“Writing from the Soul”
As much as I try for’ happy’ childhood memories, my first memory just brings me back to the age of ten. I can still smell the odor of gasoline. Coming to consciousness, seeing my mother lying across the seat, she was alright, just a scratch on her face, across her cheek. What an awful smell of gasoline, (which to this day instantly brings back to these horrible memories). Lights flashing, sirens blearing, the pain was intense. They cut my coat off and put some sort of blow up contraption on my arm. I lay on the stretcher in the ambulance accompanied by two maybe three men. The memory is still not clear on how many of them were in there with me, but they were sitting with no visible injuries, maybe a few cuts and bruises. Then I remember being on a stretcher in a grey cold hallway, so many people coming up to me asking for names and phone numbers, over and over and over again! Where were my sisters, my mother? I can remember lying on a bed in some sort of operating room. Doctors, nurses probing my body, faces in my face asking if this hurts or if that hurts! That bright light right in my face always comes back to me. Was this a bad dream? Terrible dark blankness clouds my memory now.
Finally my sisters were near. We were all in one room. Oh my, their faces were so swollen with stitches and pain. Patty was older and Janet was only eight years old. I can’t recall my exact feelings or conversations with them, all I remember is asking my father where my mother was. “She’s fine; she is on another floor in the hospital, with the other grown-ups”. Everyone was so friendly and helpful. The room was bright and had children’s drawings all over. Windows almost full length looking into the hallway. It was a busy hallway, nurses’ doctors’ mothers and fathers. Some of them were happy but many of them sad. I remember hearing cries coming from far away, which brought a scary deep heartfelt feeling throughout my whole being.
You see, we were at my grandmothers that night. My mother had choir practice at our church. It was a weekly occurrence. My grandmother and grandfather were caretakers of the church and lived close by, so my grandmother would watch us four girls while my mother and her friend Trudy would go to choir practice. Don’t remember much of that night at grandmas; I’m guessing the usual taunts between four siblings so close in age, and all girls besides! I do remember being in the kitchen with everyone, Trudy and my mother were discussing maybe going bowling next week. And as most would say as to not make a definite plan moms answer was, “If I’m alive”. I don’t recall the exact discussion but our oldest sister, Laura, ended up spending the night at grandmas. It was a Friday night and no school the next day so she got the privilege of staying. It was a privilege staying at grandmas; she was so sweet and so soft. Grandma was a short grey haired Italian woman, slightly plump with very soft skin. Kind of a ‘health nut’ before her time, but it was all good. Loved the carrot juice she mixed with fruit in her juicer. Didn’t much care for the raw egg, she would put a big hole in one end of the egg and a pin hole in the other end and we would suck and uncover the hole and whoosh, it would just slide right down your throat. It was the one that didn’t exactly go straight down that would make you gag! Cod liver oil pills and all that good stuff. Grandpa he was a character also. He was a simple man that walked with a limp. He had his routine, he would walk Penny and give her a Hershey bar and then sit and watch baseball all day. And I can’t forget his coffee and toast, which he dunked, sounds a little sickening but it was good, really! Rumor has it that he found my grandmother in an ad; I guess something like a mail order bride advertisement. My blood related Irish grandfather had been deceased before I was born. They say I got my blue eyes from his grandmother, being I am the only one in my immediate family with blue eyes. I think I prefer that explanation better then “must be the milkman’s daughter”. The milkman, what a luxury I wouldn’t mind waking up to fresh milk in the metal box on my porch every morning.
So, we were on our way home from my grandmothers’ house that night, not a long ride only across town. As we approached our house mom decided to stop at Trudy’s house which was less then five miles down the road. St. Georges Avenue, Route 35 a somewhat busy highway. I don’t know why she wanted to stop at Trudy’s; we were just with her less than an hour ago. Don’t even remember if she explained why. Maybe she wanted to confirm their bowling plans after thinking about it. So we passed our house and arrived at an apartment complex where Trudy lived. All we had to do is make a right- hand turn off the highway onto Trudy’s street. I remember making that turn and I’m guessing that mom couldn’t find a parking space because there we were at the stop sign at the end of Trudy’s street waiting to make a left- hand turn back onto the highway to head towards home.
I was sitting up front in the passengers’ seat with mom and my two sisters were in the back seat. Patty was sitting behind me and my little sister Janet was sitting behind my mother. I will always recall my mother asking me “is anyone coming”? I can only assume that she seen the car coming from the left and figured she had enough time (being no one was coming from the right) to make her left-hand turn. The next thing I remember was ‘coming to’ on the floor under the dash board and that Godforsaken smell of gasoline.
