kept us in tow so the busy buses could leave carrying the children to their homes a glitter with lights and decorations in expectations of Santa Claus and the baby Jesus. I was one of the last children to leave the school on that day and the sister walked me to my car. Behind her was a younger girl in a light tan sweater wrapped over her school uniform. She had long dark blond hair and looked lost and frightened. As we approached my parents’ car, my father rolled down his window to speak with the nun.
“Would you mind taking this child home? She missed her bus and it is too far a walk for her alone,” sister queried.
My father nodded in agreement and the waif scuttled into the back seat beside me.
She was younger than me and seemed to be a very shy girl. She had, though, a sweetness that permeated the car and offered a gentle sense of calmness that was elusive to children of that age, especially around Christmas. I asked her name and she replied, “Helen.” Then I inquired about her desires for the gifts she wished to appear magically under her tree in the coming days. She shrugged and said that she did not know. She seemed to be a content person with the simple joy of life and hope. Dad had a good idea of where she lived from speaking with sister, but he asked Helen to point out her home as we rambled down her street. She pointed to an unassuming house with a string of colored lights placed happily on a tree on the front yard. It was a house of a struggling family, one where only few gifts would be offered.
“Is someone home,” my mother asked.
“Yes, my older sister,” she quietly answered.
She seemed almost an angel as she slid from the car and with a heavenly smile said, “thank you.”
We watched as she went into the home and left when my parents were satisfied that she was safely inside with another there to watch her.
On Christmas Eve our family, at that time, went out to a fancy dinner and then home to happily await the arrival of toys and presents under the gaily decorated tree the next morning. Then after seeing what the “elf” had brought for us, we hurriedly dressed in our nice clothes and headed off to the children’s Christmas Mass at 9:00. This year was no different, almost.
As school children, we were herded into special pews reserved just for us. On this bright Christmas morning, the nuns, as they always did, awaited in the aisles as we entered and kneeled for our prayers. On this Christmas though there seemed to be a pallor draped around the adults. The nuns bowed their heads, not in worship, but in sadness. The altar boys rang the bell and everyone stood for the entrance procession and the start of Christmas Mass. The priest entered and bowed then immediately walked to the podium, instead of the center to begin the service. He looked over the crowded church and glanced at the votive lights in memory of those who have passed on.
“Today is Christmas,” he started. “Today I ask for each and every one to keep in their prayers a family of our children who perished in a fire early this morning.”
The church was hushed, no child made a sound, no adult whispered. Then there was a small, soft, sob.
We learned on that Christmas that some are called to God, even on Christmas Eve, even children. In the deep of the night the parents and one child worshipped at Midnight Mass. The wonderfully decorated, tinsel strewn tree, with glittering lights that awaited with some few gifts for the children’s delight, ignited. The flames licked the sky rising forever towards the heavens, taking with them little, angelic, waiflike Helen and four of her siblings.
I heard in the following years that the parents moved away and eventually had more children. Brothers and sisters that Helen would never know. They rose from the ashes and still retained a faith that was everlasting. Perhaps it is because they know that their little girl is still remembered even after fifty years by some stranger, some other little girl who once asked their child, “What is your name” on a chilly December day so long ago.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Christmas Newsletter (Oh No, pleeeeeze no) 2010
December 2010
Dear Family and Friends,
It is that time once again to deck the halls. This year, instead, we are decking the water heater, the washer and dryer and hoping that nothing else breaks...but it will. The heater is on its last legs and my holiday wish is that after we get a new one that the old would use those legs and walk out of the house. It won’t, it will take grunting and shoving and cursing to get it out the door, much like the water heater, which by the way also had legs. Those legs weren’t made for walking, they were made for scratching, which is what they would have done to the floors had it not been for several hardy boys, who complained as they lifted because they were sore from a rousing game of football. Then off to the gym to lift weights.
This year was a very sad one for us. Dad, aka Pop, decided that he had enough of not walking or eating his beloved steak and mushrooms, (or smelly pork kidneys) or fixing our houses and moved on to the great machine shop in the sky. It is very hard because we all miss him terribly. We not only miss his sage wisdom, “Don’t you have any common sense?” or his way with words, “Should I go down frontwards or backwards?” but we just miss him because he was who he was. He had his own language, as Gram puts it, “it’s all English, but it doesn’t make any sense.” He had his own way of doing things, “if I put it in this way, then no one will ever be able to figure it out, so I will put it in and let them worry.” We also miss his hands that fixed everything and then more, but they wouldn’t let us keep them. Life will never be the same for us, but now Kathy can have some time with him, and he can cringe when she says, “Dad’ll” (as in Dad’ll fix this and that) and I am sure Stanley and the rest of the crew are enjoying themselves with him as well. We all miss you Pop.
My mother is a tough old bird and is hanging in there although she has her sad days as do we all. She still enjoys sitting and reading, mostly true crime which she calls “blood n’ guts.” That always turns a head or two when she asks the book store clerk for the blood ‘n guts aisle. I plan on teaching her how to order her books on the internet, that way it will not make anyone shutter to see a “sweet” little almost 90 year old lady studying how to kill and not get caught. But on second thought, it may alert homeland security to her and one can only imagine the agents surrounding her house to rout her out. She does have a pretty good cover though.
