Sweet Ride: Discovering a New World

At 10 I inherited  an oversized boy’s bike from my cousin.  It was officially my first bike since we couldn’t afford the popular Schwinns of the day.

It made me happy to have my own "wheels." I cleaned and painted the secondhand bike red and even added a silver thunderbolt to the fender to make it look fast and ready to roll.

Once it was "restored" and no longer looked like a dust catcher from someone’s basement, I took it for a test drive.

The first step was to find a place to mount the boy’s bike since I wasn’t tall enough to reach over the frame without starting from a stoop. Then I had to manage to stay upright and balanced.

After many falls and scraped knees, I wobbly made my way over the streets and sidewalks of our immigrant Chicago neighborhood in the ‘50s.

I was curious about what was outside the safety of the few blocks I already knew. I decided to risk a ride beyond the boundaries of my Greek, Irish, Polish and Swedish neighborhood. There was a bigger world out there; and my bike, like a trusty steed, would take me there.

So I headed for the nearest stoop, straddled my bike, and set off for my first trip across neighborhood borders into foreign territory with other nationalities on Chicago's South Side.

I was breaking the rules by leaving my neighborhood, but I couldn’t resist the adventure.

As I rode, I heard new languages and saw different ethnic faces.

Even so, the lifestyles seemed familiar to my neighborhood with open market tables covered with fresh breads, fish, and produce, many displayed just outside of family-owned shops housed under their apartments.

Some of the food and the odors were unfamiliar.Other sidewalk tables held clothing and trinkets for sale.

I didn’t feel comfortable getting off my bike just yet.  After all, these were strangers I was told not to go near.

When I returned home, I didn't dare tell anyone of my explorations just a few blocks away. I kept my travels a secret so I could return to discover more about the new territory.

As time passed, I grew bolder and got off my bike to taste and touch the foods and wares of the other immigrants' lives.

Thanks to my secondhand bike, I got to discover a new world and its inhabitants in Chicago's immigrant melting pot of the '50s.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Our Christmas of Catastrophes

Most Christmas memories blend together, a collage of moments in the scrapbook of memories we all carry in our minds.


But there is one from my childhood that stands out.

It was our Christmas of Catastrophes in 1953 when I was 10 and living in a small apartment with my two brothers, my parents and our cat, Kitty.

Chicago was under a snow and ice siege…freezing, slippery conditions that kept us inside as the biggest and most anticipated holiday of the year approached.

We were excited. Our Greek mother had taught us to sing “Silent Night” in Greek to impress our relatives when the big day arrived.

We decorated our tree that just missed the ceiling and sat tucked into the corner of our small living room. The ornaments were vintage now, mostly glass tinted with silver and gold designs and old world themes, from my parents early Christmases together.

Some of our strung colored lights were candles with rising bubbles that appeared when they were lit. Once decorated, the finishing touches were slivers of silver tinsel hung from the branches. It was a happy time for a working class family in the immigrant neighborhood.

Nothing seemed different this particular Christmas except for the nonstop severe weather and the sheets of ice everywhere.

The most popular Christmas song that year was Nat King Cole’s recording of “The Christmas Song.” My father who loved to sing in bars and at weddings had to have it. He called all over the city to find a copy of the 78 record platter and finally found one.

Under other circumstances, my father would not have ventured out in the Arctic grip the city was under, but he was obsessed with the song and was determined to have it for Christmas. So he cleared the car of its snow and ice and began his trek to the record store.

Our cat Kitty, we discovered, was fascinated by the slinky, snakelike glimmering tinsel dangling seductively from the branches. It was a new cat toy to play with and bat with his paws.

However, it didn’t stop there. Kitty wanted to taste the tinsel, and with one stubborn tug pulled down the tree.

Branches snapped, ornaments rolled across the floor, some broke, and we gasped. With tears and laughter we put the tree upright and repaired the damages as best we could to restore it to its pristine state.

