Little engineers we were
Designing road systems in the dirt.

Cars and trucks race around
In our make believe adventure until Big Foot

Comes to destroy our creations
In the dirt with their feet, but we persevere

And rebuild the roads
Changing directions so we could crash

Into each other, but no one
Ever got hurt….usually, just bruised feelings

When we argued
And called each other names and how hard it was

To reconcile. Sometimes friends
Would intervene so we could make up

To resume the process
Of building and blowing up the roads and towns

We dreamed up in our heads
Knowing that it could be made all right again

After we had our fill
Of cookies and milk and obligatory nap.

3.14.1993
ronrusso

The Yonkers Chronicles

Comments, critiques welcome.

Go here for AutoBio1

AutoBio 1 and a half

AutoBio2

I want to begin this episode with a poem I wrote back in 1993 that encapsulates this experience. The following story elaborates in detail what this poem only alludes to in its own way. Here’s the poem first:

The Arches

That day we floated
down the brownish river
in a makeshift ship,
a construction site derelict
stolen in the half light of dusk,

we were maybe twelve
in wet blue jeans
and tee shirts rolled
at the sleeves according to custom
in those placid fifties.

The tainted shallow water
was no hindrance
that warm August day; to us
it was just cool
in the heat.

The tall dark bridge seen
through the downstream haze
looked imposing from where we
sat. Its high shadowed arches
rising ominously to the clouds.

Our progress slowed in the shallows
by dragging the old mortar box
over the mud and rocks,
stopping occasionally
to chase the Crayfish

from their hiding places
that summer on the river
called “Bronx”
looking ahead to that bridge
fearing to go under it

lest some strange thing
come from the shadows
of its tall arches
looming ahead, so close now
portending doom.

Yet we push on slowly,
determined to make memories
of our young fear not realizing
the adventure was only about
to begin.

RonRusso

3/13/1993

Now here’s the whole story. While I admit to some artistic license this actually happened. (It’s also a little too long, but…)

To one growing up in Yonkers in the middle of the summer, during those placid fifties, this would seem a perfectly normal thing to do given the nearly unhindered access to the Bronx river and the considerable swelter of the mid afternoon sun.

“Just be cool,” my best friend Danny said said as we sauntered down Crescent Place toward the houses under construction.

“Don’t worry about me. “I’ll be cool,” I said trying to sound as convincing as possible lest he think I didn’t have the courage to go through with our clandestine plan. Danny sometimes liked to take charge to fortress his ego against a little bit of fear at what we are were about to do. I just tried to act nonchalant about the whole thing. Perhaps passive aggressive was more my way of dealing with the same fears.

It was too simple really. We just walked in to what would become someone’s front yard and picked up the steel mortar box that was used to mix the cement and just walked off with it, trying not to complain of its weight that was heavier than we thought. Heading toward Charles Place we turned right at the corner. We had to walk right by old mister Cimmino’s house to get to Bronx River Road. Every one thought the old geezer was a little crazy and we passed by as quietly as we could. I almost dropped my end of the tub when the light came on in the front room window.
“Watch it,” I whispered. “He might see us,”
“Shut up, man and keep walking,” Danny said. “Watch for cars comin.”

At the corner where we had to cross over the road we hesitated just long enough to glance up and down the street. This road was normally busy with traffic. We guessed every one was still at home turning on their nine inch RCA televisions to watch Ralph yell at Alice on the “Honeymooners.”
We crossed the road and walked through the pines on the other side. It was still light enough to see but dark enough for some measure of cover from curious eyes. Only one more major obstacle to cross before we reached our destination.

The Bronx River Parkway was the not so natural boundary between Yonkers and Mount Vernon. Getting across it at dusk with our burden proved to be more than we anticipated as the cars whisked past us. A short sprint across the first who lanes we found ourselves standing there in the median. We were feeling unsure as to how we would explain the strange object we were carrying if a State Trooper just happened by.
Finally, a break in the traffic and we were off in a rush across its two concrete lanes towards what must have been someone’s cow pasture at one time many years ago. The river, which was not much more than a creek about twenty feet wide at the place where we would put in our makeshift boat, was understood to be polluted by the upstream industries effluent, but being in a twelve year olds state of perpetual denial and lack of understanding about such things it didn’t make the slightest difference to us. It was all about the adventure anyway.

