Those Were the Days, My Friend . . . (*)

Home from two days of family celebration, waiting for the next event . . .

Eating lunch and watching one the the TCM movies I taped; this one, "Holiday Affair" with Robert Mitchum and Janet Leigh and her 6-year-old son (in the movie, that is). They agree to lunch and then a walk in Central Park.

The scene shifts to the park -- lo and behold -- a street vendor with his portable, on wheels, caliope (organ) and his performing monkey.

You Guys (Yankee for All Ya'll) remember them, right?

And all those 'street vendors' that went thru the neighborhhods with their carts -- the ice truck and the milk truck, horse-drawn, of course.   And the Avery bakery truck and the dry-cleaner truck.

Up and down the street delivery.  Hey, you drone techies -- just remember, you got the idea 'back in the day.'

The best one of all, of course, being 'the Sheeney Man," yelling out his wares.

Oh, yeah . . . those were the days . . .

((*) Detroit, Michigan, Fernhill Street

Dinner at Aunt Fanny's (1960)

I walk from my bedroom thru the hall to the living room and turn on the TV to Easy Listening, as I do each morning.  Rocky follows and I let him out to do his morning business and then I turn back to the living room and light the gas logs in the fireplace.  Next, I head to the kitchen to start my coffee. While the coffee brews, it’s outside to feed and water the birds.

Returning to the kitchen, I wash my hands and pour my mug of coffee.  As I add the honey and cream the next song starts playing.  I pause with my coffee and phone before heading upstairs to the computer.  The Frank Davis Orchestra is playing, “Let It Be Me.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jb7DUM3dSY0

My heart skips a beat as I pause to sit on the couch by the fire.  The music fills my heart and soul with memories.  And one special memory.  Of a first date at Aunt Fanny’s restaurant in Royal Oak – right on Woodward Avenue if I remember correctly.

The wait staff was quite taken and attentive to the handsome “older” man and his petite,  pretty “young” companion.  (Older as in gainfully employed twenty-four year old, young as in a somewhat naive twenty-one year old part-time college student, that is.)  In fact, one endearing comment I remember from that conversation was Jer saying, "you have such a serious, mature look on your face one minute and the next a child-like innocence.  I can read your face like a book."

Delicious dinner and interesting, funny conversation.

And this song on the car radio riding home.

. . . Jer and me.

. . . The night we fell in love.

* * * * *

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvA-STM7oJk

A House Full of Kids (Originally Written 1995)

As I sat signing my Christmas cards this evening, I came across a card I'd received from Joyce McGowan, a dear neighbor from another time, another place.  Another me.

I noted she had moved from Vernon Avenue in Huntington Woods, Michigan, where we had lived as neighbors for so many years.  Her husband, Mickey, died a few years ago but I never imagined she would move, and I wrote a note to say, "Take care, dear old friend".  Unexpectedly, my eyes filled with tears.  They splattered on the words that I had written as images of her house, that beautiful old house across the street from ours, blocked out the present.

The images continued, the years fell away, and I was back there once again.

It seemed to be summer and the sun was shining.  Everything looked so bright.  The huge old trees that lined the street were laden with foliage, the well-cared-for lawns were lush with deep green grass,  and the sky was startlingly blue.  The picture in my mind was of our street as though I was looking out from my house to hers.

I didn't actually see her but she was there.  In her house full of kids.  And I was there.  In my house full of kids.  We were friendly, borrowing neighbors and our kids played together and got into trouble together.

And I wondered why it had seemed so often hard at the time to be there in that house full of kids.  Then it seemed that the cares of the day often overwhelmed me.  So many little hands and feet and mouths to wash, to dress, to feed.  Too many dishes and clothes to wash, too many dinners to cook, too much dust to sweep, too many trips to Krogers, to the doctors, to the school, too many . . . not enough me.

Funny how time puts such a different perspective on things.  If I could be there right now, today, somehow I would find the patience to do it better this time.  This time I would know to just hold those little kids and hug them tight and tell them how precious they were to me.  Every day.  Several times a day.

Today it would be such fun to gather them in the tub and wash their sturdy little bodies.  I would relish the feel of their wonderfully tender skin as I rinsed and dried them with a big fluffy towel.  And once again I would kiss them in that delightful, most vulnerable spot right where their neck and shoulders meet.

Today it would be such a joy to help them get ready for bed.  Each one a different age, a different size.  Each one needing a little more or less of mommy's helping hand.  And then I would set them on the couch, my four little stairstep cherubs.  And we would read some bedtime stories.  Then, as I tucked each one into bed with one  special song, I would give them one last kiss and hug as I listened to them say their prayers.

I did those things back then, of course.  But not always so joyfully, I think.
* * * * *
As I sit here at my dining room table signing Christmas cards in 1995 remembering my dear old friend and the lives we lived back then, it seems like it must have been the loveliest, most wonderful thing I can think of . . .

To have lived at . . . .

                           10075 Vernon Avenue in Huntington Woods, Michigan . . .

                                                       in a house full of kids.

