What Do you Mean, We’re Not Rich?

 

 

Growing up I had every reason to believe we were wealthy. After all, we had a huge in-ground swimming pool, tennis courts, fully decked out playground, 20 acres of land to roam wild on, as well as huge pine trees to climb and hills to go sledding down.. it was awesome. And clearly meant we were rich. I thought.

I mean, sure, our home only had two bedrooms, (one for me , one for my older brother).Yah, we only had one bathroom, we had a galley style kitchen, and our dining “room” was open to the living room. So what? Rich people live in 875 sq.ft. apartments, don’t they? No? Oh.

I also was entirely oblivious to the fact that the reason my brother and I each had their own rooms was because my parents slept on the pull out sofa in the living room. I have absolutely no recollection of where they kept their clothes, come to think of it. We didn’t go on vacations, but why would I notice or care when we lived in paradise? I also didn’t know that my parents marriage was not on solid ground, and that there were probably many a hushed argument going on while I slept at night.

The joke was always that my parents were like Ricky and Lucy Ricardo. My Father, a serious and stoic Cuban, paired with My (German) Mother, who was anything but serious and stoic, were such polar opposites in personalities, temperament, styles… Everything, really. They had my brother and I in common, but that was about it. They held it together for twenty six not-so-fun-for-them years, so that we wouldn’t come from “a broken home” as they say. There was a hell of a lot of stuff swirling below the surface of that careful facade, but we were shielded from much of it, or at least they tried to.

Of course, I know all that now. However, for a large chunk of my youth, if someone were ask pint size, knobby knees me where my family stood in the socio-economic ladder, or on the happiness meter, I’d have unwittingly embarrassed myself and said, “We’re rich!” Assuming, of course, that they’d pose the question in an age appropriate manner, and not use words like “socio-economic ladder”.

Here’s how I remember life:
In the summertime, which I always recall most vividly, I remember waking (seemingly) every morning to the smell of pancakes, or toast, or bacon, the sight of my Mom packing the big striped tote full of pool side necessities on the dining table, talking on the kitchen phone to my grandmother, a lit cigarette in the ashtray and The Carpenters, or Carol King, or the Bee Gees on the stereo, battling for volume victory with the Super Friends on the tv in the living room (where my brother sat trancelike on our red, low shag carpet with his giant bowl of cereal as Superman or Auquaman, Space Ghost, or whoever, saved the day. )

As Mom loaded the towels, Ban de Solei (anyone remember that stuff? Greasy orange tanning gel in a tin tube, and forever the smell I associate with Summer) magazines, goggles, dollars for the ice cream truck, mom’s cigarettes (it was the 70’s, folks. Everybody smoked, anywhere and everywhere), cans of Coke, and some KoolAid for me and my brother. I’d put on my bathing suit, sometimes still slightly damp from the wash and smelling like Tide, Downy and underneath that, a hint of chlorine.

 

Then, while dodging the stretched out telephone cord that Mom whipped back and forth as their seemingly one sided conversation lagged on, I’d eat some breakfast, and then with my chin on the table & my skinny tanned feet dangling below, wait impatiently to walk up to the pool. No matter what, we were almost always the first ones at the gate, at 8:50, waiting for the lifeguard to arrive and unlock the heavy padlock and swing the wide gate open- promptly at 9am.

Once in, mom would stake her prime real estate, best spot for continuous sun worship, while I did my daily filter inspection for unfortunate frogs. Sometimes with elation, when one or more were found alive, and sometimes with disappointment when they were found “sleeping”. Mom said to put those ones in the bushes on the other side of the fence… So they could rest. Ahem. Let’s not talk about how long it was before I figured that one out. Let’s just say… Embarrassingly.

Next, I’d begin to pester my mom, now lathered in oil and prostrate on her lounge chair, to go in the pool. By age four I was an awesome swimmer (if I do say so myself), able to swim the length of the pool, underwater-much to my mothers terror. Did I mention that she can’t swim? No? Well, there’s that. She is a classic wader, just in enough to cool off.. Then out she goes. I, on the other hand, was convinced that I was actually a mermaid who’d, because of a evil spell, had forgotten how to breathe underwater. Therefore, I needed to practice…by staying under for as long as possible. Mom didn’t like this game, and was certain I would drown if she didn’t repeatedly shout my name and clap her hands above the water at ten minute intervals. I may or may not have been the reason for the mandatory “adult swim” time, when all children must exit the pool for 45 minutes.

