The Next Five Stories (21-25) From the Boarding House

21.Dorie and Hildy

I’ve been a bridesmaid thrice in my life. Once, in my twenties, for a close friend

I’d known since high school, but twice for women I’d known for little more than

a year, and when I was 18. A relatively short period of time, and relatively young,

upon reflection, to be asked by two women to be a member of their wedding party.

But Doreen and Hildegarde, having no connection to one another other than being

boarders in our house, endeared themselves to mom and me in the year or two they

lived with us. So it was that Mom hosted their bridal showers in our small living

room and I became a member of their weddings.

Doreen was from Montreal, a second cousin by marriage on my father's side of the family. Shecame to New York to live with her older sister, Norma, who Doreen adored and had come to live in the states with a few years earlier. A year after her arrival, Norma

contracted a staph infection which she thought was the flu. By the time she went to

the ER, it was too late. Untreated, the infection spread quickly, and Norma died two

days later at the age of 28. Doreen, 25, was devastated. At the funeral, which Mom

and I attended, she was inconsolable. She had just become engaged to Chevvy, a young

lawyer of Italian descent, and was planning her wedding. But her sister’s death had

intervened and now Doreen didn’t know what she wanted to do. Only that she didn’t

want to return to the apartment she shared with her sister and live alone. It just so

happened that we had a room available in our boarding house, and when she heard

about it, she came to live with us. We didn’t know one another very well but we were

the closest family she had in New York and had heard enough to know that she’d be

in good hands. As we left the funeral parlor, she thanked us for coming and said,

“please call me Dorie.”

Hildegarde came from Germany. She had become engaged to a a young

German man, Helmut, who had been transferred to work in the States. She followed

him to NY, where he was living in a boarding house in Elmhurst, Queens. Under

her parents strict instructions that Hildegarde not live with Helmut until they were

married, she replied to an ad in the local paper and found us. When she met with

Mom about renting a room, she asked her to call her Hildy.

They were opposites in many ways. Dorie, shy but personable, was petite and

pretty, with a tiny waist that competed with Scarlet O’Hara’s, Just a mite over 5’, she

had shoulder length brown hair, her soft voice, her small hands and feet, and the way

she dressed. She favored pastel colored dresses, blouses and skirts with coordinating

jackets, and simple pumps. Like many young women of her time, she had gotten a

secretarial job straight out of high school and looked forward to getting married. But,

unlike many young women, she had the good sense to enjoy life for a while before

making any marital commitment. Her boyfriend, Chevvy, felt the same way. They

agreed to enjoy each other for a while before getting engaged and setting a date.

Hildy, on the other hand was just under 6’ tall, with broad shoulders, wide

hips, and legs that kept on going. Muscular and trim, it would have been easy to

believe she was in training for a swim marathon. Her most feminine features were her crop of curls, bright blue eyes, a turned up nose, and a ready smile. Hildy was executive secretary to the president of an insurance company in Manhattan, and enjoyed looking the part. She wore her curly hair shortly cropped, favored dark blues and grays, and was the first women I can recall who wore a pant suit, though it didn’t have a name back then.

They both boarded with us at the same time. Dorie was still grieving deeply for

her sister and appreciated the family support that Mom and I provided. Hildy didn’t

know anyone in NY except Helmut; both their families were in Germany so they

both welcomed our companionship, too. Over time, Dorie and Hildy got to know one

another and occasionally went out together as a foursome. The two couples enjoyed

teasing mom about one of her house rules: the visitation of guests. Mom was strict

about that, especially when it came to men. Guests were not allowed in the house

after 8:oo pm. The walls were thin, voices traveled easily, and the older tenants were

quick to complain. When Chevvy and Helmut brought their women back from dinner,

they had to leave them at the front door. No lingering or coming in the house. Try as

they may, Mom never budged on this.

Dorie got married first. She waited until a year had passed after her sister’s

death. Still grieving, she wanted a small informal wedding. Just family and a few

friends. By then, we had gotten to know and love Chez and his family. Not able to

have her sister as maid of honor, she asked Chez’s sister instead, and asked me to

be her bridesmaid. Her parents came down from Montreal two weeks before the

wedding. Mom hosted a bridal shower lunch for her in our apartment after they

arrived. Most of the guests were from Chevvy’s side of the family, all of whom lived

nearby on Long Island. As the tradition went back then, no men were invited. But

it was the first bridal shower Mom had ever hosted. What should she serve? After

talking to Dorie, Mom served deviled eggs, stuffed celery with pimento cheese, tuna

salad on hard rolls, homemade potato salad, and oatmeal raisin cookies.