It was dark now and my weary father returned with his precious record only to find worsened street conditions for parking his big Caddie. As he attempted to seesaw into a spot, he hit the car in front and in back of him.

Totally exasperated, my dad now had car insurance and damage issues as well as unhappy neighbors to deal with. He finally gave up and came inside in a foul mood. The earlier excitement and family cheer were now gone.

But there was still one more catastrophe that day.

My dad unwrapped the coveted record from its packaging only to discover it was cracked and unplayable.

We did recover from that awful day and still had a good Christmas in spite of the cat, the tree, the car and the broken record.

It was an unforgettable Christmas, our Christmas of Catastrophes.


Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cat photo by Palmer W. Cook

Georgie’s Girl

All the girls adored him.

Georgie was cocky, mischievous, wore his jeans slung on his hips without a belt, a black leather motorcycle jacket with his collar up…an irresistible mix of James Dean and John Travolta with thick, blonde, wavy hair and blue eyes that made me melt.

Georgie was the leader of the eighth grade boys. I was the new kid in seventh grade in the suburbs of Chicago. 

Georgie was king of the school and everybody tried to please him, except me. I was so shy that I wouldn’t talk to him and only looked at him when he couldn’t see. The others thought my awkward standoffishness was what they called “stuck-up.”

I fantasized about Georgie but never dreamed he would notice me. I’m not sure what attracted him to me, except that I was the only girl not fawning over him. One day, his simple “hi” broke our silence as he walked me to my locker.

After that, we were “a couple,” and he escorted me to my classes regularly. Of course, I was thrilled as if my dream had come true. Georgie also started riding his motorcycle to my house, the ultimate display of affection to a girl who never had a boyfriend before.

Since Georgie liked me, the eighth grade girls’ clique called the Sub-Debs (like the Pink Ladies in Grease) invited me to their lunch table, and soon I became one of them. We wore identical yellow jackets and rolled down our bobby socks an inch at the top to look cool.

I cut my hair short in a slick DA shaped into a duck tail in the back with side curls that I taped to my cheeks at night to train them to lie plastered against my face during the day.

Though Georgie looked like a gang member from West Side Story, he was always a gentleman with me. Our relationship was innocent and delightful, just handholding and closed-mouth kissing. We never “made out.” I was still very shy, and he never tried.

I remember his asking me to “go steady” on a summer day on a bench near the park at the end of our street.

He even gave me his engraved ID bracelet to wear so everyone would know I was Georgie’s girl. After that, I gained new status in the school and became the envy of the other girls.     

Other than a few sweet kisses, my first love and I only shared socializing at school and some parties at other kids’ houses, usually in the basement, the knotty-pine, paneled party room for working class families in suburban Chicago homes.

I’m not sure when Georgie and I went our separate ways. We seemed to drift apart when I went to high school. I started spending more time with student leaders and other teens that wanted to go to college.

That didn’t interest Georgie. He was street smart, savvy, and in a hurry to make money.

We no longer had much in common. He still had a following of the boys from Berger Elementary School, but was not a high-school achiever in sports, scholastics, or extra-curricular activities.

I lost track of him in our overcrowded high school of 4,000 students. The following year I was elected the first girl president of the sophomore class.

After I graduated and moved on to the University of Illinois, I came home for the summers and worked in downtown Chicago. One day I ran into Georgie on the street in my hometown.

It felt awkward. We really didn’t know what to say to each other. It had been much easier in seventh grade. We were now in very different places.

I was dressed for business and he was still in his construction coveralls. Working in the sun made him blonder, rugged, and more handsome. He was still mischievous and his confidence was disarming.

We made small talk and scanned each other. I felt sexually attracted to him at 19 and wondered what it would be like to be intimate with him. I sensed that the feeling was mutual but neither of us tried to revive our lost love.

I never saw Georgie again. I married my college sweetheart and moved to another state to teach near where my husband was attending law school.

My father later told me that Georgie married one of the quiet, pretty girls from my class who never went to college.

