CHANCES ARE.....

A series of essays.....

THE STATE THEATER ON SOUTH MICHIGAN STREET,
SOUTH BEND, INDIANA

Photo Courtesy The South Bend Tribune Archives



.....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes

My dear Mother couldn’t drive a car when we were growing-up. Whatever her lack of motivation was, fear of the unknown or generational apathy, we were, pretty much, transportation deprived and depended upon bicycles and our own two feet more often than not. Since Dad was on-the-road for work most weekdays, there wasn’t even a car in the garage for Mom to use if she had to. Public transportation often became our modus operandi and that’s just how we rolled!

As children, we became quite dependent upon Mom’s ability to take advantage of public transportation. Fortunately, we lived in large enough towns that offered convenient city bus service, electric cable cars 🚎 (when I was a small girl in the early 1950's), and even a train, the South Shore Line, that could take us into Chicago for the day and then back home again that evening.

CABLE CAR IN DOWNTOWN
SOUTH BEND, INDIANA ~ CIRCA 1940'S

INTRODUCTION OF THE NEW STREAMLINE
CITY BUS IN JANUARY OF 1960

Upon these excursions into the city to buy school clothes, go Christmas shopping, and have lunch with Mom, we were given extensive rules and regulations to follow to the last letter. Basically, being a single Mom for most of the week, she never lost sight of the fact that gathering and keeping her small children close by her was of paramount importance towards the success of these outings. For the most part, we complied.

Chances are, you recall being a young child, seemingly left to your own devices while traversing the children’s department of, let's say, the downtown Wolf & Dessauers in Fort Wayne, or Robertson’s Department Store in South Bend, Indiana. If we were lucky and Mom could afford to splurge, we found ourselves having lunch at Robertson’s Tearoom and Luncheonette between shopping events. And, when we were very, very good, chances were we’d take-in a matinee at the Colfax theater or the State theater 🎭 on S. Michigan Street. 

FIRST FLOOR OF ROBERTSON'S
DEPARTMENT STORE. ~ 1963

Photo/Tribune Archives

Believing we were left to our own devices had its unpleasant consequences that, generally, broke any positive mood Mom may have been luxuriating in during our day downtown together. I seem to recall one of these examples and was always reminded of it when I would take my own young children shopping with me many years later. 

It left me cold and disoriented at the vulnerable age of two or three when I lost my Mother for what seemed like...forever! I was a good kid and I tried to listen to my parents to the best of my ability. But, sometimes, even the best intentions go awry when you are so young and don’t understand why certain limitations are placed upon you. What evil lurks beyond sight of the hem of her brown, tweed coat and the sound of the familiar shuffle of the black pump shoes that carried her across the white marble floors? Life, at that time, seemed so settled, safe, and warm. 

As in the pacification of a crying infant, my stifled sobs were soon appeased by the unfamiliar face of a store clerk who had heard unusual sounds coming from the closed cupboard below her cash register; a cupboard meant to store hangers, paper shopping bags with brown, twine handles and the store’s logo emblazoned across their front. And, obviously, wayward little girls who had lost their Mothers while playing hide-and-seek among the racks of hanging clothes on the congested floor of the children’s department. 

LOOKING AT A CHRISTMAS DISPLAY IN A
WINDOW OF WOLF & DESSAUERS
IN FORT WAYNE, INDIANA ~ CIRCA 1950'S

Photo Courtesy wboi.org

Little did I know that a full-blown APB had been issued by my Mother minutes beforehand. During those few moments of time, coupled with the fact that I was having a grand time dancing 💃 with the pink and blue snowsuits hanging down from their little white, plastic hangers one aisle over, all sorts of crazy, evil scenarios entered Mom’s mind like sticking points in a Truman Capote novel. You see, as I sat in the comforting darkness I’d placed myself in....if only to avoid the pain of loss and disorientation, my sobs obscured the calls of my name as my poor Mother and the nice ‘store lady,’ tortoise shell eyeglasses dangling from a silver chain around her neck, frantically looked for me. 

At this point, I’m pretty sure my older brother was taking it all in from his cozy perspective while sitting on a chair situated near the dressing rooms not too far away. After all, poor Mom couldn’t afford to lose both of us and proceeded to anchor him down with her heavy coat and purse, and any packages she may have been carrying at the time of my disappearance along with the explicit instructions to stay put!

