The Boyfriend

My high school, in the rural beach town of Cape May, New Jersey, was small and rumors could fly fast.  So if you liked a boy or a girl and glanced in their direction just about everyone knew you had a crush .

I was slow to have a serious boyfriend. I liked a few boys in my neighborhood of North Cape May , a sort of Levittown cluster of cottages, sandwiched between the Cape May Canal and the Delaware Bay.  I liked boys who could make me laugh. I liked boys who could dance. Friendships developed because we were all sort of stuck there. Unless, of course, you had older friends and they had a car. And lucky me, I knew the McKenna brothers.

Ah, The McKenna Brothers. Very tall. Very handsome. Very funny. Very everything as far as I was concerned. Three brothers and two or three sisters. I didn’t know the sisters. The boys were bad. Not in a rough or ugly way . More prankster than gangster. We used to have an expression in South Jersey - they were boss.

Willy , the oldest, owned a car that was a rolling make out hot spot. He kept his rubbers hidden from his father in the gas cap. Danny, who was in my class, was my friend. If he walked behind me in the halls of our high school he would sing, under his breath, You Made Me Love You. During Sunday Mass - yes, I went - just to see the McKennas walk down the aisle. As they walked they hummed, I Love a Parade. If their father heard them he smacked them and when they reached the alter to receive communion the priest gave them a crack, too. If you went to Mass at St Raymond’s, in the Villas, you know this form of guidance was accepted by the entire community.

They called their father Bill.  Bill was one tough guy. He was a bridge builder, a welder. I think of him every time I cross the Delaware Memorial bridge. One night Danny wanted to go to a CYO dance. He asked Bill for a dollar, which would buy him entry and a coke. Bill said, “ A dollar? Christ, you can go in your room and dance all night for free.” He shoved Dan down the hall into his room and closed the door. Ah, The McKenna Brothers.

I could hitch a ride here and there and always be sure to get a ride home with the McKenna’s. So one evening I was hanging out at a local hoagie shop, The 4 G’s, and spotted the McKenna mobile pulling into the back parking lot. It was a cold night, I couldn’t eat one more french fry and was sick of all the tunes on the juke box - so I put on my coat and asked Willy, for a ride. “ Sure, jail bait.”

I circled the black and white ‘56 Chevy to the passenger side because I liked to sit in the middle front so I could fiddle with the radio dial . I yanked on the door handle and pulled the door open. A crumpled body fell out. It seems that the boys were busy entertaining themselves at a Wildwood Catholic dance , where a fight broke out. Clearly, this guy lost.

I climbed over him and we propped him up on my shoulder. He looked familiar. He had beautiful hair. A nice toggle coat. He smelled good. His lips were so full. Hmmm. Who is this guy?

Well, the McKenna boys dropped me off at my house. The small cottage was dubbed, by the boys, as Pearl Harbor, because my father and mother decorated the outside of the house and lawn with canons, whelks, horse shoe crab shells, chains and anchor, canon balls and - the final touch - crossed rifle butts on the shutters. I went inside, closed my door, sat on the bed and thought about that lovely boy on my shoulder.

The next night, a few friends and I went to our local hoagie shop, Grassi’s. It was a small place and easy to walk to -- a little dangerous because parents could drive by and see what you were up to.  We rushed in.  There he was. My heart really did jump into my throat. He stood behind the counter. A white apron on and his hand resting on the counter , the other in his pocket. Casual yet cocky. He’s here. He spoke to me. He’s speaking to me. Oh, yes, I’d like to place an order…

I’ll have a - He interrupted, “buffalo ?” Oh no! He’s teasing me! He’s talking to me. I am a mess. I’m laughing. He is smiling. I’m his. Signed , sealed and de! We agree to go out the following weekend.

Word spreads from my high school, Lower Cape May Regional, to his, Wildwood Catholic. In a matter of hours everyone seems to know we have a date. A local hoodlum, who likes me, threatens to beat him up if I go out with that clown. “Does that make sense?” I say. That guy did not make me laugh. Lousy dancer, too.

My friend Roxy and I meet some W.C. girls in the smoke filled bathroom at a movie house , where we are supposed to be watching, as an all Cape May County cultural event, Richard Burton in Hamlet. They warn me about messing around with boys from their high school. But they end up liking me and let me borrow an album. Or maybe the combination of Roxy and Madonna was just too much for them!