Blessings
Sarah



December 1995

Music Takes Me Back . . .

So this morning I turn on my TV to Easy Listening, as always, open the LR blinds, and head to the kitchen to make my coffee. Decide to mop the kitchen floor and wash the rugs. THEN, make the coffee. 

Once again, the music takes me away. This time it’s "Grandfather’s Clock." OMG, now that’s one I haven’t heard since . . . wow, a long time.


It was, of course, just one of the many – I thought at the time – silly little dittys we kids sang as we played and ran around the neighborhood.


Grandfather’s Clock, and "It’s Raining, it’s Pouring" , Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo, Catch a Tiger By the Toe ( well, some kids sang it different but MY Mom taught me some words are just too ugly and we don’t say them).


And then there were the popular songs of the day – like " Don’t Sit Under the Apple tree," " I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover," " I’ll Be Seeing You," "White Cliffs of Dover," "When the Lights Come On Again". All those heart-rendering, patriotic, romantic war-time melodies.


Do you remember them too?


My Beautiful Old Detroit Neighborhood. Mostly demolished now. One and a half blocks from my grade school, Grayling Elementary, and two streets over from the State Fair Grounds (where we spent many a summer day – all day – back in those long-ago times of my – can I say– perfect? – childhood.


There was a vacant lot two houses down from my house – just about in the middle of the block – great for playing baseball and kick the can. Of course we all knew the rules – come in when the street lights come on. Often of a summer evening, our parents were visiting back and forth on someone’s front porch. Keeping an ‘eye out’. Every house had a front porch, of course.


Back in those days, after school, or in the summertime when there was no school, we – mostly my (3) girlfriends and I – neighbors all – played together. And this is how it went. You went down the street to your friend’s house and stood on the sidewalk in front of her door – and called her name. (Sing-songy voice required).


Mar – il – lynn . . . (pause) . . . Mar – il – lynn.


Glor – ee – ah . . . . Glor – ee – ah.


Dee – Aaannn


Mare – ree


After one or two calls, the girl would come out to play. Or her mother would come to the door and say, "Marilyn can’t come and play right now."


On the opposite end of the street from the one that led to the school was a huge piece of property. Mostly filled with cinders and dirt. Probably a 4-5 acre piece of land. At the back the land rose about ten feet or so and that’s were the railroad tracks ran. And still do, of course. We spent a lot of time running around that land, sometimes catching frogs or tadpoles in the pools that formed and, god forbid – climbing up and "walking the tracks". Yeah, we did. When I think about that . . .


But that’s enough for today. Don’t want to repeat myself; most of these precious memories have been recorded in my first book, Sarah’s Story (available on Lulu.com--30% discount-- and Amazon.com.)

I Found A Place . . . (written Oct 26, 2014)

Every . . . thing . . . matters,” says Andy Andrews (Christian motivational speaker/author). I agree. It matters that I am here at this time and place.

Moving to Ridgeport Subdivision in 2010, I was delighted to see two churches just up the road from me at the corner of Duplex and Hwy 31. I often spent Saturday night/Sunday with 1 of 4 grown children attending their large charismatic churches. (They all live 10-20 miles from me) So it wasn’t until sometime last year I finally ventured forth to visit – starting with Spring Hill Methodist Church.

I never got across the street . . .

From the first visit I have felt at home, at peace, within these walls. From the friendliness of the people, to the music that brings tears to my eyes every week because it takes me back to the songs of my childhood and memories of my parents. Church and parents who taught me always to “seek” the truth, don’t judge others, turn the other cheek.”

And then, of course, there’s the uplifting and thoughtful messages presented by our pastor. Again, almost always bringing a tear to my eyes or a grin to my face because of the poignant or quirky examples he references. I come seeking spiritual food. And I get it.

Pastor Keith always manages to bring to our attention issues that are relevant to the times in which we live. What a blessing he is to this community.

The teaching, the music, the loving acceptance . . . it is all part of a special spirit that fills this place . . . I think it’s called “Holy” . . .

God Bless Pastor Keith and God Bless SHUMC

I'll Be Seeing You . . .

"I’ll Be Seeing You"–

Reincarnation. Is there such a thing?

Who knows for sure. All I know is I am here, now. If I lived before, I don’t know. Will I return as someone else? Will I know if I do? Unanswered questions common to the human mind, I reckon.

All I know about is living now the best way I know how. Whatever else there is, whatever else there may be . . . will be.

BUT . . .

There it is again. That song. On Easy Listening.

They play it often, but that’s okay with me because it is one of my favorites. That and White Cliffs of Dover. So many others, too, from the WWII era but these are my BFF (Best Favorites Forever).

We didn’t have a car for much of my early childhood. Mom and I would ride the bus to Woodward (in Detroit, Michigan) and take a streetcar down to the RKO Theater to meet my dad on a Friday night, eat sandwiches and hot fudge sundaes at Sanders next to the theater, and then watch TWO movies with cartoons and News in-between.

Then we would take the streetcar and bus back home. Usually a couple of times a month. Beautiful memories.

