All dressed to the nines in my jaw dropping, turquoise evening gown with my hair in a bun, bright red lipstick mostly on my lips and flat shoes hidden under all that flowing satin. No high heels on when I crossed a major street- my mother’s rule, too dangerous. Did she not notice everyone always stopped to let me cross? I would have been fine with high heels. Yes, of course my evening gown had a plunging neckline and it did need a few extra safety pins to look proportionally correct on my six-year-old frame.
I would cross the busy avenue solo, while all my second mothers watched from the many windows to make sure I arrived safely at my favorite place, Jay’s Diner. I ate at the diner 2 or 3 times a week for my mid-afternoon snack. We ate late because my parents worked late, so mid-afternoon snacking was very encouraged at our house.
The heads of the five hard working ladies of the diner would spin as I walked in the door, every time, perhaps because I was always a bit overdressed for the venue. As I’d pull my floor length satin dress and me up onto the tall pedestal seat the grill cook always said, “the usual?” Yes, 2 hamburgers, loaded, medium rare, a large order of french fries and please, save me a dish of grapenut pudding. “Lots of the whipped cream, thank you.” I was a regular diner patron.
I keep connecting with an early childhood memory about summer days at the beach.
There’s barely a minute to breathe and yet I am practically hyperventilating. I’ve never been good at containing my excitement, and this year, I seem to be more excited than ever about Fair Week.
On December 24th, 1963, Philadelphia was hit with a rip-roaring
blizzard. I’ll never forget it. By evening, the drifts were well past
knee-high. Snowflakes swirled in the halos of streetlights. Driving
anywhere was out of the question. Wrapped up in coats, boots, gloves,
hats and scarves, and loaded down with bags of presents, my girlfriend
Bonnie, my mother and I set out on foot for Aunt Tilda’s house. What would have been a 7-minute drive turned into an hour trek. I
remember laughing so hard we could hardly walk. We knew we were crazy
to be slogging through such a storm, but we were determined to reach
our destination. It was Christmas Eve, and Aunt Tilda had prepared the
traditional Italian Feast of Seven Fishes.
It was a cool, rainy fall day at our store in Maine many years ago. My sister was running errands and I was alone at our store. A well-waxed black truck pulled into the driveway and parked way too close to our building. I admit I was a bit nervous as I watched for the person or persons to get out from behind the blacked-out windows. The door opened slowly and a huge single foot appeared from under the door and slowly another emerged. The single occupant was the tallest and biggest person I had every seen in my life and he was headed for our front door. Tom was 6 feet, 8 inches and weighed around 600 pounds, seriously huge.