Opening Doors

Florence and I arrived in the world just as the Great Depression made its event. We were Depression babies. Both of us came from broken homes. Hers, through death – mine through divorce.

Florence never really knew her father. She was only a year old when he died. There were eight other children, Peggy, the eldest and Florence, the baby. When she was seven, their mother died. Peggy was then twenty and determined to keep the family together. She worked and assigned Charlotte, who was the next oldest, the care of the younger children and the responsibility of the house. All the kids shared a different household job. The remarkable thing was their absence of dissent and never any grumbles. They loved each other so much and they were so prideful of each other’s accomplishments – that they boasted to everyone about themselves with great loving pride. They were each other’s greatest press agents.

They were a big Irish family, laughter, tears, songs, and dance, was a tight knit in their lives. And story telling. They spoke with great fervor and drama about the deeds and events and people they had known – people long dead, but kept alive in their lively conversations with everyone they knew. Such intensity – one felt you knew these people even though they had been dead for years.

Their father had been a devout Catholic. He had worked for the Post Office. Each morning of his life, he had started his day by saying the Rosary. Their house was large, drafty and old – hot in the summer and icy on cold winter mornings. No matter, Mr. Carr would arise very early each day and while everyone still slept, would enter the dining room, kneel down on the plain wooden floor and say his beads.

Before WWII, before 1950, illness and death were taken very seriously. A simple earache – a heavy cold – a sudden fever were causes for great concern. Antibiotics were unknown – not in any vocabulary nor were they in existence.

People who died were waked at home. On the outside door of the homes of the deceased, a large wreath of flowers were placed. The color on the ribbons which tied the flowers was dictated by the age of the person who had died. If it was a baby or a very young child, the ribbons were always white – a sign of innocence. People visited the homes of the bereaved and the body inside the casket was always placed in the living room. A sense of dignity combined with sorrow – acceptance and reverence permeated.

When Florence’s father died, there were many visitors. People came from church, from the neighborhood, and from his work. Even the neighbors’ children called to say a prayer. Then, like everyone else, they were served a cup of tea and a slice of cake. He had been fifteen years older than his wife, so Florence’s mother was still a young woman – still in her thirties. When the three days of mourning had passed and it was time to close the casket – just before the movement to church for the funeral Mass – she bent down and kissed his lips. Then straightening, she stood up and, looking downward at the closed eyes, said, "That’s the first cold kiss I ever got from you, Willie."

Florence’s mother lived a few more years. Money was short but she was ingenious in finding ways to feed her children’s bodies and souls. She invented stories and told them while her children were eating their meals. The food was plain and simple while the atmosphere was lively and dramatic. This made a great impact. Years later, when all the children were grown, they would tell people what great teeth they had and why.

"See – my teeth are strong. And white. That’s because when we were little we only had meat on Sundays. We ate creamed vegetables everyday of the week. Creamed carrots – creamed spinach – creamed potatoes – all kinds of creamed vegetables, even onions. Just look at what it did for us. Teeth like pearls – strong as diamonds. Didn’t hurt, not having money – not us." And then would come a smile of complete satisfaction.

When Mrs. Carr died however, they became subdued. They missed having a parent living with them. Then – a few weeks later, a solution came walking down the street.

It was a Sunday afternoon and all nine were sitting on the wrap around porch. They owned a scraper which scraped ice into teeny crystal pieces. The older boys, Bill and Harry, worked the scraper over a big block of ice. The shavings were put into small dishes. The older girls, Katheryn, Helen, Anna, would open up bottles of syrup – lemon, grape, pineapple, cherry, chocolate and after calling out "What kind do you want?" would pour the syrup of choice over the ice.

That particular Sunday afternoon, the air was sultry and warm and they were doing their usual chatting while eating frozen ices. Suddenly, they all screamed out in unison. "Grandpa Brown! Grandpa Brown!"

Grandpa Brown was their only living grandparent. Mrs. Carr’s father. With a big smile, he climbed the wooden steps and scraped up Florence in one arm and William, the next youngest, in the other. "I’ve come to stay."

"How did you get here?" Grandpa lived in Pennsylvania.

"By buses and street cars. A long trip, but I made it."

"How long will you stay this time?"

"Forever."

"Won’t Uncle Georgie miss you? Doesn’t he want you anymore?"

"Sure, but he doesn’t need me. You do. So, here I stay."

And, so he did.