It’s weathered, empty, and distant among the trees.
It calls me to its window, where the sun glints off pieces of broken glass.
Some are hanging loosely to the window pane, but most are strewn across the floor, mixed with rocks and leaves.
On the side of the house towards the back, a rickety unsteady crumbling shack stands, a testament to the days when homegrown fruits and vegetables were sold seasonally.
I feel nostalgic, as I walk the grounds taking in each detail of this skeleton of a home.
Summer is freedom for a child. Your school vacation begins.
No more homework, no more tests, and no more uniforms. I attended
Catholic school, wearing shorts and t-shirts was a respite from formality.
My family lived in an area of three-story brownstones in Brooklyn, N.Y. Pools weren’t anywhere in my neighborhood. There was a pool within a twenty-five minute bus ride. We never went there.
Sunday was our beach day in the summer. My father loved the beach.
Despite our no school discipline, he had a routine we had to follow.
We still attended mass on Saturday.
Sunday, we’d awake at 6:00 a.m., get dressed, grab our towels, pails, and shovels and be in the car at 7:00 a.m. It was an hour’s drive to Staten Island on a ferry. It was such fun to get out of the car and lean on the railing, feeling the ocean’s mist on my face.
Once we arrived at the beach, we all had items to carry to the water’s edge. My father cooked potato salad and fried chicken the night before.He was a cook in the army. He enjoyed cooking on the weekends. I was learning how to cook from him at age 5.
My task at the beach was to take care of my younger disabled brother. He was five years old, and I was ten. I’d collect shells with him and build things in the sand.
One Sunday, my father decided to teach all of us to swim. We watched him from the shore. He looked like a dolphin. I was apprehensive even though it looked like fun. It was my turn. He picked me up and took me way, way out. Eventually, he dropped me in the water.
Gurgle, Gurgle, Gurgle,
I swallowed water, flailed my arms, and thought I would drown.
After an eternity, my father picked me back up and walked me to shore. I cried and cried and cried. I was inconsolable. I never went in the water again. The sandy seashore was my safe place from that day forward.
I never did learn to swim, but I do doggie paddle in my pool. Many have tried to teach me, but my fear still lingers from that day. When my children could walk, I took them for swimming lessons. They’re all great swimmers, and one is Red Cross certified. I knew how much they would enjoy the beach, pool, and boating if they learned how to swim.
Standing in the middle of the family room, I close my eyes.
Breathing deeply, I can almost smell the warmth of bread baking while pies cool on the window sill.
I can imagine being awakened by the aromatic brew of fresh coffee.
I can’t help but wonder about the many evenings after dinner when my grandmother would gather the children and impart her wisdom with stories of her native homeland and traditions.
It’s damp inside now.
Rain begins to fall, the sound against the tin roof echos a melody.
With all of my senses aroused, I embrace the warm sentiments.
Adults held children while running and screaming in all directions.
Horror on their faces signaled an unmistakable accident.
Uniformed fair staff and guards gathered everyone to safe zones.
A day of carnival treats and rides; now, the scene of a devastating tragedy.
Shock and terror paralyzed me.
I declined Monica’s request that morning to escort her son, my daughter’s friend, to the fair. With six kids to monitor, I couldn’t manage any more.
A round-a-bout chair ride suddenly stopped causing the chain to sever her sons’ leg. My heart broke when I discovered it was Ryan who was injured. Despite many, many surgeries, he never was the same again.
Amusement parks were off our activities list from that day forward.
Brigitte exhaled as she came upon the Cathédrale Saint-Bénigne.
Pensively she said, “Père would have been tearful. He carried painful memories of the war in his heart.”
“Henri, why did you die before you could find peace?”
Mère had never spoken about those times, nor did Père
After the funeral, I promised Mère I’d bring her here. Now, she’d find peace for both of them.
As I looked at the inside of this beautiful cathedral, it was difficult to imagine the terror they felt during the revolution. They survived because of this church.
Inside the Mind of Isadora 