They seemed to be doing well: big house, cars, boat, etc. I knew Georgie was a hustler and was not surprised that he was earning big money in the construction business. He always had to be number one.

A couple years later, I heard that Georgie was in prison. His ambition had led him to his own private plane, major drug deals, and connections to cartels smuggling drugs into the country. As always, he did things in a big way and never stood for being second best at anything.

Many years have passed, but the memory of him as my first love remains tucked away in my heart forever. He made an awkward, young, skinny girl feel pretty and special. I will always be thankful that I was Georgie’s girl.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-10 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://justdoingmythingcom.blogspot.com/

Motorcycle boy photo by Michal Zacharzewski
Corrente2 bracelet by Felipe Skroski

The Halo Lounge

At age 13, as if by divine intervention, I was chosen to represent the Presbyterian church on a local TV quiz-kid show aptly named, “This Way Up.”

I attended Sunday School in the Chicago suburbs and was their star pupil, an aspiring missionary, who saw God through shafts of sunlight  seemingly directed at me.

Looking at the heavenly skylight, I felt a special connection to my maker, and my church nurtured it.

Though my parents never visited the church, nevertheless, I was recognized in front of the congregation for memorizing more of the Old Testament than anyone else in my class. I basked in the glory.

Little did I know that my Old Testament Bible knowledge would lead to bigger and better things.

In the mid-50s, TV programming in Chicago kept viewers captivated with cooking demonstrations, Howdy Doody puppets, Uncle Miltie, and quiz shows. Being chosen to compete with other churches’ Sunday school contestants was an honor.

Besides appearing on TV, I had a chance to win a $25 bond for the church and a white leather Bible with gold trimmed pages.

To prepare for my TV debut, I carefully picked my hat and slipped my fingers into my pristine, white fitted gloves to be properly dressed in my Sunday best for the auspicious occasion.

There I stood in front of the camera answering all the Bible questions confidently and winning easily. I took home the white leather Bible autographed by the TV host and carried the bond safely back to the church.

The televised event was an epiphany, a transformative experience.

 I ascended from Sunday School starlet to full-fledged celebrity status among the Presbyterians. I was their Junior Miss Achiever.

“What next?” I thought. I was on my way to God, and a door had opened to my fantasy adventure to become “Nancy Drew, Missionary.” It all seemed to be falling into place until one unforeseen afternoon.

After Sunday School, the minister called me into his office to congratulate me on the honors I had brought to his parish. After some polite conversation, the head of the church asked me why my parents never came to services.

Since my parents were of different religious denominations (Greek Orthodox and non-practicing Jew), I had tagged along with friends to find “my church.”

As always, I attended on my own with neighborhood kids. By 13, there was already an assorted list of churches in my repertoire: I had spent time with Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists, Episcopalians and occasionally Catholics.

The minister continued his interrogation. He wanted to know my father’s occupation and where he worked. Suddenly, I felt hot and clammy as my perfect holy life began to crumble. I didn’t want to lie or tell the truth.

The time of reckoning had come. I knew if I disclosed my father’s work, I would fall from grace and off my sacred pedestal.

As if confessing, I stammered that my father was a… bartender at the Halo Lounge… a local bar with a blinking neon halo above the sign of the establishment.

The minister became silent, looked away, made some unrelated comment, and wished me a good day. It was over. I was exposed and embarrassed not knowing what to say in that awkward moment of truth that seemed like it would never end.

My short-lived fame was deposed by a neon halo. I could no longer reign as the Sunday School queen. Like a golden calf from the Old Testament, my holy tiara was toppled by a neon halo.

God works in mysterious ways.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-10 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Meet the Immigrant Neighbors Circa '50s

I was raised with immigrants, first, second and third generations in Chicago in the mid-50s.

They were many shades of white: German, Polish, Irish, Swedish, Italian, Jewish, and Greek. Our parents spoke more than one language; but as their children, we were Americans and English was our common language with each other.

