Tomorrow, September 2, I’ll mail a free paperback to the 5 winners whose names will be drawn at random.

Click here to enter for a free copy of The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

Linda Summersea survived a New England farm childhood that gave her very little and asked for everything. She spent decades teaching Youth-at-Risk in classrooms, not yet knowing she had been one herself. Then, at 69, an age when most people stop, she discovered her passion for expedition hiking by walking 50 miles in the Moroccan desert with Berber nomads. Her exploration across uncharted terrain led to Kazakhstan, Siberia, Mongolia and Jordan because survival, it turns out, was just the beginning. The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is where it started.

On the first day of swimming lessons, Mummy pulled her station wagon up to the curb in the circular driveway at the Town Pool. As Sharon, Dicky, and I climbed out of the car, I looked across the lawn and saw a line of kids on the sidewalk leading to the top of a hill. The kids were with their mothers.

“Where do we go?” I asked Mummy as I stood in front of her open driv- er’s side window.

“Just follow the other kids,” Mummy replied.

“OK,” I said, feeling less than thrilled. By the time I turned back, she had already lifted her foot off the brake.

I took a deep breath and gathered some inner strength for the task. With our towels around our necks and our flip-flops on our feet, we followed the other kids and their mothers up a hill. I clasped Dicky’s hand tightly with my right hand and clutched the registration envelope in my left. Sharon brought

up the rear. I didn’t hear the station wagon drive away, but I knew there was no point in looking back. This was a done deal.

From the top of the incline, we saw bleachers below, lined up along the edge of a shimmering black surface. Mummy had said it was the town pool, but what I saw was a large pond or a tiny lake with several long docks extending into the deep water. We slowly made our way down terraced flights of concrete steps, passing dozens of chatty, pastel-clad mothers seated on the bleachers. Wearing sunglasses and sun hats, they flicked their cigarette ashes onto the grass beneath the rows of seats and sipped their bottles of Coke through straws to keep their lipstick neat and fresh.

At the bottom of the stairs, a card table held a shoebox full of index cards. We joined a line in front of the table and eventually found ourselves facing a man wearing a white hard-shell safari hat, a pale blue YMCA t-shirt, and khaki shorts. A whistle dangled from a long cord around his neck as he glanced behind us and asked if our mother was with us.

“No, sir, she’s not,” I said, trying to sound as grown-up and responsible as an eight-year-old was able. “She said to give you this.”

I handed him the envelope, and he looked at its contents. We stood quietly while he wrote something on his clipboard. When he blew his whistle, someone came along and took Dicky by the hand. He went to the Minnows group. Sharon was assigned to another Minnows group. It all happened so fast that I had no idea what was going on or where I was supposed to be. I was directed to join a third group. I didn’t understand why we were all being sep- arated. I had no more swimming experience than they did. But I was tall for my age and thought maybe I would be in a group of older Minnows. Soon, I stood in waist-deep water while an instructor demonstrated various swimming strokes. I tried to follow along, but I was worried about Dicky and kept looking for him. Sharon could fend for herself; she was tough. In fact, I thought she might be tougher than I was, even though she was two years younger. Like me, they did what they were told, and each week, the three of us returned to the town pool for more lessons. Our instructors demonstrated the dog paddle, dead

The Swimming Lessons

man’s float, and other swimming techniques. Although we were expected to do the same, our fears outweighed our desire to swim. We didn’t do very well. I mean, I guess I did okay, but as far as I could see, Sharon and Dicky clung to the docks, refusing to let go. After each week’s traumatic lesson, we raced to find each other, clasped hands, and fled back up the steps with our stomach aches and damp towels to wait on the cool grass in the shade for Mummy.

On our final day, I stood on the dock with my swimming classmates, pre- paring to take my swimming certification test. The deep water looked darker than ever beneath an overcast charcoal sky. I heard a commotion and turned to see Dicky, sobbing and screaming in protest on another dock in the distance. We all had to jump off the dock to pass the Minnows test, but Dicky stood with his arms wrapped around his middle, hands clutching opposite elbows. I knew there was no way in hell he would jump off that dock.

Soon it was my turn, so I had to look away from him momentarily. I jumped off the damn dock and bobbed to the surface, glub, glub, glubbing with a nose full of water. I floated on my back as requested by the lady with the clip- board, which was easy because, although I was a thin girl, I had a high body-fat ratio that made me a testament to the physics of buoyancy. My next tests were to demonstrate treading water and the dog paddle.

I passed. I was now officially a Flying Fish. So what?

Sharon somehow learned to swim a weak dog paddle and passed the test, but she never got over her fear of water. Dicky never did learn to swim, and Mummy never asked why his bathing suit was dry most of the time.

We continued to “swim” unsupervised at the lake. With mixed feelings, I realized I wouldn’t return next year to take the Flying Fish classes. I would have liked to learn to dive. I was going to learn shortly that Mummy would never let us finish anything we started.

These are the classic hits of those years.

You can even scroll up and down the image photo link above to find and play your favorites. Rock’n’Roll, R&B, Blues, Girl Groups, the British Invasion, Motown, Psychedelic, Protest Rock, Folk Rock, Hard Rock.

Click on the image to go to the Spotify page.

Haven’t read the coming-of-age memoir, The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll, yet?

AMAZON book link

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“Stay where you can touch bottom,” said Mummy as she collected the shampoo bottle and stood to leave.

“Okay.”

She looked over her shoulder as she headed up the slope to join her sisters on the patio.

“Keep an eye on each other,” she called.

“Okay.”

“Don’t go over your head!” she hollered from the top of the lawn.

“Okay.”

At the shoreline, the three of us kids feared the dark water. No one had ever thought to teach us how to swim. In contrast, our cousins had been strong swimmers since their preschool

years. They stomped along the dock enthusiastically, leaping off and doing cannonball after cannonball, their bodies hitting the water hard and fast. The tidal waves they created smacked my siblings and me in the face as we clung to the dock’s pillars with our terrified eyes tightly shut. We were afraid of being dragged under by the constant backwash from the speedboats. Despite this, we non-swimmers were left unsupervised.

Mahogany Chris-Craft boats with brass trim were popular at the time, sitting low in the water and overflowing with families and their Sunday guests touring the shoreline. American flags flapped from their sterns as they putt-putted along. In contrast, loud speedboats carved up the rest of the lake. Water skiers shot up rooster tails of water from their ski edges while the speedboats sent wave after wave crashing to the shore.

Mémère had tossed a collection of old tire tubes on the waterfront for us to play with. When our rowdy cousins eventually tired of racing each other down the dock, they lay back on the tire tubes like a fleet of sunbathing sea turtles, their legs dangling over the edges and their bottoms suspended over the water in the donut holes.

I was curious about those tire tubes. They looked fun, but like other activities I admired from a distance, I felt too shy to try them out. I was self-conscious about any chance of failure. Sunday after Sunday, I watched our cousins splashing in the tire tubes. My temptation grew until one Sunday, I climbed up the bank and selected a firmly-inflated tube that I was satisfied would support me. I rolled it down to the water, convinced I’d be okay if I stayed where I could touch the bottom. It would be more fun than sitting or standing on the slimy bottom.

Naturally, I didn’t share my plan with anyone.

I lifted the tube over my head. When I let go, it slipped around my waist like a ballerina’s tutu. I entered the water slowly and pushed off, my feet dangling below and my arms hugging the outside of the tube. So far, so good.

I did well for the first half hour. I didn’t let my guard down and didn’t fully relax, but I kicked and managed to get the tube moving around. However, I didn’t anticipate floating into deeper water and losing control over the speed and direction. My body filled the hole in the middle, leaving me helpless as my feet lifted off the bottom and I drifted away. My arms hugged the swollen sides so high that I couldn’t reach the water to paddle with my hands, and I wasn’t strong enough to tilt the tube vertically. My cousins swam with their tire tubes positioned vertically in the water—like seals jumping through hoops—so I leaned forward and started wiggling and bouncing, trying to touch the bottom again.

It wasn’t happening. Boats kept speeding by, and waves crashed against the shore as I drifted further and further out.

I felt too embarrassed to call out to my cousins for help.

Bad decision. Embarrassment was going to be the death of me. As I neared the end of the twenty-foot dock in my frightened state, I leaned too far forward, and the tube flipped over. Suddenly, I was upside down with my legs pointing skyward! My head was underwater. My arms were now free to flail, but the tube was firmly stuck around my waist. There was no escaping down through the hole in the middle. My upper body weighed me down, and my head swung back and forth like a pendulum. It didn’t take long before I couldn’t breathe, and panic set in.

For the first time, my eyes were wide open underwater. I saw algae-covered rocks and a few beer bottles. I saw the legs of the other kids in the distance. I kicked. I squirmed. I flailed. No one heard my terrified thrashing. Life slowed down. The silence amplified. My life would soon be over. I couldn’t break the suction of the tire tube on the surface. I was going to drown. Soon. It wouldn’t take long. Now they’d be sorry.

Unpredictably, I popped back to the surface with one last burst of adrenaline and a hard kick backward.

I sputtered, coughing and choking, clearing the water from my sore throat and lungs. I

saw my cousins, my sister, and my brother. Damn them. They were all playing near the shore

and all oblivious to what had just occurred.

Later that afternoon, on the ride home, I told Mummy about my close call. Daddy had never learned to swim, and Mummy had not been in the water since she married him.

“You kids need to take swimming lessons,” she decided.

For the past eight years, I’ve hidden my secret life—my memoir writing life—from my three younger siblings.

I had no way of knowing what their response would be, but five days ago, one year after Mummy’s death at 92, three of us were gathered at my youngest brother’s home in western Massachusetts, and I decided it was time to let them in on my secret.

To prepare for my reveal, I reminded myself of the inspiration and reassurance Cheryl Strayed’s words provided in my writer autograph journal in 2014.

“Dear Linda, I so enjoyed our conversation at my house. I hope you will always remember the spark that drove you the very first time you wrote with passion & delight. There are so many uncertainties in the literary business, but there is no doubt that what drives us forward as writers can’t be thwarted by anything. There is nothing that matters more than the truth you have to share on the page. Trust that above all. Good Luck! Cheryl Strayed“

By 2014, I had finished two drafts and began querying agents. BIG mistake.