Near the bank now, we checked our ill gotten vessel for small holes or cracks in the bottom. Or should we now say ‘hull’ as the true wannabe sailors we were about to soon become would say, ignoring the fact that this four by eight foot piece of equipment would be useless to the construction workers mixing cement in it if it had holes in the bottom.
Nevertheless we continued with due diligence and all seriousness to make certain our safety was assured when, the next morning, we would set off down the unknown regions of the Bronx River. We had no allusions about going as far downstream as Manhattan. We figured that would take us way past lunchtime and we would not be mindful enough to actually prepare food for the trip.

“OK,” Danny said authoritatively “Let’s drag this tub of shit behind those bushes.”
Danny often used more colorful language than I was accustomed to. Not that I was prudish about using cuss words. They just never felt right to my ears and the feel of it rolling off my tongue made me uncomfortable. Of course, I never mentioned such misgivings.
So, obediently I lifted my end and we pulled and tugged the big metal rectangle of a box to its hiding place for the night. It was starting to get dark now and we still had to go back across the parkway on the way to our homes and our respective mothers, who by now would be panicking in fear no doubt, for the lives of their beloved innocent little boys. We were home again soon enough and after a somewhat late supper I went to bed exhausted and had no trouble quickly melting into some not so little boy dreams.

Those shafts of light that stream through the venetian blinds that cover the lone window of the bedroom, left slightly open, cast horizontal lines of light and dark across my forehead, and played across the pillow and bed.
Those few moments of mental haziness prior to achieving consciousness are full of the remnants of a dream which now include being blinded by the strange play of light and dark. I’m not quite sure how much of what was going on in my head was real or part of the dream I’m trying to wake up from.

I breathe deeply and stretch my arms up to reach out to touch the millions of little worlds of dust floating on those shafts of light. The infusion of oxygen finally works its magic in the welcome clarity I am beginning to experience. I imagine those dusty worlds as the universe of which I am not necessarily a part of, but which I can observe and have an affect on. I wave my hand and watch as the little particles fly away from my hand by the storm of wind I have produced. I feel like God. I am all powerful. I blow a little air from my lungs and watch once again as my small effort has such an horrendous effect on the little universe of dust particles surrounding me in my room. I am quickly bored by my role as God of this smallest of universes and begin to extricate myself from the covers on the bed.
I remember now the mission that lay ahead for me and my friend, who is undoubtedly already awake and dressed and probably on his way down the street toward my house.

Sure enough, as I lazily make my way into the kitchen where my mother is already stirring, busy with her motherly morning chores, I hear the anticipated knock at the front door of our apartment, which also happens to open directly into the kitchen. Danny opens the door before I, or my mother can respond to the rapping.
“Hey, man”, he says, “Let’s get going. We got places to go and stuff to do.”
“Hold on, young man,” my mother says not without a little irritation at this abrupt invasion, even though it is not the first time Danny Balog has burst though the door without waiting for a response to his banging.
“Ronnie has to have a little breakfast before I let him out of this house for the day. And what exactly are you boys planning to do today, anyway?”
“Oh, just gonna run down to the river for a while, ma’am,” Danny said vaguely. “Maybe fish a little,” knowing we had no intention of doing any fishing. He couldn’t exactly tell the truth of our small larceny.
“Well, you boys sit down right here and I’ll get you some bowls for cereal, since I know you won’t want to wait on me to cook you anything.”
“Okay, mom,” I said. I was always hungry in the morning and didn’t understand anyone who didn’t eat breakfast.
We finished quickly and Danny came back to my room while I got dressed in jeans that were much too short for my rapidly growing, spindly legs. I’ll never forgive the supervisor of my paper route calling attention to my “high waters” in front of the other young boys waiting for our bundles of newspapers. It didn’t occur to me that they might now come in handy later this day.

We walked south on Crescent Place from my house to avoid having to pass by the new homes being built. We just knew that some site foreman would intuit our guilt and grab us right off the street and send us straight off to jail. So we took the longer route in the opposite direction to the corner of Mile Square Road and turned left down the steep hill toward the parkway and then to our destination….the Bronx River!

