Dear Readers,

Do you think that writing would be something you’d like to do?  But, you think you’re not “good.”

Look and listen…hey, can you tell I taught children?………anyone who writes is a writer.  That doesn’t mean you are a best-selling author, but you’re a writer.  If you can write as well as the average second or third-grader, you’re on your way.  There are all sorts of writers, just like there are all sorts of cooks, basketball players and truck drivers.  You improve with practice.  You learn some rules.  You get hooked to get better.

By the way…those best-selling authors?  They rewrite and rewrite and they have people who help them.  Those big-time authors—they are not perfect, either.  Maybe there are a few perfect ones, but don’t worry about them.

When I was a little girl in North Camden, I loved to write letters to aunts and cousins in other states..  It was an acceptable thing to do, but no one said that I should be a writer.  (Especially the recipients of the letters!)

I thought briefly of writing books, but since my last name began with W, I figured no one would borrow my books from the library.  After all, even I was trying to read books from the children’s section of the Camden City Cooper Public Library starting with authors whose last names began with A.  I abandoned that A to Z project, but I still worried no one would want to read my books.

I wrote in diaries and journals.  My first husband found them and threw them away.  My only censored work… I suspect he might have read the journal where I complained about his mother? Hey.  You’re not supposed to read someone’s private journals and whatever I wrote was rather mild, I’m sure. I was not a mean person in my twenties.  He swore he didn’t touch them, but they were in the same place for five years and then they disappeared? 

Teachers and professors had liked my writing, but I thought that they were being kind.  People asked me to correct resumes, term papers and essays and I  did improve their work, but I never felt that I did it well enough.

I always liked to write, but I didn’t have much confidence in myself.  However, I figured that I could improve so why not do it?  I read  books about writing—two of my favorite are Stephen King’s On Writing and Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird.   Believe me, there are tons of books about writing and very good ones, but these two are among my favorites because they are down-to-earth,  They are written by two very cool humans who became successful and who tell about how they started writing. 

When someone called me from the Philadelphia Inquirer years ago to ask me to send pieces for the South Jersey Commentary page, I was so naïve that I asked them if I had to pay.   I freelanced for the South Jersey Commentary page for some years, but I stopped because I thought that I wasn’t good. Someone even called me and asked me to resume, but I did not

Then, I joined a writing workshop (Greater Philadelphia Wordshop Studio under Alison Hicks) where I sweated bullets for a year because I was impressed by my fellow writers.  But, I hung in there because I knew that in any group, someone has to be the least talented.  I thought that okay, it can be me.  I can be humble and I can improve.

Writing with  friendly and generous people improved my confidence immensely.  I know that I still have a long way to go, but writing every week with people who love to write has become an oasis for me.   That sounds corny, but it is true.

So, if you think that you would like to write, don’t be shy and waste time.  Everyone starts somewhere in everything.  Write a page a day. Don’t criticize yourself.   Soon you won’t be able to stop and you will love it.

If you are in the South Jersey area and you would be interested in writing in my Thursday group, look up my website:   woodlandwriters.com.    We meet in Cherry Hill. 

Anyway, give writing a chance in an encouraging group.  You won’t regret it.

Written by Marguerite Ferra

Who has to give herself a pep talk to take out her huge rough draft book in September, to rewrite, to have someone take a look at it and to get it out into the world…

.

–Dear Readers,

I used to picture retired people as having all the time in the world.  I mean, they weren’t going to work anymore. 

They didn’t have to pick out the right outfit, put on make-up, check to see if the cell phone, the wallet and the keys were in the purse.  (I’m talking about females, but I’m flexible.)  They wouldn’t have to gulp down breakfast, drive with an eye on the dashboard clock and hope for a good parking spot.  No full-time job in the workplace for retirees.

And, if we’re thinking about retired urban city teachers (obviously, I am, Camden City, to be specific), they wouldn’t have to worry about lesson plans, marking papers, surprise evaluators, broken car windows (happened to me twice, two different schools) or bag lunches…

Retirees–lucky folks!  Shouldn’t they accomplish life goals in a few months?  Think how much they accomplished in two months at work—especially if they were urban city teachers…!  All teachers are super, but I do believe that urban public school teachers are super-duper.

So, here I am, here in Cramer Hill at my kitchen table and wondering if I am going to be a HIGHLY EFFECTIVE retiree.  I do have a long, long, long list of goals for my retirement.  I look at it and weep.  Well, almost weep, better to laugh…

—OH NO!  I haven’t gotten out the rough draft of my book–uh, saving that for September, still have about a week, don’t I?