This was a good year for Chris, even though he has not quite finished college; he was offered quite a plum job at Comcast Sportsnet. It is not really a plum job, it is that of a receptionist, but it is a job in his field and that makes it a plum job. He loves working in South Philly and he loves the sports that seem to play on a constant loop on the TV in front of his desk. Sometimes, I would imagine that they have to scrape him off the wall and tell him it is time to leave. He simply loves it. He also works for the Phillies part time and again he is in his glory, even if the Phillies aren’t. Maybe this year! We love his job too. IT IS A JOB and we get free cable and if I whine enough he secures tickets for me to go to concerts for FREE and they feed me as well. Heaven, I tell you. The best was the Paul McCartney concert which would have put me on a cloud, except I was eating too much and might have plummeted back to the stadium. Tom Petty was no slouch too. I also enjoyed the Trans-Siberian Orchestra once they got through the Christmas stuff.
Steve has moved along this year, in fact he literally moved on, to West Chester where he got his first apartment and moved in February, in the
snow. He is directly across from the courthouse and can hang out the window and see the activity going on below. He can also yell at the passing cars if they swing too close to his car, but he doesn’t. That is left for Mom to do, I can yell like a sailor when he opens the window. Oh well, he makes sure it is bolted tight when I come to visit. He is doing well and enjoys living on his own, except that the laundry mat, oops, I mean laundry pat is too far away, in Fort Washington, and he just leaves it and it magically is clean and folded when he comes back. He is also becoming quite a wonderful cook. At least, that is what I hear from those for whom he cooks. Looking forward to a dinner invite though, in the cool weather, with the window closed.
Matt is working his way through college as well as my nerves, but that is what 20 year olds do, and he may even some day graduate. Not for a while though. He works out quite a bit and has a bod like a Greek god, but when I ask him to lift something, he is too tired or too sore or too something and goes back to sleep. He is thinking of studying forensic psychology. I find that fascinating, that he is planning on studying, but he may easily change his mind since he is still unsure of what, other than playing videogames, he wants to do with his life. He still finds time for his friends and when they all convene here; they look like a coalition from the United Nations, plus they are mostly multi-lingual.
Speaking of foreign languages, Bill and I are taking Española. The first class found Bill arguing with the teacher about his name. He did not want to be called Gereramo, he wanted Bill. She claimed that there is no such name in Spanish. So they settled for BEEEELL. I guess that is ok, me llamo Patreeceea. Easy enough. So Beeeell can pronounce the words nicely while I mispronounce each and every one, very carefully. However, I am learning, yeah, I am learning that Beeeelllll has a much better aptitude for language than I, and for that matter so does Steve. He went through my lessons and without any background in Spanish whatsoever, corrected me, he, too has an ear and eye for language.
Jack is struggling with yet another malady. I feed him by hand four + times a day and he eats for me. It is difficult because he is getting old and so am I. It seems though that he is still in control of the household and hopefully has a few more lives in him. After all, he has me eating out of his hand, no, no it is the other way around, but you get my drift here.
Our vacation consisted of one day at the beach, without the guys and one day in NYC at a game with the guys, well a couple of them. After the game, we decided to amble around Times Square, for no reason other than to hurt our feet and to learn that the guys wanted to eat some more. We are generally unaware of what surrounds us. This was certainly true on that day. As we entered the subway station, we heard a siren. Hmmm, we thought, what is that, then the thought moved away as quick as the train. We had slowly and obliviously strolled past a bomb laden car, glanced over at it and kept shuffling on. Ah, that shows the trust of the American citizen, at least the dumbest of them, er us.
So we are winding our way towards another holiday, all in one piece, and hoping for a joyous year to all to come. If not joyous, then comfortable.
Happy Holiday to all, and to all a goodnight, at least for me, I’m tired.
Love,
Beeeellll, Patreeceea, Steve, Chris and Adonis aka Matt.
Dear Family and Friends,
It is that time once again to deck the halls. This year, instead, we are decking the water heater, the washer and dryer and hoping that nothing else breaks...but it will. The heater is on its last legs and my holiday wish is that after we get a new one that the old would use those legs and walk out of the house. It won’t, it will take grunting and shoving and cursing to get it out the door, much like the water heater, which by the way also had legs. Those legs weren’t made for walking, they were made for scratching, which is what they would have done to the floors had it not been for several hardy boys, who complained as they lifted because they were sore from a rousing game of football. Then off to the gym to lift weights.
This year was a very sad one for us. Dad, aka Pop, decided that he had enough of not walking or eating his beloved steak and mushrooms, (or smelly pork kidneys) or fixing our houses and moved on to the great machine shop in the sky. It is very hard because we all miss him terribly. We not only miss his sage wisdom, “Don’t you have any common sense?” or his way with words, “Should I go down frontwards or backwards?” but we just miss him because he was who he was. He had his own language, as Gram puts it, “it’s all English, but it doesn’t make any sense.” He had his own way of doing things, “if I put it in this way, then no one will ever be able to figure it out, so I will put it in and let them worry.” We also miss his hands that fixed everything and then more, but they wouldn’t let us keep them. Life will never be the same for us, but now Kathy can have some time with him, and he can cringe when she says, “Dad’ll” (as in Dad’ll fix this and that) and I am sure Stanley and the rest of the crew are enjoying themselves with him as well. We all miss you Pop.
My mother is a tough old bird and is hanging in there although she has her sad days as do we all. She still enjoys sitting and reading, mostly true crime which she calls “blood n’ guts.” That always turns a head or two when she asks the book store clerk for the blood ‘n guts aisle. I plan on teaching her how to order her books on the internet, that way it will not make anyone shutter to see a “sweet” little almost 90 year old lady studying how to kill and not get caught. But on second thought, it may alert homeland security to her and one can only imagine the agents surrounding her house to rout her out. She does have a pretty good cover though.
