The following story by Lora Mitchell comes from our latest book, Treasured Memories. We hope you enjoy the story and will purchase our book from amazon.com.
No one had to tell us we lived in a shack. We knew we lived in a shack. Sitting in plain sight at the bottom of Chestnut Hill, it was in sorry shape and ugly to look at, but we loved it.
Six of us lived in that rundown shack; Mom, Pop, Granny and three wee ones; Joey, Lucy and Sasha. Everybody called us The Three Shoos; Big Shoo, Middle Shoo and me, Little Shoo.
Granny, who grew up in the Old Country, became frazzled when we got underfoot or in her way, so she waved us away with the only English word she knew, “Shoo. Shoo. Shoo.” And so it stuck.
Some townspeople wanted our rundown shack condemned and torn down because it was an eyesore, but Pop promised we would live in it until they kicked us out. That is what we did, and we were secure and happy.
All around us were fancy three-story houses. They had wrap-around porches, tall brick chimneys, gabled roofs, balconies, manicured lawns, landscaped shrubs, and pretty flower beds. My favorite house had beautiful race horses fenced in and grazing in the backyard. We watched them from the sidewalk because we were forbidden to set foot on the property.
Pop said these houses were well-kept Victorian mansions, and some were over a hundred years old. Mom worked inside these fancy houses during spring cleaning and told us wonderful stories. She talked about the deep velvet sofas, heavy satin drapes, oriental rugs, delicate china teacups, silver candlesticks, cozy fireplaces, and indoor toilets with bathtubs. It all sounded like a fairytale.
Our cozy shack was actually a two-family house. We lived on the south side, and a stooped, birdlike Babushka lady lived on the north side with her grandson named Boogie Boy. He got that name because he was not right in the head and was as scary as the Boogie Man. When he was young, he spent three years in a reform school for giving his teacher a black eye.
One day, he went crazy and started a big fire in his bedroom. His grandma cried when the state police took him away. We never saw him again. A few weeks later, his grandma died. Mom said she died of a broken heart. We three Shoos were sorry for the Babushka lady but happy Boogie Boy was gone. We were finally free to come and go as we pleased, without worrying if he was going to spook us, interrupt our play with crazy talk and chase us back inside.
We enjoyed Chestnut Hill. After a snowstorm, few cars drove by, so we spent the days tobogganing and sledding. Some lucky kids owned Red Flyers, while others used tin washboards or flattened cardboard boxes. Big Shoo had an old wooden sled with steel runners, long enough for Middle and Little Shoo to ride behind while he held a piece of Mom’s clothesline and steered with his feet.
The hill was also perfect for roller skating. At the first peek of warm weather and the birth of budding apple blossoms, we took turns using Big Shoo’s roller skates. He clamped the metal skates to the bottom of our shoes and with a key hanging around his neck, he cranked the skates smaller for Middle Shoo and even smaller for me. A few scraped elbows and bruised knees didn’t stop us from sailing down our wonderful hill.
A cranky farmer named Cybudski, who lived on top of the hill, had a large fruit orchard. He chased other kids away, but because Big Shoo was his paper boy and mowed his lawn, he let us roam free to fill up our little baskets. We loved the sweet, plump cherries, and he offered us a nickel each to chase the pesky birds away. No matter how early we raced up the hill, the birds always beat us to it.
During cold months, the coal-burning stove was our only source of heat. Pop put chicken eggs behind the stove to incubate baby chicks. We babysat for hours, then squealed with delight at the first sign of a crack and watched almost breathless as the brittle shells fell away. Skinny, pink, furless legs struggled to break free, followed by bald heads with beady eyes. These funny looking, newborns grew into soft, yellow fuzz balls; so tiny they fit in the palms of our little hands. Fully grown, they were penned in the chicken coop to lay eggs. It was a shocking and upsetting time when we learned that some of our pet chickens ended up on the Sunday dinner table.
We had a small, brown, shortwave radio, which sat on the kitchen table. While ironing or crocheting, Mom listened to her daytime soaps, Guiding Light and Ma Perkins and swooned over Gene Autry’s cowboy singing. At night, we huddled around and listened to shows like Fibber McGee and Molly, Abbott and Costello, Amos and Andy, and Jack Benny. Big Shoo’s favorite was The Lone Ranger, and we laughed ourselves silly listening to Baby Snooks. There were two scary shows, which made us shiver with fear and hide behind Pop’s chair; Inner Sanctum with its squeaky door and The Shadow’s creepy laugh.