Pulling the tub from where we had left it and dragging it down to the waters edge where it was the deepest, we pushed it in not entirely sure the thing would actually float. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned a thing or two about the physics of displacement and how things heavier than water could stay afloat and not sink straight to the bottom.
Danny, in his usual take charge way attempted to jump in first and nearly capsized the thing, yelling; “Hey! Hold that end before you drown me.” Ever dutiful, I grabbed the side of the tub precariously protruding out of the water at a sharp angle while Danny tried to balance the other end by leaning toward the center. I slid my right leg over the side and rolled over to get into our little makeshift ship and managed to push the edge slightly under the water eliciting another howl from my nervous friend, “watch it, Ronnie. Your gonna sink this thing.” As my body rolled over the edge and toward the center, bringing balance once again to the wobbly steel boat, I said, “No way, man. Were good to go.”

We pushed away from the bank with four foot long broom handles usually used as bats in our frequent stick-ball games. Theses ball games were usually played, more often than not on the black-top paved recreational area of our fenced in school yard, (ineptly named P.S. #14). We were finally off on our grand adventure although at that time we had no perception of its grandness or lack thereof. To us, it was just an experiment with some new fangled idea, not even knowing if it would work or not. We had no illusions of being the modern equivalent of Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer. I don’t even think either of us had read any Mark Twain yet. We were just fully involved with this moment, as most kids are. Something I now find more difficult to do as we rush headlong toward an unknown future and grieve over our past mistakes and rarely truly enjoy the moment we’re in. It would be many, many years before I even had an awareness of what it meant to bask reverently in the ‘now-ness’ of this very present moment.

Well, here we go, I thought, not without a semblance of fear and trepidation. Of what I wasn’t sure. Unfounded fears often plagued my youth and played havoc with my self confidence, unlike Danny who always forged ahead full bore in most endeavors. I think I must have envied him in that, even though I was a couple of years older. At any rate, we were moving now, and headed south toward the Bronx, maybe a mile or so from the bridge where Yonkers Avenue kisses Mount Vernon Avenue under which we were now passing, albeit slowly, given the shallowness of water.

At one point we had to stop and get out of the boat, being stuck as we were in the mud and rocks. Climbing out of the metal contraption we now called a boat we each grabbed our respective ends and lifted the boat out of the water and carried it over the rocky sand bar we encountered. I bent down and turned over one of the larger rocks and watched, fascinated as the crayfish scampered out from beneath their now somewhat insecure hollow in the sand. We pestered the unfortunate little creature for a moment or two before moving on. We would go forward about twenty yards or so before encountering yet another shallow, rocky place. I thought that it would take forever to get anywhere at this pace. Not that we had any particular goal in mind. It just seemed like a fun way to spend a hot summer day.

And hot it was. Fortunately for me I didn’t sweat profusely as some of my friends did. Danny included. However, this day I now felt little beads of moisture on my forehead which I wiped with the back of my hand.
We moved along more smoothly now over a stretch of slightly deeper water and just floated along with the current. We didn’t say much for awhile caught up in our own small reveries. I wondered what we might find farther down this little river. I was beginning to feel a little nervous as the landscape became ever more unfamiliar. I looked over at Danny and wondered how he was feeling. Seeing his short, crew-cut blonde hair and Arian blue eyes he exuded an air of confidence and I just assumed he never had a fear. It would be many years later that I would discover his many vulnerabilities.
As I looked ahead I could make out the hazy outline of another bridge in the distance. It appeared much taller than the previous one we passed under a short while ago. Later I would learn that it was called E. 233rd Street bridge. We were really in New York City now! Specifically the northern most regions of the burrough of the Bronx near where it bordered Yonkers. I often wonder, as I did then, how boundaries came to be. Who decides exactly where they should be drawn and why. Sometimes there are natural boundaries that appear obvious. Some not so. As an adult I would often comment how different it seemed whenever we crossed the border from South Carolina into North Carolina. Perhaps the pavement we were traveling on was of a different material but I could have sworn that the landscape was greener crossing into North Carolina, an observation I am sure many South Carolinians would dispute.