There was Johnny whose living room displayed a treasured Lionel train set and whose Irish Catholic mother cooked cabbage we could smell a block before we got home from school to the three-story apartment building with an alley on the side where we played “kick the can” and threw balls against the brick wall.

 

The alley between the two old apartment buildings was where deliveries were made by the ice man (a block of ice placed in a refrigerator box to keep food fresh for a couple days); the Fuller Brush man selling hardware goods door to door; and the fascinating “ragman,” a tinker with a cart of bartered trinkets, pots and pans, a mobile tradesman who carried everything from thread to bracelets, whatever he picked up along the way.

Carol of Swedish descent lived in the apartment above ours. Her mother was a maid and brought home clothing discards from the affluent family she cleaned for. The oversized dresses became great make-believe garments for Carol and me to play “grown-up” ladies as we giggled at how we looked in them. Her mom made great Swedish meatballs.

In the apartment across from Carol lived Sandy, an aloof, beautiful German blonde girl whose dad loved watching wrestling on TV while drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Sometimes I would sit in their living room and watch along with them though I knew nothing about professional wrestling.

Allan who lived in the apartment beneath us kept to himself. People whispered that he was adopted but never spoke of it in front of him as if it were something shameful to not know who you came from.

Ronald, one of the Polish kids, was the leader of the rest of us. He was mean and often caused trouble. He intimidated the others and used the basement “catacombs” as the hideout for his followers.

From the back of the apartments we could see a house’s yard with grass and trees. It was Nancy’s house. I thought she was rich because she lived in a house and had her own bedroom. I always felt like she was “looking down” on the children who lived in the apartments. We played together for awhile but ultimately went our separate ways after an argument about the famous cowboy star of the time, Roy Rogers.

The neighborhood started to shift as a new ethnic group moved in, and everything changed. The new neighbor Belinda was a mulatto, a colored girl with braided pigtails all over her head. Much to my mother’s chagrin, we played together.

Cadillacs replaced Chevies in front of the apartments, and the cooking smells were from foreign southern foods (collards and gizzards).

The white immigrants quickly sought other residences and fled to new suburbs in homes funded by GI bills from soldiers like my dad who served in WWII.

Though our parents told us not to play with the Wops, Polacks, Potato Heads, and worse ethnic slurs, we were children and we only had each other, so we ignored our parents’ prejudices and made the best of living in a true “melting” pot of mid-century Americans.

Looking back it was a rich experience about diversity, food, culture, language; and I appreciate having lived it and how it shaped my acceptance of what we now label cultural diversity.

Today I marvel at diversity again in my college classes of minorities, some becoming a majority, including Hispanics, Native Americans, African Americans, Middle Easterners, and fewer Caucasians than before.

Once again I see the fear of the people who migrated ahead of them and the struggles for the new Americans to win their place and make better lives for their families as the immigrants of Chicago did so many years ago.

The cycle repeats itself.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

See more "Growing Up in Chicago" posts in "Erana's stories."

Chicago sign photo by Nick Pepito

Cadillac photo by Andrew Beierle

Our Christmas of Catastrophes

Most Christmas memories blend together as a collage of moments in the scrapbook of memories we all carry in our minds.

But there is one from my childhood that stands out. It was our Christmas of Catastrophes in 1953 when I was 10 and living in a small apartment with my two brothers, my parents and our cat, Kitty.

Chicago was under a snow and ice siege…freezing, slippery conditions that kept us inside as the biggest and most anticipated holiday of the year approached. We were excited. Our Greek mother had taught us to sing “Silent Night” in Greek to impress our relatives when the big day arrived.

We decorated our tree that just missed the ceiling and sat tucked into the corner of our small living room. The ornaments were vintage now, mostly glass tinted with silver and gold designs and old world themes, from my parents early Christmases together.

Some of our strung colored lights were candles with rising bubbles that appeared when they were lit. Once decorated, the finishing touches were slivers of silver tinsel hung from the branches. It was a happy time for a working class family in the immigrant neighborhood.