The wedding took place in July. Dorie wore a white sheath dress, sleeveless and

mid-length, with a short veil. Short white gloves, white pumps, and a small white

bouquet, completed the outfit. She looked perfect, as usual; the stark simplicity of her

wedding attire was a constant reminder to all of us of Norma’s absence. Chez and

his brother, his best man, wore dark blue suits and striped ties. His sister and I wore

identical three-quarter burnished-gold-colored dresses, with cap sleeves, fitted on the top with a flared skirt. Our short gloves were burnished gold, too, as were our shoes: sling backs with open toes, my first pair of high heels. Flowers—a small bouquet of pale yellow roses—

added a contrast to our outfits. Knowing that mom didn’t have the money to afford

my wedding outfit, Dorie insisted on paying for everything.

The wedding ceremony took place on Long Island, in St. Sebastian’s Church,

where Chevvy had been confirmed and served as an altar boy. The late afternoon

ceremony was held in a small chapel off to the side of the main altar. About twenty

of us gathered around Dorie and Chevvy as the priest proclaimed them man and wife.

Afterwards, we went to the home of Chevvy’s parents for cocktails, antipasto, lasagna,

and a wedding cake baked by his sister. It went exactly how Dorie wanted it to go.

If I had any reservation about Dorie, it was that she was a bit too perfect in her

ways. Every outfit she had was perfectly coordinated, whether for work or play. And

I had seen her trousseau. Every item had been picked with coordinated care. Her go-away

suit was light pink, complete with pink hat, and beige purse, gloves and shoes.

Her casual outfits were similarly coordinated, as were her bed clothes: two beautiful

negligees with matching robes and slippers. All were packed just so in her new

suitcase.

As I left the house to go to the chapel, I tripped down the stairs and broke

one of my heels. I cried out. Dorie heard me and turned back to see what happened.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Go back and get another pair of shoes.” The only

dress shoes I had were dark brown suede pumps. Hardly fit for a bridesmaid whose

outfit was supposed to match the maid of honor’s, and for a bride whose outfit was

perfectly coordinated. But there was no time for regrets.

Still, as I entered the limo, I couldn’t look Dorie in the eye. I couldn't bear her

disappointment in me. “I’m so sorry,” I kept saying through my tears, “I’ve let you

down.” “Don’t be silly!” she said emphatically. “You're fine, she said. At that point,

Dorie handed me a tissue that she had tucked inside one of her gloves. Then, taking

my hand firmly in hers, she told the driver, “OK, it’s time to go.” If I had often wondered what would happen if things didn’t go Dorie’s way, that day I found out. She was a trooper.

Hildy’s wedding took place a few months after Dorie’s, on a cool day in

October. It was a big, formal wedding at our local church, St. Joan of Arc, complete

with traditional floor length dresses for the bride, her maid of honor and two

bridesmaids, and tails and ascots for the groom, his best man, and four groomsmen.

Hildy and Helmut, both in their thirties, had come to the States after both their

parents had died, leaving only her sister and his brother. Both came over for the

wedding and served, respectively, as Maid of Honor and Best Man. Then Hildy asked

her best friend and me to be bridesmaids, and Helmut asked four of his friends to be

his groomsmen.

Hildy was radiant in a long, white satin dress, with a scooped neckline

trimmed with pearls, tightly fitted to the waist, and a flowing skirt. A long flowing

train cascaded from a small crown of pearls perched on top of her curls. Her

sister wore pale blue: a floor length strapless dress with a matching shawl for her

shoulders. I and the other bridesmaid were in deep aqua: off the shoulder dresses,

shirred across the breast, with tucked waists and flowing skirts down to the ground.

We all had dyed-to-match headbands and shoes. Hildy, as did Dorie, insisted on

paying for my entire wedding outfit.

The ceremony was at our local church in Jackson Heights and reception was

nearby at an event hall on Northern Boulevard. There were over a hundred guests,

which stunned me. But I should not have been surprised. Hildy and Helmut were

outgoing—especially Helmut—and enjoyed going out often with friends, which they

seemed to make wherever they went.