Now, some five hundred miles north of that border line of the South, I am sensing a whole different atmosphere to the landscape. It felt colder somehow, a little more shadowed. Perhaps the buildings were taller casting their pall over the scene on the small river rendering it just a little surreal to my imaginative young mind.
I was the first to mention it. I wasn’t sure if Danny even noticed anything different at all. “Look, Danny”, I said. “That bridge down there. Can you see it?”
“Yea. I see it. Looks pretty dark under there. Check out those arches. They must hold up the weight of that whole thing with all the cars and trucks and stuff.”
Danny was already exhibiting talents with drawing and sketching. I envisioned him becoming a famous artist or architect some day, so I was not surprised at his comments. I too was a pretty good sketcher. We shared this common interest among many others.
We stared toward the tall arched bridge in the downstream haze feeling increasingly insignificant the closer we got to it. We didn’t speak for a while, perhaps awed somewhat by its sheer size from our perspective in the tiny boat on the tiny river called “Bronx”.

Finally, nearing the bridge, now maybe one hundred yards away it loomed above us, towering. The beginnings of a small fear crept into our consciousness.
Looking up at the supporting arches we could barely make out shadowy figures flitting about the openings in the arches way above our heads now. We could not tell if they were pigeons or bats or the hated black birds, or crows, which to us were the same thing. The fact that we could not easily identify the creatures only added to our sense of uncertainty.
Danny started pushing with the broom handle stick used to navigate our boat toward the right hand bank of the river.
“Hey! What are you doin’”, I said.
“I just wanna check this thing out. Let’s look around this place a minute,” Danny said.
“Check out what? Are you crazy? I don’t see nothing here worth looking at.”
“Aw, don’t be such a chicken. It is kinda spooky in a way. What is that flying around up there, anyway?
His bravado worried me a little. I was already ’spooked’ by the place a few hundred yards back up the river. Now I had no choice. It was always like that with Danny. He made the decisions, often without consultation, and we were expected to follow along. Which we, meaning his friends, usually did.

We pulled up as close to the bank as we could and Danny jumped out from his position at the front into a few inches of water and pulled the boat up farther onto the bank for which I was grateful, not having to get my shoes all wet again. The bank under the bridge was steep leading up to the first foundation pillars of concrete that supported the bridge. We pulled and groped our way up the embankment using whatever vegetation was available to grab onto, including clumps of grass and twigs and small trees. Sweating more profusely from the heat and exertion than I am accustomed to I was glad to see a level place just at the base of the concrete pillar. Leaning our backs against the dark stained and very old looking concrete, we heaved a collective sigh of relief and breathed a few deep breaths and then relaxed as we perused the scene before us. Our pseudo ship, looking pitifully small and inadequate from up here seemed secure enough with fully half its length on dry land the other half being gently slapped by the passing water.
I still had a sense of foreboding as I looked around and up at the arches above us. Everything about this place, with its shadowy recesses behind the supporting pillars and the flying creatures above, all of whom looked black and large and menacing to me, although I’m sure they were just normal sized birds of various sorts, left me with a creepy, tingly unease I could not rationally account for.

And then we heard some sounds somewhere from above and behind us. We looked at each other, wide-eyed and wondering….what was that? Before we could utter any intelligible words of our own we realized that those sounds were footsteps coming in our direction. Danny turned to look around the edge of the concrete pillar and blurted out “Oh shit! Let’s get out of here, now”
“What is it? I said.
“Shut up and move” I didn’t need any further admonishments from him as I jumped from our spot where we were sitting so calmly a moment before and started running and sometimes sliding down the embankment. At one point I turned back to look from where we came and saw a dark figure in a heavy jacket standing in the place we had just vacated. He had a long scraggly beard and looked dirty with a paper sack in his right hand and laughed at our retreat as he sipped some unknown elixer from his little sack.

Having pushed our contraband cement tub as we affectionately called it away from the bank we pumped that broomstick into the mud and rocks attempting to propel us back upstream as fast as we could make it go. Fortunately the scary looking figure we were trying to escape from just stood there in the same spot probably wondering what had he done that frightened us so as to cause such a hasty scurrying retreat.

As for us, we had no idea in those days of what it meant to be homeless. Such folk were just hobo’s and bums.

to be continued….

