{"id":227,"date":"2012-08-14T22:05:10","date_gmt":"2012-08-14T22:05:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/?p=227"},"modified":"2019-02-22T19:12:44","modified_gmt":"2019-02-22T19:12:44","slug":"poetry-a-poem-for-my-sister","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/poetry-a-poem-for-my-sister\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry: A Poem For My Sister"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\"\"<\/a>

Sans Souci and little sister, Laura about a year or two before our evening winter journey on East 14th Street.<\/p><\/div>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Sans Souci pointing to toys in the window of Murray’s. That’s the name that popped into my head. It was on 1st Avenue and about 16th Street in Manhattan in the development called Stuyvesant Town where Laurita and I grew up.<\/p><\/div>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Sunday walk from Stuyvesant Town to the United Nations, over 2 miles. Mom, as usual, was in her heels. I was about 12 and Laurita, 6. Early 60’s.<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

~The Sans Souci archives. Photos by dad, Jack Margulies<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

addendum: to see the rewritten version for publication, scroll down to bottom.<\/span><\/p>\n

A Poem For My Sister<\/span>
\n\u00a912\/7\/08<\/p>\n

I might have been 11, so
\nyou were 5 and under my care;
\nmom worked.
\nShe brought home the groceries after a day
\nat the dictaphone machine and
\nthe 90 words per minute
\ntypewriter,
\nstepped out of her her high heels,
\nand returned to 5 feet tall.<\/p>\n

She handed me five dollars and told me
\nto take you to buy a birthday present.
\n\u201cOK, Ma, \u201c I think I dutifully answered.<\/p>\n

She must have been tired, really tired
\nto have forgotten to pick up a gift,
\nand to send us out in the dark.<\/p>\n

I suppose she was going to start making dinner.
\nSometimes, after we ate,
\nshe\u2019d clear the little kitchen counters
\nand set up the typewriter,
\nthe old Remington.
\nShe sat on the huge Manhattan Yellow Pages
\nthat were atop the step stool, and typed briefs for the
\nlaw firm on the corner, or invoices for dad\u2019s camera repair
\nbusiness; his second job.
\nI don\u2019t know how such a little woman
\ncould work so much
\nand still take care of a family.<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t remember what happened after dinner that night,
\nDecember 10, in 1958 or \u201959,
\nI just know that we put on our jackets
\nat about 5 o\u2019clock
\nand went down the elevator from the 5th floor,
\nas though we were going to school;
\nI can feel that the day was a Wednesday or Thursday.<\/p>\n

We exited the front door of the building
\ninto the darkness,
\nand cold,
\nand my\u00a0 stomach, always anxious,
\nquaked a little.
\nOne hand held your hand and the other
\nthe five dollar bill.<\/p>\n

We walked for 15 minutes or more,
\nunder the lamp lights of the development,
\naround the playground,
\ndown the huge, wide, shallow stairs,
\nto 14th Street and then
\nAvenue B,
\nthen Avenue A,
\nbefore they were known as \u201cAlphabet City.\u201d
\nThe red, Avenue B bus lumbered along 14th Street,
\ntoward us, from Union Square,
\nbringing people home from the subway,
\nand shoppers from Klein\u2019s,
\nthe best bargain department store around.<\/p>\n

If I were to walk those city blocks today,
\nI know they would seem shorter and
\npossibly more interesting,
\nbut then, the streets seemed endless
\nand they took on an aura in the darkness
\nthat was familiar yet distorted by neon.<\/p>\n

Our side, The Stuyvesant town side,
\nwas lined with pink building after pink building,
\neach with eleven stories,
\nnow grayish in the diminished light,
\nbut across 14th Street, the stores were lit
\nand beckoned brightly like a circus:
\nThe Prince of Pizza on the corner,
\nwhere I would have my first slice and burn my mouth;
\nTown Rose Bakery,
\nwhere the lady with black hair and long red nails
\nstuffed pastry into boxes and tied them up with red and white string;
\nThe little law office, where mom sometimes worked;
\nWoolworth\u2019s,
\nwhere we bought our pet GiGi, the Java Temple bird,
\nPermaCut,
\nwhere we sat in airplane seats and Mr. Joseph cut our hair;
\nJohn\u2019s Bargain Store,
\nwhere we\u2019d pick through pins of vinyl and plastic;
\nThom McCann Shoes, where I would later get my first pair of little heels\u00a0 that I wore to Paul Leonard’s Bar Mitzvah;
\nBarricini Chocolates,
\non the corner of Avenue A, where the smell of cocoa was overwhelming.
\nPam Pam Burgers, juicy, with the shiny, puffy bun,
\nand maybe 20 more stores scattered in between.<\/p>\n

