Fresh Air ~ Part 3

It took me a few days to settle in to living with the McCorkles.  

I wanted to hang around Mrs. McCorkle more than I wanted to play with Nan and Peter.  I’m not sure if it was because of the age differences between us or because she was a mom and I missed mine.  It was the only time I remember being homesick.   Mrs. McCorkle consoled me and told me to go outside and play and I would feel better.  I did.

Back side of the house.

Their house was big (fourteen rooms on three stories) and the yard was even bigger. 

That's Nan being towed as Mrs. McCorkle paddles.

Down from the house was a small pond.  I couldn’t swim, but I did go in the water and Mrs. McCorkle took me for a ride in a small boat, towing Nan behind in a floating raft.

Didn't remember that there were ducks in the pond. 
Too bad they "ducked" their heads down for my glamour pose!



In the pond with Mrs. McCorkle and "Lassie!"

I did not remember the McCorkles having a dog until I saw these pictures of the large Collie. His name also escapes me.  We were cat people and we wouldn't get our first dog, Teddy, until we moved to Long Island.  He was part Collie.  

Sunning by the pond.  Peter has his back to the camera.
We played under the weeping willow behind me.

There were two willow trees, but we played only under the right one.

Next to the pond were the biggest trees I’d ever seen—weeping willows.  We played underneath the one on the side of the pond closest to the house.  It was like our own private clubhouse. 

It's hard to tell from the picture just how large those trees were.  In my memory they were as tall as buildings and as big underneath as a city block!    Weeping willow trees continue to remind me of this place and this time.  Mom planted one in our front yard in 1962, two years after we left the Bronx.  I wonder if I had any input in her decision?

Bordering the yard was a cow pasture.  I remember running with Nan and Peter in the pasture.  That is where I saw my first cow patty after being warned not to step in them and me asking, “What’s a cow patty?”  Peter pointed one out to me.  I poked it with a stick.  Gooey!!  After that I was very careful not to step on one!

Besides playing in the yard and down by the pond, I remember the three of us walking down the lane a short way to a little Mom and Pop store and buying candy.  We also went to town a few times where I got to sit down to watch my first country auction. 


One time we went to a small local festival and I got to take my first hayride.  I was fearful riding in the haywagon.  We sat in mounds of straw.  It was just me and Nan and some other kids.  I didn't know where the wagon was going, but in the end, nothing "bad" happened and we returned safe and sound to the waiting McCorkles.  Trust is earned in small doses and they did earn their share during those two weeks.

Front side of the house showing
the large screened in porch on the left.

Another memory I have is being in the living room when Mr. and Mrs. McCorkle were watching the Democratic National Convention on television.  This dates my trip to the time around July 15, 1960 when John F. Kennedy won the Democratic presidential nomination.  I don’t think Mr. McCorkle liked Kennedy very much because I remember him saying, "I hope a Catholic doesn't get in the White House.”  Thankfully, I didn't know about such things as prejudice and discrimination so I did not take offense, even though I was raised Catholic.

Nan and Lassie coming into the living room.

The day finally came for me to go home.  Mrs. McCorkle picked a large bouquet of snap dragon flowers for my mother.  I don’t remember the return train trip but do remember giving my mother the flowers, which were a little worse for wear after the trip.

My mother kept in touch with the McCorkles via Christmas cards and such.  Mrs. McCorkle sent me a Paul Revere whistling tea kettle as a wedding present when I married Don in February, 1970.   Her generosity prompted me to go and see them again.

We drove up for a visit later that summer.  Nan and Peter weren’t there so it was just the four of us.  The McCorkles of ten years ago were gone.  These new McCorkles were once again strangers and the uncomfortable feelings of being in the midst of strangers all came back to me. Too much time had passed.  I never heard from them or saw them again after that, but to this day I do wonder about them.

All in all, my memories of my time as a Fresh Air Fund kid are good ones.  I am thankful that the McCorkles opened up their home to me that summer and gave me a taste of country living.  It may be why I have always preferred to live in the country rather than in a big city. 

My thanks go out to the McCorkles wherever you are!  Thanks for the memories!

~ P

Fresh Air ~ Part 2

My first day with the McCorkles didn’t go very well.

It started with their two children.  I can’t remember their names so for the sake of this story, I will call them Nan and Peter.  Nan was a few years younger than me and Peter was a few years older.  Nan seemed too immature and wanted to play childish games while Peter wanted to play rough-house and do boy things. 

I can see the reasoning behind Mrs. McCorkle picking someone my age, someone in between the ages of her children.  She may not have wanted to favor either child, but I don’t feel I was a good fit for this family.  However, this was an obstacle I eventually overcame.  After all we were kids.

