INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
- LLC Member Memoirs: "D-Day" by Paul Wortman, "The Cello" by Evelyn Blum, and "Aunt Enza" by Joanne Comeau
D-Day
by Paul Wortman
June 6 is the anniversary of D-Day–the day in 1944 when the Allies landed in Normandy and the final phase of World War II (WWII) began. It comes a bit more than a week after the original D-Day, as in Decoration Day, now renamed as Memorial Day, and unfortunately celebrated as the unofficial start of summer with its three Bs—beaches, barbecues, and bikinis. A friend sent me, as a reminder, one of Whitman’s memorable Civil War poems—the war that Decoration Day commemorates, and the day when we are supposed to visit and decorate the graves of our fallen fathers, brothers and uncles. Sadly, they are now being joined by mothers, sisters, and aunts.
On this day I think of my uncles—Charlie, Jack, and Mack. All fought in WWII. D-Day was a week before my fourth birthday; yet, I clearly remember my Uncle Jack who died in action five months earlier. He is one of my first memories. And then Charlie and Mack both returned from the war. Mack never spoke about it, but Charlie did. He was one of the top navigators in the Air Force and flew with Truman and MacArthur all over the world. I remember my six-year old eyes bugging out as he showed me the currencies he’d collected on all his wartime travels. He told me that in China, where he met Chiang Kai-shek, they still practiced infanticide and the Yangtze River was filled with drowned infants. Charlie was the true all-American, happy warrior, ever smiling and always your friend. He passed away last year.
I remember that the last Civil War veteran died around the time Charlie showed me the money, and a decade later reading William Shirer’s book, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, which described the brutality of the concentration camps where half of my maternal grandmother’s family had perished. There were gruesome photos, too, of open pits filled with bodies that I’ve never forgotten.
When I was sixteen I got a summer job cleaning oil burners. All the guys I worked with were WWII veterans. They spoke of the war. I remember one saying how he had to “stack up bodies like cordwood” after the battle of Peleliu in the Pacific. I thought it strange that they would often go into the vacant living rooms of the houses, open the bar, and take a shot of hard liquor. Now I understand.
I don’t know where Charlie and Jack are buried and I haven’t decorated their graves. But they have decorated my memories, as the following poem attests.
The Potato Chip Man
I’ve always had a passion for potato chips.
Is it some nervous addiction,
or a celebration of a smooth, round, salty treat
like some happy childhood memory that is
still crisp despite the years?
A small boy answers the snappy knock on the door.
A smile and a hand descend from the heavens
holding a tiny miracle—a 5 cent bag of
State Line potato chips.
Shazam! Uncle Jack in his pressed khaki uniform
is Captain Marvelous.
A year, a war, a holocaust, a childhood
goes screaming by.
A little boy stands uneasily before a stern
poster of Eisenhower in kindergarten.
Uncle Jack was killed at Anzio; shot by the Nazis
after fleeing Germany eight years earlier.
The bastards! On the home front there is no
armistice in the unrelenting parental warfare.
Now, have I grown old and brittle
ready to snap with the next crunch of life
like some old salt who’s been worn razor-thin
from voyages through the tumultuous seas of life?
And still I am a muncher of chips
savoring their crisp taste
gently sprinkled with salty tears.
And I remember that day as yesterday,
today, and tomorrow
when love descended from the sky
in a 5 cent bag of State Line potato chips.
—Paul Marshall Wortman, June 6, 2006
The Cello
by Evelyn Blum
The cello is a divine instrument and in the right hands can spiritually and psychologically uplift the listener. But in the wrong hands, well, it's a whole different story.
In 1965, Seymour and I moved into a high third floor apartment on Chicago’s north side. A pre-World War II, solidly built building with twenty apartments, its wide staircase and large carriage room hinted of past elegance. The rooms were large and airy, the rent modest. Once we had kids it got a little crowded, but we managed and the toddlers learned to climb the stairs, clinging to the banister, one laborious step after another to the very top.
Seymour played in an amateur orchestra, and I tagged along to the weekly rehearsals.
We also had a weekly chamber music quartet in our small apartment which made me feel cultured. Though I had never had great interest in classical music, these performances inspired me to want Lisa and Robert to play the violin. Sure, they were only 3 and 4, but it’s never too early to start – plus the surefire Suzuki method for children was all the rage.
Over time, as I watched them saw away at ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’, and ‘Twinkle , Twinkle, Little Star’, their ¼ size violins tucked under their chins, I visualized them playing in youth orchestras, maybe becoming lifelong musicians. Then expanding on that, I asked myself, why not me? I would learn to play the cello and we would form a family quartet. I was in my mid thirties, and, though never having had a music lesson, I felt supremely confident. My fever dream was a family quartet, Seymour, first violin, Lisa second, Robert, viola, and me, the cello.
I found a cello teacher, bought a cheap Chinese instrument, which, I have to add, came apart at the seams not too long after, and began my education. Beginners usually feel they are making swift progress because they don’t know anything and therefore are able to ‘pick the low-hanging fruit’ of accomplishments. So I learned to identify the strings, use a pitch fork, bowing, and note reading and bought a metronome to torture myself with its relentless tick-tock to learn timing. After 1 ½ years, I could play recognizable music. Once, the chamber group generously let me join in to play a short, simple section.
