It was only thirty feet from porch to the street sidewalk, but, oh, how the front yard made me want to linger!  The sparrows that I heard from my parents’ bedroom at the front of the house in the early morning, dart back and forth in the yard, land in the red maple, call their friends to join them.

“Come see the beautiful flowers, feel the sun upon them, the grass so green, the purple irises nod to me, the rose petals are blushing,” they seem to sing.

Note:  The Rose photo is courtesy of my sister, Barb.  Today, a rosebush thrives in her yard, from a cutting of Babcia’s rosebushes, (our Polish grandmother).

Daddy’s telling nicknames for his four girls:

Donna is Happy-Go-Lucky.  No matter how many troubles storm upon her, she is happy-go-lucky.

Barbara is Hot Shot.  She struts her stuff with a sharp edge.

Maria is Mona Lisa.  She has the stature of a princess in her smile.

Jean.  His nickname for me?  He calls me Smartie.  Know-it-all, know-all, clever.

Leaving Nanny’s house late at night, under a cold, clear, winter sky, the bright, white moon follows us along the Boston Post Road. I shiver, huddle up to a sister, to try to keep warm. Under the twinkling light of millions of stars, a canopy over my bedtime, Mom drives us home.

“Mom, you won’t believe the house that I worked in today! It’s beautiful…Uncle Pippi told me that it’s from the Victorian era.” I tell Mom about a housecleaning job that Uncle Pippi got a hold of for me. It’s my first paying job, at fifteen-years-old.

“Jeanne, set the table – the dishes and forks are on the counter. Get the paper napkins,” said Mom, pointing to a Grade A Market grocery bag sitting on the washing machine.

“Put the rest of the groceries away while I toss the salad. Leave the eggplant on the counter. I’m going to fry it tomorrow for eggplant parm.”

“Mom, I want to tell you…” I try again.

“Barbara and Maria, get in here now! If I have to call you one more time! God damn these kids!”

“Donna! Finally! What took you so long to get home? Go hang up your coat, then get in here and help with supper,” said Mom to my older sister as she came in the back door.

“Jeanne, get the Italian bread, cut it up, and put it in a basket,” said Mom, taking a roast beef out of the oven. Green beans from Uncle Pippi’s garden simmered on the stovetop.

“You girls sit down, supper’s ready. Maria, get those crayons off the table. Barbara, tie your sneaker, it’s loose. Jeanne, pour Maria a glass of milk. Don’t let her do it herself! That’s all I need to do is clean up spilt milk. Barbara, get that smirk off your face. Did you finish your homework? Donna, grab that dishrag and wipe up the counter. There are bread crumbs all over it. Okay, everybody sit down.”

“Mom, that house is so cool. It’s filled with Victorian furniture. I’ve never seen furniture like that before.”

“Oh, yeah? Do you know what that house is called?” Finally, Mom responds.

“Maria, quit kicking me!”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are, liar! I know it’s you!”

“It’s not, stupid!”

“You’re stupid!”

“Am not, you’re stupid!”

“The two of you shut up before I smack the both of you! Donna, how was work? What wacky news is there at the Noroton Publishing Company today? Maria, give me your Girl Scout uniform after supper. I have to sew a patch on it. Barbara, bring down your dirty clothes from your room, I want to run the washing machine. I’m going out with Aunt Mae tomorrow night. I want all of you girls home for the night, do you hear me? Barb, pass the corn. Donna, pass the bread. Maria, use a napkin, wipe your mouth, that’s disgusting.”

“Mom, what’s it called?”

“What?”

“The house, Mom, the Victorian house that I cleaned.”

“Oh, that. It’s called Garden Gate.”

Garden Gate, the garden way.

DREAM #1
Mom is a high-speed train. I don’t know where she’s going. She runs wild, flies along the track, up a hill. She bought me a ticket that I have to take. I have no choice. I have to board the train as a passenger, as one along for a ride. I feel as though I can’t get off the train.

DREAM #2
My sisters and I are lying at the fireplace hearth at Nanny’s. Uncle Pippi gets up to attend to the fire that’s petering out. He steps in between my sisters and me. I’m on the left side, then him, then my three sisters. They don’t watch him. They’re busy playing a game of some type. He bends at the waist and slides open the chain-like curtain that covers the fireplace. He pokes a log with a poker, adds a log, newspaper, a match, to get it going again. The flames roar, shoot up the chimney, lovely sparks fly. I watch his face. He smiles slightly at the fire, chews gum, his jaw moves, his square-chiseled face is otherwise still, quiet. He doesn’t look at me, yet, he knows that I’m there, watching him. I yearn to jump up, kiss his cheek and hug him tightly. But, I can’t do that. I’m not taught how to do that. I don’t see anyone show affection like this at Nanny’s house. I feel as though I love him very much.

