We all came from families of no less than four children and upwards to eight. We were bound together like a gang of warriors whose territory smelled like grass, melted asphalt, Double Bubble chewing gum, dirt, chlordane, and sweaty kids. There was always steady din of kid clatter that never let up; it was background noise, which became a soothing lullaby to newborns birthed into our world.

That was a time when red PF Flyers were the footwear of choice that insured that any race you were running in would deliver victory. It was standard fare on a kid infested street in East Meadow, NY, to see six street urchins standing in a line getting ready-set to go. On Eighth Street were no less than 150 children between the ages of two and twelve. We spent the summers performing in self-produced plays, riding rusty bikes with baseball cards clothes pinned to the spokes, swinging like Tarzan from the branches of large oak trees, playing kick-ball, ring-a-levio, and tag from when the sun came up, until the night-cap round of Pied Piper ice cream at 9:00 pm. Our block was a world unto its own; going around the corner could be likened to traveling from Staten Island to Brooklyn today. If you ventured to Lancaster Street for instance, the territory was as unfamiliar as being in a foreign country.

The ethnicity of the tribe was mainly Irish Catholic and Italian.  Those nationalities made up the bulk of the herd, sprinkled with an occasional German here and there. I remember the oddity of a British family that moved in, which caused quite a stir for days. The family from Liverpool became instant celebrities. In our crowd, they were the nearest thing to an actual Beatle that any of us would ever encounter; in fact, in our eyes their oldest son became our own personal Paul McCartney.
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Now that I am a middle-aged grandmother, I oftentimes review the hollowed caverns of my decrepit mind and re-examine the things that stand out to me. Thankfully, when I think of something from my past it is always tied completely to a smell, which rises to the surface for me to follow it like a track of footprints toward a warm cabin full of memories in a snowy wood.

My grandmother lived in Brooklyn on East 15th Street and Avenue M. Her house was the place I wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world, mainly because she lived there. Life at 1365 was warm, loving, safe, and secure. Reminiscing about the days when I hid my face in the folds of her house dress fills me with a bouquet of fragrances that are entrances into my past. Every corner of my grandmother’s house had a distinct aroma, inside and out. Avenue M is a station stop on the BMT Brighton Line of the New York City subway, and it was an elevated el train, level with the second floor and in the backyard of my grandparent’s home. Along with the screeching brakes that we could hear from the station, there was always a layer of putrid diesel fuel, which wafted through air like a backdrop to a play.

Inside the house was a cedar chest, whose smell is seared in my mind. Every time it was opened, which was often as a favorite hiding place for children, the smell filled the cedar paneled porch where we congregated daily to watch the parade of shoppers passing by toward Avenue M. Wood smells had a strong impact on my memory, like the inside of my grandfather’s server where obsessive compulsive disorder reigned supreme. Perfectly stacked piles of sorted coins stacked in rows against the side, money wrappers, rubber bands, paper clips, and piles of newspaper clipping stacked in metal, mesh baskets. Mike’s server was the secret place that I would go to get gold and red paper rings from the cigar cases that I could wear proudly on my all my fingers. All the contents of the chest melded together with the spicy, leathery smell of cigars and dried out cherry wood. My grandma’s end tables were slathered with layers of lemony Pledge, and each drawer held a world of adventure filled with a cacophony of smells. A prominent china closet that housed decks of playing cards when opened its trapped, stagnant air held the fragrant promise of afternoon games of Pinochle and Gold Fish. Not to forget an entire second floor, whose wooden floors filled the air with the antiquated wooden smell of a colonial house I had visited. These floors had never been sanded or shellacked and were responsible for many tears shed as a result of deep, painful splinters in the feet of children who refused, after being repeatedly warned, to “…put their slippers on.”
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With the sudden loss of my father two years ago, it is just now that memories are starting to surface, which brings clarity and understanding to my childhood. My father was a first generation Italian of Sicilian descent who was rooted in the old country even though he was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. My father Phil’s body might have been in Brooklyn, but he was firmly planted in nature in Lecara Friddi, Sicily. No one spoke English in his home, and in those days, when sent to public school, if you couldn’t speak English you were sent home until you learned. He was sent home and allowed back when he had a grasp on the language a year later.

As I age, I understand the conflicts that I had with my father were mainly based in basic geography.  Here was a man who was steeped in old world tradition and culture surrounded by a modern Italian American wife and five daughters and a son. He lived in perpetual culture shock. His background was such that the male was the head of the house, so he exercised his authority with an iron fist and strong determination to control what was oftentimes out of his control.

Nowadays I spend some of my leisure time thinking back on some of the memories that can help me better understand a man whose good intentions, pride, hard work and definition of honor and respect went oftentimes severely misunderstood.
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I can remember when Sonny and Cher premiered with their new variety show. Ed Sullivan aside, it was groundbreaking in that we were seeing a very glamorous young woman host a television show in primetime, and she became quite the rage. Sonny, her sidekick, didn’t have the charisma or ability to impress that his young wife seemed to radiate.

She was part Cherokee, and she had the hair to prove it; long, straight, shiny, blue-black hair to her slender waist. Her hair alone was enough to catapult them to the top of prime time television. Cher exuded sardonic sarcasm, which was the epitome of a modern woman who didn’t have a problem zinging her husband with sassy barbs. She even had the courage to “vamp” around the stage as a trampy character, which fit her well.

I would say Cher’s influence mainly manifested itself in the hair department. Being of Italian heritage, I had long, dark hair, so I thought it was easy for me to emulate her style. For purists such as me, I found out that wasn’t exactly true. I happened to have a slight–and I mean really slight–wave to my hair, which was unacceptable. In order to rectify this hirsute handicap it was time to bring out high end remedies like curlers the size of coffee cans.

The routine was to wash your hair, comb out all the knots, then plop yourself on the toilet, put your head between your legs, and before passing out from the blood rushing to your head, brush your hair into a ponytail in the middle of the top of your head. Secure it with a rubber band from an envelope your Grandfather gave you from his desk. After sitting up and regaining your equilibrium, and waiting until your face changed back to a normal flesh tone, you would take one or two large curlers and put them in your hair.
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