Two drafts is at least four drafts too soon for querying. I received dozens of rejections. Most of them didn’t even send official rejections, they just let my query automatically age out of consideration at Querytracker’s 121 days. I did, however, receive one request for a full.

It was from a New York agent who said he loved it. “Talk soon!” he wrote. And then he ghosted me.

I learned my lesson.

After the fifth draft, I hired a developmental editor, who gave me brilliant, professional feedback. I wrote draft six and seven and sent off a handful of well-researched and personalized queries.

The next request for a full came from an agent I have tremendous respect for. She’s in Toronto and by then it was 2021. She also rejected it. Note to self: Don’t ever think of any agent as “my dream agent”.

I haven’t queried in six months. During this time, I’ve taken four query classes from different writing teachers while further fine-tuning my manuscript. About ten days ago, I had a eureka moment that would dramatically improve the reading and comprehension of my story.

I made those changes, and in preparation for The Reveal, I had THE GIRL WITH THE BLACK AND BLUE DOLL printed and spira-bound for beta-reading. One copy for each of us siblings.

June 13, 2022. When I got to Gerry’s house, I carried in a tote bag bearing my secret life. I quickly tucked it in a corner of the dining room and joined two of my siblings and one sister-in-law with lots of hugs and kisses.

Frankly, I was a wreck. I wasn’t 100% convinced I’d be able to go through with it.

As soon as we were all settled at the dining room table, I said, “I have something to share with you, and I think this is a good time.”

Everyone looked a little shell-shocked, so I said, “Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad.”

Later in the afternoon, Sharon said her first thought had been “She can’t be pregnant!”

Right. I’m 72.

Gerry said his first thought was that I might be transitioning. Nope.

Over the next five hours, I shared when, how, and why I had finally become a writer. I mentioned that I’ve been encouraged in the last two years as awards, publications, and speaking engagements began to come in.

I was taking Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Body of the Book manuscript class in Portland OR when #MeToo gained traction following the exposure of widespread sexual-abuse allegations against Harvey Weinstein. I wrote my #MeToo chapter The Colombian that morning and read it to the class that night. It was published by Jennifer Pastiloff in The Manifest-Station.(Unfortunately, they misspelled “Colombian.” The typo: “Columbian.” I’ve made my share of typos, so I’ve ignored it.)

Some of my favorite experiences were being named 2021 Finalist for Best Unpublished Memoir by the Pacific Northwest Writers Association in Seattle, and being invited to address the Omaha Chapter, National League of American Pen Women at their March 2022 meeting.

I still don’t have an agent. I explained the query process to them and the much-desired “request for a full”.

As we were talking, frequently, Sharon would ask “Do you remember the time…?”

And I would respond, “YES, I have a chapter on that… And wait— I’ll read it to you.”

It was So Much Fun and we all were so elated with our surprise afternoon’s entertainment.

Gerry said he was enlightened since my memoir includes a period of ten years before he was born.

Sharon said it was fascinating how each of us viewed same events from different perspectives.

Gerry added that he felt it’s great that I’ve reflected on my early life to consider if there’s been any influence on unfolding what he called The Life Experience.

My sister-in-law Robin said “I’m struggling with this. There are mixed emotions because I met your parents at a much later stage. It’s sad and weird for me because your story is a different experience.” Tears were shed.

Sharon added, “As I read this, I’m just glad that you were able to write it down so eloquently.”

What I know now: My siblings are 100% supportive. That is, thus far, two out of three of them.

I realize my fears were totally unwarranted.

Sharon and I talked about things we’ve never spoken of.

It was the Best day Ever.

Immediately after all was said and done, and still with all of us at the dining room table, I checked my email.

Omigosh! There was an email from the author Paddy Eger, representing the EPIC Writers Group in Bellingham WA. I’m a member and she was asking me to call her at my earliest convenience. On a Sunday. On Mother’s Day!

My fingers hit those numbers fast and furiously. She answered.

She wanted me to know that my Prose piece, Mr. Buchwald, which is Chapter 61 of THE GIRL WITH THE BLACK AND BLUE DOLL, had won the 2022 EPIC First Prize for Prose.

What timing!

This. In the dining room immediately after The Reveal. We were all mind-blown. What an affirmation.

Gerry, Linda, Sharon June 13, 2022
We laughed and laughed!

My other brother Richard (aka Dicky in the memoir) is now reading and approving of my story. He’s also been freaking us out with his own memories!

TODAY is August 18, 2026. I never did find an agent. Don’t ask how many agent rejections I got. LOL. But in 2024, I took a course with Jack Canfield, the CoAuthor of Chicken Soup for the Soul® series. He read my memoir and provided a testimonial for the back cover.

In November 2025, I published my memoir with BookBaby.

The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is a moving coming-of-age story and a powerful testament to a girl’s determination to overcome unbelievably difficult circumstances and finally succeed. I loved reading this book. I couldn’t stop turning the pages. I believe it will someday make a great movie...but don’t wait for that-read it now!

Jack Canfield, Coauthor of the #1 New York Times bestselling Chicken Soup for the Soul® series and The Success PrinciplesTM: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be

https://store.bookbaby.com/book/the-girl-with-the-black-and-blue-doll

When the well ran dry every summer, it meant no baths until the fall rains picked up again around Labor Day. Our Sunday afternoon soaks in the lake became our alternative to Saturday nights in the bathtub. We piled into the car, yipping and yapping all the way, as Daddy drove us to Mémère and Pépère’s cottage on the lake. We spent long afternoons cooling off and socializing with Mummy’s two sisters, our aunts Margret and Joan, and their families, which included five cousins. When Daddy pulled off the highway, he followed an asphalt road that narrowed to a dirt track around the lake. Our destination was a dead end on a peninsula. Mémère and Pépère’s garage was on the right side of the dirt road, and their cottage was on the left. Daddy pulled our station wagon into the parking space for guests, and we kids jumped out to change into our bathing suits. Mémère greeted us at her cottage door, capturing each of us momentarily by a sleeve or a collar—or an ear—and tagging us with a smear of red lipstick before we scooted out from under her arms.

Petite Mémère stood child-sized—no taller than 4’10”—and she wore sleeveless shirts and clam digger pants that weren’t much different from ours. She adored her role as hostess, circulating all afternoon with trays of drinks and snacks between the kitchen and the pine grove by her front door. She mixed highballs and uncapped bottles of Narragansett beer for her sons-in-law. She poured Moxie sodas for her daughters—except Aunt Margret, who was known to throw back a few beers and smoke her Pall Malls with the men. Aunt Margret sported embarrassingly tight pastel sweaters that emphasized her bullet-shaped Marilyn Monroe bras.

For us kids, Mémère served Moxie and State Line potato chips. Moxie was a drink with a strange medicinal flavor that became tolerable thanks to its bubbly carbonation. I can’t recall ever eating “real” food at Mémère’s. She served potato chips and more potato chips. That was perfectly fine with me because we had never had a bag of potato chips in our house—not even later when we were teenagers or when we were home from college. I savored each chip slowly, sucking on the salty edges as I nibbled. Today, I rarely eat potato chips, but when I do, I never eat them directly from the bag. I pour a handful into a tiny bowl and eat them one by one, reveling in the blend of fat, salt, and crunch. I especially like the rippled ones, don’t you?

Pépère was a kindly grandfather with a full head of snowy white hair and a constant smile. He watched his beloved Red Sox on their new RCA color console TV from the comfort of his vintage upholstered rocker by the stone fireplace, glancing away from the screen only when someone asked him the score while passing through to the bathroom.

Daddy pooh-poohed the extravagant cost of a color TV—just in case we got any big ideas about upgrading our 12” black-and-white TV at home.

Do you realize how small a 12” TV screen is? Hold your 12” ruler diagonally in front of you from 2 o’clock to 8 o’clock.

That’s how small it is. Like a hub cap. Smaller than a hub cap.

Daddy said our black and white set was good enough for watching The Lone Ranger and Ed Sullivan. “There are only a few shows in color anyway,” he said.

He was right about that. Mémère’s RCA color console TV was the latest of her gotta-have-the-latest-thing purchases, enabled by Pépère, who would agree to anything she desired. (Of course, Mémère had her own business, so she didn’t need him to buy anything for her, but he spoiled her with gifts anyway.)

She was looking forward to watching the Rose Bowl parade in color—even if the picture on the screen was snowy. But the Rose Bowl parade was six months away. Now was the time to celebrate summer at the lake. I paused at Pépère’s side to interrupt his baseball game and tell him a knock-knock joke. He never minded.

“Knock, knock,” I said.

“Who’s there?” Pépère asked, grinning widely.

“Cash.”

Pépère took a sip from his beer bottle and paused for a moment.

“Cash, who?” he replied, his eyes twinkling.

“No, thank you, but I’d love some peanuts,” I said, quickly glancing away as I blushed shyly.

Pépère chuckled, and I continued on my way. Once the ball game was over, Pépère moved himself and his beer bottle to the yard with his sons-in-law. He fed the squirrels from a bag of peanuts he kept just for them—the squirrels, not the sons-in-law—though he tossed a couple to me when no one was watching. Pépère slipped the peanuts into his shirt pocket, a few at a time, and the squirrels would scamper up his arm, poke their noses into his pocket, and steal them away.

Mémère would repeat, “Did you see that? Isn’t that cute?” over and over, depending on how many brandies she had consumed.

Once we had our bathing suits on, but no sooner than an hour after eating those potato chips—that was the rule—Mom led us down to the water’s edge to shampoo our hair in the lake. We cautiously entered the murky water via a stone retaining wall with three steps leading directly into the water. Our feet sank into a squishy carpet of soft, sticky mud at the bottom of the lake.

Lie down and wet your hair,” said Mummy. As the oldest, I went first. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then entirely submerged before lying back in the shallow water with my hair floating up to fan out around me. I dug my fingers into the muddy bottom and let my feet drift up to the surface.