Prior to the wedding, Hildy had two bridal showers. One was hosted by Mom

in our apartment for the boarders Hildy had gotten to know, including Dorie. There

were just eight of us. After Hildy opened her gift, a sterling silver picture frame

that we all chipped in for, we enjoyed a homemade spread similar to Dorie’s bridal

shower: deviled eggs, celery stuffed with cream cheese, green olives, macaroni salad,

ham-and-American cheese sandwiches, and individual cups of My-T-Fine chocolate

pudding. The other shower, hosted by her sister and held in a restaurant, was a much

grander affair. All of Hildy and Helmut’s family and friends had been invited. The

invitation said, “Come for cocktails and buffet.”(I had to ask Hildy what a buffet was.)

Also, the invite made clear that men were invited! It sounded more like a party

than a shower, and Mom and I agreed that that must have been Helmut’s idea. The

open bar, another term I wasn’t familiar with, was a big hit. And the buffet was

loaded with platters of food that the waiters kept refilling: roast beef, baked ham,

spaghetti and meatballs, macaroni and cheese, green salad, followed by a three tier

wedding cake topped with the plastic figures of a bride and groom. It was the grandest

shower I’d ever been to!

We knew we’d see Dorie and Chez after their wedding, but chances were we

wouldn’t see much of Hildy and Helmut. They were not related to us. Why go through

all the trouble and expense of the bridal shower and being in the wedding, mom and I

asked ourselves? The answer was that Hildy had entered our lives and our hearts and

had become part of our family. In a short time, Mom had become her surrogate mother,

and I the younger sister, that Hildy had needed. And, to Helmut’s credit, he had

realized the importance of our relationship and had come to treat us as family, too.

I had never met a man like Helmut. At first, I thought he was being polite and

friendly to us out of necessity. But as time went on, it became clear that his friendship

was real. He genuinely liked meeting people, sharing feelings, and making friends.

Whenever he and Hildy spent time with Mom and me, which continued even after

they were married and lived in their own apartment, he seemed to enjoy our time

together and never seemed in a rush to leave.

Hildy and Helmut were more different, individually and combined, than any

couple I knew. They accepted one another and let one another be. They respected

traditional values but found their own independent way of doing things. Looking

back, they became a model for what I would one day look for in a man and in a

marriage.

22.The Gin Game

Annie and Rudy Lustig lived upstairs, right above Mom and me. Now in their mid-seventies,

they had moved from a apartment in Flushing, Queens, with Tootsie, their beloved parakeet, to our boarding house. They rented a two room apartment for $10.50 a week—an eat-in kitchen and a large living room in which they slept—and shared a bathroom with the other boarders on the floor. They had raised two children who now were grown and lived on Long Island. Their dream was to saveenough money to buy a small retirement home in the Catskills.

It was 1951. I turned 12 that summer and spent a lot of time, sometimes whole

days, with Annie and Rudy. School was out, Mom was working, and most of my friends

were away. They welcomed me into their apartment, glad to have someone else to talk to,

and watch morning soap operas and afternoon game shows with. Best of all, they taught

me how to play Gin, their favorite card game. That summer, we played Gin every day

on their kitchen table, and binged on cold bottles of Pepsi and bags of Lay’s potato chips.

Occasionally, when Rudy went out to do an errand, Annie would start talking. Her gaze

would drift into space and she sounded as if she was talking to herself. At first, I didn’t

know what to do. But I came to realize that what Annie needed was someone just to

listen. So I sat across from her at the kitchen table, sipped my can of coke, and let her talk:

"Sometimes I say I’m gonna leave. But I know I can’t. I feel like it though, believe me.

Rudy, he don’t do nothing. I do it all. He takes a bath; he leaves a ring. He says he’ll help; he

takes a nap. But he’s a good man, a good husband, a good father. Except he don’t know what to do since he stopped work. Come out with me, Annie, he says. No time, Rudy, I say, too much to do. Every day he goes to the grocery store, finds this on sale, that on sale. This guy never stops buying. I got no more room. Once I walked out, but I came back. It’s no good to be alone."

Rudy and Annie bickered constantly—during their meals, their Gin games,

and their neighborhood walks. At first, I wondered why they sounded so angry

with one another. In time, I realized that it was how they got along. That summer,

I got to know their daily routines pretty well. Every morning, Annie would put on

the morning coffee and take the crumb cake and Danish out of the fridge. She had

set the table the night before. At the other end of the kitchen, their parakeet, Tootsie,

fluttered about. As Annie unveiled the bird cage, the shrieking became incessant.

