It simply was not mine.
My childhood, the simple serial
of formative years.
Some; Past life.
1. Scranton
Grandmother spent hours,
morning until noon, brushing
long platinum locks, plumb
to where I sat. Straight-
backed on sturdier
aluminum framed chair.
In her lemon-waxed kitchen;
She brushed. I sat. She spoke.
The Yiddish lines of thank you;
You're welcome, without a breath
between. Over and over.
Over the English. Over
my response. Perfect.
Yiddish. Thank you.
You're welcome.
And the German. Thank you.
You're welcome.
Four hours, from morning
until noon. Then my hair
would shine like summer, like July afternoon.
She was perfect.
Tall. A-lined. Angel-faced.
My powdered grandmother,
Ida's neice. I, the present.
The offering. Her chosen
favorite. Buttoned with gold,
in navy A-lines of adolescent
discomfort.
Thirteen going on thirty.
Cadillac'd
over one hundred miles
to meet Ida.
Aunt Ida.
2. Sitting With Ida
Aunt Ida lived before she lived;
Protected, proctored, and fed
by well-heeled nurses with well-
manicured hands.
In a tall, well-manicured
Victorian house of tall,
well-mannered, Victorian-bred
ladies.
Uptown,
out of the way.
Up on the hill, politely
overseeing the business
of Scranton.
A full-scale model city, then
the seat of commerce.
The seat of the ILGWU
where granmother
had her chair.
The ladies of the house sat,
straight-backed on horse-hair
settees and long sofas. Each
embroidered of unique flowers
and the ladies poised on them.
The ladies served tea and spoke.
Softly in languages, sounding
like Yiddish. Sounding like German.
Sounding like all things in between.
We sipped tea.
Thank you. You're
Welcome.
They raked conversation
with white papered fingers,
touched my hair and smiled.
Perfect, octogenarian smiles.
Alluding smiles to lives
well lived. Past lives
before Scranton
and this Victorian-laced
house.
3. The Train
Ida told stories
with her own tongue. English
rounded from German throat.
Touched of Yiddish,
more by Czech dialect.
Perfect,
as spoken
on the train.
"I do not remember the year.
I was thirteen; Maybe twelve,
as you are now.
Germany was not the same.
It rained. There was too much
and never enough. But I was
twelve, much like you are
now, and what I remember
is on the train.
Mother.
My mother, reciting Czech,
in a dialogue of dialect
so I would remember.
Over and Over.
Over The German. Over Yiddish.
I must speak Czech.
Always and Especially
to dark men on tall platforms.
So I speak
Czech-Slovak-I do not forget.
I speak slowly. In my head,
I answer Yiddish. The train
is long and my mother hums.
No singing comes from
her German tongue.
The train is long,
wooden.
I sleep.
Morning comes.
Through narrow windows, sun
scratching eyes. I am awake
in Czechoslovakia.
Mother is pale,
tired. We go
bump, bump bump
between rows of seats
and men. Still.
Sleeping.
ShushShushShushShush
Why, mama?
Dark men never sleep.
ShushShushShushShush
Outside, we bump more.
Down steps to wooded platform.
Beyond the train is a field.
A field, ripe with sunflowers,
a field of bright Czech sun.
Flowers grow here mama.
In this good place,
I will speak Czech and then,
my mama, will you be
happy?"
But she was twelve then.
I was thirteen. Over
and over, speaking German.
Yiddish over English.
Thank you. You're welcome.
It simply was not mine.
My childhood, the simple serial
of formative years.
Some; Past life.
Copyright Haze McElhenny 2000
Published By Wilmington Blues
May-June, 2000
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