MY ODYSSEY AS A FIVE-YEAR-OLD: Part Two of a Series

 

A series of essays….

A LITTLE, RED-PLAID BOOK BAG VERY POPULAR IN THE 1950’S: 
MINE, I’M CERTAIN, HAD LITTLE BLACK BUCKLES!

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

The deep imprint of one of the tiny, black buckles from my red-plaid school bag burned the left side of my face. Oh, not like from a real fire, but from the constant pressure of it on my cheek while being used as a pillow for the past twenty minutes or so. 

My story began when my older brother and I were awakened for school by our Mom two hours before. Ronnie and I shared bunk beds in the second bedroom of the little, white rental house on Milburn Boulevard in Mishawaka, Indiana. The thing is, both of us attended elementary school in South Bend, right about on the line between the two communities. it was the nearest Catholic school to our house. I was baptized at Saint Matthew’s and, as a family, we attended Mass there every Sunday morning.

Because Mom didn’t have her driver’s license and Dad was away on a business trip for the week, my brother and I would wake-up especially early to get ready for school and walk the forty-five minutes or more to Saint Matthew’s in time for the first bell. Ronnie, being three and a half years older than me, was my best friend, protector, and idol throughout our early years. Believe me, there was absolutely nothing he could do wrong. 

That particular morning was different. Mom’s morning calls from the tiny kitchen failed to rouse my brother as he remained curled and twisted in his sheets on the bottom bunk. Climbing slowly down the ladder and opening our bedroom door, I ran to tell Mom that Ronnie didn’t look well. Something was wrong.

Turning the burner off from under our boiling Quaker Oats, she gently sat down beside him on the bed and softly kissed his forehead. She was surprised by his fever; her lips tingled from the heat that radiated from his small body. Instantly I knew that we would not be walking to school together that morning. 

Placing the back of her hand on my forehead and finding it cool to the touch, she looked at me with sad eyes and proclaimed that I would be going anyway and pushed me into the bathroom in order to properly get ready. While brushing my teeth I could hear her in my dresser drawer and closet extracting clothes for the day, placing them in the bathroom for me to put on, and then dishing-up steaming oats into my bowl on the dining table. 

While I ate breakfast, alone, at our red and white, enamel table with shiny chrome legs, Mom was in the living room talking on the telephone. Sitting down at the table after her conversations, she explained what was going to happen that morning in order to get me to school on time since walking with Ronnie was not an option. I wasn’t afraid. After all, I was a five-year-old turning six in early November who had skipped kindergarten and was placed in the first grade after being tested for academic acceptability and social maturity. I was going to miss my protector that morning, that’s for sure. I sat still for now and listened to my Mom’s plan.

She told me she was speaking with a person from the City of South Bend’s public bus system. Together they coordinated the bus schedule to see if I could be picked-up in front of our house and if the route could get me to Saint Matthew’s in time for school. With a tweak or two between them, I was to be standing out front near the curb by 7:30 a.m. 

Her second call had been to my school and she spoke with Mother Superior to let her in on the plan and approximately when to expect me at school. 

Soon afterwards, she was placing me on the bus with the strap of my little plaid book bag crossed snugly over my chest and speaking with the bus driver about making certain that I got off at Saint Matthew’s Elementary on Miami Street in South Bend. With everything working like a fine-tuned instrument, tenderly she kissed my cheek and gave me a reassuring hug that indicated all would be just fine. Thanking the driver, she stepped-down from the bus as the doors gently closed between us and waved from the yard while standing near the old maple tree that graced our front lawn.

The bus driver smiled and told me to take a seat anywhere I’d like. A third of the way down the narrow aisle, I chose my seat and slid across the padded, khaki green vinyl and settled in for the ride. 

A SOUTH BEND CITY BUS CIRCA MID-1950’S

On our journey down Milburn Boulevard, crossing over S. Ironwood Drive which turned Milburn into E. Calvert Street, I felt each stop as the bus would pick-up more people going to work or shopping on a busy weekday morning. Most of them sat up front in order to get off at their stop as swiftly as possible. The landmarks Ronnie and I would point out along our walk to and from school flashed by me making me dizzy, tired, or both. 

Thirty-one city blocks later, I didn’t feel the bus turn right onto Miami Street and would have been, at that point, just four blocks away from my school. And, how could I? I was fast asleep and using my school bag as a pillow while the little, black buckle was making its imprint on my young life.

Something told me to wake-up and I did—rather quickly! I didn’t recognize one thing outside the murky window and bolted upright, much to the surprise of the poor bus driver, his balding head turning abruptly; salt and pepper mustache now facing me as he continued up Miami Street. The look on his face was one of shock and surprise as he slowly brought the huge bus to a complete stop along the curb. 

Walking back to my seat, he tried to console a frightened little girl who had tears streaming down her face. He was a kind man. He was sorry for upsetting me, but when he no longer saw my blond curls bouncing just above the chrome handle of the seat in front of me, his stop at Saint Matthew’s was lost to him as he continued his route up the busy street. 

Promising me a safe passage back down Miami, quite a few blocks from school by then, he resumed his position behind the big, round steering wheel, but with me close by his side. Mother Superior stood waiting as he came to a smooth stop in front of the church. Deviating from his assigned route, he delivered me to the welcoming arms of Sister Anne, quickly telling her what had happened with plenty of sincere apologies to go around. 