It was nice to feel your hand in mine,
\nI was so adult and in control,
\na small mother; my ears rang in the cold, under my hat.
\nYou were probably in kindergarten,
\nno longer a 4 year old with a
\nbaby tummy, full and rounded from your chest down.
\nStill, small and fragile, with large blue eyes and ash hair,
\nRunning to keep up with me.<\/p>\n

We arrived at the corner of 14th Street and First Avenue
\nwhere the subway began,
\nthe LL line to Brooklyn that we knew went to
\nour\u00a0 two grandmas, and the beach.
\nTraffic picked up here, yellow taxis honking their way
\nuptown and downtown on First Avenue;
\nwe turned right at the corner.<\/p>\n

There were shops embedded into the First Avenue side
\nof our familiar cookie cutter buildings;
\na Kodak store where dad\u2019s photo of me and another little girl
\nwas blown up into a poster and once displayed;
\na Good Humor Store\u2014or did that come later?
\nAn original Howard Johnson\u2019s Restaurant that
\nI think later became something with an Irish name.
\nMcKenna\u2019s?
\nThen,
\nThe First National City Bank; it had a highly polished brass safe
\nor drop on the outside, round,
\nraised like a huge, prized medallion,
\nthe outside fa\u00e7ade glasslike black marble,
\nbanking hours: 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.<\/p>\n

And then there! Next door!
\nMurray\u2019s.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s a picture that dad took
\nof tiny me pointing at the toys in the window
\nof Murray\u2019s.
\nToys.
\nHousewares, pots, curtains, measuring cups,
\nappliances, to the left.
\nToys to the right.
\nWhen we entered the store
\nwe left the darkness and chill behind,
\nand the fluorescent lights took over.
\nMetal trucks, cars, bubble blowers, things to build, puzzles,
\ngames in long rectangular boxes, coloring books all beckoned.
\nThen we found the dolls.<\/p>\n

I think you picked a baby doll with a soft body
\nin a dress with open-close glass eyes.
\nI see myself reaching for it in its box, pulling it down,
\nhanding it to you,
\nand in my pre-teen awkwardness and embarrassment
\nI asked in an overly loud, take-charge, bordering impatient,
\nparent voice:
\n\u201cIs this the one you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the baby doll in the cardboard box
\nlooking out the cellophane window,
\nprobably in a blue dress.
\nI handed the man the money.
\nHe put the box in a bag and most likely
\ngave me change.<\/p>\n

We went back out into the darkness,
\nalong the busy street;
\nto me it felt like midnight, and I wasn\u2019t ready
\nfor the burden of responsibility, and I silently
\nquestioned why it was given to me.<\/p>\n

We walked back the way we came,
\nthe neon was now on our right, and the wind pushed us along,
\nto lamb chops, or meat loaf, or chicken.<\/p>\n

I can still feel your hand in my hand.
\n\"\"
\nReturn to the party here.<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Original Romper Room***
\n**
\nCaptain Kangaroo***<\/p>\n

**The Little Rascals
\n****Farmer Gray
\n***
\nRewritten for book: 4\/09<\/span><\/p>\n

Birthday Doll<\/span><\/p>\n

I might have been twelve, so
\nyou were six and under my care;
\nmom worked.
\nShe brought home the groceries after a day
\nat the Dictaphone machine and
\nthe ninety words per minute
\ntypewriter,
\nstepped out of her high heels,
\nreturning to five feet tall.<\/p>\n

She handed me five dollars and told me
\nto take you to buy a birthday present.
\nOK, Ma, I think I dutifully answered.<\/p>\n

She must have been tired, really tired,
\nto have forgotten to pick up a gift,
\nand to send us out in the dark.<\/p>\n

I suppose she was going to start making dinner.
\nSometimes, after we ate,
\nshe\u2019d clear the little kitchen counters
\nand set up the typewriter,
\nthe old Remington.
\nShe would sit on the thick Manhattan Yellow Pages,
\natop the step stool, typing briefs for the
\nlaw firm on the corner, and invoices
\nfor dad\u2019s camera repair business\u2014his second job.
\nI don\u2019t know how such a little woman
\ncould work so much
\nand still take care of a family.<\/p>\n

It was a December evening,
\naround five o\u2019clock,
\na Wednesday.
\nWe put on our jackets,
\ntook the elevator down;
\nit was dark and cold,
\nmy stomach was quaking.
\nI held your hand
\nand clutched the five-dollar bill.<\/p>\n

We walked ten minutes or more,
\nunder the lamp lights,
\naround the playground,
\ndown the wide stairs
\nonto Fourteenth Street,
\nAvenue B,
\nthen to Avenue A.
\nA bus lumbered along Fourteenth Street,
\ncoming from Union Square,
\nbringing people home from the subway,
\nand shoppers from S. Klein\u2019s\u2014
\nthe best bargain department store around.<\/p>\n