This was a good year for Chris, even though he has not quite finished college; he was offered quite a plum job at Comcast Sportsnet. It is not really a plum job, it is that of a receptionist, but it is a job in his field and that makes it a plum job. He loves working in South Philly and he loves the sports that seem to play on a constant loop on the TV in front of his desk. Sometimes, I would imagine that they have to scrape him off the wall and tell him it is time to leave. He simply loves it. He also works for the Phillies part time and again he is in his glory, even if the Phillies aren’t. Maybe this year! We love his job too. IT IS A JOB and we get free cable and if I whine enough he secures tickets for me to go to concerts for FREE and they feed me as well. Heaven, I tell you. The best was the Paul McCartney concert which would have put me on a cloud, except I was eating too much and might have plummeted back to the stadium. Tom Petty was no slouch too. I also enjoyed the Trans-Siberian Orchestra once they got through the Christmas stuff.
Steve has moved along this year, in fact he literally moved on, to West Chester where he got his first apartment and moved in February, in the
snow. He is directly across from the courthouse and can hang out the window and see the activity going on below. He can also yell at the passing cars if they swing too close to his car, but he doesn’t. That is left for Mom to do, I can yell like a sailor when he opens the window. Oh well, he makes sure it is bolted tight when I come to visit. He is doing well and enjoys living on his own, except that the laundry mat, oops, I mean laundry pat is too far away, in Fort Washington, and he just leaves it and it magically is clean and folded when he comes back. He is also becoming quite a wonderful cook. At least, that is what I hear from those for whom he cooks. Looking forward to a dinner invite though, in the cool weather, with the window closed.
Matt is working his way through college as well as my nerves, but that is what 20 year olds do, and he may even some day graduate. Not for a while though. He works out quite a bit and has a bod like a Greek god, but when I ask him to lift something, he is too tired or too sore or too something and goes back to sleep. He is thinking of studying forensic psychology. I find that fascinating, that he is planning on studying, but he may easily change his mind since he is still unsure of what, other than playing videogames, he wants to do with his life. He still finds time for his friends and when they all convene here; they look like a coalition from the United Nations, plus they are mostly multi-lingual.
Speaking of foreign languages, Bill and I are taking Española. The first class found Bill arguing with the teacher about his name. He did not want to be called Gereramo, he wanted Bill. She claimed that there is no such name in Spanish. So they settled for BEEEELL. I guess that is ok, me llamo Patreeceea. Easy enough. So Beeeell can pronounce the words nicely while I mispronounce each and every one, very carefully. However, I am learning, yeah, I am learning that Beeeelllll has a much better aptitude for language than I, and for that matter so does Steve. He went through my lessons and without any background in Spanish whatsoever, corrected me, he, too has an ear and eye for language.
Jack is struggling with yet another malady. I feed him by hand four + times a day and he eats for me. It is difficult because he is getting old and so am I. It seems though that he is still in control of the household and hopefully has a few more lives in him. After all, he has me eating out of his hand, no, no it is the other way around, but you get my drift here.
Our vacation consisted of one day at the beach, without the guys and one day in NYC at a game with the guys, well a couple of them. After the game, we decided to amble around Times Square, for no reason other than to hurt our feet and to learn that the guys wanted to eat some more. We are generally unaware of what surrounds us. This was certainly true on that day. As we entered the subway station, we heard a siren. Hmmm, we thought, what is that, then the thought moved away as quick as the train. We had slowly and obliviously strolled past a bomb laden car, glanced over at it and kept shuffling on. Ah, that shows the trust of the American citizen, at least the dumbest of them, er us.
So we are winding our way towards another holiday, all in one piece, and hoping for a joyous year to all to come. If not joyous, then comfortable.
Happy Holiday to all, and to all a goodnight, at least for me, I’m tired.
Love,
Beeeellll, Patreeceea, Steve, Chris and Adonis aka Matt.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
If You Want a Circus
If You Want a Circus….
It is the delight of most children to go to the big top and see the clowns, elephants and lion tamers all at once in a three ring circus. There is another way though, instead of pushing through the madding crowd, rubbing against sticky, pink cotton candy, and enduring the whelps and hollers of a minion of excited children, simply request some peace and quiet to pursue any endeavor. It is my duty to be the caregiver in the family, and this includes but is not limited to the pets. I feed my cat, only one left, by hand. That means that I stick some food on my finger and insert both finger and food into his mouth and he usually eats it or spits it out to be put in again. Most of the time he is not adverse to my feeding him, in fact, often, if I miss a beat, he just sits there and looks at me like I am not doing my duty, which basically, I am not. Other times, he is sick of the food and clamps his jaw shut much like a childproof container for anyone other than a child. Now, to do this maneuver, I have to have the kitchen quiet, and calm. If the cat gets distracted, he will close his jaw with or without my finger incased in said mouth. I ask the group to be quiet when I am feeding him. That is like asking the wind not to blow in a hurricane. Thus, the circus with the lion tamer.
Last night I thought that it was quiet and I had time to get the little rascal fed. Bill, my husband, was sprawled out on the couch watching something quiet on the TV, Chris was in the office on line with his internet class, and Matt was at the gym working out. Aha, this is the best time to feed the feline. So I grabbed the alley rabbit and scurried him to the kitchen and the waiting food. Two bites later, Bill decided he needed a snack and came into the kitchen and rattled bags and fooled around in the fridge. The TV blared up with some advertisement about some loud product, trumpets, I think, (yes, even though it is denied by the television executives, the volume goes up with the ads in case someone snuck off into the kitchen). Matt rang the bell and banged on the door finally to enter to the tune of a rap piece that he had picked up somewhere at 100 decibels. Of course he was hungry too and came into the kitchen to retrieve a TastyKake where I was now struggling to remove my finger from the cat’s mouth. The wrapper on the cake rattled and roared and refused to release the sweet treat, and a battle ensued between the ravenous young man and the cowardly cake, the likes of which have not been seen or heard since the Battle of the Bulge. Once the cake was liberated, Bill and Matt had a heated debate over the tastiness of the icing. Another bite from the aforementioned cat.