She thanked the bus driver and told us both that everything would be just fine and that it promised to be a beautiful day. Knowing that my Dad, freshly home from his trip that afternoon, would be picking me up after school, all seemed right with the world. 

This story is meant to be continued…

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

AN OLD FASHIONED SUNDAY DRIVE

A series of essays....

SILVER BEACH CAROUSEL IN ST. JOSEPH, MICHIGAN

  Photo Courtesy of www.silverbeachcarousel.com



....as seen through my eyes!

My story is lovingly dedicated to fond family memories, traveling the backroads before highways and freeways, and to my parents, Olga and Jack.

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes

Today is ideal for an old fashioned Sunday drive with the family all together, my Dad at the wheel, and believing life is good; life is filled with hope!

The warm, sunny day holds the promise of excitement and laughter. Mom slides into the passenger seat and picks a bit of lint off of her coral clam-diggers and adjusts the collar of her crisp white, sleeveless blouse. A smile spreads across her freckled face as a wisp of red hair sneaks out from the crisscrossed bobby-pins at her temple. Dad smiles back at her, bronze elbow already extended out of his open window, anxious to get on the road to....anywhere. Destinations are far less important for him than the drive to get there. He loves his cars and pampers them often, inside and out. My Dad makes classics out of every car he owns. My brother and I are seated in the ‘pre-buckle period’ back seat with ants in our pants (cotton shorts), anxious to feel the wind blow directly in our faces from the opened windows once we get on the two-lane backroads of Indiana and Michigan. 

Seated directly behind a parent, my brother and I dream of sugary confections much like on Christmas Eve as we’re tucked in our beds, having visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads. In this case, the warm, sunny day conjures images of snow cones, the shaved ice doused in neon colored syrup, pink and blue swirls of cotton candy adhered to a white paper cone, blowing in a Lake Michigan breeze, or waiting in line at the Bonnie Doon Drive-In for the promised strawberry milk shake. No food is to be consumed within the confines of this sleek automobile today. Dad has his own set of rules when it comes to the possibility of spilling a frosty (sticky sweet) bottle of Coca-Cola anywhere near the cloth sections of his color-coordinated vinyl/cloth seats. My brother ruined that luxury for us the day yellow mustard squirted out from his McDonald’s hamburger and landed on the powder blue cloth between his legs. Rules are rules and we adjusted quickly. Besides, riding in that backseat on any given day is a privilege we never wish to forfeit for any reason.

Pulling out of our driveway on Milburn Boulevard in Mishawaka, Dad proceeds north on Ironwoood Drive, straddling the Mishawaka, South Bend line and brushing past my favorite place, Potawatomi Park and Zoo, where we enjoy watching the Fourth of July firework display each summer. No time to stop there now. We’re heading out of the city proper and up into Michigan on small roads lined by tall trees endowed with shiny, mature leaves. Placing my head as far back as possible, neck resting on the top of the seat, I stare up and out of the rear window. I can see the sun filtering through the leaves as it forces my eyes to focus on the in and out, drifting, and hypnotically charged dance high above us. I feel so calm and happy playing this game until my brother asks if I want to play the alphabet game where we follow through the letters while spotting words along the roadside that begin with A, B, C, and so on. Mom asks to join in. Happily, we say yes. Apple Orchard. Berrien Springs. Camping Sites....! Dad strums the fingertips of his left hand along the outside of his door and expertly holds the steering wheel with his right hand. We keep rhythm to his strumming as the Chevy glides smoothly along the country road.

At this point, my brother and I don’t even care what our ultimate destination is. About the only thing that might make us think about stopping the pleasant rhythm of this family excursion would be hunger itself. No, starvation to be more precise. Maybe we can stop at McDonald’s for a burger and fries? Mom tells us that all kids seem to be starving even though they’re not. You both had a hearty breakfast not long ago. You’ll just have to wait a little while longer...that’s all. My impatient brother begins to tease me, out of his own frustration, I suppose. But, when I begin to retaliate, Mom simply turns around and gives both of us her best ‘steely-eyed’ Mom look. Not long afterwards, Dad pulls into an area we’re happily familiar with and, with his chin held high, begins to scour the parking lot for a special place to park his car with an emphasis on staying as far away from other cars as possible. At this point, my brother and I are bouncing like baby kangaroos in the back because we realize that Dad is parking at Silver Beach Amusement Park along the sandy shores of Lake Michigan and the fun is about to begin. Suddenly, all of the cotton candy, salt water taffy, hot dogs, popcorn, and stomach churning rides were practically ours for the taking! 

The sun-dappled, lazy backroads paved the way to St. Joseph, Michigan. Dad’s powder blue and white Chevrolet Bel-Air certainly got us there in style. Mom gave us yet another lesson in patience and humility. This Sunday afternoon is guaranteed to be a huge success as Mom and Dad hold hands and my brother and I walk/run towards the colorful carousel and all the excitement a kid can imagine.

Later that evening, around the time the sun seemingly melts into the deepest realms of my beloved Lake Michigan and my parents have saved us from an almost certain sugar catastrophe, I find comfort from the one person least likely to give it. Resting my weary head on my brother’s lap to nap as we backtrack down the same roads now enveloped within evening shadows, my heart sings. I close my weary eyes and know that family keeps me safe and sound. 

Copyright © 2019 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