She’s four now and it seems like yesterday she was barely walking, crawling sideways like a huge pink crab with her undeveloped knees brushing the floor in lightning speed. Her golden blonde hair is loose, flowing almost to the tops of her thighs like the fragrant flowers trailing from a Maypole. We laugh when we worried that these glorious tresses would never grow out and she would forever be the source of jokes by the mean girls in school. But that was not to be as this indescribably beautiful child standing before us with all the presence and attitude of Xena the Warrior Princess will stake her claim and win against any goddess wannabees. No more baby bubble pipes for this one; she has moved into the power bubble zone. She is a force of nature.
intergalactic shifts bound from planet to planet hail the bubble queen
Fandango gave us a Story Starter prompt and Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story, being as creative with punctuation as we dare. This is my answer to Fan’s prompt and Girlie’s challenge. Enjoy! 🎶🎶🎶
One day when I was about nine years old, I was home with my mother when there was a knock on our door and when I answered it, I was very surprised to see Dottie Pessin – our pudgy-handed neighbor from around the corner who rarely made an appearance – standing there in her perpetually stained housecoat, carrying a thin, flat brown paper bag, hair in curlers, and declaring “Oh, Nancy, I’m soglad you’re home from school because I have something for you and I’d like to come in to show you.”
Well, it wasn’t every day that someone came to our door unannounced bearing gifts for me for no reason under the sun, so I was not about to turn Dottie away (I was no fool, even back then), but my mother had now joined us and was somewhat suspicious about this strange, unexpected visit and asked Dottie to explain herself, to which Dottie replied “I was out shopping when I came across this album of kid’s songs and I immediately thought of Nancy, so I bought it hoping she would like it” and clapping her pudgy hands added “I’m very anxious for her reaction so let’s give it a listen.”
Now, I don’t mind telling you this surprised the hell out of me and pleased me no end because I was already madly in love with everything about music and could barely contain my excitement as I reached for my little record player with the image of Brenda Lee on the lid; Dottie apparently shared my enthusiasm and as the music played she kept asking me “Do you like it? Do you like it?” to which I had to admit I did indeed like it very much (seeing as how I was a kid listening to an album of kid’s songs – what’s not to like?).
We listened to one side of the album and, as I was flipping it over to listen to the other side, Dottie exclaimed “Oh, I’m so pleased you like the album but I just noticed the time and the “Edge Of Night” is coming on in 15 minutes so I’m going to take the record back now and be on my way”; my mother, ever in She-Wolf mode, saw the confused and let-down look on my face and was damn well taken aback herself by that strange and sudden announcement by Dottie …. after all, the album was supposed to be a gift …. and my mother questioned Dottie in no uncertain terms “Just what the hell do you mean you’ll take Nancy’s gift back, Dottie?”
Without an apparent thought for others nor the slightest bit of remorse or worry …. not about my mother’s sizzling Sicilian volcano temper nor the sadness building in my eyes …. Dottie replied “Oh, this isn’t a gift for Nancy;I bought this for my friend’s daughter who’s the same age as Nancy, but since I don’t know anything about little girls (never having had any myself) and the things they like, I wanted to run it by Nancy first to get her opinion, just to make sure it was a good gift and my friend’s daughter wouldn’t be disappointed”, and with that, Dottie Pessin …. our pudgy-handed neighbor from around the corner who rarely made an appearance …. patted the curlers in her hair, took her thin, flat brown paper bag with the album of kid’s songs inside, held it tightly against her perpetually stained housecoat and bounced out our house like the giant green Grinchhelium balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade without so much as a pudgy-handed wave or a glance over her shoulder to spy a regret-filled teardrop fall onto my purple Daisy Duck sweater (because all the other girls wore Minnie Mouse sweaters and I was never like all the other girls).
Now, you may be asking yourself “Could something this bizarre really be true and how could that woman screw with a little girl’s feelings like that?” and I will tell you that it most certainly is true – every pitiful word; I have no idea how someone could be so unaware and insensitive (unless they have their head so far up their ass they can smell Brylcreem) but, after 60-plus years, I still remember that surreal afternoon with Dottie Pessin like it was yesterday and, being a smart cookie for a 9 year old, I had the same thought about Dottie back then as I have this very moment: “What a stupid bitch!” 🌋
This is the Rolling Stones performing “Bitch” …. as if anything else would do!
It’s time to celebrate Birthday Thursdays over at The Rhythm Section. No fuss, no muss – just wall-to-wall music. Stop by for some cake and sympathy! 🎂 https://rhythmsection.blog/
Known to everyone as Baby Mary, she was my dearest friend for three fleeting years, from age four to seven. Nearly seven decades later and I can still picture her heart-shaped face the color of warm caramel framed by waves of chocolate-brown hair, her wide eyes glistening shyly.
At the time my family occupied the corner house of a row of two-family homes on Eastchester Road in The Bronx. Baby Mary and her large family, the Romanos, shared one of those houses. She lived on the ground floor with her parents and maternal grandmother. Her father’s side of the family lived upstairs.
We were just three houses away – close enough for little girls to run giggling back and forth multiple times a day. We spent all our time together, busy with important little girl things.
The residents of Eastchester Road were immigrants who adhered devoutly to their Italian heritage and love of family. They were proud to be living in the United States and strove to become citizens; some passed the test, others didn’t. We delighted in celebrating all the traditional Italian holidays and festivities while embracing all the new and exciting American holidays.