Nothing seemed different this particular Christmas except for the nonstop severe weather and the sheets of ice everywhere. The most popular Christmas song that year was Nat King Cole’s recording of “The Christmas Song.” My father who loved to sing in bars and at weddings had to have it.

He called all over the city to find a copy of the 78 record platter and finally found one. Under other circumstances, my father would not have ventured out in the Arctic grip the city was under, but he was obsessed with the song and was determined to have it for Christmas. So he cleared the car of its snow and ice and began his trek to the record store.

Our cat Kitty, we discovered, was fascinated by the slinky, snakelike glimmering tinsel dangling seductively from the branches. It was a new cat toy to play with and bat with his paws. However, it didn’t stop there. Kitty wanted to taste the tinsel, and with one stubborn tug pulled down the tree.

Branches snapped, ornaments rolled across the floor, some broke, and we gasped. With tears and laughter we put the tree upright and repaired the damages as best we could to restore it to its pristine state.

It was dark now and my weary father returned with his precious record only to find worsened street conditions for parking his big Caddie. As he attempted to seesaw into a spot, he hit the car in front and in back of him. Totally exasperated, my dad now had car insurance and damage issues as well as unhappy neighbors to deal with. He finally gave up and came inside in a foul mood.

The earlier excitement and family cheer were now gone. But there was still one more catastrophe that day. My dad unwrapped the coveted record from its packaging only to discover it was cracked and unplayable.

We did recover from that awful day and still had a good Christmas in spite of the cat, the tree, the car and the broken record. It was an unforgettable Christmas, our Christmas of Catastrophes.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Cat photo by Palmer W. Cook

Sweet Ride: Discovering a New World

At 10, I inherited an oversized boy’s bike from my cousin. We couldn’t afford the popular Schwinns of the day. I was happy to have my first bike. I cleaned and painted it, adding a thunderbolt on the fender to make it look fast and give the hand-me-down a new look.

Once it looked like a bike to be proud of rather than a dust catcher from someone’s basement, I had to learn to ride. The first step was to find a place to mount the boy’s bike since I wasn’t tall enough to reach over the frame without starting from a stoop. Then I had to manage to stay upright and balanced.

After several falls and scraped knees, I wobbly made my way over the streets and sidewalks of our immigrant Chicago neighborhood in the ‘50s. Eventually I wanted to see more and ventured beyond the boundaries of my Greek, Irish, Polish and Swedish neighborhood. I was curious to know what was outside the safety of the few blocks I already knew.

So I mounted my bike and boldly crossed the ethnic borders into foreign territory on the South Side, into a new place of different ethnic faces, their open market stalls, family-owned shops, churches and schools.

As I rode my bike by their open markets, I saw and smelled unfamiliar foods on display on sidewalk tables strewn with breads, produce, clothing and trinkets. I didn’t feel comfortable getting off my bike just yet. After all, these were strangers I was told not to go near.

I knew I was breaking the rules by leaving my neighborhood, but I couldn’t pass up the adventure. I didn't dare tell anyone of my explorations just a few blocks away from home. I kept my travels a secret so I could return to this exotic place.

Thanks to my secondhand bike, I got to discover a new world and its inhabitants in Chicago's immigrant melting pot of the '50s.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Halloween Treat

My aunt grinned as she finished applying my dark, red lipstick and thick, black mascara. These were the finishing touches along with large hoop hearings, rope necklaces and shiny, arm bracelets that accessorized my striped orange, brown and black midriff blouse worn saucily off one shoulder above my swirling skirt.

I was only 12. What I saw looking back at me in the mirror was a wild gypsy girl, a dramatic, mysterious me seeing my adventurous self for the first time. No longer a ghost or a witch, this year’s costume and make-up revealed a sensuous, exciting version of myself I had felt but never seen.

This was much more than playing dress-up in my aunt’s high heel shoes when I visited her during the summer. I saw myself blooming, still a child but in woman’s make-up and jewelry, a preview of what I was becoming.

