50 to 50: The countdown begins.
I'm going to countdown the days until the big 5-0...there's a certain gravitas to such a golden number...at least, I *hope* there's some gold involved in my 50th year, I could sure use it. Meanwhile, let the nostalgia begin!
I was a change-of-life surprise. When I was born, my mom was 39 and my dad was 50. (He would be turning 100 next Monday, if he was still around.) My brother was 15.
They lived on Staten Island, in a two-storey house with an attic and cellar, all of which was used---the attic as a dorm-style bedroom and the cellar was converted to kitchen-dining-family room with a washroom and pantry under the stairs, and two apartments on the first and second floors.
There were three families in residence: Aunt Mary and Uncle Al slept in the attic and lived in the cellar; Aunt Mary was the primary cook of the house---there was a spare fridge and sink in the first floor kitchen, but no stove. Aunt Elsie and Uncle Frank slept on the first floor. That living room was formal, housing Aunt Elsie's Hummels and mostly just used around Christmas time when the tree went up. They were my courtesy aunts and uncles, more family than blood; I *always* understood that concept.
The first floor apartment and ours had almost the same footprint, except thet we had a tiny bit more space under the stairs to the attic. The sloping part under the stairs was my mother's closet/dressing room, and where the little rectangle of the landing was, my dad shoe-horned in a built-in area for a coat closet and some drawers for his clothes and tools.
There were only two bedrooms, and after I came along and graduated from my crib, my folks slept on a convertible bed in the living room while Peter and I each got our own rooms. In fact, my earliest memory is of climbing out of my crib and getting into the nearby bed to snuggle with Mom.
I told her years later about that and she was leery, saying I was out of the crib by the time I was a year old, so I couldn't possibly remember that---but I do. And a number of other things that happened when I was quite young.
Stay tuned.
.
I was a change-of-life surprise. When I was born, my mom was 39 and my dad was 50. (He would be turning 100 next Monday, if he was still around.) My brother was 15.
They lived on Staten Island, in a two-storey house with an attic and cellar, all of which was used---the attic as a dorm-style bedroom and the cellar was converted to kitchen-dining-family room with a washroom and pantry under the stairs, and two apartments on the first and second floors.
There were three families in residence: Aunt Mary and Uncle Al slept in the attic and lived in the cellar; Aunt Mary was the primary cook of the house---there was a spare fridge and sink in the first floor kitchen, but no stove. Aunt Elsie and Uncle Frank slept on the first floor. That living room was formal, housing Aunt Elsie's Hummels and mostly just used around Christmas time when the tree went up. They were my courtesy aunts and uncles, more family than blood; I *always* understood that concept.
The first floor apartment and ours had almost the same footprint, except thet we had a tiny bit more space under the stairs to the attic. The sloping part under the stairs was my mother's closet/dressing room, and where the little rectangle of the landing was, my dad shoe-horned in a built-in area for a coat closet and some drawers for his clothes and tools.
There were only two bedrooms, and after I came along and graduated from my crib, my folks slept on a convertible bed in the living room while Peter and I each got our own rooms. In fact, my earliest memory is of climbing out of my crib and getting into the nearby bed to snuggle with Mom.
I told her years later about that and she was leery, saying I was out of the crib by the time I was a year old, so I couldn't possibly remember that---but I do. And a number of other things that happened when I was quite young.
Stay tuned.
.