“Hi Toots. How’s my baby this morning?” The bird perched himself on Annie’s

fingertip.

“Look, Rudy. He knows it’s me. He knows it’s time for breakfast.”

Rudy waddled the length of her other finger and rested on the top of her hand.

Annie brought her hand close to her cheek He pecked her on the corner of her mouth.

“Ouch, you little devil. Not so hard.” She brought her hand back to the top of the

kitchen table. Tootsie hopped off and made his way to the leftover particles of the

crumb cake.

Rudy sat in front of his plate, waiting for Annie to pour the Rice Krispies.

“You’re spoiling that bird, letting him go all over the table and nibbling at our food.”

“He’s good company, Rudy. When I’m lonely, I talk to him. Look at that—he

wants more. Another kiss first, Toots.”

With a sigh, Rudy reached over and helped himself to the Rice Krispies. “One

of these days, he’ll fly right out the window. That’s what will come of your ‘sweet

little devil.’” He flipped the pages of the morning paper between spoonfuls of cereal.

“Safeway has a good price on coffee today, Annie. How about I get six cans?”

“No, no, no. I got too many cans on the shelf already.”

“And their tomato sauce is on sale, $1.59. I paid $1.99 last week.”

“We don’t need, Rudy. Mr. On-the-go. You got an itch? Gotta be on the go all

the time? Neighbors wonder what all the in-and-out is about.”

Balancing the bird on one hand, Annie reached over with the other and lifted the coffee pot off the stove. Rudy waited for his cup to be filled and then asked for a piece of cheese Danish.

“Cake! You gotta have cake every morning! Look at your stomach, Rudy. Three

pieces of cake a day. The doctor says too much but you don’t listen.”

“Sweets for the sweet, my love,” Rudy said.

“Would you believe this hand still hurts, Rudy? How many weeks now? When

I try to open it all the way, it burns. The other hand isn’t so good either. Every day it’s

something else. To tell the truth, I don’t like getting old."

“The bird’s pecking doesn’t help,” Rudy warned. He paused. “Nicholas is

coming over tonight, remember? Says he wants to talk to us. What’re we having?

“His favorite, macaroni and squash. What’s going on? Why’s he coming over alone?

“I didn’t ask.”

“Oh, you. Mr. Quiet. You don’t ask nothing, no one says nothing.”

“What’s to ask? Nicholas says he wants to talk, so he’s coming over.”

“I tell you the truth—I don’t understand our son. He don’t come anymore;

we don’t see him since he got married. He don’t even see his sister anymore. One

brother, one sister, used to be so close. Now I don’t know.”

They’re grown up now. Both busy with their own business. Let them alone. You think too much.”

But Annie couldn’t stop. The next time Rudy went out for a walk, she started

talking again, as if I weren’t there:

"My children are good people. We brought them up right That I know. Always listened.

Always polite. Always a kiss and a hug, a cheery word. Now they don’t say nothing. What’s

wrong, I ask. They say not to worry. I can’t talk to Rudy; he don’t listen. Instead I talk to the

bird. I try to keep busy - the plants, the wash, the cooking, the cleaning. But I got my troubles. The left hand can’t do nothing. The doctor says don’t worry.”

“Come on, Annie, deal the cards.”

“What’s the hurry, Rudy? We got time. I’m the one who’s gotta cook, not you. It’s two more hours before Nicholas gets here. He’s coming from work.”

“How come you always take so long dealing the cards?”

“Look, Rudy, I don’t got all day either. I’m the one who does everything. Let’s play.”

“No, no more. I don’t like you in this game.”

“What do I do? I just want to pass the time. Come on, deal the cards."

“Listen to you. Mr. Innocent. The cards come the way they come. But if you

don’t get good cards, you yell. You make me nervous.”

“You want to play or not? The news is on in an hour.”

“Don’t rush me.”

“Time’s a-flying, Annie. Deal the cards.”

“You don’t like? I don’t play. I got other things to do.”

“Annie, hold up your hand. I can see your cards.”

“So don’t look. Mr. Big Eyes. My hand hurts, Rudy. Don’t rush.”

“Come on, there’s the card you need…the nine of spades. You’ve got the club

and diamond in your hand.”

“How you know which cards I need? You got a machine in your brain?”