The radio was also our door to the real world. We listened to Gabriel Heatter and Edward R. Murrow who reported the news of people suffering because of a Great Depression, with hungry people out of work and standing in line for apples. We heard about a big war happening over-seas. We learned strange names like Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Nazis, and a place called Pearl Harbor, which put fear in our hearts. President Roosevelt held fireside chats to tell us we had nothing to fear and heartwarming patriotic songs lifted everyone’s spirits. Songs like “My Buddy,” “Over There,” “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again,” and Mom’s favorite, “I’ll Be Seeing You.”
Mom said most poor people were foolish pipe dreamers. Because we were happy and had plenty to eat, I didn’t think we were poor, but we did a lot of dreaming, especially for things we didn’t have.
Every year, we waited for the new Sears and Roebuck Catalog because only then were we allowed to tear up the old one and cut out pictures of things we dreamed about. Big Shoo tore out a Red Flyer, Babe Ruth’s glove, Ted William’s baseball bat, Hopalong Cassidy’s cowboy hat and Roy Roger’s cowboy boots. Middle Shoo and I snipped out pretty party dresses, Buster Brown and Mary Jane shoes, Sonia Henie figure skates, Shirley Temple baby dolls, and furniture for our cardboard box doll house.
We saved pictures of toys for Santa’s wish list, but that’s all it was, a wish list. Even though we had a kitchen chimney and left cookies and milk, Santa never stopped at our house. Big Shoo said Santa emptied out his toy sack for the kids in the fancy houses, so there was nothing left for us. Middle Shoo thought Santa passed over because he got his belly full from their rich hot cocoa and sweet honey cakes. Since Santa’s toy sack was empty and had no more room in his belly, we ate the cookies and hoped that he would pack extra toys and remember us next year.
Nobody knew if Pop had a dream, but we all knew Mom’s dream. She wanted us to have our own house one day. There were no fancy Victorian mansions in her dream. She wanted a simple, modern, ranch house, just like the one Patty Ryan’s daddy built, down near the river. It would have a large, sunny, picture window, wall-to-wall carpeting, because she hated our linoleum floors, indoor plumbing, and heat in every room. It would also include enough land for a vegetable garden, apple trees, and lilac bushes.
Pop promised he would buy a house but Mom only laughed, saying it was another one of his big whoppers. Big Shoo had to explain to me what a whopper was. Middle Shoo said Pop’s promises never came true, but I wanted this whopper to come true. We all did.
One night, while decorating a small Christmas tree, Pop climbed down the rickety, uneven attic stairs. He carried two large green-tinted pickle jars filled with shiny, golden-brown pennies.
He poured the pennies over Mom’s bed. Jumping with glee, we Shoos took turns making penny snow angels. Tossing pennies in the air, we shrieked, “Mom, look. We are rich. We are rich. Pop can buy us a new house now.”
Mom laughed, and said, "Papa will have to fill a few more pickle jars before we can afford that new house."
Right then and there, we promised to save every single penny that came our way to fill those extra pickle jars. Big Shoo even promised to give up his favorite Bazooka bubble gum.
One chilly Harvest Moon night, a knock on the door changed our cozy shack life forever. The Big Bad Wolf, with a huge, purple-veined, bulbous nose and a fat, bubble-bottom lip, appeared in the doorway. He was carrying a piece of paper in his hairy, claw-like hand. While reading the paper, Pop’s shoulders slumped over, his hands shook, and his face turned stone white.
The townspeople voted. Our shack was condemned, and we had two weeks to move out. Mom screamed; we Shoos sobbed and Granny, confused and scared, blubbered toothless in her foreign tongue.
Pop borrowed Uncle Max’s large produce farm truck. We Shoos rode in the back among packed boxes, furniture, chicken crates, and Uncle’s burlap bags filled with onions, cabbages and potatoes.
With Mom and Granny riding in front with our precious radio, Pop drove slower than usual because of his extra heavy load. As the truck pulled away, with sad little hearts as heavy as the low valley fog and eyes as misty as the morning dew, we waved goodbye to our beloved shack at the bottom of Chestnut Hill.
© 2011 Lora Mitchell
Lora Mitchell, former actress and model, grew up in a small Western Massachusetts town; she now resides in New York City. A published writer, Lora’s, Getting Together, won the first prize for the best poem in the anthology titled Love in New York. Cabaret singers performed and showcased her songs, and she has also written several plays. Lora continues to write short stories and is currently working on a memoir trilogy and a novel based on a nursing home daily journal.
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