Then another bite along with a thumping throng down the steps as Chris decided that the lecture could wait while he got a snack. With a decided thud, clatter, and bellow Chris thundered into the arena. Another bite. He sang as loud as his lungs would allow as he rumbled through the fridge to find something, which was not to his liking, and he mumbled like a Mach 2 motorcycle careening out of control through the kitchen. The circus with elephants.
The next morning with finger in band aid, I decided that I had a good time to feed the cat; it was quiet and we were alone. I got out the food, put it gingerly in his dish and grabbed the sleeping feline from my bed and hustled him off to the kitchen for his meal. With the first dollop of food, including the band aid, the phone rang and like Pavlov’s dog, I grabbed cat with food on finger and answered the phone, my mother, with nothing much to say. I asked her if it was important and she said no, then as I absentmindedly rubbed the food all over my face, I explained that I needed to feed the cat and would she mind if I called her back. (That is of course if I can get the food out of my eye enough to see the phone numbers). She said that would be fine, I dropped the phone on the table unable to hang up. BEEP BEEP, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO MAKE A CALL……. Then another dollop of food into cat.
Not to be foiled, the township workers and migrant landscapers decided that this would be the optimal time to mow the neighboring lawns. So with mowers, whips, and hedge trimmers’ blaring and screaming into the air they began their work. The mailman rang the bell numerous times to the tune of Tchaikovsky’s War of 1812 Overture, BOOM BOOM, to announce a package for Chris, and the phone continued its recorded harangue, beep, beep. More food, more finger wrenching. The cat squirmed, but I was determined to feed him the needed amount of slippery, peanut buttery, smelly food that he needs. The circus with clowns.
Finished…..it is quiet.
So if you ever want a circus, just announce that you need quiet and concentration to perform a task easily, or at least so your finger doesn’t get bitten off. You will have a three ring circus at your fingertips…(That is unless your fingertips reside somewhere in the cat’s gut like mine). Or just visit me and join in the fun when I am feeding the cat.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Numbers
The new school year is looming in the not so distant future, in fact it may have already raged into existence in some districts . My job is to read the writings of teenagers. Each quarter in school, they are to turn in two complete essays; each a different assignment, each developed to teach them technical and creative skills. This past year, my seniors' papers seemed lackluster and drab, but technically correct. When I went to school to meet them, expecting a bunch of dullards, I was pleasantly surprised to find a group of friendly, likeable, and intelligent kids. They laughed at my lame jokes; they responded to my questions quickly, politely, and accurately. They questioned me with a keen understanding of what they had learned through the assignments and school in general. They were tired of high school and anxious and ready for the challenge and parties of college. I was perplexed as to why their papers seemed less than eloquent, it went beyond the realms of 'senioritis'. I asked them what they were going to pursue in college. Most claimed that they would study accounting with a smattering of medicine, science, and engineering; none mentioned the finer arts of English, history, or culture.
A good two thirds of the students were going to have a career as CPAs. It would seem that I am opining that accountants are dull people; quite the contrary. They just see creativity in numbers rather than words. I had two uncles who were accountants; neither ever put pen to paper and created a poem or a flowing piece of prose resplendent with imagery or metaphors. It was in their everyday lives that they were creative and eccentric to say the least. One found his creativity in bending numbers to suit his will, amassing a fortune using the stock market as a playground. The other was literal to a fault and straight and narrow with an insane twist to his thoughts, and he amassed a fortune in real estate. They were both fascinating and complex men. These two worked together in a small office in the Fairmount section of Philadelphia, on the same street where they were born and raised. Their features were similar, with a beautiful full mane of white hair and fine, sculptured good looks. That is where the similarity ended, other than the eccentricity that ran through my father's entire family, each with a nuance as creative and different as Michelangelo and Picasso.
The elder brother, Edward, was a family man to six children. The younger, Stanley, married late and never had children. Edward, being older and educated earlier, was the leader. Stanley had joined the Navy during the war as a young man and then to college after his enlistment. They both went to Villanova on Philadelphia's Main Line and Edward not only taught there, but wrote a textbook as well. During the time that Edward was writing and teaching, Stanley had many adventures in the Navy, some more precarious than others, but unique just the same. His storytelling of his time in the Navy was animated and rife with facial expressions reserved for only the best of comedians. On one such occasion, he related, he was the signal man for his ship, a merchant escort. As his ship pulled into New York harbor one solid battleship guarding the shore enquired as per regulations, "What is your name?" My Uncle Stanley, always the literal thinker, replied in code, S T A N L E Y. As he told the story, his arms flailed about in pantomime of the signal man of bygone days. Then he began finishing with his last name, and before the second letter was given, the battleship aimed their massive and many guns at the merchant escort, knowing that there was no Allied ship under that moniker. Then my uncle got it, they meant the ship's name, not his, personally. He was quick and sharp as any future CPA might be and remedied the tense situation without delay. While his literalness was the target of many enjoyable stories, as well as guns it would seem, it was Edward's firm and steady hand that brought in the work.