—OH DARN!  I haven’t visited all my relatives, godchildren, and friends yet—well, does the mini-cousin reunion count? lunch with Andrew?  the luncheon at Applebees?   I’m trying!

—OH PHOOEY!   I haven’t exercised enough to be in perfect shape—well, two months are not that much time, are they?  Come on now. 

However, I’m on the right track.  I can check off five items.

  1. I’ve spent much more time with family.  Check.

 2.  I’ve facilitated my writing group, Woodland Writers.  Check. 

  3.  I’ve started a blog.  Check. 

  4.  I’m walking almost every morning with my husband.  Check. 

  5.  I  took a trip to Massachusetts.  Check.

What’s good is that no one is evaluating me so perhaps I can veg out for a while tonight and be a BASIC retiree.

Written by Marguerite Ferra who is about to read a book for her book club…  Oops…  6.  I have attended book club with my friends and ate a lot of good food.  Check.

Dear Readers,

It’s funny, but I don’t know many people in Cramer Hill anymore, although I moved back here thirty years ago.   I know my neighbors to say wave and to say hello, but not much more.  My mom and brothers live next door, but most of the other neighbors that I knew very well moved out of Camden.

However, my husband, Carlos, knows  the neighbors and he chats with them every day.   Why?  One, he speaks Spanish and English fluently–he is Cuban and two, he has an adorable personality and loves people.

Me?  Well, I was always too, too busy or too, too tired or too, too cranky to chat and I wanted to dash into the house, have a cup of tea and read my Kindle.  But, now it’s a different story.

We are gaining a new group of Cramer Hill acquaintances–the people who walk, jog, bike and exercise at the track at Von Neida Park at 29th and River Avenue.  (By the way, the park is starting to be renovated …a three million dollar renovation.  I think that our track might disappear or be moved soon. Boo hoo.)

I want to walk every morning now that I am retired.  No excuses, Marguerite.  I have time, my walking companion and a place to walk…Von Neida Park, just down the street.  So, we walk and now we meet other people.

During our first lap around the track, we see two woman near a bench who are exercising under one of the trees that was not cut down for the renovation  We say hello as we approach them and the tall woman calls to me, “Don’t I know you?” 

“Do you work for the Board?  I was a teacher at Wiggins,” I tell her.   Thousands of people work for the Camden City Board of Education.

“I retired from the Board four years ago.  I worked for Food Services.  Maybe I saw you or someone who looks like you.”

Huh.  Every person I meet knows someone who looks just like me.  They never look like me–not in my opinion. Does that happen to you?

I ask, “How do you like retirement?”

“Well, it’s one long summer vacation.  I love it,” she says. She looks rested and happy, her hair done beautifully and her make-up tasteful.  I can’t wait–maybe I’ll look like that, too, in four years?

Her short friend keeps jogging in pace and she tells us how she retired recently from her job at a Camden hospital.  “I had a stroke after working for thirty-some years.  I liked my job and I worked all the overtime that I could.  But, it was God’s way of telling me to retire and I love it.  Now I’m strong and healthy.”

“You look great,” says my husband.  She does look great and no one would ever think that she had had a stroke.

“I’m blessed to be here on this gorgeous day exercising.”  She laughs and we all laugh–the laugh of retirees who are having a good time.  Never thought I’d be one of them at sixty-four…  To think that my goal was once to work until seventy!

“We are all blessed to be here today,” I say and they agree, smiling.

A big group of kids with supervising adults walks by us. We wait.  They keep coming and coming.  Maybe a summer program

“I don’t mind going back to school,” one boy confesses, pulling on his cap, and looking up at one of the women trudging around with the kids.  “I’m used to it.  I even like it.” 

His teachers will love him.

I look at the kids laughing and talking and I say to Carlos, “You see those kids?  They were my old life.”  I’m not wistful.  I’m not.   Maybe a smidge.

We move aside because another boy, maybe eleven, is sprinting around the track.  I guess he doesn’t want to walk and to talk like the others.  Maybe he is savoring those last minutes of summer freedom.

It’s the second time around the track and we see our regulars, women walking alone, men walking alone, couples walking, families walking.  I say “Good morning,” and Carlos says, “Buenos dias,” but most answer us with “Buenos dias” and a smile.

We’re almost at the end of the second lap and we decide to not go around for the third time.  “Three times tomorrow,” I say to Carlos.  He nods and spies the two dogs of our neighbor.

