I am 7 years old, thin,
long straight black hair with bangs across my forehead that stop right above my beady brown eyes.
My summers are spent at Nonnie and Puppy's house
in Prospect Heights, Milford, MA, while mom and dad work all day.

A boy I met when I was 13 referred to my summer paradise as the Portuguese Projects.
Now that I think about it,
the brick multi-family homes that outline the neighborhood DO kinda look like project houses,
and it's definitely not the wealthiest part of town.
But at 7, I didn't know about rich and poor.

What I knew was an Italian home that always smelled like warm food and my Nonnie's perfume,
Play-do, tea parties, Disney movies, and designing outfits on a pad of paper.
Klondike bars, push-up pops, and Ninja turtle heads with gumdrop eyes on a popsicle stick.
Chocolate frosted donuts from Honey Dew,
slushies and whoopie pies from Gene's Variety,
and eclairs from the Portuguese bakery.
Feeling like I was on top of the world
'cause I convinced Nonnie to let me have 6 Oreo cookies instead of just 3.
Sugary oatmeal in the morning, salty chicken soup,
and sweet yellow lemonade in a brown plastic pitcher in the afternoon.

I spent those afternoons racing and circling my bike
up and down the streets with my sister and the other kids in the neighborhood.
We'd set up "ramps" from cardboard and lay them down on the steps in the center park for an extra thrill.

Come to think of it, I never knew where my dad got our bikes.
My guess is he picked them up from somebody's lawn with a Free sign on them,
then threw them in the back of the trailer, somehow.

When it was really hot,
Puppy would take us to the community pool.
We didn't know how to swim, but just sitting there and splashing was the best.
I remember trying to take an afternoon nap in the little room,
a room only big enough to hold a twin size bed, but it was too hot and sticky to sleep.
And yes, I remember trying to step on my sister's blanket as I walked up the stairs behind her.
I guess that's just what big sisters do.

I remember holding still while Nonnie tied my hair into 2 side ponytails for dance class,
securing them with elastics that had beads on the ends that rattled when I shook my head.
I belted out Paula Abdul and Janet Jackson songs a capella the whole car ride to class,
and Puppy always marveled at how beautifully I sang.

My summer home had a yellow linoleum kitchen floor,
with a strip of tape in the doorway where Puppy said the floor had split from the Worcester tornado of 1953.
I don't think this is really true.
It had 1 bath, 2 bedrooms, and a living room with wood paneling.
But it had my artwork of a zinnia on the kitchen walls,
and in the living room,
my mother's senior photo, a painting by my aunt,
a blown-up photo of Puppy swinging at a golf ball,
my parents young and thin on their wedding day, and Jesus.
It had love.

In a year I'll be a doctor,
and I know I'll never consider myself wealthy,
I'll never be a pretentious, country-club membership holder,
4,000 square foot home owner.

No, in my heart I'm still a 7-year-old latch-key kid,
dutifully returning the house key back to it's hiding spot in the garage so I won't be locked out tomorrow,
pedaling the streets on my red 2nd (or 3rd?) hand bike with the wind blowing back my hair.

08/27/2012

Author's Note: Nonnie & Puppy = My grandmother & grandfather

Posted on 10/13/2012
Copyright © 2024 Carolyn Coville