I practiced most days in the early morning. Sitting in the middle of the living room, I attached a mute to the endpin to muffle the sound, then pressed the endpin into the carpet to stabilize the instrument. With the cello positioned between my legs, I began scales and exercises. One morning I was startled by a pounding on my door. Since few people ever showed up at our apartment, my heart jumped. I called out tentatively, “Who is it?” I heard a muffled voice through the heavy door.
I cautiously cracked it open. An agitated, disheveled old woman, clutching the front of her wrapper tightly together, stood glaring at me. She swayed, slightly, then steadied herself by holding on to the door jamb. She croaked, “Stop making that racket.”
I had been in the building for ten years but knew almost no one.
“Who are you?” I said, holding the door, slightly ajar. “What do you want?”
”My apartment, right under you.” She paused, I don’t feel so good and you’re killing me!!” The exertion made her pant. “It’s terrible.”
My face flushed and, looking down, I saw the misshapen slippers encasing her swollen feet. I mumbled, “Sorry. I didn’t know you could hear me.”
“Hear you? Stop already!” She turned to make her way down the stairs, then stopped, clutching the banister, turned back, glaring at me again for good measure, “‘You're killing me.”
I returned to my chair, repositioned the cello and, with bow in hand, felt shaken but also a bit annoyed. I lowered the bow and sat, my mind filled with defenses and justifications. Was my music only a racket? She said she was sick, maybe everything aggravated her. Couldn't I live freely in my home? But really, was my playing so bad it could kill? That was absurd.
I didn’t hear from her again, but became acutely aware of her presence, probably lying in her bed, coverlet up to her chin, eyes closed, suffering. I still tried to play, but I became hesitant, then resentful. Seymour worried she would complain to the landlord. Practice became difficult, infrequent, and I felt my dream slipping away.
Early one morning, a few weeks later, I heard sirens. Running to the front window I saw an ambulance stop in front of our building and a crew rush in. I opened my door just enough to peer down. I waited a bit, then saw men carrying a stretcher down the stairs. I wondered if it was the old woman. But I had to get the kids ready for school, and it left my mind.
Sometime later, I asked a neighbor, and was told it was the old woman who had been taken away. “Oh, yes, she died,” he said. I walked away shaking my head, was it me?
About Enza
by Joanne Comeau
This is a story about my Aunt Edna, affectionately known as Enza. This memoir covers a period of about 6 years…from when I was 6 until 12.
To my way of thinking, she was always glamorous. She had more leopard clothes than you could imagine. She liked wearing spike heels—although she donned sneakers like the rest of us when it was time to play. But one thing so special about her, as I think back now, was the way she could light up a room. Things just seemed to sparkle.
Enza, who was in her 30’s, came to my family’s house every other weekend. She took care of my two sisters and me on Saturday nights to give my parents a well-deserved opportunity to dine out or go to the movies. And then it was time for “Glamour Girls,” something Enza put together to entertain us. And we loved it.
We started by going into the family room. We would then lie on the floor and tuck our feet under the couch. Then we’d put our hands behind our head and do sit-ups! I don’t recall doing too many of them, but I recognize now that a woman in her 30’s would be more committed to sit-ups than my sisters and I would!
Next we would head off to have Enza do our nails, which she did with great aplomb, and we tried to sit patiently while they dried. Then it was hairdos—the event that offered the most creativity. There were updos and braids, and a variety of elastics, headbands, hair clips and bows that could help the hairdos stay in place and add a touch of sophistication.
The evening concluded with a trip to the kitchen, where Edna would make us ice cream sodas. I didn’t know at first what an ice cream soda was. But I quickly learned that ginger ale and vanilla ice cream make a wonderful combination.
Edna’s kindness and enjoyment of her nieces extended to our friends. When they saw Edna’s car parked in front of the family home in Pawtucket, they knew that after Sunday dinner, there would be a trip for ice cream. However many of us there were, we would pile into Edna’s car (no seat belts then) and take the short drive to DairyTown on Newport Avenue. She’d give everyone a dime from her change purse. That purse was white leather with artificial gold coins loosely sewn onto it, so they would softly jingle when you opened it. I can see that coin purse to this day.
One Saturday night when Enza was not visiting, the phone rang at 2 a.m. I could hear my parents talking, and I could tell my Dad had gone out. Something seemed very wrong. I fell back to sleep but woke up early, along with my older sister Leslie. We headed into our parents’ room, and my mother told us that Edna had been in a car crash and had died. She was 43. I was 12. It was unthinkable.
A few days later, my aunt Birdie from Texas arrived. I’d seen her only one other time. Also, my uncle Joe from Florida; I’d never met him. This was long before air travel became so popular. There was a lot of talking in hushed tones by the adults. I felt confused. And afraid.
I remember going to my first funeral service a few days later. I remember it was a cold and rainy March day.
And I remember a feeling of deep, deep sorrow.
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