“Ah, Annie. Stop the talk and play. Put out a good card.”

“I know what you want, ’’Annie cried. You want an ace. You always want aces.

You keep them in your hand till the end. Then you’re happy. Like a kid.”

“Last time I got stuck with them, remember?” Rudy said impatiently. “Come

on, go.”

“Don’t yell. If I don’t play the ace, I have to break up my hand. For you I should

do that? No way. Here, take your beautiful ace.”

“Gin!” Rudy exclaimed. Laying his cards on the table, he got up. “I need a

walk,” he said.

I stayed at the table with Annie, listening to her talk to herself.

"What’s happened to my family? Why don’t we talk? What’s wrong with Nicholas and

Jeanne? None of my business, they say. Nicholas is moving out; he needs time to think. He

knows best, he says. Jeanne don’t want kids; she’s OK on her own, she says. But I worry. It’s

no good to be alone. I left, but I came back. I didn’t tell nobody."

After living with us for two years, Annie and Rudy saved enough for a down

payment on a two bedroom house in the Catskills, 100 miles northwest of Queens.

Mom and I were among the first to visit. We took the train and they met us at the

station in their recently-bought second-hand station wagon. After lunch, we played

Gin. They still bickered, but by now I knew that it was their way of getting along. It

was clear they loved their little house; together, they had made their dream come true.

For the next few years, we exchanged Christmas cards and occasional phone

calls; unfortunately, because of the distance between their house and ours, we never

saw them again. But I thought of Annie often, especially when I began talking

to myself—it helped to work things out, especially after a fight with Mom—and

pretending Annie was there, to just listen.

23.Elementary School

I was only four when I started looking forward to school. It started with my mother,

who grew up on a farm in Nova Scotia, telling me how she had hated to stop school

after the 7th grade to help with the chores at home. “There’s so much to know that I’ve

never learned and can’t tell you.”

Frannie and Joe, my favorite older couple in the boarding house, would

spend hours reminiscing about their school days. “How we wish we could do it

all over again,” they kept telling me. Best of all, my cousin Jessie, who lived next

door, would tell me about the wonderful places her third grade teacher had visited:

Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, Washington, DC and the White House, all of which

I had never heard of before.

It was a clear sunny day in September, 1944—the first day of Kindergarten.

Mom and I walked to P.S. 69, five blocks from our house. I held Mom’s hand tightly.

Everything I wore was new—shoes and socks, underwear, skirt, blouse and ribbon in

my hair. We got there early and stood at the school gate. After an endless wait, a short, chubby woman with short, curly brown hair walked toward us.“Hello, I’m Miss Harkins,” she said, with a big smile. I looked up, let go of Mom’s hand, and attached myself to Miss Harkins. I hung on to the sleeve of her jacket as she welcomed a group of 18 five year olds, assured our parents that we’d be OK, and led us into the school yard. I vaguely remember some kids lagging behind.

As Mom later told it, “You were the only child who ran to the head of the

line, leaving the others still tugging at their mother’s knees. They must have thought

I was a terrible mother.”

Miss Harkins always had something interesting for us to do: Dressing up in

play clothes, dancing to recorded music, playing with colored clay, building with

big blocks, and my favorite: making holiday decorations—Easter Eggs, snowflakes,

pumpkins and turkeys, and Santa Clauses for the school’s windows—and red crepepaper

mittens with tiny silver stars to take home for the Christmas tree. At the end of

that year, I couldn’t wait for the summer to end and for 1st Grade to start.

But Mom, a devout Catholic, wanted me to go to Catholic school—the one

connected to our church—and registered me at St. Joan of Arc. I hated it from the

first moment I got there. It was a long walk—12 blocks—and I refused to take Mom’s

hand. My only new item of apparel was a school bag containing a lined notebook,

two sharpened #2 pencils, and an eraser. On the way, we passed P.S. 69 and I thought

of all the friends I would miss.

Then I met my teacher, Sister Michael Marie. She was tall and thin, dressed in

a long black hooded robe, with a head piece that hid all of her hair. I wondered why

she was all covered up except for her eyes, nose and mouth, and why she kept her

hands in her pockets. (I later found out that she was clasping her rosary beads.) In the classroom, I noticed a big wooden ruler on her desk. I wondered about that, too, and she explained, with a smile, “I keep this here for children who misbehave.” She may have smiled, but she wasn’t kidding.