My brother, despite being older and infinitely cool, was still required to check in with my mother every couple of hours. So, he would come back and forth periodically with his posse staggered behind him to announce, in a most put out voice, where he’d been, where he’d be going next, and yesssss, he was staying out of trouble can-he-go-now-pleasssssse.

We’d stay up at the pool till around noon, then walk home for lunch and a nap. After that we were expected to go out and play till it was time for dinner, then sent off again with warnings to get back before dark. What would ensue were epic games of “War” (an elaborate version of tag crossed with hide and seek, but with “weapons”, spanning more than half of the complex) in which everyone, regardless of age or ability , could play. Along with that were KickBall, tennis, playing on the playground, second ice cream truck visit, tree climbing, frog hunting… Endless possibilities that evolved as we grew up.

That went on all Summer long, the basic routine of our life. By the end of each one I was all nut brown, my hair sun bleached almost white (actually, by then, my pale blonde hair had a definite chlorine green tint), and I’d be half an inch taller than when the Summer had started, and actually ready for the season to change.

That meant new clothes, new haircuts, leaves, pumpkins, my birthday followed by the best of all, Halloween. Before we knew it, Thanksgiving would be here, and then at last, the granddaddy of them all, Christmas. Though, for my family, it seemed like every Sunday was a holiday. Year round, we’d spend nearly every one at my maternal grandparents house, the German side. I believed that they, too, were wealthy. More so than us, because they were glamorous and lived in a long ranch house set on a hill, with lush trees and lots of yard to play in. Interesting how a child gauges wealth, isn’t it?

Sunday’s looked pretty consistently like this: Everyone was there- the four of us, my uncles, aunts, and baby cousins, my great aunt, uncle and great grandmother, and of course, my grandparents. My grandmother would make food all day- full breakfast spread: bagels (from a bakery) lox and cream cheese, eggs, ham, bacon, stewed tomatoes, coffee made in a percolator (the best way, I’ve learned), juice, tea. The good china was always put out, with the delicate coffee cups that could make decent coffee taste incredible. Full dinner: always matzo ball soup to start, followed by roast (sauerbraten) fish (or chicken), assortment of vegetable dishes, potato pancakes, salad, rolls, all on the good china again, after having been washed and dried by my grandmother alone, since no one but her was permitted to handle the fragile wares (aside from eating on it, of course). She felt that, if anyone were to break something, she’d rather it be her, so that she couldn’t get mad at anyone else but herself.

 

The television in the den, the one with a fireplace, would be playing black and white reruns of Abbott and Costello, or the Little Rascals, then later, football. The TV on the patio would have the Atari on for the kids. The inhabitants of the house would flow, river like, through the different rooms throughout the course of the day, and then, with coffee and dessert, would come the board games, like Trivial Pursuit and our favorite, Family Feud. Ironically, a family feud did often erupt, but drifted off just as quickly. When the stars came out, it was inevitably time to pack up us kids and head back home.

This was life for a long time, longer than maybe most people get to have in their life. Now, looking back with these rose tinted glasses, it feels like paradise lost. Don’t get me wrong, I know there were bad times, tensions, fights. I remember them well. I also remember, as I got a little older, wishing at times to be anywhere but there, with them. To have known then all that I know now… but it never is that way, is it?  If I allow it, it would feel like a crushing weight upon my chest to think about how long gone that time is now. Did we appreciate it then? Did we even know what we had? I believe my grandfather did. He got it. You could see it in his face- the infinite joy he felt as he looked around that long dining table at his family. It didn’t matter if we were laughing or arguing, that expression said, “I am the richest man alive.”

I’m going to tell you about him some time. Some time, when I can write more than these simple sentences without tears blurring my vision. But for right now, I want to just say, I was right: we were rich. The way I grew up… no price tag can be put on that, and while it’s a dull ache in my heart whenever I remember everyone and everything that’s gone, I am so infinitely grateful to have had all of that for as long as we did, to have had something like that to miss.