We cross the street and my husband leans over the cyclone fence and pets the two young dogs, panting and slobbering.  (The dogs pant and slobber, not my husband, of course.) They waggle their tails and jump up and down to see my husband, the dog lover.  The owner comes out and  tells us that the dogs are a mix of Shar-pei and pit bull.  He explains that Shar-peis originated in China and that they were fighting and guard dogs.  Although I am crazy about dogs, I am a bit hesitant to pet these strong-looking dogs with the wrinkly faces.   My husband and the owner go freely from English to Spanish and back again while I watch the dogs race around the yard and jump affectionately on top of each other.

Finally, we’re home.  We aren’t even out of the house for an hour, but we, Cramer Hill people, connect with some other Cramer Hill people and we will probably continue to do so on our walks. 

Marguerite Ferra

Cramer Hill

Dear Readers,

Today…

I keep waiting for Mom to come out of her room so I can start to make the pancakes.  She does NOT like cold food.  I keep opening and opening her bedroom door of her beloved row house in Cramer Hill.

“Mom, I’m making you pancakes.  Do you want to get dressed?”

Mom dresses and she carefully buttons the nice blue checked blouse that my brother, Ken, has bought her.  But, she doesn’t emerge from her room and I don’t want to cook her breakfast and then have to reheat it.

I make myself remember that a woman who will be ninety in a month doesn’t have to hurry.  I also make myself remember that a person who just retired doesn’t have to hurry so I prepare the batter, put plates and silverware on the table and cook a few little sausages. Then, I sit and chat with my brother, Bill, about Gray, the cat that the family rescued from a bitter winter, and Gray’s diet of wet and dry food.

Finally, I knock again and Mom says brightly, “Come in!” as if I might be a welcomed, but unexpected visitor.

“Do you want to have pancakes?  I’ll make them right now.”

She stands at her desk.   I wait.  She fools around with papers and photos.  I wait.  I wait.  I WAIT.

“Mom…”

“I’m reminiscing.”  She picked up a silver-framed photo of my brother Ken when he was three months old.  He’s fifty-two now.

“Oh, Mom, he was really cute.  Look at him smile.”

“Yes, I don’t know why your little brother doesn’t want me to show him this picture all the time.”

“Aw, he probably loves it.  How about pancakes?”

My mother looks at the photo again and walks out of her room to the kitchen table.  “I see I have my water and pills here, but no pancakes.”  She selects the Wednesday pills from her pill box and she takes the pills with her water.

I pour the batter into the pan and pancakes cook quickly while Mom is eyeing the syrup.  “Huh, who does the shopping around here?  It’s almost gone.”

I slide the pancakes on her plate and the one little Brown ‘N Serve sausage. She puts butter on the pancakes and pours herself a generous amount of syrup.  “What about Bill?” she asks, as she cuts up her food. She always worries if everyone at the table has food.  I’d eaten at home.

“Don’t worry.  I made him plenty of pancakes and sausages.”

They eat and Bill and I talk about how we loved those little sausages when we were kids.  The calorie and fat content data on the box scares me.  Glad Mom ate only one.  Almost all the calories are FAT CALORIES.  Mom is medium, not heavy, not too thin, but still…

Bill clears and the table and washes the dishes.   Mom drinks her coffee and she picks up a news magazine.  “Did they really behead this man?  What for?”

She reads the entire article to me and I think longingly of my self-centered project not to read sad news.  It’s not easy.  I look at my magazine about home decorating, much more cheerful.

I stay there for a few more hours and we read magazines together.  Sometimes it’s hard to find a new topic of conversation, but then Mom will surprise me with one.

“Do you see that frame of the photograph of me on the wall?  It cost one hundred dollars.  I don’t know why I paid that much money for a frame.”

Mom was a winner in the 2006 Benjamin Franklin Autobiography Project–three hundred words or less–and she had her photo taken by one of Philadelphia’s top portrait photographers.  The photo was made into high-quality posters and put into Philly bus stops to commemorate Ben’s autobiography.  Mom got to stand next to her photo at a fancy reception for the winners and when they called out her name, she raised her arms in triumph just like Rocky. http://www.benfranklin300.org/autobiographyproject/07_pdfs/Marguerite%20Wunsch-BUS%20SHELTER%20(LR).pdf 

(If you can’t reach the site from that address, search ben franklin autobiography project  marguerite wunsch.)

“Mom, it’s a beautiful, expensive, huge photo and you’ve had it up there for eight years.  You got your money’s worth!”