Mummy knelt on the edge of the stone retaining wall and leaned down to squirt a blob of shampoo onto the top of my head, grabbing handfuls of my tangled hair and rubbing in the soap until waves of white suds rolled off my shoulders into the lake. Her hams of upper-arm flesh jiggled to my left and right as she massaged my scalp with her fingernails.

“Okay,” she instructed, “Now lie down again and rinse the soap out.” I closed my eyes and lowered myself into the water again, my hair floating around my head like a mermaid’s. I lay on my back for a moment, swishing my hair in the water.

“Sharon, it’s your turn,” Mummy said. She shampooed, rinsed, and repeated the process.

Dicky had a crew cut, so he never needed to wash his hair.

“Lucky brat,” I remarked, this time and every time.

“Mummy, there’s no water,” I said through a mouthful of foamy toothpaste. I had the cold-water faucet wide open, but not a drop was coming out.

I tried the hot water faucet again. Still no water. I spit out the toothpaste as best I could and wiped my lips on our communal bathroom towel, which smelled like our dirt-floored cellar.

“Uh-oh,” said Mummy. “Run downstairs and tell Uncle Joe.”

Downstairs, Uncle Joe had finished shaving and was drying his face with a towel.

“Uncle Joe, Mummy told me to tell you there’s no water upstairs. It just happened.”

“Yup. Same down here,” he replied. “I’d better check the well.”

After the Fourth of July, we rarely had running water on the farm until after Labor Day when the rains came. Water was our most precious commodity. The single hose on the farm—the one Uncle Joe used to wash his car in the spring—was put away in the garage. The well was over a hundred years old, a hand-dug, stacked-stone pit in the ground located just a few yards from Babci’s kitchen door, and it ran dry every summer without fail.

Years ago, someone built a square wooden well cap—like a legless tabletop—and painted it white to match the house. A heavy rock held the cover in place to ensure that no animals or children would fall into the well and to prevent contamination in case someone was tempted to

throw something unpleasant into it.

Uncle Joe rolled the rock end over end until it flopped on the dewy grass. No, it wasn’t as big as the rock that closed Jesus’s tomb, but it was close enough.

He lifted the well cap, set it carefully aside, and sent down a long pole to the bottom. Dicky and Sharon joined me, and we stood by, trying to sneak a peek down below. That cap only came off once a year. The rest of the time, we knew to never ever stand on it because it could break, and we’d fall in, and no one would hear us, and we’d definitely—no maybe about it— drown down there in the deep dark hole, and we’d be sorry. Yes, ma’am, we sure as heck would.

You didn’t need to tell me twice. I had no interest in entering the Great Beyond via a watery grave in our front yard. With each passing year, my unfounded fears grew louder. I ached under those fears and cried for what I couldn’t understand.

As expected, the pole came up dry. We stepped back while Uncle Joe returned the cap to its place, shifting and settling it to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere. Then, he maneuvered the rock back on top with a thump.

“Tell your mother we’ll need her to drive to the spring. I’ll get the milk cans,” Uncle Joe said.

A few minutes later, I was back in our upstairs kitchen.

“Uncle Joe is getting the milk cans. He said you need to drive to the spring,” I said.

“Okay,” Mummy replied, having already grabbed her purse.

The spring that Mummy needed to visit for water was two miles away near the Village Cemetery. Ice-cold spring water flowed year-round from a pipe in the hillside. We kids went along for the ride and got out to watch as she filled three stainless-steel milk cans. Then, we helped her wrestle the heavy cans back into the station wagon.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/242879218/reviews?reviewFilters=eyJhZnRlciI6Ik5UVXNNVGMzT1RrM09EZ3lNRGM1TXcifQ%3D%3D

Here’s a link to that Goodreads review: https://maps.app.goo.gl/up2spgXkLp5JD79d8

When you’re inside my Goodreads author page, you can view other reviews, or join my Giveaway: I’ve giving 5 autographed copies of The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/446839-the-girl-with-the-black-and-blue-doll

Or read the therapists’s review here.
“I’m a therapist, and I will be recommending this book to clients (and colleagues). The case study here of "invisible" neglect is textbook. The mother’s "I don’t know" responses to every question is a form of gaslighting that I see all the time. The isolation on the farm prevented her from realizing her family was different. The chapter "Drowning in Ignorance" (the tire tube incident) is a perfect metaphor for her life: stuck, upside down, and no one noticing she's about to die. A brilliant, if painful, memoir.”

“Can I go too? Can I?” I asked him excitedly. I was ten years old. He agreed, and I hurried to get dressed. No one else was interested, so I seized the opportunity to visit a place that was new to me in a city that was unfamiliar, even though I had no idea what a museum was. I wore my blue plaid dress with a white collar and black patent leather shoes. We drove to Worcester, parked the car on a side street, and approached the grandest building I’d ever seen. As we climbed the wide front stairs, a man with dark eyes and a deep blue suit stood guard. He offered a half-smile and reached for the polished bronze knob to open the door for us. With the swing of that door, we left the modern world behind. Everything inside felt ancient—the entire scene seemed as old as Noah. We had learned about ancient peoples and places in Religion class.

The walls, the fluted columns, and the pale mosaic floor were in shades of off-white, tan, and light brown. I imagined this must be like the place where Jesus overturned the tables of the money changers. I read the words carved on the stone floor out loud. Worcester Art Museum.

Daddy confirmed that, yes, this was Art. Real Art.

Once we had handed our coats to the checkroom lady, we stepped deeper into the building, where one room flowed into the next. Columns embellished with intricate leaf patterns supported arched openings, and two staircases lined with brass handrails led to the upper levels. I rushed to the top of the stairs, where I could look down at a detailed mosaic of a hunting scene created with tiny pieces of stone chips in the center of the entry courtyard.

There were lions, antelopes, and a crocodile in this tiled artwork, and hunters on foot and horseback. Combat scenes unfolded between man and beast—with spears, arrows, and whips being used as weapons against a vast array of animal claws and teeth. Trees heavy with juicy, ripe fruit hung at every corner of the masterpiece. Sunlight poured through numerous glass skylights above. I glanced up just in time to see a pigeon overhead as a shadow quickly swept across the floor. My footsteps echoed click-clack, click-clack on the marble as we entered a room showcasing dozens of larger-than-life marble heads on pedestals. I read the labels on the wall and learned these were Roman and Greek sculptures. The next room featured a medieval chapel with a vaulted ceiling illuminated by a single dim electric candelabra beside a stone fireplace. We proceeded into the galleries of Asian and European art. Then, we entered a room filled with silver—an array of perfectly polished teapots, trays, cups, and flatware, all monogrammed in script lettering and sparkling under glass cabinets, many labeled “Paul Revere, Silversmith.” Could this be the same Paul Revere we learned about in history class?

Although Daddy didn’t say much as we wandered through the museum, keeping a distance from me with his hands clasped behind him and his face expressionless, we still went to the art museum on occasional Saturdays or Sundays. Whenever he pulled out his shoe polish kit from beneath the kitchen sink and began his ritual of applying paste wax, I knew we were going. After finishing his shoes, he’d put on his pin-striped suit. While he stood unsmiling and attentive in the kitchen, one of us kids would carefully whisk away any lint from the last time he wore it. It was a solemn ceremony, brushing the backs of the legs, the shoulders of the jacket, around the buttons, and down the sleeves as he held out his arms. After we finished, Daddy would return to his bedroom to check in the mirror. He nodded, not so much in approval but more like a lack of disapproval, and we were ready to go.

I was the only one allowed to go to the museum. Not Sharon. Not Dicky. Indeed, not my mother. Mummy didn’t care about art museums, and neither did my brother. But surely, my sister might have wanted to come along. It was never discussed. I never asked her if she was interested, and Daddy never asked her either; I never heard anyone question this arrangement, so I accepted my good fortune without hesitation.

Although I believed our car trips were special, my father never spoke to me. I quietly enjoyed riding in the backseat of our ’49 Plymouth coupe, soaking in the scenery, storefronts, billboards, bridges, and children on bicycles.

One time, we were driving down Shrewsbury Street, a steep road in the city not far from Bell Hill. At every traffic light, the street was slick with puddles of oil and fluids leaking from the inefficient, lead-spewing cars of that era.

That morning, as usual, the hill was bumper-to-bumper with Saturday morning shopping traffic. Two lanes of cars filled the road in both directions while shops on either side conducted a brisk business. We were at the crest of the hill, about to head down the other side, when I heard a sound. Daddy pumped the brakes repeatedly. Then, frantically. The brake pedal thumped hard against the floor, and soon, we were careening down the hill, going faster and faster. And faster still. Daddy pounded on the horn, and the blaring parted the cars in our path like Moses parting

the Red Sea.

I was frozen with fear in the backseat of the Plymouth, gripping the door handle for dear life and holding my breath in wide-eyed terror. Daddy yanked the steering wheel left and right, then turned left again, swerving around one car after another as our speed increased. Faster and faster, we zigzagged through traffic. Everything was a blur. Daddy pulled hard to the right—this was a time when drivers didn’t have the ease of power steering—and I shut my eyes as our car lifted onto the two passenger-side tires. We veered into an empty driveway next to a gas station, and the driver-side tires returned to the ground as quickly as they had lifted, heading toward an uphill slope behind the gas station. No trees or buildings blocked our path. There was nothing for us to hit. After we came to a jolting halt against a soft bank covered in weeds, I was still too terrified to speak. I didn’t dare look at Daddy. He opened his door slowly, climbed out, and stepped forward a few paces, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. He turned and glanced at me.

“You’re nothin’ but a jinx,” said Daddy.

I didn’t know what a jinx was, but I knew loathing when I heard it. I didn’t mind that he never spoke to me during those museum visits, but this settled it. Even though he included me on the trips, I was not in his favor and would never be.

Maybe letting me come along to the museum was his way of trying to like me, but it

obviously wasn’t working.

