My growing-up years also provide me with other fond memories. Although vivid, a few of them may not be overly fond. One of them involves a prank RoseMary, Donna and I played on their mother, my Aunt Vi. She was my godmother and favorite aunt. The Weida family, at the time, was living in the second floor apartment across from my house on Cedar Street. While Donna, the younger sister, hid in a closet, RoseMary and I ran down the hall, yelling that Donna had fallen out the window. Aunt Vi did not find the prank to be as amusing as we three young ones thought it would be. I had no idea my godmother could scold so strongly.
Another long-lasting memory is associated with another falsehood. For all of her life, RoseMary was afraid of, disgusted with, dead birds. The condition, she maintained, was the result of my telling her she had killed one when she stepped on the featherless carcass of a birdie which had fallen out of its nest from a tree on Cedar Street. Aunt Vi was more forgiving than RoseMary.
The two Weida girls and I played together almost daily during the two years they lived across the street from me. A favorite pastime was playing “store.” For Christmas, one year, I had received the makings of a cardboard foodstand. The result, when the pieces were joined together, was a small kiosk. From old magazines, we cut out pictures of canned goods and other items we could sell in our make-believe store.
There were also cutout paper dolls which my female cousins liked. I joined them in their sessions and dressed their fashion dolls not only with tabbed clothing from their cutout books but also from designs we created by ourselves. This was a time long before the era of GI-Joe action dolls for boys. The only figures I had for playing with by myself were green painted soldiers made of lead. Plastic figurines had to await future development. Practically every plaything had been made of steel; they were hard to find during the war years.
There were, however, plaster-of-Paris figures to be made. I had a set for an Indian tribe consisting of warriors, squaws, chiefs and youngsters. There was even a mold for a campfire. Having poured the liquid material into each mold and waiting for their internal heat to turn them into solid figures, I hoped I could extract the results without breaking off an arm or head. I enjoyed using colored paint to complete each figure. I did not enjoy waiting for the final coating with shellac to dry before I could mingle them in combat with the green, lead soldiers.
At Christmas time, my Lionel toy train would be brought out. Given the size of the track, I was allowed to play with my train for only one week during the holidays. The model was that of a military transport. The cars were limited to an engine, coal car, troop carrier and caboose. The standard oval did have a crossover piece in the center. I must admit that seasonal usage was usually sufficient. It does become boring to watch a train that only circles a simple track with no surrounding gadgets. Of course, I would try to make it jump the track, occasionally, to add a bit of interest.
My memories with the Weida girls also blend with memories of my other cousins of the time when we would be told to go off and play while the aunts and uncles gathered, elsewhere on the Moransky farm in Mineral Ridge. We, ourselves, assembled at the green swing on the back porch. This was the place for storytelling. As the oldest, I would begin the story and each cousin would add to it, whenever they decided to offer an amendment. I’m not sure why, but the story usually was about Peter Pickelpuss. We all thought he provided us many great laughs.
I also recall the time when Aunt Vi took our group of “extended cousins” on a picnic in the woods behind my grandmother’s farm in the country. She had packed sandwiches and stuff for a luncheon on a blanket spread under the trees. The real adventure occurred on the way back to the farm house. First of all, we were chased by a cow. The critter probably did not run very fast and may not have even been really interested in us, but we thought she was. While trying to avoid her, we got trapped in a bog. Somehow one of my shoes was pulled off during my attempts to pull free. This is the only occasion I remember returning home wearing only one shoe. Aunt Vi took the blame for the loss.
All together, we were less than a dozen cousins, but we had as much fun as we could in the days before interactions were confined to electronic screens and cell phones. It was an era when relationships were real, not virtual. Unfortunately, my great grandchildren will probably never have those experiences. I’m pleased I did.