I have a few photos from the very young years of Butch and I, before five. We are so full of light. Usually dressed in Sunday clothes, although I don’t remember going to church much. But I likely would have had my first communion at six. Don’t remember anything about the church ceremony. No recollection of a white dress, white shoes, stocking, or even the incense. St Mary’s was such a massive church. Always chilly, even in summer.

I do remember a pair of white Mary Janes when I was about nine or ten in 1954. Bought before Labor Day for our summer trip to New York City. That was a miracle, that we were traveling. There were people in my hometown of Putnam, Connecticut, who never had even traveled to Providence, RI, just thirty miles away. So, it was a big deal. There was mom and me and my mom’s only sister, Aunt Ronnie, and Peter her son, my cousin. He was about thirteen. We were taking a train. The trip into Penn Station would have taken about two and a half hours. Peter and I got to sit separately from our mothers. We were moving all over the train car. Switching from side to side depending on what was the best view. We were ecstatic! We wore Sunday clothes. Us gals even white gloves.

Once we arrived in New York, we stayed at the first hotel I had ever stayed in, the Dixie, which was in Times Square. I remember we climbed stairs to get to our room and it was very small. Two beds and a dresser left hardly any room for us. I had no judgement about it at the time. Just excited that we were in New York. Years later Johnny Carson made jokes about this very hotel. I felt a tinge of shame. That was a habit of mine.

That first evening in New York Uncle Danny came to our room after his work and brought some fish and chips and ice-cold bottles of Moxie. We ate it in our room. Spread it out on our beds. The window was open and we could hear the din of the city. It was loud and exciting.

Uncle Danny was dressed in a fine gray suit and tie. Mom worked in the woolen mills so we knew our worsted. And wearing a suit every day to go to work? Plain impressive. He worked right there in the city. He took a train every night home to Long Island. He said he read the paper and just relaxed on the trip home.

Uncle Danny had married my Aunt Dina and they had one son Chris at the time. Owned their home, bought it with the GI Bill. So that was also amazing. Although he could have been shot to death in Europe for the benefit. But he hadn’t, he attributed Granny’s prayers for bringing him back alive. Uncle John, Uncle George, Uncle Tommy all came back too. Uncle Bobby had some problem that kept him out. So he stayed and worked in the mills. Still, our family definitely considered of all our relatives Uncle Danny had made it. The Army had also helped him get that great job. Though I can’t say I knew what his job entailed.

Uncle Danny’s wife, Aunt Dina wasn’t Mom’s favorite. They rarely visited us although they had a car. Mom knew it was Dena’s doing. But really, I could make a pretty long list of why-nots to visit our clan. Won’t go into that. Dena was short and dark, wore fancy clothes so she wasn’t obligated to do anything during their rare visits, didn’t even help set the table for god sake. She did smoke with her arm on her waist and her wrist turned up. Mom said, “Who does she think she is impressing.” It wasn’t a real question.

Aunt Dena would die in a few years of lung cancer, just six months after having a brother for Chris. Uncle Danny would never marry again. I had a hard time sorting that all out. Mom said, “Well Dena’s in heaven”. I don’t think she even believed it. In heaven that is. Our priests preached like there was a heaven but most of us sitting in the pews on Sunday were informed that we would have to spend a whole lot of time in Purgatory. Like hundreds of years! What was the point?

Of course, we didn’t know what Dena’s fate was right then on that grand summer evening in New York. We so could enjoy Uncle Danny’s company without feeling solemn and sad. He was kind and asked us kids easy questions. “I bet you are a great student, aren’t you?” And he was really funny and generous. He took two five-dollar bills and gave one each to Peter and me. “Gosh five is my unlucky number, can you take these fives off of me.” Of Aunt Ronnie and my mom’s 5 brothers, Uncle Danny was our mom’s favorite. Aunt Ronnie’s too.

After we finished eating and cleaning up, we walked around and saw all the lights. All the new cars, all black and shiny. All the theatres on Broadway. All the grandly dressed. Uncle Danny held my hand. He said he wished he didn’t have to work so he could be our tour guide. We all hugged him when he left. I thought to myself wish we had more of that sort of man back in our hometown.

We were in New York for three more days. It went by too too fast. No museums, I remember, but saw a true flea circus and Albert/Alberta a half-woman and half-man person. Mom was more comfortable than Aunt Ronnie with that sideshow. But she was a good sport. Our favorite meal was fried clams and hot fudge sundaes. Actually, a meal we loved at home too. But it was totally different in Times Square at this fancy restaurant called the Port Arthur.

One day we all took a boat through some rough water out to the Statue of Liberty. I didn’t know how to swim so I was nervous. Also a little seasick, not enough to throw up. But an older woman did and then her husband followed suit, the sight and smell can help monkey see, monkey do. We took the tour and learned the statue’s index finger was eight feet long. She had been a gift from France. Had to come over in 350 pieces sailing all the way across the ocean. Who thinks up gifts like that? My Grandpa had come over from Lithuania when he was twelve with his mom and sister Mae. So that was a truly special place to us because it welcomed people like my grandfather to his new home.

I have a cherished faded photo of us four in Times Square, none of us look exactly happy. We may have felt out of our league. Just trying to fit in. Or just in awe. But that was a trip that was an eye-opener to me. I saw there was another way to live and a world of new ideas and things to experience. A different way of being. It shocked me a bit. Though had no idea that any of that would be for me. I felt a little confused and gloomy when we were taking the train back. Took some time to figure out which of these two worlds was real, and which wasn’t. After a while, I thought well for me it will have to be Putnam.