But the feelings in my spirit/soul are so strong, so deep – when I hear this music. My heart is squeezed so tight, and hurts so good, it pushes the water out my eyes. Every time. No matter where. No matter when.

Almost like I was there . . . once . . . and I am remembering my soldier love.

Normal childhood remembrances of movies and music of the times?

Maybe, maybe not . . .

The Big and Small of It

"I don’t remember your hand being so small," he commented as he reached for my arm and engulfed his hand in mine.

"It’s the same size it’s always been," I replied.

We were walking down the church aisle. Jerry had moved back to Michigan two years previous returning to his job at Burroughs Corporation and now living in a rented house in Royal Oak, Michigan. Son, Tom, graduated from high school, had returned with him.

And here we were:

Time: 5:00 p.m., October 19, 1984, rehearsal of son John’s wedding.
Place: Franklin, Tennessee

It is now twenty-nine years since that event, seven years longer than our marriage of twenty-two years and five years since his passing in 2008.

His comment that evening – and any time since that the memory surfaces – wrenches my heart as I think of the significance of his comment and the thought and emotion that always surface in my own heart and mind.

Yes . . . my small hand in yours, Jer. I was small; you were big.  And strong. At least on the outside. On the inside, not so much. But I didn’t understand that when we were married. 

If I had . . .

Instead, as always, the memory of this seemingly casual exchange wrenches and squeezes my heart in painful remembrance and I wonder . . . 

If I had . . . 

maybe you would have . . . protected . . .
                                         defended . . .
                                         cherished . . .

that small hand . . . and the person attached to it.

For My Daughter, Lisa (06/25/1996)

The Story of Pie

Lisa Danielle Coyle. Youngest of four.

At first she was Dani. From the time she was born till she started school. Because Jerry and I thought Dani was a cute nickname for Danielle. We liked the idea of having a little girl who was kind of a tomboy so that was another reason we liked the nickname. And she was. Independent too. Jerry called her his little terror and said she bossed him and everyone else around.

She became Lisa when she started school because the teachers called her by her first name and we gradually got into the habit also.

Being the youngest, she always wanted to do whatever the older ones were doing. Often, too often as far as Caryn was concerned, I made her take Lisa along when she played with her neighbor friend, Mary Ann McGowan. They got even, of course, by teasing her and putting her up to stunts (like the Bea Olmstead affair recounted below). And they made up their own nickname -- Lisa-Piece-A-Possum-Pooh. Except when they said it around the family, they changed it to Lisa Pizza Pie. Then the boys picked up on that and for a variation called her Izza Pizza Pie. When she was little, this made her mad and she would cry from their teasing.

Eventually, her brothers and sister outgrew their need to tease her this way and she became Pie, The Pie, and most lately, Her Pieness. It had, finally, become our affectionate nickname for her and eventually she understood and accepted it that way too.

****************

But before that she was . . .

The Delinquent of Huntington Woods

Too frequently, I suppose, it fell upon Caryn to watch and/or play with her little sister. Much to her chagrin. But she and Mary Ann devised ways of getting even. As previously referenced in the Lisa-Piece-A-Possum Pooh story.

This is a story about the time they got her to go over to Bea Olmstead’s house, knock on the door, and say, "I Hate You."

Bea Olmstead lived directly across the street from us. She was a retired school administrator. She and her husband had been teachers early in their careers. Mr. Olmstead had been dead for years. Bea still perceived herself to be an important part of her community. She had teas and entertained often. Always had Open House at Christmas and other holidays.

One Sunday afternoon when she was having company, she came over and asked the kids to move their toys out of our front yard and lawn because she thought it looked unsightly for her company. (!) (?) When the kids told their dad, he promptly had them drag every toy they owned (as well as those from the neighbors) out to the front yard, of course!

This particular incident occurred when Caryn and Mary Ann told Lisa, who was just past two, to go over to Mrs. Olmstead, who was working in her yard, and say, "I Hate You."

Naturally Lisa did it. Twice! Because the first time, Mrs. Olmstead ignored her. So they sent her back. The second time Bea grabbed her up, shook her, and yelled at her.

Mickey McGowan, Mary Ann’s father, just happened to be outside in his yard and saw the incident. He lived two houses down from Bea. Although he surely couldn’t have heard what Bea said to Lisa, he saw Bea grab her and shake her and yell something. He was probably amazed that an adult would take offense at something a baby would say. He called or came over and told Bea to stop. They exchanged some heated words. Later Mickey came over and told Jerry what had happened.

Jerry waited until he saw Bea leave her house. I believe he confronted her in the middle of the street! He grabbed her arm and said, "Don’t ever lay a hand on one of my children again!" She threatened to beat him up. And he threatened to call the police.

Bea didn’t speak to us for over a year. Then one day she came over shortly after Jerry got home from work. He went to the door. She had a box of candy in her hands and said, "I’m sorry. Let’s be friends again." Jerry said, "No thanks. I prefer things just the way they are," and abruptly closed the door in her face!

---Excerpt from Tales From the Woods