When we arrived at the house, I was taken upstairs to put my suitcase away.  I had a bedroom all to myself.  This was different for me as I always shared a room with my brother.  The room was small and contained a twin size bed and a dresser for my clothes.  There was one window just behind the bed.  I liked the room.

In the days that followed, Mrs. McCorkle had us go to our rooms to rest in the afternoons and I came to enjoy these quiet times by myself.  We could sleep or read as long as we were on the bed.  Peter would usually come and get me when it was time to get up.

That first day was overwhelming with leaving my mother, the train trip and now these new people.  Imagine how a shy little girl would feel in the midst of strangers and you might guess the emotions I was feeling.  It would take a few days for me to warm up to everyone.

That first night I had a problem getting into bed.  My legs would not go all the way down the bed, only halfway.  Something was wrong and I couldn’t figure it out.  I started to cry.  Outside in the hallway, I heard Peter laughing.  Mrs. McCorkle came in to see why I was crying.  After I explained, she told me that Peter had played a prank on me and it was all in fun.  He had short-sheeted my bed!  I didn’t even know what that was, but it wasn't funny and I didn’t like it!  Apparently, I had no sense of humor as a nine year old.

I thought Peter was mean.  I thought that he didn't like me and didn't want me there.  I felt all alone.  I wanted my Mommy!

In the final installment tomorrow, I will post some pictures my mom recently sent me from my time with the McCorkles and you'll find out the rest of the story.

~ P

Fresh Air ~ Part 1

July, 1960.

I was at Grand Central Station in New York City ready to begin a two week vacation away from home, away from the Bronx, away from my family and toward something that was totally foreign to me—the fresh air of the New York countryside. 

Mom took me to the train station that morning, the biggest one I’d ever seen, big like a city.  I had my small suitcase with me containing everything I would need.  A tag was pinned to my dress containing my name, the name of the family I was visiting and the name of the station where I was to get off—Croton Falls, NY. 

In my mind’s eye, I can still see it all—getting on the train, being told where to sit, looking out the window at the passing buildings and landscapes, watching as we pulled into each station wondering if it was THE one, being fearful that somehow the people in charge would forget about me and I would miss my station, and then finally getting off and being escorted to the strangers whose names were on the card: Mr. and Mrs. John McCorkle.

And so began my journey as a Fresh Air Fund kid.

In 1877, the Fresh Air Fund was created for the purpose of giving underprivileged New York City kids a taste of fresh country air.  A minister in a small rural town in Pennsylvania asked members of his congregation if they would volunteer as host families for New York City’s neediest kids.  And so it began for the more than 1.7 million kids that followed.

The train ride would take me to the northern most part of Westchester County, to the hamlet of Croton Falls in the town of North Salem.  It seemed like I was on the train for a long time, but looking up the train schedule on Google, I see it is only a 47 mile trip that takes about 1 hour 16 minutes and passes through 27 stations before getting to Croton Falls.  Time is so abstract to a child that an hour can seem like forever, and so it was for me.

I was just nine and a half.  This was my first trip.  My first time away from home.  My first time on a train leaving the city.  My first time traveling without my parents.  My first time staying with strangers.  It was a time of many firsts, and there would be more to come.

Tune in tomorrow to find out what happened to me on my first day in Croton Falls.

~ P

Musicality

Yesterday I woke up from a dream where I was singing Islands in the Stream.  Today, I woke up dreaming I was playing a black and white cowhide guitar.  Don’t ask me!  I don’t know where these dreams come from!  What I do know is that music has been a part of my life ever since I was a child.  I guess it seeps out in my dreams every now and then.

I believe I inherited my musicality from my mother and my father.  Dad was a guitar player.  He didn’t play much but he had a pretty nice acoustical guitar and he would bring it out at every birthday we kids had and serenade us with the birthday song.  He would also play some Latin music when he was on a roll and he would sing to us in Spanish.  I miss that.  Those were happy times.

Growing up in the Bronx, we had a piano in our apartment that was given to Mom by a friend of hers.  Mom could play a little.  I remember her playing the beginning part of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.  I loved it.  It has such a haunting melody that has stayed with me all these years.  When I hear it, I think of Mom.  I always enjoyed when she played it.  I thought she was good. 

Mom was musically inclined.  Her stepfather tuned organs for a living and as a young girl he taught her how to read the notes on a music sheet.  When she was around twelve, he signed her up for lessons with a music professor, but he eventually dropped her as a student because she didn’t take it seriously and didn’t practice, something my mother regrets to this day.

My oldest brother, Bill, purchased a small organ when he returned home from the service.  I would go up to his room and play.  It had different colored cheats on the keys that matched the notes in the song book that came with the organ.  Even with the cheats, I wasn’t very good but I always enjoyed playing.  However, like my mother, I didn’t take it seriously. 