He stood there smoking his cigarette down to the filter. He threw the butt on the ground, stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe, and then walked to the front of the gas station. When he returned to the car, he started it up and cautiously drove around to the front, where an attendant lifted the garage door to a repair bay. Daddy drove in slowly. I stayed in the car while the mechanic raised it on a lift. I sat still, hoping nothing else would go wrong. I’d already caused enough trouble. Daddy stood on the sidelines, smoking more cigarettes while the mechanic repaired the brake line and refilled the brake fluid. Daddy paid him with cash, and without a word, we returned home.

Once he was settled in the kitchen with a cup of coffee during supper, Daddy told Mummy what had happened. He said we had lost our brakes and that I was a jinx. It had been all my fault.

Can you imagine?

Mummy continued to drink her black coffee. No response.

No disputing that I was a jinx and had caused the breakdown!

I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I kept my mouth shut.

Years later, when I had a car of my own and lived on Cape Cod, I developed an irrational fear of my car breaking down if—and only if—I drove over the Sagamore Bridge heading north. Heading north over the bridge meant traveling off Cape Cod and driving a greater distance than usual—like those trips from home to the Worcester Art Museum.

For years, I worried about flat tires, overheating radiators, and having water in the gas tank. I could never relax until I reached my destination. I knew I wasn’t capable of causing danger just by being there.

It was an ugly association caused by the jinx business that Daddy put into my head.

Better Late than Never| Open Discovery

Hello there,

This week’s featured stories are all, in different ways, about what it means to be human. They explore love, connection, and the harm people can inflict on one another, but also the resilience that emerges in its wake. You’ll find tales of life-changing romantic bonds and the comfort of found families, alongside darker narratives that confront the depths of human cruelty, yet also the hope that empathy can be taught even by the youngest among us and carried forward into future generations.

Scarlet Yearnings: Beyond First Glance by Scarlet Ibis James | Anthologies

“A captivating, beautifully crafted collection that approaches the romance genre from every imaginable angle.” Discover more from the author here.

Silks and Stones by Quinn Lawrence | Fantasy

“A lighthearted fantasy novel packed to the rafters with good humor, solid storytelling and memorable characters.”

Pandora’s Vault by Tony Manahan | Mystery & Crime

“60-year-old secrets hidden in a forgotten bank vault box lead to lethal danger…in this plot that proceeds at a cracking pace, with plenty of skillfully placed twists, red herrings, and heart-thumping moments.”

The Neural Key by S. Sebastian | Thriller & Suspense

“A page-turner medical-psychological thriller that will leave you pondering the dangers of a device that could change the human condition.” Discover more from the author here.

Blue Meisel by Arkadiy Freydlin | Literary Fiction

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The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll by Linda Summersea | Biographies & Memoirs

“A haunting, heartfelt memoir about surviving neglect and finding the strength to reclaim purpose in life.”

Hola Friends by Juan Pablo Gomez | Contemporary Fiction

“A novel about discovering the warmth of a found family, figuring things out later than expected in life, and making some delicious empanadas.”

Defiant by Michael Maloof | Action & Adventure

“With breathtaking action sequences galore, this is an absolutely riveting conclusion to this thrilling trilogy….delivering an intricately plotted tale of love, loyalty, betrayal, sacrifice, and the battle of good versus evil.” Discover the rest of the series here.

When All the Girls Stopped Singing by Susan Burgess-Lent | Contemporary Fiction

“A heart-pounding, sharp-edged journey to Africa that exposes the Sudan war and rekindles hope.”

Delusional Madness by Kimberly K. Taylor | Historical Fiction

“A harrowing and disturbing historical fiction novel about the reality of mental asylums and the patriarchy.”

The Alchemy of Blood by Richard LaBrie | Poetry

“A raw and visceral collection of poetry that delights with its unabashed honesty and gritty truths.”

V14: The Iron Heart by Stefano Blackwood | Middle Grade Fantasy

“A touching tale of friendship, endurance, and using love to overcome power and greed…When a robot is weaponized by corrupted power, can one young boy teach him kindness again?

Happy reading!

Copyright © 2026 Reedsy, All rights reserved.

Today I’m going back through my paid content to open those posts to all subscribers.

Unfortunately, Substack doesn’t have a shortcut to changing earlier paid posts with one click. I need to select each post individually to make the change. It shouldn’t take too long.
Cheers,

Linda Summersea

That’s right. Today I’m going back through my paid content to open those posts to all subscribers.

Unfortunately, Substack doesn’t have a shortcut to changing earlier paid posts with one click. I need to select each post individually to make the change. It shouldn’t take too long.
Cheers,

Linda Summersea

Chapter Fourteen

The Dentist

One day, Mummy announced that she was having all of her teeth pulled for her new “bridge.” At first, the term confused me.

“Today, I get my teeth pulled!” she said.

Mummy was so excited. Daddy had all of his teeth pulled, and now it was her turn. Both Mummy and Daddy had their teeth removed when they were in their thirties. They considered this a perfectly normal and desirable situation. Their flow chart was: You grew up. You got cavities. You had your teeth pulled. You got false teeth. Long story short: you never had to go to the dentist again!

First, she came home with a mouthful of fleshy pink gums and the promise of a squeaky-clean, perfect smile to be installed a couple of weeks later. Mummy wasn’t self-conscious, but I thought her gums looked gross. Two weeks later, she returned home with a perfect mouthful of false teeth, both top and bottom. Mummy was mighty proud of them. And that’s when I learned what she meant about a “bridge.”

We kids might have been well on our way to this same fate. We brushed our teeth—at least, I know I did. Other than that, the only time we thought about our teeth was when the tooth fairy brought us a nickel for a lost tooth.

We had never visited a dentist’s office for routine cleanings or checkups. When I was in second or third grade, a dozen of us were marched down the hill from school to the basement of the town hall. Decades earlier, there had been a dental clinic for underprivileged kids like me located there. It had outdated equipment and smelled strongly of medicine.

We each brought a dime to pay for our appointment. After the dentist’s poking and prodding, I took home a checkup card for Mummy and Daddy to review. It listed what needed attention. Daddy looked over the card after supper and tossed it in the trash on top of the eggshells and coffee grounds.

“Hmph!” he snorted.

Mummy didn’t say a word. Daddy made the decisions. My stomach sank. I didn’t get to return for any follow-up ten-cent appointments. Eventually, I got used to my aching teeth. If they hurt at school, I calmed myself by chewing on my pencil, pressing down on the soft wood with my sharp incisors, slowly clenching and releasing until a neat row of dental dents formed on one side and down the other. It was satisfying to feel the pencil yield to the pressure of my gnawing. Sometimes, if the pencil was older or worn, I could taste the yellow pencil paint lodged between my teeth.

My next and final dental visit was to a dentist on Main Street when I was nine. My permanent teeth had come in, and toothaches were too persistent to ignore. Rubbing whiskey on one’s gums could only do so much. Sharon and Dicky had never been to a dentist, so this was their first and only visit. I gripped the cast aluminum handrail tightly as we climbed the steep steps to the dentist’s second-floor office above the hardware store. Mummy had Dicky and Sharon left and right of her, right behind me. Again, I recognized the dental office smell, this time mixed with an eye-watering combination of disinfectants that tickled my throat as we approached the door. The door had a pebble glass window with the dentist’s name printed in crisp, black lettering, and the pane of glass rattled loosely in its frame as we shut the door behind us.

Mummy went up to the reception counter while we kids sat in a row on a gray leatherette sofa. There was no receptionist, and the dentist, dressed in a short-sleeved, gray, side-buttoned shirt and gray dress pants, came out to discuss the appointment details in a low-key manner. He wrote down our names, address, and ages.

There were no other patients. We took turns going into the back room with the dentist, and guess who was first up?

I climbed into the chair, and the dentist clipped a crinkly white paper bib around my neck with a toothy alligator clip on a chain. He then swung a circular porcelain tray in front of me. It held dental tools of various shapes and sizes—mostly sharp and pointy, some with mirrors and disks.

“Say, ‘Ahhhh,’” said the dentist.

“Ahhhh.”

“Open wide,” he instructed. I opened wide.

As it turned out, my teeth weren’t too bad. I brushed them twice a day—even though no one ever told me to. I did it because I liked the minty, frothy taste and texture of the toothpaste. I saw it as my substitute for the peppermint patties next to the cash register at the convenience store where I picked up the newspaper on Sundays. Not that I had ever had a peppermint patty, but the flavor of our Ipana toothpaste was labeled “Mint” on the tube. Of course, that doesn’t mean I didn’t have cavities. I had a few of them, and the dentist decided my teeth were worth fixing. He first removed the decayed parts with an excruciatingly painful electric drill. Novocaine, a shot that numbed the gums, cost extra, so Mummy said we wouldn’t be getting it. The drill kept hitting the nerves in my teeth, and each time the jolt of pain spiked, I tensed every muscle in my body, clenching my hands tightly to the sides of the dentist’s chair. I couldn’t hold back the tears. They dripped off my chin onto the paper bib. “Spit,” said the dentist as he turned on a stream of water in the porcelain bowl.

I spat in the bowl, watching a whirlpool of blood swirl in it before disappearing down the drain.

He said, “Spit,” repeatedly until the water ran clear, and then he wiped my chin with the paper bib.

The dentist walked away for a few minutes and returned with chunks of silvery material. He placed them on the porcelain tray, picked them up with tweezers one at a time, and tucked them into the holes in my teeth.

“Bite down,” he said.

Tap, tap, tap with another tool, and a few silver fillings were in place. I was set for a few more years.

My sister wasn’t so lucky. She had cavities on her top and bottom. Either the dentist didn’t want to fix them, or he told my mother they weren’t worth the cost of repairing them. There was also a chance that maybe my mother had spent her allotment of dentist money on me, and maybe there was nothing left for Sharon. We’ll never know.

Sharon left the dentist’s office with four holes in her gums, including one visible in plain sight. These weren’t her back teeth. There was a sense of finality to what had happened. I felt sad for her. I don’t remember her crying or screaming, but there must have been some of both during such a traumatic experience. Sharon has spent her entire life carrying the trauma of that visit.

Now, at age 72, she is finally having the damage repaired with implants.