Blown Away

Shortly after our New York vacation in August 1955, two back-to-back hurricanes saturated the land and several river valleys in the state, causing severe flooding. It produced the worst floods in Connecticut’s history. One of the rivers most affected was the Quinebaug River which ran through Putnam, my very town. There were a lot of poor people from Canada, we called them Canucks, in rough housing down by the river. It was called Manhasset Village. Most of those houses were washed away. During those two hurricanes, Connie came through first, then Diana just days apart. Eighty-seven deaths were reported in the area but I never knew how many were lost in Putnam.

As a child, the worst part of the Hurricane was a magnesium plant on the Quinebaug River. When Magnesium hits water it explodes. I remember being at Aunt Ronnie’s house during that time, I was not sure where mom was, a couple of the textile mills were down by the river and perhaps she was helping out the owners that she worked for. I was terrified, and cold, cold though it was summer. I don’t remember anyone explaining what was happening. It was during the Cold War and I thought it could be the Russians. Other family members and friends were there listening to the radio and maybe there was a tv, I am not sure. There was lots of beer being drunk by the men. I don’t remember Butch there. I think Butch was at the Home for Little Wanderers up in Boston at that time. He was mostly out of the home from then on. Couldn’t behave himself. I knew it was the men mom knew who couldn’t behave themselves. But that’s another story.

I just remember that the crises went on for days and I kept praying Hail Marys and Our Fathers to keep mom and Butch safe. Well, me too. Not even Aunt Ronnie comforted me, I was invisible. The rains and winds and explosions went on for such a long long time in my child time I gave up on my prayers. And finally, I just sat silent and numb and thought there is no Jesus, there is no Mary there would be no one to save me. Yet I did make it.

After it was over, people who didn’t lose their house or child or pet seemed to be almost giddy with their “thank god,” and even at that age I thought now wait a minute, what about the 87 people who died? And it registered that even good kids and dogs and cats die. I felt a gratitude for my family’s survival but mostly I felt terrified. Life was just going to be the luck of the draw.

(Putnam’s population in 1950 was 9304 and in 1960 it was 8412. Now 9354.)

It was only three years later that Aunt Ronnie became pregnant by Peter’s stepdad. Eddie St Marie. That was his real name. Some sort of joke. He was nothing more than a brute. One time he was hiding in my Uncle John and Aunt Yvonne’s tenement that was upstairs from his and Aunt Ronnie’s apartment, he was a sneaky guy, always trying to catch Aunt Ronnie in some situation. So here is how that went.

A bunch of my Aunts and Uncles, us cousins, and my mom and her boyfriend, Sirrine, were down at Uncle Eddie and Aunt Ronnie’s place enjoying the television. They had just bought a fancy big one. As the evening got going Uncle Eddie phoned, and told Aunt Ronnie something came up and he wouldn’t make the get-together. No one was disappointed about that. Even in a good mood he acted like a big rude baby. Even us kids knew that Aunt Ronnie didn’t have enough excuses to explain all her bruises.

We kids were having root beer, the grownups beer. But it was Sunday night so mostly no one was getting drunk. I think the Ed Sullivan Show was on. That guy was a stiff odd fellow with a big head, folded arms, and lots of teeth, but he could have some real talent. Like Elvis, Every Brothers, James Brown, Buddy Holly, and the Platters. Even Edith Piaf sang in French, but I knew or surmised what she was singing about. It wasn’t good news. We were all just having some easy fun. Us cousins were sprawled out on the floor like pick-up sticks. My mom was popping some popcorn for us kids, oh dear, not enough butter, so she went up the back stairs to get some from Aunt Yvonne’s fridge.

All of a sudden, she is screaming and backing fast and awkwardly down the stairs. The grownups ran and bunched at the bottom of the stairs. They saw Uncle Eddie with a shotgun pointing it at Mom, laughing, snickering. She had peed her pants. The women caught Mom and rushed her gently comforting her into the bathroom. The men just shook their heads in disgust and headed back to the TV. My Uncle Johnny did say, “Jesus Christ Eddie, grow up.” But it was half under his breath. The most confusing legacy for me was how that story was told over the years as a comedy. Yeah, what a hoot!

Two years after our grand visit to New York, Aunt Ronnie at 38, gave birth to a baby boy Michael. Three months later she was dead. From childhood, she suffered from rheumatic heart and the pregnancy and delivery were tough. The baby was placed with Eddie’s mother a dozen miles away in Killingly and my cousin Peter went to live with Grandpa and the boys, that’s what the family called Uncle Bobbie and Georgie, two grown men who never married or left the family home. Grannie had died the year before at 56 of a heart attack. She was built like a thick brick and we all thought without thinking that she would live forever. She had steered the family hull. Grandpa was sweet and weak and the boys ran all over him. None of our family never saw Michael again.

So just a few of these early experiences tipped the scale and made it hard to figure out where was this god of my childhood. I have still to find one I can believe in. But I continue to be a seeker.

Postscript:

Dennis O’Pray, a priest at All Saints Episcopal Church, spoke of faith development and said it could be difficult to believe in a loving god if one’s childhood was absent of “proof.”

Prisoner of Childhood by Alice Miller postulated that having one person who believes your story can save you, even if that person cannot themselves save you.