To my surprise, life wasn’t bad when we moved to Grimm Heights. Surely, I missed Perry Street and the familiarization of it all, for my new environment proved to be interesting and faces of new friends began to involve into my life. Neighbors were interesting with stories of their own.
Next door lived Mitzi and Paul, a sweet older couple with no kids. I always wondered why they were not blessed with any children; they always seemed so patient and caring. Mitzi had a way with parakeets, she was able to teach this one to speak some words and would even bring her out on the porch with it perched freely on her finger and never feared of him flying away. Paul was a superb carpenter; the artistry that he would put into his cabinetry and doors was stunning.
I don’t know the complete story about their pasts, on Mitzi’s arm; she was branded with a number. At first, I thought it was peculiar for her to have a tattoo of just plain numbers; thinking they meant something special to her. However, these numbers were a reminder of a dreadful time that she spent in a German concentration camp during World War II. Memories I am sure that she would never want to relive, so I refrained from any questions. I would research the history of some of the camps briefly, imagining the suffering she endured. I should have asked because I always pictured the worst. Was this the place that taught her patience?
On the other side of our house was this married couple with two young daughters, Elaine and Elizabeth, who were much younger than me. They kept to themselves and were very quiet and the only aspect I thought to be exciting was that the father’s brother was the high school teacher who ran the high school radio station. His voice spoke in a very base tone and he was the closest thing to a celebrity in our town.
It didn’t take long for me to get familiar with some of the families in our neighborhood. There was this one family and the father was very tall, like my Dad; but appears to be very cruel. I remember him yelling and hitting one of his kids with a water hose and it looked to me that his wife seemed to be afraid of him. Another family was a family similar to one that you would watch on TV, like “Ozzie and Harriet”, they seemed perfect, the parents were kind and very friendly and the kids seemed smart and polite, no noises or yelling came from their home. Some of the families were strange, but what I would consider strange, one may not. Who’s to say that other’s thought our family strange?
It was never unusual for my Dad to come home by 8 PM, while other fathers who worked daytime, arrived home at 4 PM, 5 PM, or 6 pm. I can honestly say, and if my memory serves me right, my Dad did not even have a day off. He was a meat butcher and owned this local grocery store, who would leave for work at 7:30 AM or 8 AM and would come home either 7PM or 8 PM, sometimes earlier. I remember my Mom worked there too, she had Sunday and Monday off which was her laundry day. Saturday was the longest day for both my Mom and Dad. Cleaning the house was my sister and my job on Saturdays. We had change the bed linen, sweep, polish the furniture, sweep, scrub the bathtub and sinks and mop the floors. We would also get dinner ready and it was always some sort of roast (chuck, beef or pork roasts, we would peel potatoes and mash them and choose a vegetable. The dinner was always ready to serve when they got home from the store. My sister and I would make the work easier by play acting with our favorite characters or by her favorites. Sundays my Dad got to sleep in, just a little bit. He would take us to ten o’clock mass at St. Nick’s. Mom would sleep in, she never went to church, only on Easter and Midnight mass on Christmas. She would always state that my Dad went to church only for show; in order to help his business. Good ole’ mom, such a skeptic, trying to excuse her absence with an accusation. My Dad would than take us home, change and to the store, but not too long, he would be home usually by 3 PM or 4 PM.
Anyhow today is a different day, and I came to the conclusion that writing about my life is not that interesting, this is more or less. This will be the last chapter and even though I am giving up writing about my life, I will stop, because who really cares and it’s not really helping. So I wrote about my life up until I was in the sixth grade and we just moved to Grimm Heights. Maybe later, I will continue my saga. But for now, I am going to write feelings and put down my thoughts of the day and maybe put a little of a hint of my story within my journal. Who knows, maybe I will continue with my story of growing up and who I have become. Right now, I cannot do that, because, I really don't know who I have become.
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