Those were the days, huh? Before Bic lighters girls carried a small Ronson or Zippo. A leather case held your cigs. And I guess you walked around with an album or two.

Anyway, the evening arrives. He comes to my house and meets my dad. Oh no! Our fathers know one another from the Coast Guard. Later on he tells me that his father said, ‘What! You’re going out with Hitch’s daughter! Don’t lay a hand on her. I’ve seen her dad clear out the Chief’s Club.” Yes, my dad was a brawler. But it didn’t seem to phase my date. I had a wonderful time. He made me so happy.

So that was the beginning. We were sweethearts for a long time. Through high school. During his hitch in Viet Nam. He always made me laugh. He was smart. He told great stories. He was popular. He transferred to my school -- okay, he was asked to leave Wildwood Catholic. His eyes were shocking Irish blue. We danced well together. Certain songs take you places, we all know that. But for me some songs take me to the lovely swaying of those years dancing together. I really do remember his steps.

And the laughing. Oh my. He made me laugh until I cried.

Jennie

Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Jennie Veronica Abitabile Hitchcock was born on

May 8,1919  Lexington Avenue, Cambridge, Massachusetts. She was not an easy person to get along with to say the least! But I do miss her and have loads of stories to tell about her.  I usually joke about all the bad years and give a spin to most of the stories to cover the sadness of my mother's adult life.
A friend once told me I do that because ," she still has power over you." - I think I staggered around the rest of day because my friend was spot on with that observation.

Jennie had four sisters, the youngest died at an early age - I believe she had lung trouble or some sort of TB that hit juveniles pretty hard. The sisters were all attractive. The family, up and down the entire block, were close. Summer trips to New Hampshire and shopping in Boston.
Marion, Mary and Lorraine - the Abitabile girls had fun with cousins, went to clubs and had boyfriends. My mother adored her father who had an Italian grocery store. At least that's what it appeared to be - He ran gambling games in the back and had a regular group of players, which included Honey Fitz, at the table each week. The sisters had fur coats that were stunning. Beautiful weddings. A good life.

My mother and father met on a semi blind date.  Dad was stationed in Boston and accompanied his friend , on a double date,to a dinner club and agreed to go out with my mother as a cover for the guy - who was married - so it wouldn't look so bad I guess . Or the guy was a cad. You decide. Anyway, my mother thought my father was such a hill billy. BUT, she was struck by my father's beautiful hands. He in turn, was knocked out by her legs. So she went out with him again. Her notions were confirmed - he was indeed, a real hill billy. He took her to see a Ritz Brothers movie. They were the poor man's version of the Marx Brothers.  My father was howling with laughter. My mother couldn't wait to get out of that theatre and shake this rube.
 But then again, there were those hands. Big, strong hands. Nice moons on the nails. Those hands.
 Those gams.
My father would show up at the house on Lexington Ave with every Liberty. He proposed .  He showed up one afternoon after being out to sea for a while and my grandfather met him on the porch.  My father had returned with a full beard. My dad was handed a tin bowl,straight razor and a mirror. No words were spoken. No lather, no water -  Papa stood there as my father scraped that beard off his face.
Now he could come in and be with the family.
They were married in February of 1947.

I'm a Service Brat

A neighbor asked me about being a "service brat" today. I said that it was fun being the new girl. I said it was fun moving around and getting to know a new place. I said it was fun to have adventure after adventure.

But the conversation played in my head for the next few hours and I realized I had more to say. It wasn't always fun. It was especially hard at times. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I was in three different first grades.Three. I traveled by car, with my mom and dad , with every new set of orders. I knew Coast Guard, Navy and Marine bases from coast to coast. Could read a map pretty well by the time I was six. My mother didn't drive so the driving would be up to my father and the navigation up to my mother and I. My father would receive his orders. That brown envelope never left his side. Without transfer orders we would be sunk when dealing with movers, landlords or utilities. It was an easy way to break a lease or start up new gas and electric accounts. The Coast Guard didn't always give us an allotment check to pay the movers - so you just showed them the orders and they knew they would get paid by Uncle Sam. When my fathered signed on to be transferred to Oahu during the Korean War he did it because he would receive " hazard pay" and lucky us - a bonus if your family transferred with you. It sounds nice, but remember this was a few years after the end of World War II.Who knew what evil was still out there in the Pacific! Families were transported from Long Beach California via old troop transport ships. There were make shift rooms that had the strangest hardware, hooks and screws sticking out here and there. Hatches that wouldn't budge and bunks that were welded to the walls.Every surface of that ship was painted grey. Since my father was an enlisted man , we had pretty awful accommodations. Three women and assorted tykes shoved into a very small cabin. All the children had to wear life preservers ( adult size) and keep off the main deck. My mother was very sea sick and all I could offer her were sips of water and make sure she had her cigarettes and lighter. I do remember one incident that was so breath taking. We were on deck having yet another safety drill when thousands of flying fish appeared.  I was stunned!  The were, indeed, flying through the air and back into the water. So spectacular.Sixty years later and I still remember it!  The sailors  hoisted kids on their shoulders so we could watch. It was thrilling to feel the sea air  and see those silver slivers soar in great arching leaps.