My mother shakes her head in disbelief at her extravagance, but she smiles.

Written by Marguerite Ferra,  Cramer Hill

Dear Readers,

 Today I was startled to receive a letter from a woman that I never knew.  Her husband was Ron Wolff, a classmate of mine from Woodrow Wilson High in Camden.  Since my last name was “W”, too, Ronny and I were usually in the same homeroom.  I remembered him as a kind and gentle young man who ran track and that he had light blond hair and blue, blue eyes.  We only talked a little in homeroom, but he was always pleasant and friendly.  I had heard that he was living in California and that he continued to run and that he was a surfer.  I looked him up on Facebook and I think that he had been a bus driver.

Classmates on Facebook let me know  that Ron was fighting cancer and they asked for classmates to send him a card or a letter to help keep up his spirits.  I hadn’t seen Ron since high school and I combed my mind to think what could I say to him.  I almost didn’t send anything because I wasn’t even sure that he would remember me and I was tired.

But, I did write a letter (snail mail, written in pen) and I told him that I remembered him from school and that I knew he was looking forward to hearing from classmates.  I wrote what I could recall of a conversation one day in Miss Hoelderle’s junior year homeroom–that he told me that he liked my new jumper with the red belt.  Somehow that little compliment stuck in my mind.  I can’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I tried to make it cheery and a little funny to brighten up even a moment in his battle with cancer.   I think that I told him a little about my life and that I was married with one daughter, I had three cats, I lived in Cramer Hill and that I was a teacher.

Anyway, today I have in my hand this letter from his widow.  She explained that she was looking through Ron’s personal effects and found the letter.  She thanked me for writing it and said that it lightened his spirit when he was very much in need and meant a lot to him. He mentioned something that seemed he knew who I was.  I was so glad that I had written it. She even mentioned the drawing that I must have added to the letter–I’m not sure what I “drew”–maybe stick figures of my family and cats?

She said that reading my letter brought her closer to understanding about Ron’s youth. I guess that I wrote something about high school life/Camden?   She told me that on a trip back East, they tried to visit Ron’s former home in Camden, but the neighborhood looked so rough that they did not get out of the car.

Her grief and pain about losing her husband spilled out in the letter.  They had married in 2009 and she could not believe that he was gone.  She said that he was courageous in his illness and he kept running and exercising, doing push-ups until the last three weeks of his life.  My heart turned over for her and for him.

She ended the letter saying–please send my love to all Ron’s friends.

There is a return address sticker on the envelope with Ron’s name on it.  I’ll send her a note to let her know that I received it.

That letter taught me a good lesson–if you have a chance to send a card or letter to someone who could use a bit of cheering up, do it.  If there’s someone out there that you know who might be happy to hear from you, please make that little bit of effort.  And, above all, treasure your family and friends every day.

Written by Marguerite Ferra, Cramer Hill

Dear Readers,

My latest viewing of French movies on Netflix was about a young woman who became a speed-typist international champion.  Set in 1959, she typed on a manual typewriter.  Remember manual typewriters?

This film, POPULAIRE, struck me as a little sappy, but it brought back memories of learning to type on my mom’s black manual Underwood in our basement in Cramer Hill.  I wasn’t very good, but I plugged away  with asdf  jkl;  for weeks in the summer.   Did you learn to type like that?  It took a lot of willpower to keep at it.  My mom felt that typing would be a useful skill and how right she was.  However, it wasn’t much fun for a junior high girl in the summer.

 Later, in college, my aunt lent me her Sears manual with the ball which was a little easier to use. However, making an error was still a nightmare.  I’d spring for the onion paper, the easy to erase paper, but typing long papers without a mistake was almost impossible.  And, typing with carbons?  Hell.

When I got my first electric typewriter, a Royal, I thought I was in heaven.  It was much easier than pounding on a manual.

I never thought that I’d type well, but when I was in my early thirties, I practiced hard for a week to get a job with Western Union Telegraph Company, the Moorestown, New Jersey, Central Telegraph Bureau.  I passed the typing test and the intensive five or six weeks of training.  After almost eight years of typing telegrams, Mailgrams and money orders, my typing improved immensely and I never had to glance at my fingers on the keyboard again.  We typed on keyboards in front of CRTs (I think it’s a kind of computer with a cathode ray tube?) and we probably absorbed a lot of radiation.  ?