The 4th of July was without a doubt the noisiest day of the year on our street. Some how the men managed to get their hands on firecrackers, sprinklers, cherry bombs, ash cans, rockets and fireworks. Baby Mary’s uncles always seemed to have the most. I remember her uncle Joe had a massive lead pipe with a diameter of at least 12″. He’d prop the pipe against the fence in their backyard so that it was angled and facing the sky. With the glee of a little boy he’d toss firecrackers, cherry bombs, etc., into the pipe and yell for everyone to cover their ears. The explosions were deafening and we’d all cheer. The best was when he’d toss fireworks down the pipe and they’d shoot out into the night sky, erupting in glorious colors. Baby Mary and I would sit together in the corner with our sprinklers taking it all in with eyes as wide as saucers.
I was fascinated by Baby Mary’s mother and grandmother. They did work from home, sewing little bows and pearls onto ladies’ panties. Their hands moved rapidly as they sat in their crowded living room watching soap operas and sewing. I rarely saw Baby Mary’s father; he worked in New Jersey in his cousin’s shoe repair shop and only came home on weekends.
At the age of five Baby Mary and I started kindergarten. Every morning my mother would walk us to school and pick us up in the afternoon. The best times were when she came to get us in her car. My mother was one of the few women in our neighborhood who had a driver’s license. We would gleefully hop into her Ford Fairlane 500, begging she take us to Carvel for ice cream. Sometimes we’d stop for gas and my mother would complain about the price being 30 cents a gallon, calling it highway robbery.
When it was time for us to go to first grade, my parents decided to send me to a private school. It was the first time I was going to be away from my dearest friend and we were heartbroken. We would run to meet each other after school and we played together as much as possible but it wasn’t the same. And our trips to Carvel were few and far between.
One day after school Baby Mary didn’t run to meet me. I looked up and down the street but she was nowhere in sight. My mother brought me inside and told me the saddest news I had ever heard: the Romanos moved away that day. She explained that they went to live in New Jersey where Baby Mary’s father worked. I cried for days and couldn’t understand why she had to leave; I felt so lonely. There was no one to tell my secrets to, play with my dolls or happily share ice cream. I had to see my dearest friend, even if it was for an occasional visit. I pleaded with my mother to drive me to New Jersey but she never did. There was always some reason why we couldn’t go. When a young couple moved into the Romano’s house it was as though Baby Mary never existed.
Years later I learned the truth: Baby Mary’s father was in The States illegally, a fugitive hiding from immigration authorities. He had committed a terrible crime before fleeing to America. He was apprehended in New Jersey and deported; the whole Romano family returned to Italy. I never saw or heard from Baby Mary again. I think of her often and wonder if she ever thinks of me, her dearest friend.
When I was a little girl one of the things I dreamed about was some day marrying the most handsome, kindest and bravest man in the world. My little friends and I shared the same dream, as did most girls back then.
We would gather in my yard under Grandpa’s grapevine for the wedding of Barbie and Ken. Barbie was the princess bride; never was there a lovelier creature with her perfect figure and lustrous blonde hair. Her gown was like a million sparkling clouds sewn together and on her head she wore a diamond tiara that twinkled as brightly as her blue eyes.
Ken was her dashing groom – the epitome of elegance without a hair out of place (literally!). His tuxedo was the finest money could buy and his patent leather shoes glistened like the stars in the darkest sky.
Since we always played in my backyard, only my dolls were allowed to be the bride and groom. My little friends would dress up their Barbies in matching gowns of blue velvet to be bridesmaids. One of my other friends was really lucky; she was the only one who had an Allan doll – he was Ken’s best friend and, of course, his best man. She also “borrowed” her brother’s G.I. Joe chaplain action figure, a very rare piece indeed, to be the priest. One time my friend accidentally spilled chocolate milk all over the chaplain and when her brother found out, she was never allowed near his stuff again.
We took our Barbie and Ken weddings very seriously; we even had rings which our neighbors Mr. & Mrs. Maroni made for us. One was of shimmering silver thread for Barbie and the other was twisted copper wire for Ken. My mother was the caterer; after the ceremony she provided us with the freshest Hostess Cupcakes and the most delicious Nestle’s Quik. Afterwards Ken and Barbie would ride off in Allan’s convertible with a “Just Married” sign on the back. They would have the perfect marriage, just as all our parents had (or so we thought).
My parents fought just about all the time. From breakfast until the time Dad left for work they would argue about something, then it would all start in again after dinner. I’d hear them arguing while I did my homework. At night while trying to get to sleep I would hear other noises coming from my parent’s bedroom. They were pretty loud but they definitely weren’t fighting and the next morning they were all smiles. Go figure.
Then one day my friend’s older sister told us we had to have a talk; she was 12 years old and already wearing a bra so we paid attention. That was the infamous day we learned about S-E-X!! Boy, was that an eye-opening monologue; she talked while we all sat there in shock. I was a pretty curious and precocious child so after that talk I figured out darn quick what those noises were from Mom and Dad’s bedroom at night and why they were always so happy when they woke up in the morning.
Right then and there I promised myself when I got married I would fight with my husband as often as I could. I mean, if Mom and Dad were that happy every morning, there had to be something to this sex thing after all.
The Elephant's Trunk 