(13)
Right after my parents left to shop, I spun away from the door leading into our apartment and ran down the length of the hall, sliding my fingers along the wall, like children tend to do. As I zoomed past the open doorway of the bedroom that I shared with Grandma, she walked out and—BOOM—we collided.
Instinctively, Grandma caught me close, so I wouldn’t fall down, and we burst out laughing. Next thing I knew, Grandma grabbed my hands in hers and danced me down the rest of the hall, which led to our formal dining room and kitchen.
With two women in the apartment and help on Fridays, our apartment was well organized and spotless. My grandma was always eager to feed the people she loved, so I found myself lifted onto a shiny chrome chair, upholstered in red vinyl, simulating paten leather.
While Grandma is busy pushing my chair toward the white enamel rectangular table, let's take a quick glance around the kitchen, so your eye can follow the red, white and black plaid wallpaper into the pantry where an old-fashioned icebox keeps our perishables fresh. I have a secret under that ice box.
A few days ago, the gerbil that Daddy brought home to surprised me (to Grandma’s consternation at sharing her home with a rodent) had disappeared from its cage. I'll bet my small, furry friend was still hungry after chewing on the drapes, so I'm pretty sure he/she lives under the ice box, because that’s where ‘someone’ shoves bits and pieces of sandwich crusts, every day.
Once my chair has been pushed snuggly under the table, Grandma asks if I’d like a slice of American cheese. I shake my head from side to side, because the lingering aroma of home-baked goods, wafting through the air, suggests cheese is not what I have in mind.
While peering up at Grandma, looking as angelic as possible, I point hopefully to the pan of mouthwatering ‘milchekah boulkahs’ (sweet rolls), which are on the counter next to the braided challah (egg bread), which Grandma withdraws from our oven every Friday without fail. Since Grandma can’t resist a compliment and since I am an adored grandchild—I get it.
I have lots of fun with my vivacious grandma. Along with Mommy and Daddy, she takes good care of six-week-old Janet and almost three-year-old me. After making short work of my 'boulkah' and milk, I get down from my chair, reach up to plant a juicy kiss on Grandma’s cheek and scamper out of the kitchen, through the dining room, up the long hall, past our bedroom, and right after passing our apartment’s front door, I squat down and crawl between two of the eight ornately carved legs, which support the top of a large, black lacquered, gold trimmed, octagonal Chinese table.
It’s my habit to pretend this tabletop is the roof over my favorite play house, where I play with my dolls of which I have many, because Mommy had none. If I don't feel like playing house, I sit cross legged under that table while turning pages in picture books, and if I feel sleepy, you might see me lie down, curl up, pop my left thumb into my mouth, wind a dark curl around my index finger, and catch a nap. BTW, it’s always my left thumb—never my right—no ifs ands or buts about it, because sucking my left thumb is a tough habit to break. Whenever I try my right thumb, something doesn’t feel right. Once a mind set shapes up concerning what feels right vs. what feels wrong, the only thumb that seems to fit perfectly into my mouth, providing me with a sense of peaceful comfort, is the left.
At the age of three, I know nothing of mindsets shaped by habitual patterns of behavior. I wonder if I prefer my left thumb because I'm left handed. Truthfully, I have no clue.
If you stand in front of this octagonal Chinese table with your back to the long hall behind you, you’ll face a wall. Now, pretend you have super powers, like x-ray vision, so you can see through that wall into my parents' bedroom. As soon as you flip the switch of that super power to on, you'll see my baby sister’s crib hugging the wall separating the master bedroom from the octogon table in the front hall where I am curled up, sucking my thumb, fast asleep. About an hour before my mom and dad left to go shopping, Janet had been fed, burped, and put down to nap ...
—Please—stop reading forward for a moment, because I’d like you to read that last paragraph, again. No kidding. I'm serious. Please read it, again, and then start this paragraph over. Okay, now assuming that you've listened to my request so attentively that you've done exactly as I've asked—please pause here to think—more deeply—about that which you've read twice. Next, I'm going to ask you to please tell the truth: Did your mind draw a picture of me sleeping under the table while Janet naps on the other side of the wall in her crib? If that's what you pictured then you imagined a detail that I did not include. In truth, I set out to set you up in order to highlight this next point as clearly and concisely as possible:
Misperceptions occur when we formulate premature judgments, which our minds tend to do. In order to get the facts of a story straight, we're charged with developing the patience to listen attentively and withhold judgement until crucial facts, which may not have been disclosed, are exposed. Unfortunately—rather than listening objectively and asking questions attentively, our thought-processing centers leap ahead, formulating positive or negative judgments based upon the little that we've been told. At times, we can't remember exactly what's said, because we tune out the speaker in favor of wandering to thoughts of our own. Or we get bored and drift into space. Sometimes we listen defensively, suggesting fear blocking our connection to common sense. At times, an attitude of insensitivity belittles that which the speaker has sound reason to feel. All too often, we think in terms of generalities. When thinking in terms of generalities, apples are easily mistaken for oranges. Mistake a sensitive, hard working apple for a thick skinned orange, repeatedly, and watch frustration tip the apple cart, for sure.