The future me in the reflection was daring, the heroine of a bold, passionate life. She looked back at me, pleased with herself to allow me a glance at a life I imagined from books I read and movie stars I admired.

This Halloween I discovered I could be more than an awkward, gangly girl. I caught a glimpse of the woman who was waiting for me to be her. I didn’t know her yet, but I liked her.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Georgie’s Girl

I was the new kid in seventh grade in the suburbs of Chicago. Georgie was the leader of the eighth grade boys. He was cocky, mischievous, wore his jeans slung on his hips without a belt, a black leather motorcycle jacket with his collar up…an irresistible mix of James Dean and John Travolta with thick, blonde, wavy hair and blue eyes that made me melt.

All the girls adored him. Georgie was king of the school and everybody tried to please him, except me. I was so shy that I wouldn’t talk to him and only looked at him when he couldn’t see. The others thought my awkward standoffishness was what they called “stuck-up.”

I fantasized about Georgie but never dreamed he would notice me. I’m not sure what attracted him to me except that I was the only girl not fawning over him. One day, his simple “hi” broke our silence as he walked me to my locker.

After that, we were “a couple,” and he escorted me to my classes regularly. Of course, I was thrilled as if my dream had come true. Georgie also started riding his motorcycle to my house, the ultimate display of affection to a girl who never had a boyfriend before.

Since Georgie liked me, the 8th grade girls’ clique called the Sub-Debs (like the Pink Ladies in Grease) invited me to their lunch table, and soon I became one of them. We wore identical yellow jackets and rolled down our bobby socks an inch at the top to look cool.

I cut my hair short in a slick DA shaped into a duck tail in the back with side curls that I taped to my cheeks at night to train them to lie plastered against my face during the day.

Though Georgie looked like a gang member from West Side Story, he was always a gentleman with me. Our relationship was innocent and delightful, just handholding and closed-mouth kissing. We never “made out.” I was still very shy, and he never tried.

I remember his asking me to “go steady” on a summer day on a bench near the park at the end of our street. He even gave me his engraved ID bracelet to wear so everyone would know I was Georgie’s girl. After that, I gained new status in the school and became the envy of the other girls.

Other than a few sweet kisses, my first love and I only shared socializing at school and some parties at other kids’ houses, usually in the basement, the knotty-pine, paneled party room for working class families in suburban Chicago homes.

I’m not sure when Georgie and I went our separate ways. We seemed to drift apart when I went to high school. I started spending more time with student leaders and other teens that wanted to go to college. That didn’t interest Georgie. He was street smart, savvy, and in a hurry to make money.

We no longer had much in common. He still had a following of the boys from Berger Elementary School, but was not a high-school achiever in sports, scholastics, or extra-curricular activities. I lost track of him in our overcrowded high school of 4,000 students. The following year I was elected the first girl president of the sophomore class.

After I graduated and moved on to the University of Illinois, I came home for the summers and worked in downtown Chicago. One day I ran into Georgie on the street in my hometown. It felt awkward. We really didn’t know what to say to each other. It had been much easier in seventh grade. We were now in very different places.

I was dressed for business and he was still in his construction coveralls. Working in the sun made him blonder, rugged, and more handsome. He was still mischievous and his confidence was disarming.

We made small talk and scanned each other. I felt sexually attracted to him at 19 and wondered what it would be like to be intimate with him. I sensed that the feeling was mutual but neither of us tried to revive our lost love.

I never saw Georgie again. I married my college sweetheart and moved to another state to teach near where my husband was attending law school. My father later told me that Georgie married one of the quiet, pretty girls from my class who never went to college.

They seemed to be doing well: big house, cars, boat, etc. I knew Georgie was a hustler and was not surprised that he was earning big money in the construction business. He always had to be number one.

A couple years later, I heard that Georgie was in prison. His ambition had led him to his own private plane, major drug deals, and connections to cartels smuggling drugs into the country. As always, he did things in a big way and never stood for being second best at anything.

