Promises from the Closet

I remember our house on 6th street in North Bergen. It was a small little white house, one of the smallest on the block. Two bedrooms upstairs and downstairs was a small kitchen, dining room with flowers on the window sill, a living room with plastic covered couches and a console television that had a lot of tubes in it with an antenna that was often moved often to get a clearer screen. Our house was always clean and we often had parties in the back yard during the summer. We had a round wooden picnic table with curved benches where the birthday cake would be placed in the center with all our cousins around the table singing to both my sister and I because our birthdays were on July ninth and tenth. Pin the tail on the donkey, candy, swing set and of course presents for both my sister Michelle and I. Life seemed happy with my family and all my many cousins. It was somewhat uneventful. A few years later mom had given birth to another girl. Her name is Teresa. My mom would have all of us dressed to perfection. Always matching and never a hair out of place; we had bows, bracelets, and even little white gloves. We kind of matched my mom as little kids; she made us little extensions of her. She was always dressed nice and her hair and makeup was always perfect. She had a lot of friends and would have them over often. She loved her “stuff”. She had beautiful clothes, shoes, bags and hats with netting over them. My dad worked hard at Maxwell House Coffee over in Hoboken. Many times one of the vats at the factory would splash out strong smelling coffee extracts and it would get all over his uniform. It was a terrible smell that I will never forget. He would come home and get to his knees and open his arms for a big hug and kiss and say a big “hello, how are my girls.” The smell of the extract was so horrible, I thought I would die. The funny thing is, maybe that is why I never drink coffee to this day. My dad was a funny guy. I never met anyone who did not like him. He may not have been the smartest person in the room, but you knew he was there. He would be the one making the funniest jokes, and the first one to run to help you if you needed it. Dad was a short, but handsome man with dark brown hair cut short with a little bit of an Elvis wave going on and hazel eyes. He was a very proud man of his wife and family. Anything we did he would puff up and say, “That’s my girls.” And if it was a dance recital, OH gosh… you could hear him in the back of the room. He would yell our names and say,” That’s my baby.” Throughout our whole life, he did that, even at High school graduation. We would just breath, brace and wait for it. He loved doing it because he liked the attention and he loved us so much, it was his way of showing us how much he cared. We all knew it, and we all expected it. As kids, my mom & dad did a lot together. They liked to volunteer at our church. Both my parents helped out with bingo and dinners and parties at the church. If they were not helping out at church, they were with family, helping cook and plan parties at my house and my aunts and uncle’s home, they were always involved. I guess you could say we were a typical Italian family, living in North Bergen, NJ with a big dinner every Sunday with my grandparents. Macaroni and gravy with meatballs, Italian bread, nuts, and finocchio just to name a few were always on the menu. Christmas was fun; I remember walking down the very narrow steep, steps leading to the living room where the silver tinsel tree with the rotating colored light wheel would turn the tree different colors. Presents would be across the whole room, my dad would always have the movie camera going, and my mom was always dressed, make-up on and looked amazing. Mom was in her size six bright colored dress, patent leather heels, and dark brown perfectly styled flip hairdo with red lip stick on. I’m sure she didn’t always look so perfect, but that was my memory of how I always saw her. In fact, I remember one Christmas before Teresa was born; Michelle and I were so excited to see the gifts under the tree. I don’t remember who tripped but, one of us grabbed to hold on and we both fell from the top of the steps all the way down; rolling over and over each other and my dad had it all on camera. Ahh, the good old days we would laugh about that for years. He was so proud of his girls. We were Daddies little girls and Mom… well, we were her three princesses always looking beautiful with poofy red velvet dresses that had crinoline slips, white lace stocking, white gloves, patent leather shiny black shoes that were polished with Vaseline. They both made sure we always had what we needed and looked perfect. They seemed to get along for the most part, but like other people they would get into arguments at times late at night. Sometimes I would fall asleep to the yelling, but by morning things were quiet.