How I Found a Break From the Chaotic News
With nostalgia and books
I was looking for peace, quiet, and comfort in a week of news commotion and realized it was a television remote away. I was in control. When I hit that remote, it was not news, it was for a cooking show, a movie, or a comforting serial, like a romantic one from Italy that we stumbled upon. And guess what happened? I was calm and felt safe. I drifted even further as nostalgia reared its head, again.
Daydreaming, I thought of the days when I could turn to safety and find it easily. And where was it? Why the rear staircase of our three-family home; the good old bulky reliable three-decker. That’s where I sought security in my youth.
It was reassuring to open the door to the rear staircase of our home; the main thoroughfare for its families -- my aunt on the first floor, my grandparents on the second, and us on the third.
The rear door, its top half of glass veiled by lace curtains and its sturdy bottom painted black, opened to a small entry. I ran to its shelter when I feared the menacing, dimly lit, shadowed streets of the neighborhood. I raced at top speed to the comfort of a large door that opened easily ahead of me and closed with a solid slam behind.
Beyond the door and to the left was an open stairwell to a dark cellar, with shelves cradling Mason Jars lining each side. The pungent smells of Grandpa’s homemade wine and pickling cucumbers oozed up those steps.
The staircase was sparkling clean. Aromas emanated from the open doors of the tenements. The warmth of the kitchen stoves flowed like lava down the stairs. And oh, those aromas; red sauces, soups, frying dough, garlic, basil, onions, browning meat, roasting chicken, and the seductive scent of baking bread ready for dunking into the gravy.
Four rubber-matted, mahogany steps led to the first-floor apartment. A turn left and thirteen stairs took me to the second floor. An unshaded bulb lit each landing. On a hook next to the window between the second and third floors was a clothespin bag. The wash was hung from that window, billowing on a clothesline that straddled the grape arbor to a brown pole fixed in the rear of the yard. From that window, I could peek to glimpse the top of our grape arbor, the bows of the cherry, apple, pear, peach, and fig trees dotting the yard, and Grandpa’s vegetable garden.
Another thirteen stairs and a final spin on a small landing put me at our tenement. On a usual day, I would bound out of my door, slamming it behind me, thunder down the stairs by my grandparents’ door, dash by my aunt’s door, and be out, ready to enjoy the day.
In the evening, our families shared the news of the day through open doors. Grandfather sat at his kitchen table reading his Italian newspaper aloud and slurping hot coffee that he had poured into the saucer. Along with the newspaper, we shared food, aromas, warmth, music, clothes, toys, stories, laughter, relatives, friends, guests, and a four-party telephone.
The rear staircase bonded our families. It was familiar, safe, and comforting. How lucky we were.
I drifted further these days, today. To books, tackling three at the same time. “Are you reading these?” questioned Diane as she noted more book clutter than usual. ---- Yes.
David Brooks’ The Second Mountain: The Quest for a Moral Life, Anthony Doerr’s Four Seasons in Rome, and Willa Cather’s O Pioneers. I was moving from one to the other.
Through his brilliant research and writing, Brooks walked me through finding meaning in life through relationships and service to others. Doerr, employing the craft of a seasoned writer, returned me to my love of Italy with his descriptions of the enchantment of Rome, its writers, history, and people. And Cather is one of my favorites. She epitomizes the beauty of the written word, embracing the story of America, which grounded me in the splendor of our country.
I hardly do justice to these books in a few sentences. Suffice it to say that they took me to a place of solace, of comfort, of restitution. I was immersed in compelling books that created images and made me think, took me to another place, away from immediacy and exactly what I wanted and needed.
I controlled the remote. I made it to my rear staircase. I was swallowed by books. All these things took me in different directions and did exactly what I wanted. I was momentarily away from turmoil, insecurity, anger, hostility, boiling ferment, and threat.
Yes, unrealistic, but comforting. Try it.
Ed,
It’s amazing the parallels our lives were in our youth. As you know I too lived on the third floor in a tenement that housed family, my aunt , uncles and cousins. We all shared your experiences that you describe so vividly. There were four 3 deckers , 2 on Oak St . and 2 on Willow St . that shared back yards with their gardens. All tenements were occupied by my relatives including my grandparents.
I imagine that back in those days some people might have described that set up as a ghetto. However, if our name was Kennedy it probably would be referred to as a compound. The symbiotic relationship was extraordinary. Everyone pitched in and helped. A wonderful time to have been afforded the cocoon of love and affection of all. Again as Bob Hope always said, “ thanks for the memories”.
Paul
I lived in a 6 family tenement. My husband in a 3 family. Never locked our doors. Everyone helped each other with whatever little they had. Loved your writeup. Yes books also took me to new world. Walked to Prov Public Library. We had no car.