Two of the things on my “I want to learn how to do this before I die” list, besides learning to swim and learning to knit, are learning to play the piano and the guitar.  I don’t know if I will ever accomplish either, but they are still part of my dream.  I think my fingers are too short and now with age, they are a little stiff with arthritis.  But I haven’t given up the dream…yet.

My main contribution to music has been through singing.  I love to sing.  I was always part of the chorus in grade school and it continued on through junior high school.  Singing was always something I did in a group.  I was too shy to sing by myself, unless I was alone or with Gail, my best friend back then.  When we were together we would sing out like rock stars. 

In the early ‘90’s, I joined the choir at the church I attended and have sung in several church choirs since that first time.  When I lived in Pittsfield, Illinois, I was part of a women’s gospel group, WinGS (Women in God’s Service) at Calvary Baptist Church.  We ladies got together weekly to practice and we would sing at church every so often.  I sang soprano.  On occasion, we sang at other churches in the county.  We also sang at the local nursing homes and for the shut-ins from our church.  It was very rewarding to bring joy into these people’s lives.

Being in this group gave me the confidence to step out of my comfort zone and sing solos and duets at church.  It’s amazing what you can do if you do it for God.   The Bible says, “O come, let us sing unto the Lord: let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation.” Psalm 95:1.  I like that I can make a joyful noise for God.  No matter what I sound like, I know He is pleased.

If I did inherit my musicality from my mom and dad, then just maybe I passed a little along to my granddaughter, Lexi.  She performed for me when I was in San Diego one time singing and playing the piano.  I recorded it on my phone and it is something I will keep and cherish forever. 

Lexi is heavily involved in dance (she's good too!) and I believe that is where her passion lies.  Her singing and playing are just two of the many talents she has.  They will always be something she can fall back to or do just for her own enjoyment.

I am glad that I have something I can share with my mother and my granddaughter.  So many times the generational gap is too wide to bridge, but music spans generations and the beat goes on...even if it is to a different drummer.

What will the next generation bring?  Another Beethoven, perhaps?

Love and Hugs xoxo, 

~ P

My Definition

What defines you?  Is it the stuff that happens to you or what you make it of it?  Is it the experiences that you’ve had or what you’ve learned from them?  Is it what people think of you or how you relate to them?  Is it your loves, your emotions, your beliefs or is it all or none of these things?

I think you can let yourself be defined by the wrong things.  You can let others tear you down until you believe that is who you are (my second husband was real good at this).  You can let mass media show you, through millions of TV and magazine ads, that you are ugly or fat or not up to par with everyone else until you start to believe it to be true (try watching a Lifestyle Lift commercial and not think you could use one).  You can poison yourself with outside influences until pretty soon you treat them like your own.

This is so wrong.  Our definition should come from within with no outside authority.

So what’s my definition?   If I could look myself up in a dictionary, this is what it would say about me:

PATRICIA OTERO FULLER  \ pə-tri-sha \ o-te-ro \ fů-ler \

1.   Noun:  Blogger, Christian, Full-time RVer, Cat-Lover, New Yorker, Picky Eater, Wife/Mother/Daughter/Sister/Aunt/Grandmother, Puerto Rican/Austrian, Conservative, Storyteller

2.   Verb:  Loves/Hates, Reads, Sings, Imagines, Thinks, Questions, Wonders

a.   Loves: Jesus, her family, reading, cats, reality TV, McDonald’s ice cream cones, singing in church, action movies, writing in her blog, traveling, visiting new places, change, music that moves her, playing Bejeweled Blitz, eating out, word puzzles

b.   Hates:  Dieting, exercising, cooking, talking on the phone, being away from friends and family especially her grandchildren, asking stupid questions, waiting in line, waiting in general

c.   Reads: Nook-books, who-done-its, political thrillers, historical fiction, science fiction, Christian fiction, Left Behind, Harry Potter, Jeffrey Deaver, Michael Crichton, Twilight, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, any good story

3.   Adjective:  Curly-Headed, Short, Chubby (I'm being kind), Faithful, Loyal, Insulin-Dependent, Thankful, Ordinary, Sensitive, Serious, Shy, Honest, Retired, Happy

I’m sure there’s more, but you get the picture.  What defines me is the combination of what I am, what I do, what I love or hate, and what I feel.  It is compounded by what I believe and what I know to be true.  It’s a very complex formula and trying to figure it all out today has worn me out!  It’s not often I take such a deep, long look at myself.

I believe if you want to define who you are, you better be ready to dig deep.  The deeper you go, the more you will find out.  Have you noticed I left out pretty much everything negative about me?  A girl has got to have some secrets, doesn't she?

~ P