walking through the living room on route to my bedroom.
We were playing quietly when my world fell apart. “Lily! Come here this minute! ” my mother screamed from the living room.
My friend stared at me, paralyzed with fear. Knowing full well what might come next, I slowly made my way towards my mother, a sudden queasiness gripping my stomach. She was on her hands and knees in our spotless living room, scrubbing her treasured carpet. Catching sight of me she stopped, pulled me over to her, and with a well-practiced hand, swatted me hard across my backside. The loud smack catapulted my friend over to the telephone to dial up her mom, quavering, “I wanna go home now , Mommy!”
She never returned.
Summers were my salvation, a time when I was allowed to stay outside until almost dark, crouching down in hiding places and spying through open windows on Rose, Sadie, or Bimmy as they did their household routines. They never knew this about me, which made it all the more enticing, and in time I came to believe that it was at those moments that I got my true education.
Like the time I was stationed behind the large Sugar Maple in our front yard, perfect for getting a glimpse of both Sadie's and our house simultaneously. Nat King Cole's mega hit L.O.V.E was playing on the radio that evening, and both Sadie and Mom happened to be on the same channel as they were preparing their respective dinners. As the music drifted through each window, I leaned out from behind the tree just far enough to check out both women.
Mom, in a pink dress, frilly apron, dark red heels, and pearls, looked stiff, unaffected by his mellow tones as she put the finishing touches on a strawberry tart that Dad had requested. Nothing moved from the waist down except for one quick dip at the end of Nat's chorus line. Sadie, on the other hand, dressed in black tights, a dark purple tunic, and silver earrings, swayed gently to the music at first, then started twirling around in time to each chorus. As the music swelled, she abandoned her dinner, dancing through the kitchen like a woman possessed, singing at the top of her lungs. Before I knew it, Please make Sadie my mother, please make Sadie my mother ,” rushed through my brain like a New York express subway train hurtling through moldy tunnels.
Still, Rose did have her good moments. Whenever she Put On Her Face, to me, it was magical. We didn't really talk much—that would have broken her concentration—but she would usually beckon me to her side and I'd follow like an abandoned puppy.
The dressing table itself was mirror topped, with a floor length pink pleated satin rose edged skirt. Mom adored pink, “Just like Mamie E,” she would add. There was a three-tiered Chinese jewelry box, a porcelain make-up jar, an antique silver hair brush inherited from her Great Aunt Adriana, and a wide display of perfume bottles in various shapes and sizes.
I could sit next to her for hours, soaking up her makeup application techniques: tweezers to pluck any unwanted eyebrow hair, thick Peaches and Cream pancake powder from Max Factor, and how she flipped her powder brush like a master calligrapher. Quick, sure strokes that covered her entire face in less than eight seconds. Red Snow Ball of Fire lipstick was next, to match her freshly painted nails. When she stared at her own reflection, I was no longer beside her, just those perfect lips, retracting and pursing, soon to be blotted by a nearby Kleenex tissue.
Another thing that taught me a lot about my three mothers was The Park Experience.
The park itself was close to our house, with pathways that wound gently down grassy slopes in the spring, summer, and fall, and snow-clotted hills in the winter. The sandy playground area had a swing set and a jungle gym, but the iron benches were the real key. It was there that mothers, grandmothers, aunties, and housekeepers sat, watching the children romp as they chatted, read, or just stared at their charges.
Bimmy
We were playing quietly when my world fell apart. “Lily! Come here this minute! ” my mother screamed from the living room.
My friend stared at me, paralyzed with fear. Knowing full well what might come next, I slowly made my way towards my mother, a sudden queasiness gripping my stomach. She was on her hands and knees in our spotless living room, scrubbing her treasured carpet. Catching sight of me she stopped, pulled me over to her, and with a well-practiced hand, swatted me hard across my backside. The loud smack catapulted my friend over to the telephone to dial up her mom, quavering, “I wanna go home now , Mommy!”
She never returned.
Summers were my salvation, a time when I was allowed to stay outside until almost dark, crouching down in hiding places and spying through open windows on Rose, Sadie, or Bimmy as they did their household routines. They never knew this about me, which made it all the more enticing, and in time I came to believe that it was at those moments that I got my true education.
Like the time I was stationed behind the large Sugar Maple in our front yard, perfect for getting a glimpse of both Sadie's and our house simultaneously. Nat King Cole's mega hit L.O.V.E was playing on the radio that evening, and both Sadie and Mom happened to be on the same channel as they were preparing their respective dinners. As the music drifted through each window, I leaned out from behind the tree just far enough to check out both women.
Mom, in a pink dress, frilly apron, dark red heels, and pearls, looked stiff, unaffected by his mellow tones as she put the finishing touches on a strawberry tart that Dad had requested. Nothing moved from the waist down except for one quick dip at the end of Nat's chorus line. Sadie, on the other hand, dressed in black tights, a dark purple tunic, and silver earrings, swayed gently to the music at first, then started twirling around in time to each chorus. As the music swelled, she abandoned her dinner, dancing through the kitchen like a woman possessed, singing at the top of her lungs. Before I knew it, Please make Sadie my mother, please make Sadie my mother ,” rushed through my brain like a New York express subway train hurtling through moldy tunnels.
Still, Rose did have her good moments. Whenever she Put On Her Face, to me, it was magical. We didn't really talk much—that would have broken her concentration—but she would usually beckon me to her side and I'd follow like an abandoned puppy.
The dressing table itself was mirror topped, with a floor length pink pleated satin rose edged skirt. Mom adored pink, “Just like Mamie E,” she would add. There was a three-tiered Chinese jewelry box, a porcelain make-up jar, an antique silver hair brush inherited from her Great Aunt Adriana, and a wide display of perfume bottles in various shapes and sizes.
I could sit next to her for hours, soaking up her makeup application techniques: tweezers to pluck any unwanted eyebrow hair, thick Peaches and Cream pancake powder from Max Factor, and how she flipped her powder brush like a master calligrapher. Quick, sure strokes that covered her entire face in less than eight seconds. Red Snow Ball of Fire lipstick was next, to match her freshly painted nails. When she stared at her own reflection, I was no longer beside her, just those perfect lips, retracting and pursing, soon to be blotted by a nearby Kleenex tissue.
Another thing that taught me a lot about my three mothers was The Park Experience.
The park itself was close to our house, with pathways that wound gently down grassy slopes in the spring, summer, and fall, and snow-clotted hills in the winter. The sandy playground area had a swing set and a jungle gym, but the iron benches were the real key. It was there that mothers, grandmothers, aunties, and housekeepers sat, watching the children romp as they chatted, read, or just stared at their charges.
Bimmy
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