A Front Hall Pathway to Halloween by Gail Romanovich

The nostalgia of family, friends and neighborhood

I lived on the second floor of a triple-decker on Academy Avenue in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood of Providence, RI. My paternal grandmother lived on the first floor with her two unmarried, adult children—my Aunt Viola and Uncle Eddy.

On the third floor, was my father’s oldest sister, Ophalia, and her husband, Giro. It was typical in those days for three generations to live under one roof.

Our front hallway was one of my favorite places to play and explore. Just inside the front hall entrance stood a barrel of clothes that my brother and I had outgrown. I would rummage through it to find baby clothes that fit my Betsy Wetsy doll, whose perambulator stood nearby. This was where I often “played house.”

Halfway up the stairs to our flat was a small shelf tucked into the curve of the stairwell. It held a beloved bust that Dad sculpted in his 1941 art class at Mount Pleasant High School. He named it Yehudi, after the great American-born British Violinist and conductor Yehudi Menuhin. Dad shared his love for music with me, introducing me to great classical compositions and composers, and providing me with a portable red-and-white record player on which to play 78 RPM recordings of classical and ballet music for children which my mom bought in the children’s department of the Shepard Company.

Dad w Cousin Carole

That same school year, Dad also sculpted a seated nude and created beautifully formed ceramic pieces—a bowl and an urn. I admired the craftsmanship of his sculptures and pottery. During his long career in the jewelry industry, he designed necklaces, pendents, brooches, bracelets, and belt buckles for several companies. These designs traveled the globe.

On one of my parent’s trips, Dad discovered one of his belt buckles in a shop in Australia. He was truly an artist, and I was proud of him for his remarkable talent.

On the front hall landing of our second-floor flat, there was a tall cupboard Dad had someone build for Mom to store all sorts of things—off-season linens, beach blankets, and more. The top of an old record stand held odds and ends, but each Christmas it was cleared for a special purpose. Because the hallway was cold, it became the perfect spot for Mom to store her eleven varieties of homemade Christmas cookies in Tupperware containers, along with fruit cake she made for Dad.

Just before Halloween, when I was twelve, I decided it was finally time to explore the third-floor hall closet that had always piqued my curiosity. I had put it off for far too long, and risked invading a space that might be occupied by the third floor tenants: Uncle Giro and Aunt Fifi. Inside that long closet that disappeared into the darkness of the eves, I discovered a trunk filled with my father’s sailor uniforms: Dress White, Dress Blue, a Cap, white hat (also known as a Dixie cup), and a pea coat. Dad had served in World War II, taking part in the South Pacific Campaign. I hadn’t yet decided on a Halloween costume, so I tried on the white sailor pants, jumper, neckerchief and Dixie cup. I was stunned to find that it fit my petite twelve-year-old frame—Dad had once been my size! I had a costume, and I was thrilled. When I told Dad how well it fit, he laughed.

One October, the Castle Theater featured a movie staring Don Knotts: The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. My best friend Carol Petteruti and I walked up to the theater to see it. I never liked horror, but The Ghost And Mr. Chicken was just tame enough for me. Carol and I delighted over the movie—we even adored the spooky organ music that served as the theme song

with friend, David Tartaglia

with my brother, John

The Halloweens of my youth were pure fun. My brother and I ventured out on our own, stopping at the homes of my great-aunts and roaming throughout Mount Pleasant unaccompanied by adults. We climbed the stairs to flats of people we didn’t know without any fear. There was a woman about a mile away who gave coins instead of candy to trick-or-treaters—we made sure to visit her every year.

All the school-age kids in the neighborhood went trick-or-treating without adult supervision. In fact, our parents rarely knew where we were when we went out to play. It was a more innocent time.

As an adult with children of my own, I went trick-or-treating with them. News reports warned of razor blades hidden in Halloween candy and advised against eating anything that was unwrapped. I would carefully inspect all my children’s candy when we returned home. But when I was young, no one worried about such dangers—we were free to roam at will.

The year I wore my dad’s sailor uniform was my last year trick-or-treating. I thought I might be getting too old for it. Looking back now, I wish I had given myself a couple more years before trying to act so grown up.

My children are long out of the house and living out of state. I still decorate my house for Halloween, nostalgic for the wonder and excitement of those childhood nights. My husband looks at the decorations and insists I haven’t grown up. Maybe he’s right.

Thank you, Gail. Great story. Wonderful memories. Ed I

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