MORE MEMORIES

THE BEGINNING OF MY SECRET LIFE

It seems that the griefs and duties of the present have usurped the allure of the memories of the past.
And I guess that is only right.
But the past -- as some one said --is not even past.  Our past experiences have shaped us and sometimes they rear up in unexpected ways to show they still have power over us.

All of my memories are not happy. Who's are??
I just shared the bittersweet memory of Smokey my pigeon.  But some other memories are ugly and hateful, and I do not want to turn this blog into a confessional.
 I used the actual sacrament to confess what I knew even as a child  were real sins. But before  I was seven and had made my first confession and  communion, I had no one to tell these secrets to.

Our life on Englewood Avenue was not perfect, but at least I knew and liked the neighbors and I knew my way around. Things at home started to change in 1946 when my sister Sheila was born. We lived  on the corner of Brewster and Englewood in the second floor of a  three decker.  My mother had a good  friend who lived  upstairs with  her husband.  She was a little older than  my mother and was also an avid reader. They got the  best sellers from the  library and read them and laughed together. The two of them loved to sit and smoke at night and talk about the  books they were reading. Her name was Mrs L'Hereux--I know now that this means "the happy one" and she was--I don't think I ever heard her first name. That is how formal the world was in  the 40s.

I didn't understand that anything was wrong with Janie, my older sister. She seemed a perfect older sister for a toddler like me --she  was always willing to play with me, and she never got tired of  simple games like Hide and Go Seek  or Simon Says. She often couldn't find me, but I always found her. And if I said it fast enough I could catch her in Simon Says. My mother could take both of us  for walks: she had a hand for each.  I remember an Irish cousin  who lived near enough to walk to.  And as we came up the stairs to her tenement,  she would stand on the landing and say in her Irish brogue over and over "Poor Janie. Poor Janie, Poor Janie."

The birth of Sheila changed all this.  I remember sitting and waiting with my father for word of the birth. We watched out the window where we could see to Brewster Street and the Memorial Hospital and  my Aunt Grace hurrying home with  the news. When she arrived, my father left for the hospital and we settled down to making a few pies. Things changed when Sheila was brought home.  She cried a lot and she was very difficult to feed. 

My mother could  no longer take all of us to the store with her. Slowly she began to turn over some of those jobs to me.
She sent me to the Grocer Mike's with a list and I would carry what I could home. I had such mixed feelings--I was so proud and yet, I was so scared that I could not carry the groceries and would drop them.That is a strange  admixture--pride and fear-- but  I know  now that it marked many of the events in my life after Sheila's birth.

All of my mother's time was taken up with Sheila's feedings.  So gradually she let  me or told me to do  new things.  Things  that were beyond me, but that flattered me. For example, she asked me to do the grocery shopping.  Then she added taking my sister Janie to school and meeting her and bringing her home after school. Patiently, she drew a map of the streets from Englewood to the school and she showed me the best route. I was only to cross Brewster once and then only take side streets to Prospect.

I can recall with what  trepidation I walked the blocks  up to the  intersection of Melrose and  Prospect Street. I did not cross Prospect Street. It was there at the cross walk in front of the school that I, a  three and a half year old, could turn  my Sister Janie an 8 year old over to the Crossing guard. 

 I would go back there at three to collect Janie where the crossing guard  kept her safe, and we two could walk home. Oftentimes Janie would look wild because she had pulled out her  long braids  during the day at school.  I can recall standing on a  concrete wall on Prospect  Street so that I could reach high enough to re-braid Janie's hair. 
Janie also registered that Sheila's coming had changed  our routines. She liked  the  adventures with  me, but she missed the time with my mother.  So did I, but I dared not say so. Janie did it for  us both, and she brought it up in a way that showed a  lot about her own sense of self. 

 One day when I was getting ready to go to Mike's, Janie turned and asked our mother,  "I want to go see Poor Janie again. Why don't we go any more?" My mother laughed when she understood that  Janie was asking to visit her Irish cousin, and also that she thought "Poor Janie" was that lady's name. You see she  could never see herself as "Poor Janie." 

Taking Janie  to Prospect Street School was a huge, heart-pounding  adventure for me every day. My mother and Aunt Anna  disagreed about the safety of the plan.  But I always insisted that it was easy, and that I wanted to do it.
 I LIED. I never could confess to the fear that made me tremble.

I was most afraid --believe it or not--of the crossing guard.  She often praised me and said how tall and smart I was. But I feared that she would challenge me and ask why I was not  going to school.
Gradually as I succeeded, little extra errands were added. After I left Janie, I would go on to Barney's store and get one or two small items. I had a list with me. And when my father was home from work with a bad back, he would call me into the bedroom and give me a paper to give to Barney. He was placing a bet on a horse. I knew there was something up because he would always say--don't tell your mother.
And  thus I entered the world of all of my secrets.