An
old steel town has its stories. Has its characters and secrets too. . .
Growing up in a small town was magical at
times. When we children rode our bikes around the neighborhood, we
imagined all sorts of mysteries behind closed doors. There were neighbors
to fear, cranky old spinsters who knew everyone’s business; Moody
fathers of friends that you had to tiptoe around. There was the
special needs man who spoke of nothing but tragedies that we children would hide
from. There were also sweet people like my next door neighbors who had a creaky
porch swing that they would allow me to sit on and swing every so
often. And sometimes as the husband watered his flowers with a hose,
he would squirt us children as we walked past and look away, feigning
innocence as we giggled uncontrollably.
There were little outdoor parties that my friend Patty and I
would gather small feasts of junk food: mini donuts, crackers, cookies, and
cakes. Sometimes we would hang a huge blanket over the railing of her back
porch and eat in the cozy tent we’d created.
We pretended our bikes were cars as we rode along the sidewalks.
We would stop at the red lights and go on green. We played countless
hide-and-seek games, board games, and swam in little inflatable pools in the
summer. We tried to make outdoor carnivals, and pretended to sail away in grape
crates to what my grandparents affectionately called The Old Country.
Nothing was more exciting than Nonna’s attic. Old houses
back in the day were famous for these extra rooms. There were cardboard boxes
stuffed with yellowing newspapers which held layers of voluminous bridesmaid
dresses and pretty clothes. There were steamer trunks with their slightly musty
scent piled with assorted goodies—doilies, sewing boxes, hand-crocheted items
and knick knacks.
An attic that was big enough to have two double beds and assorted
antique furniture was better than any clubhouse for me and my cousin. There was
a small, mysterious room in one corner that had a small fire once and it still
held the scent of old smoke. Yellowing, cracked linoleum lined the floor. Yet
to me, it was as beautiful as a mansion.
Nonna had a tin button container that my cousin Anna and I
adored. There were lovely rhinestone buttons, plastic buttons that looked like
flowers, metal ones and opaque colored ones. It was a favorite playtime of
ours, to choose our favorites and pretend they were “people.” Nonna’s button
was always the biggest one with a large sparkling stone in the center. Our
mom’s buttons were more conservative—plain, white ones. Mine was light blue
with a floral print and a tiny stone in the center. Buttons were just small
enough to fit anywhere—to have incredible adventures, and always have a story
that ended happily ever after.
Many people at that time had
borders that stayed with them—people who paid a small amount of rent for a
room. Nonna had Phil. He worked in a local steel mill, and became like a member
of the family. He was a true gentleman, kind and very funny.
My
grandmother made regular Sunday dinners with homemade spaghetti, the softest,
tastiest meatballs, tender veal cutlets, Italian bread and salad. These dinners
were wonderful times and nothing could break the bond of the feeling of family
surrounding that table.
Phil would make me and my cousin giggle during dinner. He also
would get us to finish our whole plate of food by saying that whoever was the
last one eating, was the “monkey.” Nobody wanted this title, so I blame Phil for
my weight gain and love of food later in life. Then Anna and I would help Nonna
clear the table and squabble over who got to wash the dishes, and who had to
dry them. Anna was older than me by several months, so somehow she always
seemed to win the best of our fights.
Sometimes Nonna and
Nono had friends over for card-playing nights. Wine flowed freely, and chatter
was mostly in Italian. I sometimes sat watching them play and they tried
teaching me the rules to a game of Scopa, an Italian card game. My eyes became
heavy as they played late into the night, and Nonna would walk me up to her
room and tuck me into her bed. She closed the door, and as I drifted to sleep,
I could still hear their hearty laughter and talk.
Childhood was my own Narnia world. Though there were realistically
bad events, nothing could steal my imagination. Pretending became balm to me;
an escapism that I sometimes wish I could still find. If I was really someone
else, nothing could harm me, right?
Is it any wonder that every so often, I visit the childhood of my
youth? Sometimes I drive along the streets where I used to play. And other
times I travel only in my memory. For there it is safe, there it is only a
shadow, one that I can embrace if I care to, or leave behind for a little
while.
Take a moment to remember your journey of pretending. Stay a
while, but not too long. It's a special place.