Even though I was oblivious to what evils might be lurking around us in the form of child snatching or human trafficking, my Mother was not. The pure relief on her beautiful face was more than obvious to me as she reached down into the dark cupboard only to whisk me up and into her protective arms....her tears saturating the shoulder of my little, navy blue coat. I didn’t believe my chubby, little arms could ever squeeze her neck as tightly as they did but my vice grip mirrored her own and we remained that way for quite some time.

Mother was a wise woman. She did not waste her breath on scolding me. Her intention was not to place the fear of God in me in the form of my Father’s wrath by saying, “Wait until I tell your Dad about this!” No, nothing like that. Chances are she truly wanted to, if only to relieve her own distress. My Mother knew that we had both experienced a valuable lesson that day. I would never again lose sight of my Mother in public places if only out of fear of being in dark spaces with hangers stabbing me in the side. And, Mother renewed her understanding of how precious the gift of life was in the form of her own flesh and blood. To even imagine losing that life was unthinkable, unbearable for her. 

Thinking back, we may still have had lunch in Robertson’s Tea Room and Luncheonette....after Mom dug my brother, Ronnie, out from under his weighty coverings in the chrome-armed chair and she dabbed at the tears on our faces with soft, white tissues smelling of her cologne after having lived in her purse for a while. 

ROBERTSON'S DEPARTMENT STORE
TEA ROOM AND LUNCHEONETTE

Photo Courtesy South Bend Tribune Archives

Now, you and I both know that my Father heard about my infantile misadventures not long after he arrived home from his long work week. I still don’t know if Mom told him the entire story or not. But, what I do believe is that chances are my older brother had something to do with passing along this information to him soon after he entered the back door. But, by that time, it didn’t matter. I already knew how much I was wanted. All I had to do was picture my dear Mother’s face in my mind and....I knew how much I was loved. Her generous spirit is alive and well in my heart to this very day!

Copyright © 2018 by Jacqueline E. Hughes

All rights reserved

DO I STAND ALONE ON THE SUBJECT OF GARLIC?

 A series of essays.....

NATIONAL GARLIC DAY ~ APRIL 19, 2017

.....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes

When the English poet, John Donne, composed the poem stating that, "No man is an island, entire of itself, every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main," he was not referring to me. At least, not when it comes down to the growing of, cooking with, or consumption of the garlic plant. 

Evidently, I am that island that stands alone and at a great distance from any and all garlic plants and/or consumers of said plants!

The real reason I bring this up, especially, writing this today, is that it is 'National Garlic Day' around the world and I am forced to attempt to ignore the reality of this celebration.  I, seriously, was never going to mention this minor factoid in public, especially due to my Ukrainian heritage, but here it goes: I hate garlic!

Okay, okay....hate is a strong word and one in which we school our own children never to use. Let's call it a phobia of mine as I do suffer an extreme fear and aversion to.....garlic. 

No. No, I am not a vampire, nor do I claim to own any supernatural or 'black magic' powers that I am aware of.  Thanks to Hollywood and popular literature, we're well aware of the myth that garlic deters all of the above therefore, placing the nugget of possibility into our consciousness that such supernatural powers might exist if garlic happens to be the 'perfect protection' against such things.

Garlic is an onion-like plant (Allium sativum) with a bulb that breaks-up into separable cloves and has a strong and distinct 'odor' and flavor. Garlic isn't dubbed the 'stinking rose' for nothing!!! 

GARLIC PLANT FLOWER HEAD

Even though I own 'Alliumphobia,' (fear of garlic), I will concede to the fact that the flower of this plant is pretty with its white, reds, and various shades of purple that are more than pleasant to the eye. I like flowers. That's where it ends.

America's history with the herb wasn't always a positive one and gourmands frowned on it because it was mainly used in ethnic, working-class neighborhoods. And, they say America doesn't openly show class distinction! Diner slang in the 1920's often called garlic the Bronx halitosis and Italian perfume. It wasn't until the 1940's that America embraced garlic and recognized its (apparent) value.

My aversion to the 'stinking rose' stems from its overpowering taste and smell, how it causes horribly bad breath and, it's odor seeps out from the body's pores days after its consumption. Cooking with it can pervade the air and permeate the vulnerable cloth that succumbs to it, such as kitchen curtains, tablecloths, and clothing, while lingering in them for eons. 

Oh, yes indeed......! I know this first-hand, my friends! 