#

I understood that some people had nice teeth, and some had weird, twisty teeth or teeth that stuck out. Buck teeth. Only a few fortunate kids had braces to correct ugly teeth. In my class, only two students, Joey and my first friend Debby, had a mouthful of these corrective wire braces. A lot of poverty or denial was going on around our neck of the woods—probably both.

At home, I shut the bathroom door and carefully inspected my profile in the mirror. I held a hand mirror up to the harsh reality. To me, it was clear as day. Something was wrong. My jaw was severely misaligned with my lower teeth. My jaw jutted out so far that my lower teeth overlapped part of my upper teeth— (an “underbite,” I later learned). I felt self-conscious about it. I didn’t need another excuse to keep my mouth firmly pressed in a solemn horizontal line. Besides, my lower teeth were twisted, like a zigzag fence through my mouth. My upper teeth had an extra tooth growing out of my gums at an awkward angle, overlapping the other teeth like an icicle hanging off a cliff, clearly out of place. My mouth was a mess.

It took me long days of hesitant procrastination before I dared to discuss this with my father. I approached him as he sat in his rocking chair, smoking a Marlboro, which was no surprise.

“Um, Dad, I think I need to get braces. My teeth are all crooked. Look.”

I opened my mouth, stretching my lips wide with my index fingers.

“Look how there’s an extra tooth on top, and my bottom teeth stick out too far like a bulldog.”

Daddy didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at me. So far, so good. I was glad I

decided to bring this up. Without warning, Daddy turned to me as his face turned beet red.

“There’s nothing wrong with your teeth! NOTHING!” he shouted. He looked away.

I didn’t know what to do. Daddy stared out the window. I followed his gaze to see what might be important out there, but there was nothing. The same old tree always stood in place, and the lawn needed mowing. Maybe he thought of me as the same old too—the same old daughter asking for something she knew she couldn’t have. His dismissal of me, although not unusual, confused me on this particular day because I genuinely believed braces were necessary. I was clearly being told that what I perceived was not reality. How could that be? Did he not see the same thing when he looked at my teeth? I backed out of the room slowly, tripping on the carpet, and fled to my bedroom. As I always did when faced with defeat, I lay on my bed, tracing the faded pink roses on the wallpaper with my fingertip. Before long, my hand fell away, and my thoughts drifted to something less intimidating.

It’s interesting that this time, when I saw something that really was wrong—

my crooked teeth and underbite—my father denied that reality.

It was the exact opposite of a BDD situation.

In other words, I didn’t have perfect teeth. I wasn’t imagining that my teeth looked ugly.

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/60123708.Linda_Summersea

Linda Summersea's The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll

On my page, you can interact with me and ask me questions. There are also some videos.

On the Reviews page, you can read reviews and leave your own review of The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

I promise not to “get a big head” if you write a review. (Maybe you remember that Mummy never complimented us kids because we “might get a big head”!)

Sigh. LOL

Read the Reviews Page and BTW Write a Review!

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/242329450-the-girl-with-the-black-and-blue-doll

Cheers and Best Wishes,

Linda Summersea

Today I actually received an email from someone claiming to be J.K. Rowling! The impersonators are bold! They claim to be the CEO’s of famous publishing houses, film companies, and more. There are also “book club representatives” asking me for $100 for “refreshments”, and they’ll feature my book.
If I sound appalled, it’s because I am. (I need to buy my own “refreshments”.)

The only honest way that an author can be seen is for readers to review our books.
That’s why I’m asking you to review my book today.

If you haven’t read The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll yet, you can go through my Substack posts to find those labeled “chapters”.
Or, you can read the first 5 chapters all in one place on Amazon. It’s right under the cover image.

https://tinyurl.com/forSubstackReaders

There’s a reason why Jack Canfield’s testimonial is on the back cover of The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

“The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is a moving coming-of-age story and a powerful testament to a girl’s determination to overcome unbelievably difficult circumstances and finally succeed. I loved reading this book. I couldn’t stop turning the pages. I believe it will someday make a great movie...but don’t wait for that—read it now!

Jack Canfield, Coauthor of the #1 New York Times bestselling Chicken Soup for the Soul® series and The Success Principles™: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be

Cheers to all! I appreciate your support!

The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll

With each birthday came new responsibilities. I now took Mummy’s place at the movies, our latest outing. Although Mummy sometimes joined us, more often than not, she would drop us off at the Strand Theater on Elm Street while she headed to work at the beauty shop, promising to pick us up after her last customer.

“Sit together in the theater and wait outside after the movie,” Mummy instructed us.

“Linda, here’s the movie money—twenty-five cents each.” “Okay.”

I herded Dicky and Sharon into the line of kids and mothers snaking along the sidewalk outside the theater. When someone opened the theater doors, the sound and smell of popping corn filled the air. Eventually, we stood before a narrow window where a kind-looking lady peered at us over her bifocals.

“Three, please,” I said, sliding three quarters across the counter into the coin tray that dipped beneath the glass. With just those two words, the exchange was nearly silent, making it almost—but not quite––painless. Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary that I meet her gaze, so I focused on the Bambi poster on the wall behind her. I took the tickets, and we entered the theater. An usher, wearing a bright red wool blazer with gold braid trim on his shoulders, took our tickets, tore off half, and handed the rest back to me in one swift motion. I crammed the

ticket stubs deep into the pocket of my dungarees. I didn’t want to risk getting thrown out of the theater without proof we’d paid admission.

* * *

Oh, c’mon! Whoever heard of little kids getting kicked out of a movie theater? Yes, here I go again. Irrational concerns were creeping into my thoughts once more. I was becoming more and more self-conscious with each passing day. It was beyond just being shy. I wanted to shrink every time I had to talk to an adult. I was turning my insecurities into Very Big Deals.

What could be happening to me?

We passed the concession counter where kids were buying popcorn and candy. How I wished I had dared to ask Mummy for three nickels for three candy bars. I decided not to push it.

Our next stop was at the top of the aisle at the back of the theater. Another usher pointed his flashlight toward the center of the row I chose, directing us to plush velvet upholstered seats where our feet didn’t touch the floor. Once every- one was seated and the theater was quiet, the newsreels began. A man with a booming, monotone voice described the shaky images of world events for a few minutes before every movie. Planes roared across the black-and-white screen, coming straight at us. The sound traveled from left to right in the theater as if we should all duck our heads to avoid the attack, and so we did. Bombs dropped from the open bellies of fighter planes, and clouds mushroomed. It might be 1957, but the Great War would not be easily forgotten.

People on the screen were running, hiding, and crying. Looney Tunes followed with the ongoing battles between Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner, starring the Steel Anvil. Finally, the Disney movie began. It was Bambi, with its theme of mother-child separation, but not before Tinker Bell sprinkled her fairy dust. We sat deep in those comfortable seats, utterly absorbed in the movie, never leaving for the restroom. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to our seats. (See what I mean? It was always something.)

During these matinees, the ushers were on the move nonstop, tracking down kids throwing popcorn, dealing with kids chasing each other up and down the aisles, and shushing those who were screaming like recess. But not us. We were perfectly content to sit together, quietly experiencing a tiny taste of freedom and the luxury of seeing a movie in a theater.

Bambi experienced his ups and downs. But just minutes after the gunshot that marked the death of his mother, we dried our eyes when we saw that Bambi and his forest friends had grown up and were happy again.

After the movie, an usher held the doors open as we all flowed onto the sidewalk, squinting in the bright afternoon sunshine. Some kids hopped on their bikes and zigzagged away, while others crossed the street hand in hand with their mothers. Car doors slammed, and we watched them drive off with tiny noses pressed against the windows. Meanwhile, the three of us misfits leaned against the cold brick wall of the movie theater, wondering where our mother was. We waited there with our hands in our pockets as the sun sank in the sky and shadows grew longer. After a while, I stepped forward to sit on the curb. I buttoned my cardigan, tucked my hands under my armpits, and pulled myself together like a turtle retreating into its shell. Soon, Dicky and Sharon joined me. We huddled together, our knees drawn up to our noses and our heels pressed against the curb.

One of the theater employees emerged with a broom. We stood up as he swept the spilled popcorn and candy wrappers off the sidewalk and into the street for the street sweeper.

After that, a man unlocked the glass display case on the side of the build- ing to swap out the coming attractions posters. As he began to change the words on the marquee, I tried to guess the letters as they appeared on the bright, back- lit display. The sun set, and the streetlights came on. All the theater lights went out—even the round bulbs that circled around the word “Strand.”

One by one, the theater staff started leaving.

The girl who sold ice cream and candy at the snack counter came out first with freshly applied cherry-red lipstick. She wore her sweater thrown over

her shoulders, with a metallic sweater chain clipped to each side. I expected a red convertible to come squealing around the corner with a boyfriend, ready to drive her to the nearest soda fountain for a cherry Coke. The usher had traded his red wool blazer for a football letter jacket. He crossed the street to a black Ford hot rod with red and orange flames painted on the side. His elbow hung out the open window as he drove off, holding the steering wheel with two fin- gers at nine o’clock.

Finally, the movie theater’s owner arrived. I could tell he was in charge because he was all business in his tan overcoat, with a felt fedora and meticu- lously polished shoes. He clenched a lit cigarette between his teeth as he locked the door with a jangling ring of keys. We watched him head uptown on foot towards the houses with expansive lawns and wide front porches. Once he dis- appeared, we were left alone.

Now, it was getting dark.

We sat at our place on the curb and focused on the corner of Main and Elm Streets, trying to pick Mummy’s car out of the traffic that ebbed and flowed past on a Thursday evening. We waited—three kids sitting on the curb before the darkened theater. Cars crept by, and I imagined their drivers and passengers gawking at us. The temperature continued to dip.

I wished we could walk straight to the beauty shop. I knew how to get there. It was only two streets away—two very long streets, but still… We’d just need to cross one intersection. I knew we could do it. I was tempted to per- suade Dicky and Sharon to go with me, but what if Mummy arrived while we were walking? What if she didn’t see us on the sidewalk along the way? What if she thought we’d been kidnapped and killed like the Weinberger baby in New York? What if ? What if ? What if !!

Just as I was about to give up hope, Mummy’s car came around the corner, slowing to a stop. We all jumped up and slid into the backseat, exhaling with relief in unison. Mummy pulled away from the curb.

“How was the movie?” she asked.

It was another Sunday afternoon at Mémère’s cottage by the lake. I came upstairs from where I had been reading funny books on the screened porch downstairs. I stopped short behind the kitchen door as soon as I heard my name and watched Mummy and Mémère through the narrow gap between the hinges. They were sipping iced tea at the kitchen table.

“Linda never wants to play with the other kids,” I heard Mummy say to Mémère. “She always goes off by herself. What can I do?”

I knew I was different, but I didn’t mind. Being different meant that no one bothered me and I was happy to entertain myself.

Except for those days when I wanted to pull the covers up over my head and stay there until I was eighteen.

I strained to catch Mémère’s reply over the sound of the rain pum- meling the cottage roof. “Maybe she should have a birthday party this year,” said Mémère.

“Hmm… That could be fun,” said Mummy.

Mémère brought the glass to her crimson lips and took another sip. The bright lipstick imprint on her glass matched the polish on her fingernails. I smiled to myself as I tiptoed back through the living room.

What Mummy said was true. I did prefer to go off by myself. I was always more at ease outside, wandering through the farm’s fields and streams, sitting

in the crook of a tree, and watching the plump robins setting up housekeeping when they arrived in the spring.

I didn’t like the reflection that stared back at me as I stole a quick side glance in passing the storefront windows on Main Street. I thought I was fat. Too fat. Very fat. My solution was to never look at window reflections or mirrors. It didn’t make me feel better, but at least I didn’t feel worse. After school, I still cried without really knowing why. It was a sick feeling in my stomach that made the tears start slowly and increase until I was sobbing loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. But why?

* * *

At St. Joseph’s, it was easy to keep a low profile. As long as I steered clear of the playground games, no one bothered me.

My friend Debby, who was as shy as I was, often shared friendly little chats with me.

We walked along the cobblestone border of our schoolyard during recess, and that was good enough for me.

* * *

The day of the birthday party dawned hot and sunny, with fluffy, whipped- cream clouds decorating the August sky just for me, as picture-perfect as the Kodachrome slides Uncle Joe shared with us on holidays. (He was unofficially our family photographer.) Uncle Joe had mowed our lush green lawn the night before, and the smell of fresh-cut grass filled the air like springtime. Sparrows chirped in the apple orchard as the party preparations began. Mummy set up some borrowed card tables, placing them end-to-end under the apple tree, and covered them with a paper tablecloth decorated with birthday balloons. She carefully carried a white birthday cake with white frosting downstairs from our apartment and placed it on the party table. There were even plastic forks and pastel-colored paper plates. Daddy’s only contribution was to say he wanted the party over and done with by the time he got home from work at the factory.

Really. He said that. Mémère arrived carrying a jumbo bag of State Line potato chips and a bow-topped gift box.

“How’s the birthday girl?” said Mémère. “Are you having fun?” “Um, I guess…” I said.

“Go play with your cousins. Look, someone brought a jump rope.”

Oh no! A jump rope! How could I tell them that I didn’t know how to jump rope? I had never even tried to jump rope. What if I fell? What if everyone laughed at me? Here came those feelings again. When I saw myself in the bath- room mirror, I saw a clumsy girl with a round face. I didn’t look like someone who would have many friends. I wandered away from the girl with the jump rope before anyone noticed.

Note to self from the future: Someday, you’ll learn that this has all been a mistake. You’re not fat. You’re not ugly. You’ve been taken over by a bizarre disorder called Body Dysmorphic Disorder. And it’s going to get worse.

I watched black and orange monarch butterflies fluttering up and down the yard, searching for milkweed to lay their eggs. My stomach felt a bit fluttery with nerves. I really wanted this to be the best birthday ever, but I had never attended a birthday party. How would I know?

Once the table was set, I went inside to get ready. Mummy bought a bright red plaid party dress at The Tot to Teen Shop. It was shiny taffeta for the occasion. I felt awkward wearing a dress instead of my usual shirt and overalls. After all, I was a die-hard, cap-gun-toting tomboy. Mummy took the rollers out of my hair and brushed it out, pulling up the sides with a wide white ribbon tied in a bow, slightly off-center at the top of my head. I squirmed as she worked, eager to return to the birthday table. Mummy had invited the kids from the neighboring farms—all girls. The mothers parked their cars side by side on the lawn next to the chicken coop, and the girls, cleaned up from their usual play clothes, spread across the yard. I didn’t know them from a hole in the wall. As I mentioned earlier, all I knew was what I’d seen from the school bus windows. They were running around the lawn, shrieking and having fun. They had even

started a spontaneous game of tag in motion without me. I didn’t get to invite Debby because Daddy didn’t let us have friends from school over to visit.

Besides, it was summer now, and I didn’t know her phone number. Soon, a pyramid of presents piled up on the table, all wrapped in birthday paper and secured with Scotch tape and curly ribbon. Meanwhile, the mothers sat in Babci’s wicker chairs, smoking cigarettes in the shade. Mummy walked around the lawn dressed in her usual housedress with a bibbed apron and a slash of red lipstick. She handed out party hats and paper horns that unfurled and squealed when you blew into them. Earlier, she had tacked a poster on the apple tree for Pin the Tail on the Donkey. As the birthday girl, I got to go first while some of the other kids stood around in a circle. I felt awkward. Why couldn’t I do this privately? The other kids could keep running around until it was their turn, couldn’t they? I wasn’t used to being the center of attention. I squirmed while Mummy tied one of her scarves tightly over my eyes as a blindfold. She placed her hands on my shoulders and spun me around. One. Two. Three.

“Okay,” said Mummy. “Go ahead. The poster is right in front of you.”

I raised my hand with a paper donkey tail and took tentative steps until I felt the cardboard. I pushed the donkey’s tail in place with the thumbtack and tore off the blindfold.

“Aww,” I groaned, falling backward in disgust. The tail had landed on the edge of the poster. I had missed the stupid donkey completely! I ran off and leaned against the stone wall—too embarrassed to watch the other kids take their turns. For them, it was just another game at another birthday party. For me, it was my first game at my first birthday party. I had failed miserably. What a klutz I was! And why couldn’t I accept my less-than-perfect behavior?

Mummy awarded the winner a paddleball. A rubber band connected the paddle to a red rubber ball that went berserk no matter how lightly you tapped it. Paddleball and I never got along. (I had tried it out before the other kids arrived.)

After the game, everyone sang “Happy Birthday” while I blushed and stood looking down at my black patent leather shoes. I blew out eight swirly white candles, and Mummy served the cake on paper plates.

Usually, when my mother served cake to my siblings and me, she would just slap a slice onto our dirty, outstretched hands and tell us to go eat it outside. After we finished our cake, we always licked our hands clean, just like a kitten would. That’s how Betsy Wetsy got so sticky.

To my surprise, the slice of birthday cake on my plate wasn’t white cake at all, even though I had seen the Betty Crocker box in the trash. The box clearly stated that the flavor was white, and white cake was my favorite.

“Mummy, why is the cake yellow inside?” I asked.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. It said to separate the eggs and use only the whites,” said Mummy. “I used the yolks, too. I thought it wouldn’t taste any different. It’s all the same.”

She said that so matter-of-factly.

“It’s all the same? NO. It’s NOT all the same,” I thought. I sighed. Mummy didn’t get it.

Next, she dug out piles of ice cream with a soup spoon and placed each one onto a slice of cake.

“Mummy, could you scoop the ice cream like they show on the Sealtest box? See? Can you do it in layers?”

I pointed to the picture on the ice cream box. “No need to get fancy, young lady,” she said.

Mummy often called me “young lady” when she wanted to put me in my place. She’d accuse me of being “the Queen” whenever I expressed my simple desire to have something look nice. Any old way was good enough for her, and I was frequently criticized for caring about how things looked.

I liked shiny shoes and clean dungarees. As for having to wear the same pair of underpants all week until wash day, I had no choice, and I didn’t know any better.

I gulped down my cake and ice cream while the other kids ate theirs, and I eagerly opened my presents. I ripped off the wrappings in a hurry to see what was inside each package. I only remember one gift from the party that day. It was from a girl named Susan, who lived near our bus stop at the end of the road, even though we barely knew each other. Like all the other farm kids, she attended public school, and since I went to St. Joseph’s, we rode different buses.

When I unwrapped her present, I saw it was a stationery box. In those days, almost every household had stationery boxes because people regularly wrote letters and thank-you notes. The box was shallow, about half an inch deep. I pried off the cover and saw a crisp dollar bill resting on a glitter-deco- rated sheet of royal blue paper.

The dollar bill wasn’t so important. It was the homemade card in the box that caught my attention. Susan’s mother had cut a sheet of royal blue construc- tion paper to fit precisely inside the box.

Ballpoint pen, like the one Sister Mary Juliana used to mark our milk money in her register, had been used to draw the ruler-straight lines of a musical staff, complete with curvy G clefs and perfectly flagged musical notes. We didn’t have a ballpoint pen in our house, and I marveled at the sticky blue ink. It was different from the black fountain pen ink that Daddy used to write his checks on payday.

Beneath the lines of the staff were the words to the “Happy Birthday” song. The musical notes for each hyphenated word flawlessly stepped up and down the lines of the staff.

Perfect little dots of glue had been dropped onto each musical note and sprinkled with silver glitter. I thought that making this beautiful project must have taken a long time. I stared down at it, holding the open box in my hands, mouthing the words to the song as I sang it in my head. “Hap-py birth-day to you! Hap-py birth-day to you!”

I was running my fingertips along the crispy tops of the hardened glit- ter-glue notes when I suddenly heard the gruff voice of an intruder.

Oh no! It was my grandfather!

Dziadzia was yelling as he stepped out of his first-floor entryway. He shuf- fled across the driveway with his usual stiff, arthritic old man steps. He stood in the middle of us all, shaking his fist and bellowing at Mummy. He was a couple of feet away from me, and I looked up at his grizzled chin. I was horrified, and everyone else was too.

“You go to bar to drink beer! You leave children at movie theater!” Dziadzia shouted. The party quickly turned into a disaster in full Kodachrome color, made uglier by my grandfather stumbling around the yard, yelling at my mother in broken English.

“You go to bar to drink beer! You leave children at movie theater!” Dziadzia shouted again.

“No! No! That’s not true!” shouted Mummy. She instantly shook with tears and frustration, and we all stood dumbfounded by what was happening.

“Yah! You go to bar!” Dziadzia repeated it several times. I guess he didn’t have enough English to get across the rest of the ugly stuff he wanted to say.

The mothers glanced at each other in confusion, while the kids were fro- zen in fear.

“Don’t listen to him! Don’t listen to him!” Mummy turned left and right, pleading with the mothers. “He’s a crazy old man. I’d never do anything like that!”

She was right. Mummy didn’t drink alcohol, except maybe a wine toast at Thanksgiving.

She would never, ever go to a bar. Dziadzia continued to rant, and Mummy kept pleading. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with beads of sweat from her brow.

I saw Babci looking out the kitchen window. She knew enough to quickly return to her dishwashing when she saw Dziadzia heading back to the house.

The party ended abruptly. Mothers silently gathered their children and hustled them into the cars. Everyone sped away—even Susan—and I wanted to die. Just shoot me now. The yard was quiet as a grave. This might have been the first time I thought about death as a solution to an extreme episode of discom- fort. This nightmarish end to a happy event rattled me. I was appalled to have my fantasy of the perfect birthday party shattered. Didn’t a kid deserve to have a halfway decent birthday party? Jesus! Where were Jesus and the saints when I needed them?

Crying softly, Mummy carried the rest of the birthday cake upstairs. I slumped in Babci’s wicker chair beneath the apple tree, where scattered cigarette butts under Babci’s phlox were the only signs of the birthday party that really did take place here this morning.

There was nothing left to say. We all knew Dziadzia never liked Mummy because she was French. It would have been the same if she had been Italian, Irish, or Swedish. Only Polish was acceptable.

He always asked us kids nosy questions about Mummy, trying to get information out of us that was none of his business. “Where you go? What you do?” It happened often enough that Mummy warned us not to tell Dziadzia anything. Who knew what Dicky or Sharon might have told him? They were more naïve.

I was old enough to be onto his sly methods. No matter what he asked, I always responded, “I don’t know”—like I had heard Mummy say to me count- less times.

Imagine that.

When Mummy returned, she folded the card tables and carried them to her car. She also rolled the wrapping paper and paper plate debris into the paper tablecloth and shoved it down into the burn barrel behind the garage. Then, she lit a match to the remains of my party. She and I watched the flames until they burned below the rim of the barrel.

* * *

When Uncle Joe came home from work that day, angry voices carried through the open windows of our second-floor kitchen during supper. The sharp words of an argument floated up from Babci’s kitchen in the still evening air. The words were in Polish. Babci must have told Uncle Joe.

I was embarrassed for my mother. My father ate silently, never saying a word or even looking up, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, his forearms on the table, sipping his coffee, buttering his bread, ignoring the shouting rising from below. He knew what they were saying. He didn’t care at all.

We never had another birthday party. And by the way, I want you to know that what Dziadzia said about Mummy wasn’t true. Even though I might have been a world-class fibber, I wouldn’t lie about something like that.

What on earth made me think I deserved a regular, all-American, Pin- the-Tail-on-the-Donkey birthday party? Why did everything, as Daddy would say, always go to hell?

“C’mon, Linda, let’s go,” said Mummy. “You need school supplies for first grade.”

I’d barely finished my cereal and tipped the bowl up to drink the sugary remains.

Mummy left Sharon and Dicky at home with Daddy, which was not something she usually did. She thought we wouldn’t be gone long. Sharon and Dicky would settle in front of the TV watching Saturday morning cartoons anyway, while Daddy could keep to himself in his small electronics workroom at the top of the stairs.

We drove into town, and Mummy got a parking space right in front of Superior Stationery.

I shut the car door and caught up with her at the parking meter.

“Can I turn the knob? Can I??” (Yes, that’s right. I didn’t know “Can I” from “May I” until years later.)

Mummy let me turn the knob after she dropped a penny in the slot.

She had the list of my required school supplies in hand. At St. Joseph’s, the school only provided supplies for kindergarteners. After that, the Church wanted us to be responsible for our own supplies. Mummy strode quickly down the aisles, looking left and right. I saw wooden bins filled with things I might have wanted—if I knew what they were.

Paperclips. Little curves of wire bent into two tight ovals. You could slide one over a few sheets of paper, place it up in the corner, and it would stay together until you changed your mind. We had no paperclips at home, but I saw them in a tiny box on Sister’s desk. Rolls of tape. Clear tape. Tan paper tape.

Pencils. Omigosh. They had yellow No. 2 pencils, red lead pencils for teachers to be sure we saw all our mistakes in full color, pencils by the dozen, and pencils by the box. And pencil sharpeners. Tootsie-roll-sized chunks of steel with a blade to fix broken points with a few twists of your wrist. No jack-knife needed!

Rubber fingertips. I didn’t know what these were for—these red rubber fingertips with bumpy rubber pimples on the bottom. I quickly stuck one on each of my fingers and thumbs as fast as I could and held my hands up to Mummy.

“Boo!” I said with a little jump. “C’mon, Linda. Put those down.” “What are they?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mummy. There was that answer again. “I don’t know.”

Did Mummy sincerely not know anything? Was it possible that she was intentionally lying to me?

She clutched some pencils, a box of crayons, and what the school supply list called a “composition book.”

“Let’s get that schoolbag and go home.”

I was excited to get a schoolbag like the ones I’d seen the big girls carry on the school bus. It meant I was finally a big girl, too.

“Okay,” I said. I peeled off the fingertips and put them back in the bin. It wasn’t easy to resist the urge to feel the smooth, black and white marbleized covers of the composition books, but I kept my hands to myself and trotted to catch up with her.

When we arrived at the leather goods section in the back of the store, we found several choices that fit the school’s requirements for my new school bag. Imagining I’d soon be carrying lots of books, I chose one with an accor- dion-style, expandable bottom. It was golden-tan, pebble-textured leather— like The Lincoln Library of Essential Information—with three compartments and two leather dividers inside.

“Are you sure this is the one you want? It has to last through eighth grade,” Mummy reminded me.

“Yes. I like this one,” I said, holding the schoolbag in front of me. “I’ll take good care of it,” I added.

It was essentially a man’s leather briefcase. St. Joseph’s required a durable book bag. Unlike the boys—who could carry their books in military canvas backpacks from the Army-Navy store—this leather briefcase style was the preferred choice for girls (and for boys with no military inclinations). A brass-tipped leather flap folded over the front, secured by a genuine brass clasp.

A teeny tiny key hung on a tiny loop of string.

After hearing me open and close the clasp a hundred times in the back seat on the way home, Mummy spoke up.

“You’d better not lose that key, young lady. Keep it at the bottom of the school bag.

And don’t use it because you’ll be up a creek if you lock it and lose the key.

Do you understand me?” “Yes, Mummy,” I said.

Later, I learned from a boy on the bus that he could easily open a clasp like mine with a bobby pin, which was one less thing for me to worry about. But I was still afraid to lock it.

When we got home, I filled my new schoolbag with my precious Golden Books. Frosty the Snowman, The Three Little Pigs, and Cinderella. I practiced carrying the schoolbag around the apartment, up and down the stairs, and out to the road. I went by the chicken coop to show it off to Babci and into the barn to demonstrate the clasp for Dziadzia. Even Dicky and Sharon were impressed. I didn’t bother showing it to Daddy.

While on the bus, I noticed students from public schools carrying their books with a leather belt wrapped around the stack. For heaven’s sake, they didn’t even use book covers! Did they have no pride in their belongings? At St. Joseph’s, the nuns were very particular about the care of our books. They expected us to take them home from school on the first day and cover them with homemade book covers.

Mummy slit brown paper grocery bags down one side and cut off the bot- toms of each bag to make flat sheets of wrapping paper. She folded and creased the top and bottom edges to match the height of each book and then folded the side flaps to wrap around the front and back covers. I wondered where she learned this handy skill.

I printed my name on the front of each book cover. At St. Joseph’s, we weren’t allowed to decorate the covers, but some kids—they were bolder than I was—doodled on theirs with ballpoint pens or Magic Markers. I was awestruck!

* * *

On the Tuesday after Labor Day, Dicky and Sharon came along with Mummy to see me off at the bus stop. They were still too young for school, and besides, they didn’t seem interested in joining me. That morning, the rain drizzled, so we waited in the bus stop shed. The shed was a square, stand-up place with an open doorway and no windows. From inside, you could hear the bus approaching. On cold mornings, it protected us from the wind, and on rainy days, it kept us dry.

When we heard the rumble of the bus approaching in the distance, it was as if no time had passed since kindergarten. Freddy was at the wheel again this

year. Like always, he downshifted, and we heard the engine’s gears grind to a stop right in front of the shed. He had the timing down to a science.

The doors swung open as the red lights atop the bus flashed a warning for oncoming traffic. However, during all my years of riding the bus in such a rural area, we never met any traffic.

After crossing the road, I greeted Freddy with a shy smile. I climbed the steps as I had the year before, but this time, I carried my Dale Evans lunch box and my new school bag. During that first year, my bag dwarfed me. It felt heavy with the weight of my school books as I carried it.

The school bag darn near dragged on the ground, so I transferred it from one arm to the other and back again. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up with arms like Popeye!

Over the years, I grew into the school bag, just like the shoes Mummy bought me with extra space in the toes.

* * *

Kindergarten felt like a giant fish tank where we were meant to get to know each other and learn to say and print the alphabet, including our first and last names. Now that I was in first grade, I was confident I was smarter than half my class. I don’t mean to brag or anything; I just knew. Of course, I never said it out loud. I didn’t want Mummy to think I had a big head. I had already heard that more than once.