If I were to walk those city blocks today,
\nI know they would seem shorter and
\npossibly more interesting;
\nbut then, the streets seemed endless
\nand in the darkness they took on an aura
\nthat was familiar yet distorted by neon.<\/p>\n

Our side, the Stuyvesant Town side,
\nwas lined with pink building after pink building,
\neach eleven stories,
\nnow grayish in the diminished light.
\nAcross Fourteenth Street, the stores were lit
\nand beckoned brightly like a circus:
\nThe Prince of Pizza on the corner,
\nwhere I would have my first slice and burn my mouth;
\nTown Rose Bakery,
\nwhere the lady with black hair and long red nails
\nstuffed pastry into boxes and tied them up with red and white string;
\nThe little law office, where mom sometimes worked;
\nWoolworth\u2019s,
\nwhere we bought our pet GiGi, the Java Temple bird,
\nPermaCut,
\nwhere we sat in airplane seats in the basement and Mr. Joseph cut our hair;
\nJohn\u2019s Bargain Store,
\nwhere we\u2019d pick through bins of vinyl and plastic;
\nThom McCann Shoes, where I would later get the first pair of little heels
\nthat I wore to Paul Leonard’s bar mitzvah;
\nBarricini Chocolates,
\non the corner of Avenue A, where the smell of cocoa was overwhelming;
\nPam Pam Burgers, juicy, with the shiny, puffy bun,
\nand maybe twenty more stores in between.<\/p>\n

It was nice to feel your hand in mine;
\nI was so adult and in control,
\na small mother. My ears rang with cold, under my hat.
\nYou were probably in kindergarten,
\nno longer a four year old with a
\nbaby tummy, full and rounded from your chest down.
\nStill small and fragile, with large blue eyes and ash hair,
\nyou ran to keep up with me.<\/p>\n

We arrived at the corner of Fourteenth Street and First Avenue,
\nwhere the subway was,
\nthe LL line to Brooklyn that we knew went to
\nour two grandmas, and to the beach.
\nTraffic picked up here, yellow taxis honking their way
\nuptown on First Avenue;
\nwe turned right at the corner.<\/p>\n

There were shops embedded into the First Avenue side
\nof our cookie cutter buildings;
\na Kodak store
\nwhere dad\u2019s photo of me and another little girl
\nwas blown up into a poster and once displayed;
\na Good Humor store\u2014or did that come later?
\nAn original Howard Johnson\u2019s restaurant that
\nlater became something with an Irish name.
\nMcKenna\u2019s?
\nThe First National City Bank,
\nits name on a highly polished brass medallion.
\nBanking hours: 9:00 AM to 3:00 PM<\/p>\n

And then! There! Next door!
\nMurray\u2019s!
\nToys!
\n(My dad once took a picture of tiny me
\npointing at the toys in the window.)
\nToys to the right.
\nHousewares, pots, curtains, measuring cups,
\nappliances, to the left.<\/p>\n

When we entered the store,
\nwe left the darkness and chill behind,
\nand fluorescent lights took over.
\nMetal trucks, cars, bubble blowers, things to build, puzzles,
\ngames in long rectangular boxes, coloring books \u2013 they all beckoned.
\nThen we found the dolls.<\/p>\n

You pointed to a baby-doll
\nin a cardboard box,
\nlooking out through the cellophane window.
\nI see myself reaching for it, pulling it down,
\nhanding it to you;
\nand in my pre-teen awkwardness
\nI asked in an overly loud, take-charge,
\nimpatient, parent voice:
\nIs this the one you want?<\/p>\n

You liked the blue dress and
\nthe glass eyes that opened and closed.
\nI handed the man the money.
\nHe put the box in a bag and
\ngave me change.<\/p>\n

We went out onto the dark, busy street;
\nit felt like midnight, and I wasn\u2019t ready
\nfor the burden of responsibility.
\nI silently questioned why
\nit was given to me.<\/p>\n

We walked back the way we came,
\nthe neon now on our right,
\nthe wind pushing us along,
\nto lamb chops, or meat loaf, or chicken.<\/p>\n

I can still feel your hand in my hand.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

~The Sans Souci archives. Photos by dad, Jack Margulies addendum: to see the rewritten version for publication, scroll down to bottom. A Poem For My Sister \u00a912\/7\/08 I might have been 11, so you were 5 and under my care; mom worked. She brought home the groceries after a day at the dictaphone machine and the 90 words per minute typewriter, stepped out of her her high heels, and returned to 5 feet tall. She handed me five dollars and told me to take you to buy a birthday present. \u201cOK, Ma, \u201c I think I dutifully answered. She must …<\/span> Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":228,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,7],"tags":[15,14],"class_list":["post-227","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blog","category-poetry","tag-family","tag-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/227","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=227"}],"version-history":[{"count":50,"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/227\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1164,"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/227\/revisions\/1164"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/228"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=227"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=227"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/clientswebdesigns.com\/sanssouciblogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=227"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}