As a young child, both of my parents worked full time and my dear, Ukrainian Grandmother would watch my older brother, Ronnie, and me until Mom and Dad picked us up after work. Often, however, we would stay for dinner as my Grandmother was never one to cook only 'just enough' and knowing how exhausted my folks were after a long day, prepared ample food to feed a small army.

Grandma had lived and grown-up as a young adult in her homeland, the Ukraine, and, consequently, was taught to cook using 'old world' recipes that were passed down from one generation to another. Garlic, fortunately, was not Grandma's most significant ingredient, as I recall. The distinct aroma of raw and cooked onions pervaded the air at every meal I can remember. Even breakfast consisted of pierogies sautéed in light fat and mixed with slivers of buttery fried onion. These small, dough pouches, filled with a variety of mixtures, had been the boiled pierogies smothered in a combination of cottage cheese and sour cream we had consumed for dinner the night before.

GRANDMA WITH ME ON HER KNEE
AND PAPA BESIDE US

So, I do not have an aversion to onions. Their aroma reminds me of Grandma and all of the long, hard work she would perform every day just to keep many mouths fed and so many people feeling happy and loved.

My afternoons were another story altogether!

Papa Moshak, my Ukrainian Grandpa, would take me on his rounds of the neighborhood when we would check on everyone in their homes to make sure they were not sick or injured, hungry, and most importantly....alone or unhappy. You see, Grandma and Papa were a solid team and absolutely nobody in their neighborhood went without a meal, a friendly face, or a kind word for any reason.

Tucked in Papa's wheelbarrow where containers of Grandma's cooking were stashed around me, we would head-off for the small, durable brick homes that dotted this neighborhood of Mishawaka, Indiana. Papa often packed some of his own tools in the wheelbarrow just in case someone needed something mended or fixed.

Together, we would knock on as many as thirty doors and wait to be let in to say hello and offer food or help. You see, their neighbors were, for the most part, from the 'old country,' too, and I only wish now that I had paid more attention to their jovial conversations. I would love to be able to speak their language today!

As often as Grandma cooked with onions, many of these people preferred cooking with garlic, as they had back home. Their newer, well insulated brick homes in the States were just that and, without opening windows for days on end....the enclosed kitchens (rooms) reeked of stale and recent garlic odors. 

Old Mrs. Stasevich would always give me a huge hug of affection when we entered her back door and, with my nose pressed tightly against her ample bosom covered by a floral, bib apron, the overpowering smell of garlic generously poured from her breath, skin, and the rose-covered cloth. There were no roses, however, to be smelled here!

After visiting with Mrs. Stasevich, we saw Mr. Babikov and presented him with dinner. Later, Papa fixed the kitchen sink of old, Mrs. Mosalev whose red, brick home was close to our last stop for the day and she gave me enough wrapped, hard candies to take home for my brother, as well.

Please don't misunderstand me. I was overjoyed to be treated warmly by so many 'Grandma and Papa' figures as we traveled from house to house. My four-year-old mind and heart recognized and valued the loving nature of these kind souls who often thanked Papa for bringing me around because they were missing their own grandchildren at that moment. You could say that I was kind of a charm for most of them and, in turn, was certainly spoiled because of it.

And, you might think that because of this charmed life I would consider the smell of garlic as a positive and memorable scenario. It was memorable, and I could never get over having to smell so much garlic in so many places almost every day of my young life. I never told Papa this. I never mentioned it to Grandma or my parents, either.

As I grow older myself, I remember with so much joy my wheelbarrow excursions and understand that there must be something said about the apparent longevity of all of these kind, older people who went about their daily lives within their snug, little homes cooking merrily in their kitchens with so much garlic. 

I wish I could have enjoyed learning to love garlic as a child. Just as I wish, as children, we had been taught to speak the old world language of my dear Grandparents and all of their neighbors and friends. 

In honor of that exceptional childhood spent around so many hard working, generous, and kind individuals, I gladly step aside from my solitary, tiny island today and cheer National Garlic Day, April 19, 2017, and pay respect to those families who migrated to this country seeking a better life for themselves, their children, and their grandchildren. 

You see....no man is, truly, an island. And, no man stands alone. Even something you can dislike as much as I do garlic, can bring you together with others in so many remarkable and unforgettable ways. 

A FRENCH MARKET 
SELLING MOUNDS OF GARLIC
Photo: The Good Life France

Copyright © 2017 by Jacqueline E. Hughes

All rights reserved