Did you ever smell the dirt of this Dear, Sweet, Earth, and lay on the ground, with your nose in the grass, your eyes taking in the texture of the dirt, and the soft, baby-green grass leaves that sprout up through it? Did you ever watch an ant carry a cookie crumb that crumbled off an anisette cookie, to its ant hill that looks just like the brown coffee grinds that Mom, Aunt LaLa, or Nanny threw in the garden compost this morning?

“Go outside and watch Uncle Pippi work in the garden. Stay outside!” Mom calls the order of the day, which is the same thing every day, her shouting voice pushes my sisters and me to the yard.

“I feel like gettin’ on a fuckin’ plane!” Mom shoves a dangling, black bobby pin into her hair with a hard thrust as she shuts the door. She escapes the doldrums, the anxiety, the stress of raising four girls on her own by using the safety-net of her parents’ home. Her words slam a sick, hard thud to my stomach.

“She can’t pull the wool over my eyes. What a bullshitter!” I hear snippets through the open kitchen window. I don’t understand the terse, hard undertone of Mom’s conversations with Aunt LaLa, which are not meant for my ears. I think they’re stupid anyhow, and wonder why some of her sisters don’t speak to a cousin, or, wonder why they talk endlessly over how much money one has, who owns what, who slept with who, who wishes for what, who marries who, who loves who, who screws who. Who cares?

Outside we stay, her message obeyed, because if not, God forbid!

I lay at the top of the hill in Nanny’s front yard, my young girl’s body stretches out, knees bent, slowly swing my red, white, or blue, Keds-covered feet lazily in the spring air. The simple, brick house sits like a queen on her throne, overlooking the street, the driveway, the neighbors’ houses, and the garden. My childhood time is spent watching. Watching the seasons of nature and people grow, change, live, die, around me. Watching Uncle Pippi.

Firm, child chest, ribs tight against the ground, green grass stains scratched onto my yellow tee-shirt, pressing elbows to the dirt until they ache. Big, brown eyes, long eyelashes curl down, sweet face hidden by long, loose, brown hair, I study the ants, inspect a dark, pine tree that is a good hiding spot in a game of hide-and-seek, and study a green, coiled hose snaking along the stone foundation of the house, water slowly leaking out of the copper-rimmed nozzle, shiny in the circular grooves. Study the weathered split rails of the garden fence that splinters if I pull at a loose piece to poke in the dirt or toss in the air. Watch Uncle Pippi till the soil, drawing in the healing power of gardening. His quiet ways, quiet work, the quiet sanctuary of the yard, is a peacetime.

Eventually, Mom listens to our grumbles to use the bathroom, get a drink of water, or get a lunch of fried peppers and eggs on a chunk of Italian bread. Sitting on the back porch, with a sandwich wrapped in a paper napkin, I study the clothesline of a metal pole with empty, limp, white ropes that hang sadly, or ropes proud and tight, full with wooden clothespin soldiers clipping gray pants, faded, ocean-blue, plaid workshirts, and pink, bed sheets that bow out, curtseying to the wind, as if in a show, waiting for my quiet praise and applause.

Note: In 1960, just 5 million children under 18 lived with only their mother. By 1980, that number had more than doubled. Today, 19 million children live in single-mother families, up from 17 million in 2000.

Sunday, I meet my sisters at Mom’s.
I get there before them, and walk into Mom’s room at the nursing home. She’s sitting up in bed, asleep, with a smile on her face. Head tilts down slightly, chin just touches her chest, soft, brown curls float at shoulders, and the bones of her neckline push to the thin skin against the loosely tied hospital gown.
I thank God for the gift of her smile.
“Mom?” I touch her hand, she opens her eyes, and smiles even brighter.
“I brought you some flowers. They’re from my yard.” I press the posy of passionate purple violets and perfumed lily-of-the-valley into her hand.
“From your yard,” she says.
In that moment, I know that we’re both rushing back to a place, a time, in my yard, with my young daughter, picking flowers, rushing the scents, the trills of birds, tufts of clouds, hovering pines, overflowing forsythia bushes, the seeds, the life, the love, the bridge of my daughter’s existence pushing into our souls.
I pull up an armchair alongside her.
“You have the best chair, Jean,” she says. I think she’s right.
My sisters come in. Maria pushes a seashell into Mom’s hand.
“Remember the beach, Mom? Remember swimming in the ocean?”
Flowers and a seashell.

“I’m an old lady. I don’t know what Bichon Frisé means! Ask me what “pasta fagioli” or “gabados” means, and I can tell you. I’m Italian. My daughter is a gabados – she has a head of concrete!” My mother, eighty-five years old, afflicted with dementia, aggravated by words, is set into a spin.

“Do you know if my mother and father are still alive?” she asks. My heart gets sucked into the whirlwind with her.