Little Engineers

At the apartment at 157 Crescent Place where we lived as a young family the area just outside our entrance was a porch made of concrete and cinder block with two or three stairs leading down to the driveway and parking area. It was not paved in the early 50’s and thus made for ideal conditions for little boys to exercise their creative imaginations.
Thus the following scene which I wrote a few years ago when I first started to think about writing these remembrances. As I recall I decided that my childhood memories would be good material for poetic expression especially when I was experiencing the dreaded ‘writers block’. Myself and some other playmates spent many hours on our knees in the dry dirt just thinking up stuff.

And so we constructed the roads in the dirt we would drive our little toy cars around, with a small metal shovel about three or four inches wide that we also used with our pails at the beach. The cars and trucks were also usually metal, plastics not being as ubiquitous in those days. We would pile up the dirt and sand to make hills and valleys. Sometimes we would even connect two earthen mounds with a small board to make a bridge over a pretend river. We would race around the roadways with our little cars and for a while be utterly lost in our make-believe world.

We frequently crashed into each others vehicles or one of the bigger kids would walk through and kick our roadways and bridges with their big feet and in the process destroy our creation and then we would argue about who did what to whom and end up yelling and perhaps even hitting each other unless our mother heard the ruckus and intervened and then would force us to apologize and make up (against our will, of course). Sometimes she would entice us into the kitchen for snacks and a drink. This tended to calm any war-like thoughts we may have had.

Destroying each others toys seemed to be the prevailing sport when we were so young. Just as it seems to be today (metaphorically), when we are not so young. Globally. the difference being that we tend to hurt a great deal more than each others feelings.

Where is Mother when you need her?

Want to read the original poem on which this writing was based? GO HERE

Chapter 2

To follow up on chapter one, it was about that time of my experience just prior to and following the removal of that birthmark that we began to visit the beach area of Milford, Connecticut where we rented a house on the beach. Interestingly the owners of the house continued to live in the house during our stay there. They were an elderly couple and unwilling to leave their home to the vagaries of strangers.
Of course, to us children it made no difference. We spent most of our time out of the house running around the beach. I had many wonderful days and nights during our times at Milford. Those were the days of innocence when every day was a new adventure.

I was particularly taken by the large horseshoe crabs we found under the house every morning. They would drift in on the high tide during the evenings, perhaps laying their eggs in the sand we guessed. In the mornings they would make their way back into the surf becoming vulnerable to the curiosity and pranks of the young folks (read, me) who thought to make them playthings.

The Horseshow crab is also a wonderful object lesson for outward show and little substance with their large (depending on species) outer menacing looking shell but underneath there is not much there.

The other even more interesting and, to us, compelling area was the little island called Charles Island that was perhaps several hundred yards from the beach. We could walk across to the island via a narrow land bridge which was only accessible during low tide. In those days (around 1954, 1955) we could explore the entire island at will and often did. Once, a buddy and I came across a place that was apparently the ruins of some old building mostly covered over with vegetation. Of course, we thought it was probably haunted and or cursed. It was a scary looking place and we didn’t hang around there too long.
As it turns out according to old legends the island really was cursed. Check out this link for a short but interesting history of Charles Island Curse
I also discovered that the island is now some kind of bird sanctuary and is fenced off to visitors. You can still walk around the perimeter on the beach and rocks but no exploring by curious and potentially mischievous kids.

Charles Island, cursed or otherwise, was a major reason I looked forward to those long hot Summers growing up in Yonkers, NY. There was, at least for a few weeks out of the year, a place of respite from the swelter we often experienced. One of the moments I did not enjoy as much was when my mother decided she needed to rid my face of a growing number of those little red bumps we affectionately called ‘zits’, which in that day were just “pimples”.
The bad part of that ordeal was that we were sitting on a bench at the back of the house which faced the street. It seemed odd to me at first that the back of the house faced the street and the front of the house faced the ocean. The opposite of our normal city folk thinking. My first lesson in paradox I guess.
Anyway, mom made me put my head on her lap and using her opposable thumbs squeezed those pimples and blackheads until something that looked like puss and maybe a little blood would come out. Yes it was a painful ordeal but my embarrassment when some local cute looking teenage girls walked by was the most painful of all. I can still see them staring at us (me!) as they walked by with what I perceived as smirks but which was more probably empathetic knowing smiles. I tried to get her to stop but she would hear none of it no matter how red my face became.

