The Dutch Door. Common in the Netherlands in the 17th century, Dutch settlers brought their split door to the United States, where it first appeared in rural houses in New York and New Jersey. Originally devised as an exterior door to keep children in and animals out, while allowing air and light to come and go. My dad’s homemade interior Dutch Door let air and light come and go but kept both children and pets out of the kitchen until we wiped our feet or cleaned our paws.
Tag Archives: parent/child role reversal
A Two-Year-Old Walks into a Bar
When I think of Mom, I think of shopping, and when I think of shopping, I think of Mom. They go hand in hand and remained faithful until her late eighties when her last credit card was snatched from her mighty grip. My earliest memory involved them both. At two years old, I tagged along on my first bargain hunting adventure. Her left hand held mine as her right rummaged through clothes racks at a feverish pace. I did my best to keep up, did my best to focus, but it didn’t take long for me to tire and desire to retire from this “shopping thing.” My sore back and aching feet along with my hunger to explore the unfamiliar world in my midst took over. And a momentary motherly lapse presented the perfect opportunity for me to slip free.
Our Champion of the Arts (excerpt)
I’d be hard-pressed to recall a dull moment growing up in Mom’s world, always full of surprises. Some welcome. Some, not so much. She kept herself and us busy. In between her shopping marathons and our various odds jobs, she took us on kid-friendly cultural jaunts in New York City, thirty minutes or thirty hours away depending on traffic. We’d visit Radio City Music Hall to see the latest Disney film and behold the Rockettes’ toes, in unison, pointing to the sky. Or we’d take in a Broadway play, hop on the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, or cruise around Manhattan on the Circle Line. At the 1964 World’s Fair, I saw a “Jetson’s-style” future and heard for the first time but certainly not the last, “It’s A Small World After All.” And I have yet to get that damn song out of my head.
The Parade of Aides (excerpt)
I didn’t know the last time Mom signed anything. She had gorgeous handwriting, and her signature was fine art, but after her stroke in 1992, I feared I’d never see it again. Mom being Mom fully recovered, as did her penmanship. But that was twenty years ago. Out of the six kids, only Laurel’s hand came close. However, Laurel lived in sunny California, and forgery was not an option. At least one I wasn’t willing to entertain—yet. The end of my nightmare all depended on finding a checkbook, if one still existed in this house, and a signature, if Mom could still manage one.
Way Back When (excerpt)
Having five children in her first seven years of marriage and a sixth four years later might have pleased the Catholic Church but had to be a shock to Genevieve. Okay, not a total shock since it takes two. But as an only child, she never experienced other little people, let alone six of them. Noel, on the other hand, had five siblings and several cousins living close by. He didn’t experience peace and quiet until he joined the Army.
The Lentil Soup Wager
While I heated a bowl of lentil soup for Mom, Tweedle Dumb leaned in to offer some sage advice gathered from years of serving her. “Gen doesn’t like soup.” I replied, “If it’s made and served with love, she’ll eat it.” She countered, “Wanna bet?” I couldn’t resist. “Okay, if Mom finishes the entire bowl, will you move out?” She sneered, stuck out her tongue and stomped off. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if Mom would eat anything I prepared for her. This woman with limited taste buds proved to be quite fussy. But when I served that soup—with no coaching on my part—she devoured every last lentil, and in record time. I captured it on my iPhone to share with Tweedle Dumb if she dared to see.
Full Circle (excerpt)
… We witnessed a reconciliation of sorts during Dad’s last years. They worked as a team to battle his heart disease and became nearly inseparable. Dad confirmed this by signing his typewritten updates, “Genoel,” a combination of their names. Mom was the main reason he chose to stay at home instead of in the hospital. But that decision required an extraordinary effort on her part. No spring chicken herself, she struggled to get him in and out of the house, and to and from the outpatient heart clinic several times a week. After seeing our seventy-six-year-old mother crouch behind and push our eighty-two-year-old father’s butt up the four steps to the house, Caryl begged them to move to the Jersey Shore so she could take care of them. Mom smiled, looked at Dad and said, “We’re doing all right, aren’t we?” He nodded, yes, and those two iron-willed folks stayed put. I saw this tandem perform their technique just once. And though I found it painful to watch, it was a beautiful sight to see.
The Recyclers
Our introduction came early. If food scraps didn’t make it into Dad’s creations, they ended up in the compost pile next to the garage. Now, decades later, that might be the most fertile soil in all The Garden State. But his passion for recycling extended far beyond food.When it snowed, all the neighborhood kids sprinted to Maryann Place; a short, steep, and as long as friends stopped traffic at the bottom, a safe hill to slide down on a flexible flyer, toboggan, or in our case, a hollowed-out refrigerator door.
You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Fireplace
On rare occasions, Mom removed the plastic covers from the living room furniture. Only then did we take comfort knowing we wouldn’t, by accident, slide off our seats in the cool months or stick to them in the hot. This also gave us another reason to love Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter Sunday. Turkey, stuffing and Mom’s apple, cherry and pumpkin pies—even with bellyaches after—made Thanksgiving a treat. Bonnets, baked ham, and searching for Mom’s lavish baskets overstuffed with candy, sweetened our Easters. But only Christmas was an all-hands-on-deck family affair. Dad braved the blistering evening snow and a shaky ladder hanging garland and multi-colored lights around our front door, while the rest of us stayed warm by the fire listening to Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole croon Christmas carols. Mom and Laurel set up the Nativity scene on the mantle, keeping Baby Jesus off to the side. David and Caryl hung stockings emblazoned with our names—pets, too—above the fireplace. Michael draped our fragrant Douglas Fir with strings of lights with at least one near impossible to find faulty bulb that threatened to disrupt our holiday cheer. Deecy and I decorated the tree with tinsel and family heirlooms beside ones soon-to-be. And we crowned our masterpiece with an angel and prayed she’d watch over us. But secretly I prayed she’d bring me a bounty of gifts, whether I was naughty or nice.
I’m from Missour-uh
When doubting my tall tales told to escape trouble, my mom declared, “I’m from Missour-uh.” Which, as a child, I never understood. Born and raised in Garden City, Long Island, why in the world would she claim she was from anywhere else? And where did the ‘uh’ come from? It’s spelled Missouri, with ‘an’, that’s pronounced, which also made little sense and only magnified my confusion. Dad’s “You’re full of soup” or “Ya bagrat” clearly captured the Brooklyn brashness we knew and loved. Did my mom secretly prefer the mighty Mississippi over the Hudson River? ‘Showboat’ over ‘Guys and Dolls’? The Cardinals over the Yankees? Well, apparently, yes. “Showboat”, her favorite musical, featured her favorite song, “Why Do I Love You?” Her upright piano music box chimed the same tune. She even named her dog, Zuri, as in, “I’m from…” Her fascination with Missouri—a state she never visited—fascinated me.