 |
| Photo courtesy Jan D. |
A Story From the Life of Jan D.
Ghostwritten by Anna D.
Three Peas in a Pod
It was a boulevard. Mornings were always busy. As I walked to school, cars fought to make their way into the city. Among the line of homes sat a two-story house in the heart of 1950’s Chicago. The house was old but remained a family sanctuary. Purchased by my father, there was a porch with a swing and a kitchen accompanied by a large pantry. I stayed away from the basement as much as possible, the aging furnace never categorized as inviting. The backyard was one of my favorite places. An apple tree stood where I would sit on the lap of my grandfather while he shared stories with me. Immigrants from Italy, my grandparents lived with us, along with an aunt and an uncle. Although my aunt later moved out, I saw her each Sunday. This was our gathering day. The whole family would meet for a meal: aunts, uncles, and cousins. There was only one thing I treasured more than this weekly occasion, and that was the rare moments I got to spend alone with my parents.
Although I grew up lacking siblings, companions surrounded me. Dogs and cats were off limits in our home, but I did manage to befriend a bird, Prince Perry Parakeet Pingatore. With a long tail and vivid feathers, the bird’s looks complimented his colorful personality. Each year we threw Perry a birthday party as an excuse for the brothers and sisters I never had. Celebratory bird seed would be gifted by my little friends for my precious pet.
I still remember the countless days I walked down North Central Avenue to the local YMCA. This was where I kept busy. Some of the best days of my life were spent at Camp MacLean, a summer camp organized by the facility. The large, brick building housed my countless clubs and volleyball days. As I got older I spent almost every weekend with my girlfriends. Many of us participated in Austin High’s record producing women's glee club. Senior year I even managed to make the homecoming court.
Despite these extracurricular accomplishments, I will always reminisce back to the evenings shared with my parents, Vince and Grace. They worked, and worked, and worked, and worked. All of this to provide for our large family. Like many other first generation Italian immigrants of the time, we owned a tavern. Despite the hours at his day job, my father spent evenings bartending. My mother was a lingerie buyer for Burgners, a department store discontinued throughout Illinois. Of course I had a set of grandparents, Uncle Kelly, and Perry the Parakeet to spend the daytime with. But in the dark hours, summer nights were reserved for my most beloved companions.
High above the frightening basement, there was a much more delightful portion of our home. A cozy terrace was connected to my childhood bedroom. As the smell of summer filled the air, my parents rolled two cots onto the balcony. Rush hour had ended; the sun no longer illuminated through the leaves of our apple tree. By this hour, the 95-degree weather had cooled down on the balcony. I rested in the center of my two guardians. Gazing at the summit of the sky, stars were visible to our tired eyes. I didn’t care much about nature’s beauty or the heat of mid-July, but I simply enjoyed the presence of my mother and father. This time was beyond Dad’s never ending work shift and Mom’s hours behind a counter. No grandparents, uncles, or cousins. Not even Perry. Cars passed by every so often, a soothing sound; nothing close to the jam of automobiles exhibited throughout rush hour.
At last, I got my parents to myself. The intimacy of being able to talk about anything and everything.
“How was your day at school little peanut?” my mother would ask.
“Fine,” I’d say.
I would speak about how my friends were doing or what I ate for lunch. Small talk for the most part, but as a young girl, I craved the attention.
My dad often pointed out the astronomy.
“See that, that’s the big dipper,” he’d observe.
Truthfully I can’t remember most of our conversations, none ever stood out to me. But I do remember lying there. That old house was where I learned the priority of family. My parents taught me the importance of providing for your loved ones. Eventually, I understood that. However, I still could not help myself from wanting them all to myself.
And I got them. On those quiet nights.
Above the furnace, next to the apple tree, where we would sit, three peas in a pod. Listening to the occasional dash of cars, staring at the stars, on our Chicago boulevard.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Jan D. |