Edward was a quiet man, tall, handsome and intriguing. He would give the shirt off his back for his family but his demeanor was distant and seemed cold. He was of the type to keep everything bundled inside. He allowed his mother, of whom he was the favorite of her six children, to cut his hair, even as an adult. This gave her a sense of need and worth, and my uncle likely recognized this as he could well afford a professional haircut. He guided Stanley in his career and offered his expertise to all family members who asked. He never charged for his help in tax preparation or other financial information. When I was a teenager, I was eager to find my calling, I did this by accepting, and keeping for a week or two, a myriad of different jobs. At tax time, my Uncle Edward jokingly said that while I earned the least of the family, my tax return was the most difficult and he billed me. I retorted to his fictional bill that it was "better to owe it to him than cheat him out of it." This stern, unbending man hardily laughed at my belligerence and continued to work on my taxes without blinking an eye.
There was something in Edward that was hard to understand. He had bright, clear, cool blue eyes that held a deepness akin to the farthest galaxy. He was quirky in his own right, yet a clear thinker and progenitor to artists, craftsmen, scientists, teachers and athletes. As a young man, he was a champion rower, a teacher, and a textbook writer; he was a man for all seasons. Stanley was certainly quirky as well. He enjoyed a good cocktail with his delightful wife, even to the tune of climbing the masts of a docked ship in the middle of the night; a revel of the spirits. His politics seemed to stray to the far right, but his kindness strayed to the definite left. He could no more evict a person or family for lack of rent payment than he could play Spanish guitar, and he was no musician. He seemed stern in mirror image of his partner and brother, but he cared for his ailing wife with firm gentleness and mourned her passing for twenty-two, long years.
Edward and Stanley made their living through numbers, they were well off financially, and though each had a markedly different disposition, they fit together like Chang and Eng. They had different lifestyles, and different loves but their joy in their work showed in numerous and creative ways. They found expensive, hidden mistakes in their clients' papers and corrected them with diligence and expertise. They helped the down trodden by giving them a place to live and encouraging them to ownership of property by teaching and showing them the way to self reliance. They worked in sync and always gave assistance to family and friends. Each fostered a creativity, not in fancy words, but in their own individual, eccentric everyday lives and... numbers. Edward died many years ago of a burst ulcer. Stanley died last year of self neglect and other issues. I miss them both.
As I think about the graduated class of hopeful CPAs, I realize that their papers were not unenlightened, not dull or drab. They were just the beginnings of people who will find their way in the world much like my uncles did; through their own paths, their own brand of creativity and brilliance. While there are few people who are as eccentric or odd as those in my family, each person has their own brand of uniqueness and these new college freshmen are no exception. It is with this type of class that I wish I were a math teacher.
A good two thirds of the students were going to have a career as CPAs. It would seem that I am opining that accountants are dull people; quite the contrary. They just see creativity in numbers rather than words. I had two uncles who were accountants; neither ever put pen to paper and created a poem or a flowing piece of prose resplendent with imagery or metaphors. It was in their everyday lives that they were creative and eccentric to say the least. One found his creativity in bending numbers to suit his will, amassing a fortune using the stock market as a playground. The other was literal to a fault and straight and narrow with an insane twist to his thoughts, and he amassed a fortune in real estate. They were both fascinating and complex men. These two worked together in a small office in the Fairmount section of Philadelphia, on the same street where they were born and raised. Their features were similar, with a beautiful full mane of white hair and fine, sculptured good looks. That is where the similarity ended, other than the eccentricity that ran through my father's entire family, each with a nuance as creative and different as Michelangelo and Picasso.
The elder brother, Edward, was a family man to six children. The younger, Stanley, married late and never had children. Edward, being older and educated earlier, was the leader. Stanley had joined the Navy during the war as a young man and then to college after his enlistment. They both went to Villanova on Philadelphia's Main Line and Edward not only taught there, but wrote a textbook as well. During the time that Edward was writing and teaching, Stanley had many adventures in the Navy, some more precarious than others, but unique just the same. His storytelling of his time in the Navy was animated and rife with facial expressions reserved for only the best of comedians. On one such occasion, he related, he was the signal man for his ship, a merchant escort. As his ship pulled into New York harbor one solid battleship guarding the shore enquired as per regulations, "What is your name?" My Uncle Stanley, always the literal thinker, replied in code, S T A N L E Y. As he told the story, his arms flailed about in pantomime of the signal man of bygone days. Then he began finishing with his last name, and before the second letter was given, the battleship aimed their massive and many guns at the merchant escort, knowing that there was no Allied ship under that moniker. Then my uncle got it, they meant the ship's name, not his, personally. He was quick and sharp as any future CPA might be and remedied the tense situation without delay. While his literalness was the target of many enjoyable stories, as well as guns it would seem, it was Edward's firm and steady hand that brought in the work.
Edward was a quiet man, tall, handsome and intriguing. He would give the shirt off his back for his family but his demeanor was distant and seemed cold. He was of the type to keep everything bundled inside. He allowed his mother, of whom he was the favorite of her six children, to cut his hair, even as an adult. This gave her a sense of need and worth, and my uncle likely recognized this as he could well afford a professional haircut. He guided Stanley in his career and offered his expertise to all family members who asked. He never charged for his help in tax preparation or other financial information. When I was a teenager, I was eager to find my calling, I did this by accepting, and keeping for a week or two, a myriad of different jobs. At tax time, my Uncle Edward jokingly said that while I earned the least of the family, my tax return was the most difficult and he billed me. I retorted to his fictional bill that it was "better to owe it to him than cheat him out of it." This stern, unbending man hardily laughed at my belligerence and continued to work on my taxes without blinking an eye.