Many years have passed, but the memory of him as my first love remains tucked away in my heart forever. He made an awkward, young, skinny girl feel pretty and special. I will always be thankful that I was Georgie’s girl.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Rooms R Us

I could hardly wait!


My own room for the first time ever. I didn't have to sleep with other people in the room anymore...a place where I could close the door and escape into daydreams, fantasies, and PRIVACY.
My parents even found a used vanity table with a mirror and chair for my room. The cosmetics on the vanity crowded my stuffed animals. I knew sooner or later there would not be room for both. I felt so feminine and grown-up in the vanity's mirror seeing the reflection of a future acclaimed actress or best-selling author.

The closet held only "my" things, no one else's. My storybook dolls, timeless princesses adorned in beautiful gowns and tiaras, slept undisturbed in their plastic, see-through boxes, unspoiled and forever perfect. Like Sleeping Beauty, they awaited the kiss of the handsome prince to awaken them.

I would transform my room into a sanctuary, dreamscape, and bigger-than-life movie starring me. Sometimes the room became a time machine transporting me to a wonderful future filled with love, romance and riches.

On my fantasy stage, I would confront my parents and win; accept the Oscar graciously; be crowned Miss America; and passionately kiss the senior class president. It was here where I rehearsed for life; and, all my stories had happy, victorious endings written, produced and directed from the theatre of my mind.

Years later, I shared my room, this time with my husband. How strange to be lying there beside him with my parents in the next room. I felt self conscious about the squeaky bedsprings and refused to make love, for somehow that was sacrilege. In this place, nothing in reality could compare to the exquisite romances of my girlhood fantasies.

After my divorce, I stayed in my room for the last time. The house was empty. My parents had divorced long ago and my mother had passed. I went there with a man I cared for but had no plans to marry.

As I lay beside him, memories and ghosts swept over me. I wept as I realized my lovely, girlhood dreams had shattered in the outside world. Now I possessed wisdom and experience, but the innocent girl imagining her first kiss was gone forever.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The First on Our Block

My parents were raised with radio, and it looked like my brothers and I would be too, until the day new technology arrived as a Motorola television set. We didn’t know what to expect when dad unpacked the large, cardboard box. It looked a lot like our radio in its big wooden cabinet; but instead of a speaker, there was a screen in the middle.

Our parents were excited, so we knew this was something special, not like the way they acted when we got a new car. This occasion was more like the anticipation of getting ready for a family outing to Cedar Lake.

With great curiosity we watched our dad fiddle with the antenna and knobs and waited for the screen to do something. Up until now, the only screen we watched was at the local movie theatre where on Saturday afternoons for 25 cents, we could fill up on popcorn and Good N’Plenty candy while we laughed at Bugs Bunny cartoons and cringed when Tarzan wrestled a crocodile.

Could this new fangled contraption, this TV, bring that kind of adventure and fun into our home every day of the week? All the time? It was an exhilarating possibility. As my dad tuned the fuzzy little screen and adjusted the antenna, we eagerly awaited to be greeted by the daring deeds of our movie idols.

What emerged was our first commercial for Texaco gasoline introduced by someone who called himself Uncle Miltie. He made us laugh. We decided that “TV” was fun, and we could even watch it while we ate dinner. And so my family transitioned from radio to television.

We sat mesmerized in front of the screen watching anything that moved: live demonstrations of food being chopped and people showing how to get stains out of the carpet. With only two channels, and most them on at noon or dinnertime, we were captives of whatever appeared.

We were also the envy of the neighborhood. No one else had one yet. Kids would ask to come over and see it. We felt a real pride of ownership and the distinction of being the first family on our block to have a TV.

Dad took our newfound technology leadership even further by buying an accessory for the TV. It was a plastic sheet divided into three color stripes. When overlaid on the screen, we had “color” TV. It didn’t matter if everybody’s face was red, torso yellow and legs blue. It was color TV. We were ahead of our time. We felt rich.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED