And that is why I waitressed, bartended, did the Postal scene, while rainsing five kids! Now at 45, I am on my way to a Criminal Justice/Sociology Integrative Bachelor's!!! This short story, which was actually an assignment, mentions the college deal (recorded on audio cassette by Debra Wilson of MAD TV!) as it was in the 60's & 70's!
ROMANO, DEBRA ANN
FAMILY PHOTOS
As if it were yesterday, Pansy is standing in the warm sun outside her portion of the huge three-
story Greek Revival owned by my grandparents, which holds captive the better part of my childhood
memories. Pansy, the grandniece of William Howard Taft, taught me etiquette and manners during our
daily, mock tea parties. It is a wonder that I have such an affinity, or as some say, obsession for collecting
antique tea pots now. The photo I hold is in classic black and white, but the grass is vividly thick green
carpeting in my mind. I feel its cool softness as the yellow and green tobacco spitting grasshoppers spring
out from it. I can hear the slight rustling of it when the wind blows, sweetly perfumed from the massive
cherry blossoms bursting forth in the nearby tree. I weep at finding and viewing this photo, as I weep upon
awakening from a recurring dream of finding this house, this happiness and security, long ago razed down
by destruction wielding machines and buried beneath the many new homes built upon this grave of my
youth.
This imprint of time past invokes the spirit and image of my once younger grandmother tenderly
holding me up so that I could watch a giant spider spin an intricate web between one of the several chim-
nies jutting up beyond the roof and the science fiction looking TV antennae which stood outside the sec-
ond story kitchen window. That same grandmother fed and watered our horses, cleaned stalls, cared for
the Police Dogs (descended from Rin-Tin-Tin) which Granddad raised, maintained the immense vegetable
garden she planted, and still found the strength to shovel heavy piles of coal into the blazing inferno that
heated this twenty- plus room house. As she fed this insatiable fire breathing monster, always roaring for
more, I played on the warm, dry basement floor with tissues (stored inside her bra which was always white)
over holes and cracks that a mysterious steady wind whistled through. We sadly much later learned when
all evidence was gone, that there were tunnels running under this basement, providing safe Underground
Railway passages for escaped slaves traveling North from the South, to this SAFE HOUSE. Uncle Ray
always called me his Debra-doll. He had just come home from the Navy and relished in teasing and
inciting me to fuss, or to say the S word, which would result in an admonishment from Grammy to both
of us! He was tall, handsome, smoked cigarettes, rode a motorcycle, and wore a leather jacket. I feel Dan
Dans bristled chin nuzzling my ear, calling me Sweetsie Pie-Pie. I smell typewriter ink from his repair
shop and feel typewriter cleaner stuck to my fingers like pink bubble gum. He laughed when he caught me
playing in that shed and taught me how to type. He always brought home gifts and books from the city for
me, his only precious little granddaughter.
Beneath this vision, I find myself quantum leaping forward. I am now the adult, the caretaker,
the provider. A child depends on me for nourishment at my breast and from my heart. It is Paul. He is
so pure and wide eyed with wonder. His skin is velvet on my cheek and with closed eyes I smell his silky
brown hair and the place behind his ears. His cream colored jumpsuit is too painful to feel. It is velour
corduroy and was one of my favorites. The other twin suit is teal. He is showing me something imagin-
ary in his warm, slightly moist, fat little hand, holding it out to me, proud and innocent at his find. He
shared many such amazements with me during the following eighteen years. He is gone now, but I still
have the suits. He was killed when his motorcycle hit a tree, taking along the scent of him, so unique, now
only lingering in his coat.
Finally, I resolve to go on through these frozen moments, which are becoming tear stained in my
hands. Here stands my dear Aunt Karen. She was a Carol Burnett look alike with glasses. She is my
Fathers little sister, 20 years younger than her now 56 years. We are all gathered around her in her perfectly
flower lined and trim yard. My Mom, Dad, twin brothers, ex-husband and once baby sons are there too,
but it is only she that I see. She curled her short hair that day and suddenly I realize that I dont remember
ever seeing it any other length. She, a worldly, professional single woman in the 60s and 70s, took me
under her wonderfully educated proverbial wing, momentarily away from the extremely sheltered prison
and watchful eye of my devout Jehovahs Witness parents. She showed me a vast world of culture. We
took daylong excursions into NYC. She showed me every museum, took me to every play, ballet, exotic
restaurant and shop available. She went to college. I was amazed at that. Jehovahs Witness children
did not and I longed for her life. I admired her; she was my friend, my mentor. She lived in Okinawa and
taught school on an army base. She was a librarian. She played the organ and cooked from recipes.
She loved me unconditionally as I did, and do, her. Many years have passed since seeing her although we
live in the same state. I wish for my young daughter someone as special as my Aunt Karen to share such
intimate moments with her, as we did.
Slowly, I replace these photos in their appropriate envelopes, their tombs, once again sealing away
and preserving mental movies which I may seek again to replay on occasion. Although those times have
ended, they are forever branded upon my heart.
Edited by - DebraDoll on 15 October 2002 20:55:21
Edited by - DebraDoll on 15 October 2002 20:56:43