There was something in Edward that was hard to understand. He had bright, clear, cool blue eyes that held a deepness akin to the farthest galaxy. He was quirky in his own right, yet a clear thinker and progenitor to artists, craftsmen, scientists, teachers and athletes. As a young man, he was a champion rower, a teacher, and a textbook writer; he was a man for all seasons. Stanley was certainly quirky as well. He enjoyed a good cocktail with his delightful wife, even to the tune of climbing the masts of a docked ship in the middle of the night; a revel of the spirits. His politics seemed to stray to the far right, but his kindness strayed to the definite left. He could no more evict a person or family for lack of rent payment than he could play Spanish guitar, and he was no musician. He seemed stern in mirror image of his partner and brother, but he cared for his ailing wife with firm gentleness and mourned her passing for twenty-two, long years.
Edward and Stanley made their living through numbers, they were well off financially, and though each had a markedly different disposition, they fit together like Chang and Eng. They had different lifestyles, and different loves but their joy in their work showed in numerous and creative ways. They found expensive, hidden mistakes in their clients' papers and corrected them with diligence and expertise. They helped the down trodden by giving them a place to live and encouraging them to ownership of property by teaching and showing them the way to self reliance. They worked in sync and always gave assistance to family and friends. Each fostered a creativity, not in fancy words, but in their own individual, eccentric everyday lives and... numbers. Edward died many years ago of a burst ulcer. Stanley died last year of self neglect and other issues. I miss them both.
As I think about the graduated class of hopeful CPAs, I realize that their papers were not unenlightened, not dull or drab. They were just the beginnings of people who will find their way in the world much like my uncles did; through their own paths, their own brand of creativity and brilliance. While there are few people who are as eccentric or odd as those in my family, each person has their own brand of uniqueness and these new college freshmen are no exception. It is with this type of class that I wish I were a math teacher.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Names
This is my first blog entry and I would like to dedicate it to my niece, Lauren, who showed me the road to setting up my own blog site. So, anyone who reads it (like those of you that I will insist do so and quiz later), you can thank her for "letting me loose." Take that any way that you wish.
Names -
When my niece was a little girl she was at one time obsessed with names. She wanted to name everything, including but not limited to her future children. I had been like that and still am to some extent. I like to write, but it takes me a millennia to come up with the right name for my character. I named my children, three boys, solid, kind of common, American boys' names. They all go with our last name, although I must admit that my mother-in-law was really good with names to go with Stein.
My father's mother had six children to name. A very religious, devout Catholic, Polish woman, she started naming her children not after herself or her husband, but in a religious mode. Joseph came first followed closely by Mary. It would seem then that her third, a boy, should be....well I guess you get the drift here. No, she did not, she named him Edward. When the next child came along, a prestigious Catholic cardinal had recently passed away, and as we who have given birth know, our minds are not always where they should be directly after. She named him, a child who would be my father in later years, Edmund after the cardinal. No one is quite sure if she remembered that she already had a child named Ed, because she never showed any doubt as to her naming abillity. We thought that perhaps the names were quite different in Polish, but that is not the case, they both start with Ed. Because of this, the younger Ed was stuck with the nickname, Mundzik, thus alleviating the confusion of two Eds. It would have made more sense to call the elder Ed, Ward, which is actually a real name. Naturally, as would any person, Mundzik hated the pet name. It was basically the term "Little Mund" which is pretty awful to say the least. Now, while the joke goes around and around in my family that the mother thought "two Eds are better than one" the two Eds were as different as steak and pie. That is a story for another time, back to names.
The tradition in my family is one that we generally do not name children after ourselves, at least most of us do not, we really do not have to, others do that for us. Now, my Aunt Mary wanted to name her baby girl after her mother who had a lovely name, Helena. It seems that Helena did not care much for her own name, and thus forbade her daughter from using it. Therefore, Mary named her girl Helene, or little Helen. Sneaky way to get around her mother's wishes. It did not stop there though, as Helene's mother gave her the pet name, Eenie, or little Helene? My eldest female cousin is named Lorraine, which I am sure is thanks to her mother's good ear and able naming ability. She thankfully did not leave it up to my Uncle Joe, who would have named his daughter after some kind of construction equipment or machinery. Then my father stepped in and helped out. Remember that he is the Ed of Mundzik fame, and decided to call his little niece "Iodine" after a popular comic strip, 'Lil' Iodine." He picked this "pet" name because my cousin was and still is a little spitfire, full of energy and simply put "fire" but not much spit. On another note, she looks like a pretty Liz Taylor, but that too is a story for another time.
Now, the other Ed also had children, but he left the naming up to his wife, Mary who the family always referred to by her maiden name to delineate her from the Mary in the original family. The original Mary always was simply Mary, except with a shortened version of her last name which was quite a mouthful. The maiden name Mary named her first son, John, which very closely resembles the child's last name of Jonik. She must have liked alliteration. She admitted though, that she was not thinking, she just liked the sound of the name. I wonder why? Perhaps it was because she already had it as her married last name, but again, she was always called by her maiden name, so she could have been thinking of that, or not thinking at all. That would not be such a stretch for someone who has just given birth to her first child. However, she redeemed herself with the naming of the rest of her children. She named them on the somewhat religious mode in the tradition of her mother-in-law. There was John of alliteration fame, then Paul, Philip, and Stephen for the boys. Immediately, my Uncle Stanley dubbed them "John Paul Philip Sousa." One can imagine to which tune he was marching. Then Mary and Ed, the elder, had two girls, Ann and Marie, a bit religious and again with the adaptation of Mary, her name, and that of her sister-in-law but not quite naming the child after herself or her sister-in-law.
