Standing on Shifting Sand.

The summer breezes and the winter winds, the ocean currents and the hill we lived on with its view of rooftops leading to the endless blues of the Atlantic meeting the sky, made me, along with my family, who I am today. In my minds eye, I see a canvas slowly covered with colors until a picture appears of this past world--my world in all its beauty, in all its haphazard shapes and contours. 

My first memory of home is our apartment on McClean Avenue. I can remember moving in. I was almost three years old and my mother was very pregnant with my sister, Gjertine (She was named after my father's mother--it means "little heart" in Norwegian and GJ is pronounced as a Y.) My mother had just sold her Dry Cleaning and Alterations business in the Westerleigh area of Staten Island and we were moving from the tiny two room apartment in back of the storefront to this relatively spacious four room apartment in South Beach. My father had just got a job as a marine engineer on one of the tankers owned by a local company servicing New York Harbor and parts of the East Coast. I'm pretty sure there was a collective sigh of relief when my father landed the job. Before that, he was searching for work while my mother carried the household and its expenses. But, my mother and father always spoke fondly of those years and just the word, Westerleigh, rolled off my mother's tongue like music. Only later did I learn that those years were rough financial times for them.They had lost all their savings in a business venture. My parents were smart and hard working but, they weren't entrepreneurs. They bought in when the market was shrinking and soon their ample cash investment, money they had worked years to save, evaporated. My father's new job enabled my mother to sell her dry cleaning business and pursue less time-consuming work sewing dresses from home. This was a new era in our family's life. I could feel my parents' optimism and happiness. It was a very exciting time.

So there we were moving in to the third and top floor of this huge, yellow brick building. It was a walk-up. The wide, marble staircase wound around tiled landings in the center of the building and the apartment doors sat on either side. There was much shouting of directions and I was told to stay out of the way but I couldn't resist the excitement and action. My father and a moving man were carrying our sofa up the stairs. It came time to round the bend to the next flight and the angles proved hard to negotiate with such a long piece of furniture. As they turned the sofa to find the right way to squeeze it around to the next set of stairs, my head got stuck between the sofa and the wall. It was incredibly painful but I didn't cry out. I was afraid I'd get in trouble. Even then I knew not to interfere when work was being done. I was expected to stay out of the way. I should have known better. No one noticed that it was my head that was taking up the extra few inches that made that first turn so difficult. 

Soon we settled in to our new home and waited for my sister's arrival. Once she was born, most of my mother's free time was taken up by caring for the baby and I was left to fend for myself--quietly, so my sister could sleep. Living on the third floor meant that I was confined to the apartment. This was the 1950's after all. There was no such thing as play dates, at least not in our household, and I don't remember any pre-schools, organized sports or other activities. I remember watching my mother sew dresses on the industrial sewing machine she kept in a corner of her bedroom. I liked to sit on her bed behind her. She sat upright and so still, only her hands and feet moving to control the fabric and the speed of the machine. The sound of the roaring motor was mesmerizing. I would sit listening to the stop and start of the engine, the soft sounds of a machine moving slowly on delicate areas and the angry, loud whine as the needle flew over straight seams. I watched the almost imperceptible movement in my mother's body as she guided the fabric. Sometimes, when she didn't have to concentrate, shed'd sing. One day, I joined in to a song she sang often. She called me over to the side of the machine and told me to stand next to her. Then, she sang a few bars.

"Now repeat what I sang," she said. I sang.

"That's not it." She sang the same few bars again.

I sang again.

She became very quiet. I was used to this which happened when she had to think about what she was doing. She had explained that her work was piece work and she was paid by how many dresses she finished, not the time she put in. But, this silence was different. I could feel her frustration and disappointment with me. It felt like she was angry. I could sense that I was lacking in something important to her but I wasn't sure what. I did what she asked and still I didn't measure up to something.