Each example, listed above, attests to the importance of developing listening skills. Since problems arise when listening skills are skimpy—or sketchy—let’s put your patience to the test while I ask you to 'listen up' with a deeper sense of concentration than before …
While I am curled up, left thumb in mouth, under the table in the front hall, Janet, who had been fed, burped and put down to nap on her tummy by my mommy, may be found—asleep in her buggy on our private back porch, which is adjacent to our formal dining room. (One added detail can alter the picture you'd imagined inside your head.)
Our third floor back porch is a sturdy, three sided structure, constructed of solid wood planks, painted gray. Two dining room windows, which flank either side of the screened door, look out onto the porch. The fourth side of our porch is open to the air and fenced in for safety by a series of wooden pickets attached to a wooden railing that stands quite a bit higher than a three-year old child is tall. I play on that porch, a lot. Most especially when the weather is mild but the adults are too busy to take me for a walk.
When during the hot summer months, I'd opened the screen door, leading from the dining room to our open-aired porch and scampered over to that picket fence, I'd peer between the slats at the ground, three stories below, and here's what three year old me would see: I'd see a large, rectangular, well-groomed lawn, encircled by several rows of brightly colored flowers, all around.
This story takes place late in November. And though the temperature proves unseasonably mild, the lush green of the grass resembles closely cut straw.
As the fall season has caused the flowers to wither, the vibrance of the garden is nowhere to be seen. Did I wonder, as a tot, where all that color has gone? I mean, a child of three has no more clue about the four seasons—budding, blooming, fading, dying—than she understands the natural cycle of life. She has no clue that human nature harbors two sides. It does not occur to her that sometimes adults who love her lose their temper because they feel overwhelmed. Whenever a frown is cast in her direction, she feels like a bad little girl. When she feels bad, her smile turns upside down, and her spirit sags.
My family will live in this same apartment for years after tragedy strikes, so I remember this for a fact: Regardless of the season, an unfriendly sign is nailed to a stick, which has been hammered into the middle of the lawn. And that sign cautions big and small fry, alike, to:
KEEP OFF THE GRASS!
At barely three years old, I do not perceive of that sign as symbolizing this fact: People grow accustomed to following rules within the formal structure of a lovely-to-look-at-but-don’t-touch world. One day, our landlord will sell the building. Under the new owner, change will take place. Change is a mixed bag. The sign will disappear, and the glorious garden and lush green of the lawn will turn into a playground of sorts for city urchins such as me. With time, no flower will be seen, and the lawn will be unkept and trampled to death. As new tenants move in, they'll be unaware of that which had been so lovely before.
Being that my parents are intelligent adults, they are accustomed to the natural order of the life cycle. They understand this fact of life: When rules change, consequences result—some of which feel good (we had a place to play)—some not so good—(the hard scrabble of children at play destroyed the peaceful beauty of the garden-like setting. As you may remember, this is a large building, with many entrances that wrap around the block. Lots of families. Lots of children.). At the age of three, I have no clue that life is a crap shoot in that we take the bad with the good …
As for my parents, Jennie and Jack take good care of themselves, each other and their children, suggesting there’s no reason—as they park their car and carry groceries into the ground floor foyer of our apartment building—for either one to consider the fact that LIFE can change as fast as the spin of a dime. So, putting our imaginations to good use, let’s imagine my parents gabbing cheerfully while carrying bags of groceries up three flights of stairs—about two hours after they’d left their precious children in Grandma's care.
Now let's picture a key turning in the dead bolt that unlocks our front door. Next imagine my young mother and father entering the front hall of our apartment expecting to find both of their children awake. And alive.
Mom places her purse and a paper grocery bag on the Chinese tabletop in the front hall. Then, while hanging her coat on a hanger in the guest closet, she spies me curled up under the table. I’m in the process of sitting up and rubbing my eyes, which are still full of sleep. Smiling sweetly, my mother approaches the table, which I’m crawling out from under. As I stand up and return her smile, my mother kneels down on one slim knee and gathers me tenderly into a hug.
Upon kissing my forehead, Mom rises and retrieves that over-stuffed, brown paper grocery bag, which she'd placed on the octagon table while Dad, who is smiling down at me, clasps two or three bags against his chest. Then, toting the bag of groceries in her arms, Mom turns and walks down the long hall, past the bedroom where my junior bed snuggles at the foot of Grandma’s old-world sleigh bed, and as Jennie passes through the dining room, she glances out at the back porch just before turning left into kitchen.
As Dad’s arms are full of groceries, he can’t grab me up and swing me overhead. So he tosses me a “Hi’ya Dolly” along with his smiling wink that always ends with a double click of his tongue.
While Dad follows Mom and I follow Dad down that long hall toward our kitchen, I try to emulate my father, who is whistling this holiday tune: “Over the river and through the wood …” I’ll not master whistling for quite some time, so all I manage to do is blow out a bunch of air. Even so, I’m utterly content with chugging along in my parents’ tracks, just like a small caboose.
Upon finding Grandma bustling about the kitchen, my mother says, “Hi Ma, where’s the baby?” When Grandma answers that Janet is still asleep in her buggy on the porch, Mom’s eyes open wide with disbelief:
“She’s still asleep? I put her down three hours ago.”
—I remember Mom saying that she never forgot how glibly these next words fell out of her mouth—
“You’d better take a look and see if she’s alive.”