 We arrived on the island of Oahu and made our way to the military housing provided by the Navy for the Coast Guard families. Rows and rows of - surprise! - grey bungalows. We were two blocks from Waikiki Beach. Our saviors, the Fukuji family, were our neighbors. They were Japanese Americans. The dad was a chef. The kids were my playmates. The mother was a love.

The trip and the lonely life without friends and family was too much for my mother. She spiraled into alcoholism very rapidly. My father had signed on for an eighteen month hitch. He was on an ice cutter and also ran supplies from the Aleutians to Korea. No phone calls, a letter here and there - a package at Christmas ( a small toy seal) . We really missed him. My dad made sure we had a car and he shipped his '47 Chevy to us. But it just sat there because my mom never did learn to drive. The Fukujis' were lovely people. They took care of me. Dressed me for every Japanese holiday. I ate dinner with them every night. I still have photographs of me dressed in silk adorned with lovely hair ornaments.

My darling grandmother came to visit after about a year. It was wonderful. She powered up that Chevy and took me everywhere. We went to pineapple plantations, beaches with pink sand. Black sand. Green sand. We visited the grand hotels and their gorgeous gardens. We went to the base and saw movies. She took me to the beach every single day. I got so brown. And , finally , my father came home. And as usual, our Christmas tree was still up. We always kept it up until he came home. A tiny,needle less, little tree on a box with brick crepe paper surrounding it, acting as a base. It was such a happy time. My mom got dolled up. Our neighbors made wonderful dinners for us. My dad bought Hawaiian shirts. My mother wore a cocktail dress with giant banana leaves printed in red and orange. I still have his shirts and my mother's dress.

So redonc! I cannot figure out the new Facebook. I feel like I'm in a bad B movie and I go to the phone on the wall and crank it,"Udella? Give me the Sheriff!". So here I come - - - back to the Blog 0 Sphere. I can't wait until next week when I sign up for my smart phone. What will the store clerk , I mean sales associate think of me when I ask her to repeat that again, Just ONE More Time? Speaking of phones - My mom and dad rarely had a phone. We could use our neighbors or my father could make calls from the base. So when I was visiting my grandmother it was a real joy to have a telephone. She had a party line. Two households shared one line. This was an economical adventure. Each household had their own ring. And you were to respect the privacy of the other line by NOT picking up the receiver and listening in. HAH! Even within that special ring culture my grandmother divised an even more economical way to communicate. It was the ever famous,and not such a secret, ONE ring. One ring at midnight on New Year's Eve meant - I love you Happy New Year now you can sleep. One ring at three in the afternoon might mean - I'll be late for dinner. One ring at ten p.m. was the signal for , I'm spending the night at my girlfriend's place. Anyway, back to the art of listening in on the neighbors phone call. Always soo boring. I never heard one good thing. My grandmother let me call in radio requests, enter phone contests and even answer the phone with hilarious greetings like, "City Morgue". The caller would say, "Little Madonna? Let me speak to Big Madonna, this is cousin - Choose One: Ozella Helene Tommy Birdie Doris Sister Oona I'll stop now. The Sister person was from church and these ladies always dubbed themselves sister. In fact, my grandfather was a member of the same church in Remington, next to Hampden, and always called my grandmother Sis. Back to the phone business - Telephones were things of beauty, I swear. Heavy and black. The dial was sturdy and with each rotation , to the right and falling back , it clicked. Look at any old movie. Now listen to that phone. Dialing gave you a few seconds to gather your thoughts. Settle down in the chair and turn on the lamp and doodle while you got connected to you party. As most of my friends know, I'm not one for phone calls. I speak to two girlfriends. Everyone else has to put up with my emails. Not kidding - phone is ringing....