Collective Memories of Mom and Dad

I'm hoping my sister, children, nieces and nephew will contribute to this portion of the blog, celebrating wonderful parents and grandparents. I feel especially blessed because I am the elder sibling. My sister, Janice, is about nine years younger than I am. From a generational perspective, it's almost as if we had two sets of parents. I had the younger, more energetic parents, and she had the more affluent, ones. I think I got the better deal. (Sorry, Jan) I also had the unique experience of living with our maternal grandparents, Elizabeth and WC French, for the first few years of my life, and seeing living the interaction between the two.

I'll begin at my earliest memories. I really don't remember being born in Tampa. I do remember a few things though. Maybe these memories are based on what I was told, but I don't think so. I remember being in a playpen, calling for Rockie. (He must have lived across the street.) I was told I called him "Ockie," but I was pretty young. My mom says I began speaking at six months. If any of my children had begun speaking at six months, I would have freaked out. Lucky for me, mom and dad took this as normal. I am told my parents took me to the Falk Theater for a movie (6-9 months) and I began screaming. To keep me quiet, Dad took me to a playground (must have been near the University of Tampa) and put me in a swing to quiet me. I was only there awhile until I fell out. Reportedly, I said, "Whoops, clumsy baby," after the fall. This story has been recounted many years. I believe it to be true.

While still in Tampa, I had the experience of Mom placing me on a pony for a picture. Years later, I discovered my boss, Nilo Menendez, had his picture taken on the same day, in the same place. Apparently, Mom liked the little house Nilo's parent's rented and the day they moved out, Mom moved in. (She didn't tell Dad, though.) After work, he came home to the wrong house. Mom apparently even moved the washing machine without his help. She was a total work horse. Still is. Mom claims I was sick, despite being dressed in a cowgirl outfit for the picture, but also said, I only cried when I was taken off the horse. For years, I was a horse fanatic.

My first memories of Miami and living with my grandparents was the placement of my crib. It was adjacent to the window on the side of the house where my grandfather began digging the pool. My earliest memory of a toy was a white elephant, plastic, spotted in primary colors, and stuffed. I also remember biting the edges of my crib. I'm pretty sure I chewed on the elephant too. They say I bounced in my crib (like bouncing on a bed) and did so until I bounced right out of it. While my grandmother worked at Little River at the telephone company and my grandfather ran the gas station, mom kept house. When she left for the grocery store, I remember my grandfather staying with me, giving me a beer, and when mom came home she found me, plastered, under the kitchen table with a cat by the tail. (I have loved cats ever since - beer pretty much too.)

I have great memories of my grandfather. He would bring me things like a doll from the Seminole Indian Reservation. I treasured that doll for a long time. His friend, Bucky Lovelace, also taught me Spanish. I learned my numbers 1-10 en Espanol, before I hit first grade. Bucky was wonderful. When we moved to our first house, away from my grandparents, he occupied a trailer on the back of our lot. About that first house, though. I refused to use the bathroom there. Don't know why, but it was pink. I didn't trust it. I don't remember how long I held out, but must have given in by the time I was three or four. My grandfather made me a small wooden bench that matched my bedroom. I still have it.

I loved my grandfather. In fact, I spent an entire summer hiding out in his bedroom. It was the only air-conditioned space in Miami I knew of. Apart from waiting for Saturday cartoons like Mighty Mouse and programs like Roy Rogers and Sky King, I learned to make spit-wads that summer. Back then toilet paper came in beautiful pastel colors; yellow, blue, green, pink, etc. I don't think anyone noticed until late that I chewed that colored paper into tiny spit wads and thrust them up to the ceiling in his bedroom. Guess adults didn't look up that much. Back then, the ceilings were plastered, so removing my spit wads must have made for some really frustrated adults.

Even though my grandmother worked at the telephone company, she was always good for a game of canasta (yes, she taught me canasta with two decks of cards), plus graham crackers and milk, AND, she would even let me pretend to shave her legs. (She would let me rub pink cream on her legs, she would remove the straight razor, and I would scrape the cream off her legs.) I think we talked about how much she loved Liberace, and she would also let me play with the "falsies" in her bra drawer.

Years later, I would NEVER have need of the knowledge of "falsies" having inherited my breasts from my grandfather's side of the family, but felt better for having known what they were.

My grandfather was never anything but nice to me. He made bets with me, he knew I would win, like, my learning to say the alphabet backwards and winning silver dollars from him: he was NOT nice to my dad. He made bad jokes about my father and his hair. I think my grandfather actually resented my dad for taking my mom, who was the best caretaker they had for their home. He tried to belittle my dad in any way he knew how. My crazy grandfather was probably jealous of a man who cared enough about his family to stay with them, love them, and never try their love.

My grandfather loved practical (and impractical) jokes. As far back as I can remember, he had a monkey named, Sam. He kept a "sucker dollar" list on his gas station store ceiling (people who had been "suckered" our of a dollar bet) and he even made "Life" Magazine once, when, as a promotion, had a woman sit on duck eggs in an effort to hatch them. My dad said he used to also purchase airplane fuel at a discount and sell it for a lower octane at the gas station, and jalopies used to run like crazy on it.

My grandfather's claim to fame were: 1) He was shot in Chicago during a gang war and carried the bullet with him 2) Was bit by a rabid dog as a child and had 21 shots in his stomach to prove it 3) His sister was pinched by a ghost in the hotel they ran outside of Chicago 4) Always kept a monkey named, Sam.

He was, I discovered later in life, an unfaithful husband who caused my grandmother a lot of heartbreak. When he got sick with multiple myeloma, later in life, I was there with my grandmother. His pain was so great they could no longer support his constant need for shots of morphine, they gave him a partial lobotomy. He thought I was my mom. It was truly sad.