That very first day, I spent my lunch hour crying in the cafeteria,

reluctant to go back into the classroom, fearing the threat of the ruler. Two weeks

later, Sister Michael Marie called my mother. “Lorraine cries every day. I don’t know

what to do with her.”

That Friday, Mom met me after school and asked why I was so unhappy. “I

miss my friends at P.S. 69,” I cried. “Are you sure?,” she asked.” I guess I convinced

her because that Monday she took me back to P.S. 69. Miss Zerecko, the 1st grade

teacher, welcomed me, saying “Hi Lorraine. We’re so glad you’re back.” I gave my

mother a quick kiss, marched into the classroom, and happily sat down with all my friends.

When Mom picked me up from school that day, she looked sad. Dad had just

been told he had to return to the TB hospital for two months. It was good that I was

back at P.S. 69, she said. She had enough on her hands with Dad, and was glad she

didn’t have to worry about me. In fact, as far as the following eight years at P.S. 69

were concerned, she never had a moment of regret.

Mrs. Zereko taught me to read and write. Then, Mrs. Fay, in 2nd grade and

again in 3rd taught me arithmetic and how to write script. In 4th grade, Mrs. Plover,

who had just the summer in from Hawaii, spent the whole year telling us about it:

we made leis and learned the Hula, tasted poi, saw pictures of Diamond Head, and

heard stories of King Kamahameha.

In 5th grade, I had Miss Mellick, not one of my favorite teachers—she was too

strict and severe—but we had a student teacher who taught us all about Spain and

Flamenco dancing. Mrs. Timon in 6th grade taught me to recite the multiplication

tables, and explained why we had to crouch under our desks during shelter drills. In

7th, Miss Farrell introduced me to classical music. I can still hum the first few bars of

“Rustle of Spring” by Sinding and recognize “Flight of the Bumble Bee.” In 8th grade,

Miss Dromgool, who looked a lot like her name—tall, thin, pale and humorless—

taught Home Economics and how to use a sewing machine.

The highlight of my years at P.S. 69 happened in 8th grade, when I became

Lieutenant of the Stair Squad. Every morning when the students arrived, and every

afternoon when they departed, they used the stairs at either end of the five-story

building. Each floor and the landing between each floor was assigned a student

monitor to make sure that the kids behaved on their way up and down, and in and out.

Monitors, who were selected by Miss Dromgool, head of the Stair Squad, comprised

7th and 8th graders who had achieved good grades and demonstrated leadership during

their earlier years. I had become a monitor in 7th grade and loved the job.

Much to my surprise, at the end of the year, Miss Dromgool asked me to be the

Lieutenant of the Stair Squad, in charge of all the student monitors. I couldn’t believe it. It

was a position revered by everyone at school. I ran home crying, “You’ll never guess!

I’m head of the Stair Squad.”

After explaining to Mom exactly what that meant, she gave me a big hug and made the sign of the cross—her way of thanking God. The job came with a white sash, a gold badge and a whistle. Every morning I’d stand in the school yard when it was warm—or in the school basement when it was cold—and make sure the kids lined up in their designated spots. One by one, I’d blow my whistle and signal for them to go start going up the stairs. My responsibility was to make sure they were quiet and orderly. Every week I’d meet with Miss

Dromgool and tell her how things were going. She wanted to know if any kid

misbehaved—yelled, ran, or teased a classmate on the staircase. I tried to be as fair

as possible in my report; I knew she’d speak to the kid’s teacher who in turn would

speak with the student.

Then, at the end of 8th grade, I was elected to be Valedictorian of my class. Now

I was flabbergasted. I felt popular with my classmates and thought the younger kids

looked up to me, but it never, ever occurred to me that I’d be asked to speak on behalf

of everyone at graduation. It took time to digest the wonderful news and, again, Mom thanked God.

On Graduation Day, wearing a white, knee-length dress that I made myself

in Home Economics (every girl had to sew her own dress), I led the class into the

auditorium and down the aisle. When I looked up at the audience from the stage,

the first person I saw was my father, who had gotten a one day pass from Seaview, the TB

sanitarium on Staten Island, to come to my graduation. I had visited him a few weeks earlier and, lying in bed in his striped pajamas, he had looked thin and pale. But now, wearing a tie and shirt and his favorite brown leather jacket, he looked handsome, even healthy. It was hard to believe he’d have to return to the hospital that night.