Now, I had a feeling I was about to get even smarter. On that first day of first grade, our new teacher, Sister Juliana, passed out reading books about two kids named Dick and Jane and their dog, Spot. She stood at the blackboard with her pointer, explaining the vowel sounds.

“Ee-oo-o-ah-eh,” she said, pointing at the vowels “i-u-o-a-e.” “Pay attention!” said Sister. “I want all eyes on the blackboard.”

It was our turn. We repeated “ee-oo-o-ah-eh” as she tapped the blackboard with her pointer. She pronounced all the consonants for us, too. I clung to every letter from my seat at the back of the class.

Sister explained how to put these letters together to form words. It was all right there—this secret code to reading. After a few rounds of vowels and consonants, Sister instructed us to open the first page of Dick and Jane and follow along with her. Meanwhile, she sounded out the consonants and pieced together the words. We already knew our alphabet. This was a no-brainer. Easy as apple pie!

Wow. In fifteen exciting minutes, I became a reader! Sister was right. All we had to do was pay attention.

That afternoon, I tucked my new friends, Dick and Jane, into my new school bag. As soon as our school bus rolled up to the bus stop, I dashed down the steps and excitedly told Mummy my news.

“I can read! I can read!”

I dropped my schoolbag right there at the bus stop, in the sand along the side of the road, and pulled out Dick and Jane to demonstrate. Mummy stood patiently in her faded housedress. On this day, she wore a calico bib apron over it. As usual, she also wore a kid on each arm. Mummy sighed.

“See Dick. See Jane. See Spot,” I said, dragging a fingertip along the words on the page.

“See Spot run,” I said. I dramatically emphasized the period as if it were an exclamation point. It was too exciting not to.

“Good. That’s very good,” said Mummy. She took the news quietly. “But there’s more,” I said.

“Let’s go home, and you can read it to Dicky and Sharon,” Mummy said.

She turned and began to head home. “And Betsy Wetsy, too!” I said.

I quickly stashed my reader in my schoolbag, snapped the clasp shut, and ran to catch up with them.

I latched onto my new reading skills like a calf on its mama’s tit. Now that I could read, I had a whole new world of questions—and new opportunities for answers.

We visited Mummy’s mother and father—our Mémère and Pépère— almost every Sunday afternoon. During the drive, I took every opportunity to read the signs aloud. Daddy stopped at a convenience store so Mummy could run in to buy his cigarettes. (Did Daddy ever take care of his own needs? Sadly— no.) The store was next to a dark building with a red neon sign in the window that read “Happy Hour.” A blackboard underneath it announced, “4 to 5 PM.”

The door swung open for half a minute as a man entered the building, and I saw a long counter with tall stools along its length.

Mummy returned with Daddy’s Marlboros, and as she settled in the front seat, I pointed to the sign.

“Mummy, what’s a ‘Happy Hour’?”

As usual, she said, “I don’t know.”

Before leaving the parking area, my father opened his pack of Marlboros, shook one out, and lit it with a match that he tossed out the window. And as usual, he had nothing to add. Conversation was not his thing. He almost always said nothing unless he was particularly angry. At those times, he exploded like a volcano, and we all froze in our places.

Later, we passed a field with a gigantic pile of dirt near the roadside. Stuck in the pile was a stick with a sign that reads “Clean Fill Wanted.”

“Mummy, what does ‘Clean Fill Wanted’ mean?” Mummy said, “I don’t know.”

My father said nothing.

This was getting more and more curious.

For me, learning to read on the first day of school was the highlight of my first-grade year. Now I could read the funnies in The Evening Gazette. I not only looked at the pictures in the Golden Books that Mummy sometimes brought

home after work, but I also knew what was happening in the stories. Frosty the Snowman would be back again someday!

Later, I was surprised to learn that some kids’ parents read the words in books aloud. I was too embarrassed to admit that our house didn’t have bedtime or anytime—stories.

* * *

In addition to reading in English, we read in Polish. I could read the Polish eas- ily, but I didn’t understand it. I read parts to Babci, but she said it was different from the Polish that she spoke. (Maybe a regional difference?)

Meanwhile, at school, we managed to learn basic conversational Polish through rote repetition.

“Jak sie masz? Dobrze, dziękuję.” How are you? I’m fine, thank you. “Chodzę do polskiej szkoły.” I attend a Polish school.

“Jak masz na imię? Nazywam się Linda.” What is your name? My name is Linda.

Because St. Joseph’s was a Polish Catholic school, we also had a daily Religion class held first thing in the morning.

Related to that, we learned to say “Niech będzie pochwalony Jezus Chrystus” as a greeting spoken in unison whenever a visitor arrived in our classroom.

“Praised be Jesus Christ.”

“Hello?? Hel-lo-o?”

I stood, and I could see beyond the kitchen and down the hall from my bedroom’s doorway. I saw the silhouette of a dark-haired lady peering in at the screen door.

Mummy stepped out of her bedroom, smoothing her hair and adjusting her apron. The lady on the porch was smiling. She wore a dark skirt and a white blouse. She carried a black briefcase and wore bright red lipstick—the mark of a door-to-door saleslady.

People selling door-to-door were a regular part of country life in those days. Every so often, an unfamiliar car might pull up on the farm, a car door would slam, and a well-dressed stranger would step out with a mysterious sam- ple case. (They were always ladies—except for the Fuller Brush man.) Given their secluded lives, country wives welcomed these newcomers into their homes for a cup of coffee, and most of the time, they bought something, whether they needed it or not.

My mother welcomed the friendly lady inside, and soon the coffee pot was bubbling up into its glass knob. Once the two of them were seated at the

kitchen table, curiosity drew me into the kitchen to see what this lady had to offer.

A thick book lay open on the table in front of her. When I approached, the friendly lady smiled and casually invited me to sit on her lap as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

No one had ever let me sit on their lap—not Mummy nor Daddy, nor Babci, nor Mémère. No one!

I wasn’t sure, but Mummy didn’t seem to mind, so I stepped forward, shyly perching on the knee of this stranger. I was glad for the attention and my close-up view of the pages. I held onto the edge of the table while the tips of my toes grazed the linoleum, and I inhaled the scent of her perfume as she began her sales pitch.

“This is The Lincoln Library of Essential Information,” she said, tapping the open book. “It’s named after Abraham Lincoln. Did you know he taught himself by candlelight in a log cabin in Illinois and went on to become President of the United States?”

“Look,” she said. “Here’s his name on the title page: ‘Named in honor of Abraham Lincoln, whose inspiring example illustrated the possibilities of self-education.’”

She sounded very smart. I certainly believed her.

She looked Mummy right in the eyes and said, “Just think what your children might accomplish with access to all this knowledge right here in your home. It has nearly 7 million words!” She tapped the pages enthusiastically to support her statement.

I listened to the encyclopedia lady with awe and curiosity. There weren’t many pictures, but as she turned the pages, she showed us this subject and that, repeating words like “important” and “educational.”

I looked at Mummy and saw that she had put her coffee cup down and perked up at the mention of “educational.” The saleslady must have sensed this was Mummy’s magic word.

The Encyclopedia Lady

In a brief, well-worded conversation, the encyclopedia lady convinced my mother that this would be a vital addition to our household. She had no doubt that it would improve our grades in school. When we were older, hav- ing The Lincoln Library of Essential Information at our fingertips meant that Mummy would never have to drive us to the library. All the information we needed would be right here in our living room. She cocked her head to the side and tapped the pages again for emphasis. Mummy leaned in closer now and showed more interest.

The pages were translucent and as thin as my skin. The text was tiny; the few illustrations had fine lines and cross-hatched shadows. Black index finger- holds ran down the right edge of the book, each labeled with a golden alphabet letter. The cover was bound in genuine—she pronounced it “jen-new-wine”— pebble-grained leather, and you could see the thick cotton stitching that held the binding together when you looked down from the top edge into its spine.

“It comes in one thick or two thinner volumes,” said the encyclope- dia lady.

The two thinner volumes would allow Dicky, Sharon, and me to do our research separately as long as our subjects were front and back of the alphabet. A single book could be clumsy. It could be too cumbersome for a child to use.

“Which would you like?”

Mummy chose the two-volume set.

“The leather cover comes in black, dark green, or burgundy. Black is tra- ditional and a fine choice for your new home library,” the lady said.

Mummy chose black and bought it right there. Since she wasn’t allowed to use Daddy’s checkbook, Mummy rose from her chair and went into her bed- room. She returned with her secret stash of quarters from the tips she earned at Mémère’s beauty shop, where she was now working on Saturdays.

When the encyclopedia lady went out to her car to get our books, I ran to the parlor window and looked down to see her open the trunk of her car. It was filled with cardboard boxes.

She returned, and after completing the sale, we knew she was driving on to the next farm.

A few years later, I saw a dark green leather, single-volume copy of The Lincoln Library of Essential Information on the top of the piano at Mrs. Brewster’s house. Hers was the farm at the top of our road where the mailboxes were.

I must say—the encyclopedia lady was spot-on. I frequently wrote school reports, and The Lincoln Library of Essential Information always had exactly what I needed. Other students listed the Encyclopedia Britannica or The World Book Encyclopedia as their sources. They lived in town and could easily walk to the library. Some kids even had their own twenty-volume encyclopedia set at home! I couldn’t imagine that.

I enjoyed The Lincoln Library and always looked forward to taking it from the shelf, running my fingers over its pebbled texture, and inhaling the rich scent of leather. Once, a teacher dared to question the authenticity of my source.

How on earth could she possibly think this was a made-up encyclopedia?

I thoroughly described the impressive two-volume set we had in our liv- ing room. After my somewhat haughty defense, she backed off.

“So there!” I thought.

But you know what? The magnitude of having those volumes in our own home would never compare with my memory of sitting on the lap of the ency- clopedia lady. I’ll never forget the feeling of kind acceptance as she gently lifted me to that safe place. Without touching me, her arms created the sense of a cozy, warm cave. As she patiently turned the pages for me, the knowledge and interest she offered foreshadowed my truth. Books would forever be my closest friends.