Then another brother, as I mentioned before was Stanley, which is Stashu in Polish, so he readily called himself Stashu of Liberty, I guess he had delusions of grandeur. He, of course, married a woman named Edna thus making three Eds in the family, Ed, Ed and Eddy. The last child in the original family was named Frances, a good solid name that no one else had, I would imagine that she was glad to be female or she might be another Stanley, remember, my grandmother liked duplicate names. She was much younger than her sister, Mary, and my grandmother probably, after six kids, forgot that there was a Mary so the name was left singular. Almost. Frances had a daughter (also a son, but he doesn't count) and named her Mary Frances therefore getting both sisters' names in one, and she was called Mary Frances. However, her father, Frances' husband was another Joe. That gave me another Uncle Joe. I already had two, but one was from my mother's side.
Now, getting to the other side of the family. When my grandmother gave birth at home to her first child, a son, she was planning to name him Raymond. She was tired, as one might think after giving birth, and she passed the son and the job of taking the baby to the register to have a birth certificate drawn up and receive his given name, (as well as his last name), to my happy grandfather. My grandfather and his father, John, rushed with babe in arms to the office in question and immediately named the child, John Raymond. Needless to say, my grandmother was not a happy camper when they returned with the certificate in hand. Now, both my grandparents also had issues with names. My grandmother called herself Mary, which was not her name. It was Lorenza. Her Irish born mother was a great reader and named her children after whatever character in whatever book she was currently reading. Her very Irish children were named, John, Francis, Anna, Edward,(only one in this family, other than her husband, which is acceptable), Leonard, Manuel, aka Manny, Lorena, (after a very popular song of the time) but called Rena, Idella, Hubert and finally the baby, Lorenza. Lorenza, as I might have mentioned detested her name so she called herself Mary and made it stick (that is until, at least, I found out and used her proper name which I liked). She married a man named Jack, not John after his father, but in reality, Gustav. He, like his wife, did not care much for his given name, so he changed it. So Mary and Jack aka Lorenza and Gustav, had three children. The first was named John, against Mary's better wishes, and the next was Florence, and then Catherine, who later became my mother, named after her grandmother. So this side of the family had no problems naming chldren after others, it would seem. One would think the exception was Florence. Wrong. She was named after a family friend and went on to name her child, Florence, narrowed down to Flossie, after herself and going back to the family friend. Now Flossie did not care too much for her name so she calls herself Marie, but unlike her grandmother of Lorenza fame, she will answer to either name.
Now my name is Patricia and one would think that it is uncomplicated, but not in my family. My Uncle John had a daughter named Catherine Patricia, she was named after my mother and a sibling of her mother's, making both women happy. Lo and behold, she was never called Catherine, they called her Patsy. She was the first. Then my Aunt Florence had a baby and named her Patricia, she died as an infant. She was the second. I am the third and am called "Patty" by my family which I detest, but answer to. Next my brother, David, (only one of them, thank goodness) married a woman named Patricia whom we call Pat. She is the fourth. I married a man named William who has a sister named Patricia. She is the fifth. His brother, Michael (yes there is one of them in my family as well) married a woman named, you guessed it, Patricia. She is the sixth. On my father's side, my cousin Phil (a son of the other Ed) married a woman named Patricia. She is the seventh. She goes by Patsy, which completes the cycle of Patsy to Patsy. To confuse things more, my sister-in-law, Patricia number four, has a brother named William like my husband, and a brother Richard, like my husband's brother, and a son, Michael, again like another of my husband's brothers. That means that my brother, the one and only David, and I share duplicate in-laws. However, my husband's brother Richard married a girl named Denise. Which brings me back to my niece.
My grandmother's name was Lorenza, my cousin is named Lorraine, my great niece and nephew are Luiza and Luican respectively, and my niece is Lauren, (lots of le sounds there) who still likes to name people, cats, flowers, characters, bridges, roads, trees and future children. Please no more Eds, Marys, Pats etc.
Names -
When my niece was a little girl she was at one time obsessed with names. She wanted to name everything, including but not limited to her future children. I had been like that and still am to some extent. I like to write, but it takes me a millennia to come up with the right name for my character. I named my children, three boys, solid, kind of common, American boys' names. They all go with our last name, although I must admit that my mother-in-law was really good with names to go with Stein.
My father's mother had six children to name. A very religious, devout Catholic, Polish woman, she started naming her children not after herself or her husband, but in a religious mode. Joseph came first followed closely by Mary. It would seem then that her third, a boy, should be....well I guess you get the drift here. No, she did not, she named him Edward. When the next child came along, a prestigious Catholic cardinal had recently passed away, and as we who have given birth know, our minds are not always where they should be directly after. She named him, a child who would be my father in later years, Edmund after the cardinal. No one is quite sure if she remembered that she already had a child named Ed, because she never showed any doubt as to her naming abillity. We thought that perhaps the names were quite different in Polish, but that is not the case, they both start with Ed. Because of this, the younger Ed was stuck with the nickname, Mundzik, thus alleviating the confusion of two Eds. It would have made more sense to call the elder Ed, Ward, which is actually a real name. Naturally, as would any person, Mundzik hated the pet name. It was basically the term "Little Mund" which is pretty awful to say the least. Now, while the joke goes around and around in my family that the mother thought "two Eds are better than one" the two Eds were as different as steak and pie. That is a story for another time, back to names.