After the ceremony, we went out to lunch: Mom, Dad, cousin Jessie, her parents

(my Uncle Mose and Aunt Alice), and me. We were so glad to be with Dad, and he

was so glad to be with us. He even had good news. The doctors had finally decided

to surgically remove his diseased lung. If all went well, he was looking forward to coming

home soon, by the end of the year. The fact that I might have a dad at home, like all

the rest of my friends, was the best news of the day.

But my optimism was short-lived, and life changed for the worst when I

entered high school.

24.High School

At the end of the summer of 1952, I was still feeling high after my unexpectedly great

year in 8th grade and from having gone to Nova Scotia for two weeks in August with

my Uncle Mike and Aunt Sophie, their gift to me upon graduating from 8th grade.

My mother and father both had been born in Nova Scotia and came to the

States in their early 20’s. I had aunts, uncles and cousins living there, on both my

mother’s and father’s side. Dad’s parents and Mom’s father had died years before, but

mom’s mother was still living on the farm Mom had grown up on. I had grown up

hearing all about my relatives—many, many times—but I had never met them.

When my aunt and uncle invited me to go with them, I was ecstatic but I also

had reservations. I had never left home before, not even to go to summer camp. I had

never wanted to leave Mom alone when Dad was in the hospital. When I told her

about the trip, she said she felt bad that I’d be making the trip without her; she, too,

wished she could see her mother— and sisters and brothers who now had children

of their own. But there was no way she could come with us: she was not yet an

American citizen and there was a chance she would be stopped and detained at the

US/Canadian border.

Then she said what she said to me many times before. “Please don’t leave me

alone,” she said. “What if something happens to Daddy?” At the time, Dad was still at the

Seaview TB Hospital on Staten Island, resting for an upcoming surgery to remove one

of his lungs. It had been a hard decision to make; the doctors were hopeful but there

was no guarantee of success. It was Dad who decided to have the operation, just as it

was Dad who persuaded Mom to let me go. “She’s never been away from home,” he

told her. “It’s time.”

The car trip to Nova Scotia took two days. We drove up through Maine, stayed

overnight at a motel, and then took the ferry from Bar Harbor to Halifax. We finally

arrived in Cheticamp, Mom’s home town. I loved the excitement of being there and

meeting Mom and Dad’s families. My grandmother kept hugging me, my aunts and

uncles kept feeding me, and my cousins made me feel as if we’d always known one

another. My aunts and uncles spoke French with one another, the way Mom and Dad

did at home when it was just us. Though I couldn’t speak French, I could understand

most of what was said. My cousins, on the other hand, spoke English—at home, at

school, everywhere. I needn’t have worried that I’d have trouble talking to them. It

was an unforgettable two weeks.

I sent postcards to Mom every day and came home with loads of pictures to

show her. The boarders wanted to hear about the trip, too; several said that though

they considered themselves extended family, they were happy that I finally had

met “blood relatives.” Best of all, Mom had done OK on her own, and Dad’s health

prognosis was looking better. By September, I was eager to start high school.

William Cullen Bryant High School, in Long Island City, seemed huge, a red

brick building as big as a warehouse. It occupied a whole city block and was four

stories high. Because of geographic districting guidelines, high schools were selected

based on where you lived in Jackson Heights. Some of us went to Bryant, and others

went to Elmhurst High School. A few of the wealthier kids went to the Garden

School, a private school in Jackson Heights. I recognized a few kids from Jackson

Heights but they had been part of another clique and kept to themselves.

P.S. 69 had felt like home; Bryant High was unfamiliar and seemed unfriendly.

I walked down the long halls, looking for my home room. When I found it, I entered

a room full of strange faces. They all looked at me as I entered, but no one spoke.

They all had a notebook and pencil in their hands, waiting for the teacher to arrive

and tell them what to do. I felt a bit better. We all were in the same boat.

That first week I fell in love with Mr. McGee, my bookkeeping teacher, a short,

thin man in his 40’s, always wore a shirt and tie, but no jacket. He spoke in a quiet but

caring voice. In between explaining debits from credits, he would tell the class about

himself, his two teenage boys, and his wife who was recovering from cancer. He

confided in us and treated us like adults, and we reciprocated by paying attention and

doing our best. I never grew to like bookkeeping, but I looked forward to going to class.

