My chubby legs kicked out until they protruded through the wooden slats of my crib. I wiggled my toes and giggled as I watched ten little piggies dancing in space. My gaze wandered upwards as I felt more giggles erupting from my tummy. Elephants, tigers, giraffes and lions dangled from strings spinning around and around over my head. Mommy and daddy didn’t stir as they slept in their bed. Their bed was so close to my crib that my toes almost could reach my mommy.
Hunger pangs started a little ache in my belly. I heard rumbling coming from my insides. My insides made me start to fuss and finally to cry out loudly. My daddy finally flung his blanket from his chest. Finger walking on his night stand, daddy located his glasses. He stumbled sleepily towards my crib as he cooed to me, “It’s okay, princess. Here I come . . . your prince to the rescue.” His strong arms reached down hoisting me up over the railing. “Want to do our duck walk?” he enticed me. Bobbing my head in joyful agreement, he set my bare feet onto his bare feet. The two-headed duck waddled down the hallway and into the kitchen.
My parents’ one-bedroom, tiny apartment in Brooklyn, New York was our home. Maybe a little bit too tiny to accommodate our family of four. But, not too small, and large enough to envelope large doses of warmth, love, music, card and mahjong nights and walls covered in original art.
My new, grown-up, big girl’s room was originally designated as a kitchenette with just enough space to seat a family of four around a small table. Replacing the dinette set with a bed and a hand-me-down dresser transformed the 12x12 box into my alone, all-by-myself little oasis. Most nights I was lulled to sleep by the discordant humming of the nearby refrigerator and the drip, drip, drip of the leaky kitchen faucet. But, on some restless nights when sleep was as elusive as the fireflies I tried to capture on warm summer, dusky nights . . . I dared myself to stare straight ahead at the enormous oil painting mounted on the entry hall wall just opposite my bed. First, I reassured myself that all had to be well because there was my dad’s own signature on the bottom right of the painting. It was his hand that created this image, after all.
I named the painting, The Bleeding Cow. Slowly, as I lowered the blanket from my eyes to peek at the painting, I steeled myself once again to study my unwelcome room mate. Pitch helmeted German soldiers surveying the surrounding carnage, animal and human alike. A dead cow with its thick brown tongue dangling lopsided from the side of its gaping mouth. A pool of blood attracting a swarm of flies. Yuck and again yuck. Pulling the blanket up again over my eyes, I was lulled back to sleep as I heard the discordant hum of the refrigerator and the drip, drip, drip from the leaky kitchen faucet.
My dad’s true personality, however, was a direct antithesis of his embattled expression on canvas. Embarrassed and truly frustrated by the U.S. Army’s rejection of his desire to volunteer to fight battles for his country, my father made another choice. He decided to fight his battles on canvas. His weapon of choice, a paint brush. A soft spoken, gentle, gentleman, my dad was always ‘curious’. A formal education, given the financial pressures of the times, was not an option, but sating a curious mind would not necessarily break the bank. A few extra dollars in his pocket bought a microscope, a small collection of used but precious art and history books. My dad wanted to share all this new and wondrous fountain of knowledge. And there I was, sitting right there. His brand new star pupil.
One clear, dark evening in October of 1957, dad and I took the elevator up to the top sixth story of our apartment building. Exiting the elevator, before us loomed a steel staircase that clanked, clanked, clanked echoing our footfalls as we ascended the twelve steps leading out to the roof top. Pushing the red painted steel door outward, we stepped down onto the black tarred rooftop. A crisscross maze of clothes lines and beach chairs had to be circumvented until we would finally make our way to the edge, affording us an unobstructed, bird’s eye view of the night sky. We did this often, our trek up to the roof. Summers we would whoop and cheer as we watched colorful lights exploding on the Coney Island horizon. Other nights my dad would reach deep into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out his coveted binoculars. “Look, princess. Can you find the Big Dipper? Orion? Ursa?” On this particular night in October, 1957, dad pointed out a small blinking light crossing from west to east. “See that light, princess? This is history, honey. They call that little light ‘Sputnik’. Well I guess that’s score one for the Russians. Bet we’ll beat them to the moon, one day.”
Despite all the wonders dad shared with me, my favorite lesson during my continuing education was strictly extra credit. Sundays, after our breakfast of bagel, lox and cream cheese, it was decision time. “Which museum would you favor today, Princess?” No surprises there. I always chose the Metropolitan Museum of Art. At the museum my dad’s next assignment was for me to pick out the ‘painting of the day’. Standing before a canvas, we’d tap our fingers against the side of our noses in a stance of pondering our personal interpretation and critique of what we were observing before us. “So what are your thoughts? Is the artist speaking to you? You know what? Hold that thought and let’s talk about it at our next destination.”
It was a long walk but one I never minded because I could hold my father’s hand as he pointed out the myriad variations of architecture, unique boutiques selling treasures from around the world, and a pet shop where cute little puppies and kittens resided in the glass window.
“We’re almost there, baby,” my dad would assure me. Just a few more blocks and there it was. 1165 Sixth Avenue, New York, NY. Home of the famed eatery, the Horn & Hardart Automat. Oh my gosh . . . my taste buds were exploding in anticipation. “So what will it be today? The usual? Meat loaf, gravy, mashed potatoes and creamed spinach? Here, let me help with that token. Just drop it into the slot and the little glass door will pop open and, voila, your feast awaits, my princess”, bowing down before me.
“We’re almost there, baby,” my dad would assure me. Just a few more blocks and there it was. 1165 Sixth Avenue, New York, NY. Home of the famed eatery, the Horn & Hardart Automat. Oh my gosh . . . my taste buds were exploding in anticipation. “So what will it be today? The usual? Meat loaf, gravy, mashed potatoes and creamed spinach? Here, let me help with that token. Just drop it into the slot and the little glass door will pop open and, voila, your feast awaits, my princess”, bowing down before me.
Savoring the last of my dessert and licking the plate clean of any remnant of melted chocolate, I would look at my daddy and often repeat the litany that always made him smile. “I love you so much, daddy. You’re my favorite artist, better than any of them in the museum. The Bleeding Cow is my most favorite in the whole wide world.”
“Ok, princess. Here’s a napkin. Wipe the chocolate from your mouth. I love you too.”
I’ll always treasure those Sundays and the flourish of my father’s bow as he held open the double glass doors as the princess exited the Automat.
“Ok, princess. Here’s a napkin. Wipe the chocolate from your mouth. I love you too.”
I’ll always treasure those Sundays and the flourish of my father’s bow as he held open the double glass doors as the princess exited the Automat.
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