I awoke at 3:55 am and was immediately annoyed at that fact since I somehow knew that I would not return to sleep soon enough for my required six hours to be fulfilled. Oh well. Nothing I can do about that. So I practiced focusing on my breathing (as in meditation) to keep from getting too caught up in random thought, which is the norm. It must have worked. I only know this because at the next awakening I’m thinking about this dream I apparently had in the interim. I went something like this:

The house was large and beautiful and was on the beach front. There were numerous children about doing what children do in the Summer at the beach. These were all our grandchildren and/or their friends. Everyone seemed happy as they laughed and played. At one point I am outside in the front yard and speak to a neighbor, or at least a friend of the neighbor. He had something in his hands, papers or books I am not sure. He asks me If I had a pair of scissors and could he borrow them.
I go back into the house and invite him to join me. I leave him in what I can only describe as the parlor which is nicely furnished with leather sofas and chairs and paneled walls. Not the kind of room one would think appropriate for a beach house. It all looks very expensive. I go upstairs to look for the scissors which I know I keep in the bathroom conveniently in the toothbrush holder. Of course it is not there. I wander about the other rooms trying not to trip over the kids running about. I don’t ask what they are doing upstairs when the wide open beach and sun and ocean are just a few yards away outside beckoning all little children to enjoy its many gifts.
Finally I find Jennifer and ask where the scissors are. I can’t seem to locate them. She goes into the very same bathroom and lifts them from the toothbrush holder where I had just looked moments earlier. These are not the scissors I was looking for so I feel slightly vindicated. It wouldn’t matter to the stranger waiting patiently I hoped downstairs.
I go to the parlor to find the stranger indeed waiting patiently. We talked I little and I was feeling mildly uncomfortable as when one is waiting for the sales pitch from what used to be called an Amway rep. You just knew there was an ulterior motive and that the need for the scissors was just the crack in the door. Sure enough as I am about to leave the room he says something about an organization called “Wealth Angels”. I knew it! There just had to be a hook. Perhaps because of my antipathy toward all such tactics to sell me something I must have decided that now was the time to wake up. And so I did, leaving the scene unfinished as is almost always the case with dreams. I do not recall a time when a dream actually had a conclusion of any kind for good or ill.
Now it is after five AM and I am waiting for the last few moments to pass before the radio alarm goes off (dutifully at 5:30) which of course I don’t need now being fully awake and once again mildly annoyed.

It seemed like just a short while ago. In fact 60 years have past since that time. Amazing. I sat on the kitchen floor playing, but mostly looked up at the adults gathered around the large table, talking incomprehensibly about grown up things ignoring what children may have been around to hear their incessant chattering.
At some point, my mother’s voice caught my attention as she suddenly had the attention of all present, especially me. The only thing I can specifically recall hearing her say was a story about her pregnancy with me several years earlier. She said, “We were eating watermelon (it was July, 1942) when someone spit out a watermelon seed and it flew across the room and hit me in the forehead and I threw my hand up to my forehead and said ‘Oh my God, my baby’s going to be marked!’”
Of course, when I was born I indeed was marked in the exact spot (or so she claimed) where the watermelon seed had hit her on her forehead. I would now have a decidedly unattractive little growth of skin on my left forehead for the next 13 years of my life. And it was not a simple mole. It was a small chunk of skin with little appendages coming from its base which I would occasionally pick at with my fingernails perhaps thinking I could scrape it off like a scab. While I could not pick it off my head I sometimes did cause it to bleed which of course produced a real scab which I then had to pick at some more.
As I said, this went on until one wonderful day in 1955 when my mother and I went to the good doctors office where he proceeded to electrically burn off the offending protuberance (no lasers back then) from my forehead never to be seen or felt again. I could now go out in public and not feel like the “Hunchback of Notre Dame”. (Hunchhead?)
Alas, I can hear my sister now (perhaps rightly so) noting how our mother never did anything about the large mole on her cheek! I understand now how she would have considered such a thing as horribly disfiguring although when I was younger I actually thought it made her look like a movie star. Nevertheless she would protest (again, rightly so) that she thought I was mothers pet. I used to object to that characterization but must admit she was probably correct and I am very sorry for the pain all of that must have caused her, although I cannot take responsibility for what our mother thought or did with her four children. Parents (myself included) often do the dumbest things to their kids. I still wonder how any of us made it to adulthood at all, and so many of those who did suffered terribly and will we ever really grow up as a species of beings on this planet? We’ll see.
I love you, Cookie.