It was in that same class that I met Ruthie, tall, thin and blond, who had moved

to Jackson Heights just that summer. She was new to Queens and to Bryant High

School, and as eager to find a friend as I was. We started going to school together in the

morning and when our classes coincided, going home together in the afternoon. It was

when I told her about my Dad having TB that she confided that her parents had just

told her they were getting a divorce. It was the first time I had known someone whose

parents were divorcing; Ruthie had never known anyone who had a parent with TB. By the time we admitted how embarrassed we were to tell people, we were inseparable.

I developed a crush on Mr. Bogdan, too, my social studies teacher. He was a tall,

hefty man who always wore a jacket and shirt, open at the neck; no tie. He had a loud

voice and an informal, friendly manner. On the first day of class, as he went around

the room asking us to introduce ourselves, he asked if we knew the derivatives of

our last names. My name was Aucoin (pronounced oh-qua’ in French); I told him it

meant “on the corner.” “ Perhaps one of your ancestors had a newspaper stand or

maybe one was a prostitute,” he said. I felt a bit embarrassed, especially when the

class laughed. But he was serious. “It may sound funny,” he explained, “but there

is something to be learned from each of your names,” he said. He continued to do

the same with each student. By the end of the week, Mr. Bogdan had taught us all

something about ourselves that we hadn’t known before. The joke was on all of us.

It was in Mr. Bogdan’s class that I met my other close friend, Terry (who

would one day become my sister-in-law). Mr. Bogdan explained that her last name,

Zamora, could have derived from an ancient city in Spain. It meant ‘wild olives’ in

Spanish and perhaps dated back to ancestors who had olive farms at the turn of the

16th century. Terry and I caught on quickly and often joked that between us, our last names

went from A to Z. She had a lively personality and lived in Astoria, close to school.

We’d often go to her house to do homework together, and that’s where I met and fell

in love with her older brother. We started dating in my senior year and, as it turned

out, got married several years later.

In early December, Dad finally had surgery; after the removal of a lung and

several ribs, the doctors were hopeful that he’d make a slow but full recovery. One

night, between Christmas and New Year’s, he hemorrhaged. He died that morning.

Mom and I were devastated. We couldn’t believe that life could be so unfair! It was

the first time I ever heard my mother curse God because he hadn’t answered her

prayers. Our boarders took turns staying with us and bringing us food as we made the

funeral arrangements. My aunts, uncles and cousins came from Waltham for the

wake and burial. It was all a big blur.

When I returned to school at the end of the holidays, life felt unreal. Just a few

weeks before, I had looked forward to the holidays and Dad coming home. Now he

was dead and no one except Ruthie and Terry knew. I told them not to tell anyone; I

didn’t want the other kids to feel sorry for me. So while they were exchanging stories

about what they did over the holidays, I remained silent. It took over a month for me

to tell Mr. McGee that my father had died. And that’s because he was the only one

who noticed that, suddenly, I wasn’t paying attention in class.

After that, Mr. McGee and I talked a lot. He asked why I was taking the commercial

course. “Because my mother wants me to get job after school; she doesn’t think a

girl needs to go to college,” I told him. I explained that we were on welfare and I needed

to make some money. “I understand,” he said, “but there might be a way to combine your

commercial studies with academic studies, so you’d have a choice later on.”

He took me to my advisor and explained the situation; she agreed with what

he was suggesting. It took a letter from my advisor to Mom and a lot of convincing.

some of the boarders spoke to Mom, too. Finally Mom relented. In addition

to taking the required commercial subjects, I doubled up on math, history and

science, and graduated with a combined academic and commercial degree.

After high school, I went to work; we needed the money. A year later,

continuing my day job, I registered for night school at City College. Thanks to Mr.

McGee and my advisor, and some supportive boarders, I had all the credentials. I was 40 when I finally got my BA (I took time out between credits to get married and have two kids), but it never would have happened without Mr. McGee.

25.Life After the Boarding House

I do not miss:

Sleeping in the kitchen

Sharing the bathroom

Acting like a lady

Being polite

Keeping my voice down

Meatless Fridays

Fishless Sundays

Believing in God or Santa Claus

Going to church

Going to confession

Saying the rosary

and

Priests, nuns, and welfare investigators.

I do miss:

My mother’s unconditional love

My father’s enduring spirit

My surrogate family of aunts, uncles and cousins

The boarders who extended my universe

and

The small, safe world of the boarding house, real or imagined