The tradition in my family is one that we generally do not name children after ourselves, at least most of us do not, we really do not have to, others do that for us. Now, my Aunt Mary wanted to name her baby girl after her mother who had a lovely name, Helena. It seems that Helena did not care much for her own name, and thus forbade her daughter from using it. Therefore, Mary named her girl Helene, or little Helen. Sneaky way to get around her mother's wishes. It did not stop there though, as Helene's mother gave her the pet name, Eenie, or little Helene? My eldest female cousin is named Lorraine, which I am sure is thanks to her mother's good ear and able naming ability. She thankfully did not leave it up to my Uncle Joe, who would have named his daughter after some kind of construction equipment or machinery. Then my father stepped in and helped out. Remember that he is the Ed of Mundzik fame, and decided to call his little niece "Iodine" after a popular comic strip, 'Lil' Iodine." He picked this "pet" name because my cousin was and still is a little spitfire, full of energy and simply put "fire" but not much spit. On another note, she looks like a pretty Liz Taylor, but that too is a story for another time.
Now, the other Ed also had children, but he left the naming up to his wife, Mary who the family always referred to by her maiden name to delineate her from the Mary in the original family. The original Mary always was simply Mary, except with a shortened version of her last name which was quite a mouthful. The maiden name Mary named her first son, John, which very closely resembles the child's last name of Jonik. She must have liked alliteration. She admitted though, that she was not thinking, she just liked the sound of the name. I wonder why? Perhaps it was because she already had it as her married last name, but again, she was always called by her maiden name, so she could have been thinking of that, or not thinking at all. That would not be such a stretch for someone who has just given birth to her first child. However, she redeemed herself with the naming of the rest of her children. She named them on the somewhat religious mode in the tradition of her mother-in-law. There was John of alliteration fame, then Paul, Philip, and Stephen for the boys. Immediately, my Uncle Stanley dubbed them "John Paul Philip Sousa." One can imagine to which tune he was marching. Then Mary and Ed, the elder, had two girls, Ann and Marie, a bit religious and again with the adaptation of Mary, her name, and that of her sister-in-law but not quite naming the child after herself or her sister-in-law.
Then another brother, as I mentioned before was Stanley, which is Stashu in Polish, so he readily called himself Stashu of Liberty, I guess he had delusions of grandeur. He, of course, married a woman named Edna thus making three Eds in the family, Ed, Ed and Eddy. The last child in the original family was named Frances, a good solid name that no one else had, I would imagine that she was glad to be female or she might be another Stanley, remember, my grandmother liked duplicate names. She was much younger than her sister, Mary, and my grandmother probably, after six kids, forgot that there was a Mary so the name was left singular. Almost. Frances had a daughter (also a son, but he doesn't count) and named her Mary Frances therefore getting both sisters' names in one, and she was called Mary Frances. However, her father, Frances' husband was another Joe. That gave me another Uncle Joe. I already had two, but one was from my mother's side.
Now, getting to the other side of the family. When my grandmother gave birth at home to her first child, a son, she was planning to name him Raymond. She was tired, as one might think after giving birth, and she passed the son and the job of taking the baby to the register to have a birth certificate drawn up and receive his given name, (as well as his last name), to my happy grandfather. My grandfather and his father, John, rushed with babe in arms to the office in question and immediately named the child, John Raymond. Needless to say, my grandmother was not a happy camper when they returned with the certificate in hand. Now, both my grandparents also had issues with names. My grandmother called herself Mary, which was not her name. It was Lorenza. Her Irish born mother was a great reader and named her children after whatever character in whatever book she was currently reading. Her very Irish children were named, John, Francis, Anna, Edward,(only one in this family, other than her husband, which is acceptable), Leonard, Manuel, aka Manny, Lorena, (after a very popular song of the time) but called Rena, Idella, Hubert and finally the baby, Lorenza. Lorenza, as I might have mentioned detested her name so she called herself Mary and made it stick (that is until, at least, I found out and used her proper name which I liked). She married a man named Jack, not John after his father, but in reality, Gustav. He, like his wife, did not care much for his given name, so he changed it. So Mary and Jack aka Lorenza and Gustav, had three children. The first was named John, against Mary's better wishes, and the next was Florence, and then Catherine, who later became my mother, named after her grandmother. So this side of the family had no problems naming chldren after others, it would seem. One would think the exception was Florence. Wrong. She was named after a family friend and went on to name her child, Florence, narrowed down to Flossie, after herself and going back to the family friend. Now Flossie did not care too much for her name so she calls herself Marie, but unlike her grandmother of Lorenza fame, she will answer to either name.
Now my name is Patricia and one would think that it is uncomplicated, but not in my family. My Uncle John had a daughter named Catherine Patricia, she was named after my mother and a sibling of her mother's, making both women happy. Lo and behold, she was never called Catherine, they called her Patsy. She was the first. Then my Aunt Florence had a baby and named her Patricia, she died as an infant. She was the second. I am the third and am called "Patty" by my family which I detest, but answer to. Next my brother, David, (only one of them, thank goodness) married a woman named Patricia whom we call Pat. She is the fourth. I married a man named William who has a sister named Patricia. She is the fifth. His brother, Michael (yes there is one of them in my family as well) married a woman named, you guessed it, Patricia. She is the sixth. On my father's side, my cousin Phil (a son of the other Ed) married a woman named Patricia. She is the seventh. She goes by Patsy, which completes the cycle of Patsy to Patsy. To confuse things more, my sister-in-law, Patricia number four, has a brother named William like my husband, and a brother Richard, like my husband's brother, and a son, Michael, again like another of my husband's brothers. That means that my brother, the one and only David, and I share duplicate in-laws. However, my husband's brother Richard married a girl named Denise. Which brings me back to my niece.
My grandmother's name was Lorenza, my cousin is named Lorraine, my great niece and nephew are Luiza and Luican respectively, and my niece is Lauren, (lots of le sounds there) who still likes to name people, cats, flowers, characters, bridges, roads, trees and future children. Please no more Eds, Marys, Pats etc.
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