Chapter One

Looking Back – a personal telling of one man’s journey

What would I tell you my children about this life that I have lived to this point? Where do I begin? What do I leave out? These are not rhetorical questions. They pose a serious dilemma, for the memories fade with each passing day. The details get a little fuzzier. So forgive me if you discover some inaccuracies where you may have personal recollections and experiences that differ from my own. This, it would seem, is inevitable. But I will attempt, nonetheless to fill in the detail wherever possible. But if not, it may be that the broader stroke will paint a more vivid picture of an otherwise normal life, and yet also have its own distinctive character. You may even be asked to include some of your own recollections of certain events to enhance the telling of this story. It may help others to see how the different perspectives can enhance the community of our collective experience.

I say collective experience because while I may have what we call individual experiences, in fact everything is so intertwined with everything and everyone else that my own individual experience cannot be what is is without that communal influence. And so my story is also your story in a real and poignant way.

While none of us I suspect can remember their own birth and infancy, many of us can recall events from a very early time. My first experience as a child that sticks with me still, happened in our small apartment in a three story, six unit tenement building in Yonkers, New York. It was the only apartment building on Crescent Place at that time and we lived on the first floor in a four room apartment that faced the street. At different times over the years we also lived in the first floor unit in the rear of the building which had five rooms.

In the kitchen of that first apartment I became very familiar with the linoleum floor where I played about most of the time since I was certainly no more than four years old and perhaps as young as three years or less. I was playing there on the floor but not minding my own business as I was fascinated by the noises of numerous adults seated above me around the kitchen table. My mother (Edith Louise Thomas Russo) and step-father (Anthony Russo) had invited friends over for dinner. As they ate and drank and laughed I pondered their frivolity (as much as a toddler can ponder) from my somewhat anonymous perspective almost literally under their feet.

My mother began telling the story of her early pregnancy with me warmly ensconced in her womb. She said that she and some family and friends were eating watermelon that summer of her largeness and someone was spitting watermelon seeds on the ground instead of laboriously picking them out of the red fleshy fruit by hand. Someone apparently thought it would be fun to have a watermelon seed fight and they began to aim their small projectiles at one another in mock battle. My mother said that she was struck in the forehead by one of those seeds and she reflexively threw her hand to her forehead and exclaimed; “Oh my God! My baby is going to be marked”. She then explained that sure enough, when I was finally born into this world there I was with a birth mark on my forehead in the exact same place where she was struck by a single watermelon seed!

I would now have a decidedly unattractive little growth of skin on my left forehead for the next 13 years of my life. And it was not a simple mole. It was a small chunk of skin with little appendages coming from its base which I would occasionally pick at with my fingernails perhaps thinking I could scrape it off like a scab. While I could not pick it off my head I sometimes did cause it to bleed which of course produced a real scab which I then had to pick at some more.

This went on until one wonderful day in 1955 when my mother and I went to the good doctors office where he proceeded to electrically burn off the offending protuberance (no lasers back then) from my forehead never to be seen or felt again. I could now go out in public and not feel like the “Hunchback of Notre Dame”. (Hunchhead?)

Alas, I can hear my younger sister now (perhaps rightly so) noting how our mother never did anything about the large mole on her cheek! I understand now how she would have considered such a thing as horribly disfiguring although when I was younger I actually thought it made her look like a movie star. Nevertheless she would protest (again, rightly so) that she thought I was mothers pet. I used to object to that characterization but must admit she was probably correct and I am very sorry for the pain all of that must have caused her, although I cannot take responsibility for what our mother thought or did with her four children. Parents (myself included) often do the dumbest things to their kids. I still wonder how any of us made it to adulthood at all, and so many of those who did suffered terribly and will we ever really grow up as a species of beings on this planet? We’ll see.
I love you, Cookie.

Yes, I also realize that much of this is editorializing a very simple story but I like to embellish things just a little in hopes of making it more interesting and shall, no doubt, continue to do so in the retelling of these many recollections.
(To be continued)