When Western Union laid off the telegraph operators (receiving and transmitting operators) in Moorestown, I was almost happy because my hands, arms and shoulders ached from typing from four p.m. to twelve-thirty a.m. for so many years.  Most operators suffered from carpal tunnel syndrome, some enough to have to have surgery.

Then, I taught ESL to adults for six years and \I got a word processor.  I loved the tack-tack-tack as it printed out what I typed.  However, the green screen showed you only a few lines. 

Next, I went on to teach ESL to children for more than nineteen years.  My hands no longer ached unless I did a lot of typing or some repetitive motions.  My word processor became a dinosaur and my family got an IBM Aptiva–a desktop–sometime in the middle of the 1990’s.  It was wonderful to type on that keyboard. When we made that expensive purchase, I never dreamed that the Aptiva would become obsolete.

As years passed, we bought better and better computers and my laptop is my daily buddy.

Whenever I would type examples of schoolwork or stories for the children in ESL that would show up on the Smartboard, they would laugh in surprise to see that I did not look at my fingers and that I typed easily.  “Many people can type much, much faster than I can, but the reason that I can type this fast is that I did it every night for many years sending telegrams.  Practice is everything.  I typed so many telegrams that I got fast,” I explained.

“Telegrams?”

I explained telegrams and realized how I was a part of history.  Ancient history?

Now people “type” (text) on phones and it is amazing to see how fast they do it.  Little kids who have computers at home are fast on the keyboard, too.  Technology races so fast that it is a big blur to me.  As soon as I learn one thing about computers, it’s obsolete and there’s something new. 

Okay, technology, keep advancing, please.  I’m not complaining.  I’m glad that we don’t use those manual typewriters anymore!

Written on my “light” laptop, not my old, heavy one that fell on my foot…

Marguerite Ferra, Cramer Hill

Dear Readers,

It’s August 14th and a most beautiful summer morning.  I don’t have that anxious “Oh no! Summer’s about to end feeling.”   I won the lottery of free time when I retired from teaching in Camden in June.  Grinning, grinning, grinning.

My daughter is busy on her laptop–searching for flag and map decorations for her classroom that will engage, educate and entertain her students–and meet the Common Core Standards.   Aw.  Getting ready for the new year is fun.  Watching her brought back years of memories of time, money, love and thought spent in August to prepare for nonstop months of school.

One August, maybe fifteen years ago, I went to school to get things ready and I talked to a veteran teacher, elegant even in jeans and a T-shirt, standing on a wobbly chair stapling her classroom rules poster. I didn’t know her that well because she was a little reserved, but gracious enough.  I complimented her on her classroom décor and I held her chair so it would stop moving.  She had a big old-fashioned birdcage in her room with a stuffed bird in it and a funny sign.  We agreed that the kids liked to see something unexpected in the classroom.  We said that it was hard to come back after the summer, but getting prepared eased the transition.

She proudly confided, “My son is a teacher now and this will be his second September of teaching.”

“Super” I said, “Did you have any advice for him?”

“I told him to do what I do every August.  Buy all new underwear and you’ll feel good the entire school year.” 

Loved that…  I thought of that every August and followed her advice.  I don’t know if it worked the entire year, but all new underwear is a treat. 

Camden City teachers are supposed to be there on August 28th. What can I say?  Thank you, God, that I was able to retire.  No kidding.

This will be my first, my very first “free” September since I was four.  Regretfully, I can’t remember it that September of 1954.

 My fifth September I went to John S. Read School in North Camden and got to take naps on a towel that I brought from home. I remember smelling the dust on the floor while Miss Dyer read us a story or cut paper napkins into four sections for little hands.  I never fell asleep.  I mean, it was morning kindergarten.  We needed a nap?  If I had fallen asleep, I doubt that I would have dreamed that my last “scheduled” September (September of 2013) would have been spent in another Camden City school—Wiggins College Preparatory Laboratory Family School.

I certainly was not lying on the classroom floor that September of 2013. How embarrassing to have to ask the third-grade ESL students to drag me back up!   Little did I think that I would retire in June, but by the end of the year, I knew that I wanted time for my family, my friends and myself. It was time.

Fifty-eight years of filled-up Septembers–Read School, Vets, Wilson, Rutgers and then working, always working…  I’m not complaining.  It was a privilege and a blessing to be able to go to school.  I am happy and grateful that I always had a job–I’ve never been independently wealthy.  But, oh my, oh my, how delicious it is going to be to have this September off!

I won the lottery for “free” time.  But, may I go to the Cherry Hill Mall and buy myself all new underwear?

Written by Marguerite Ferra, grinning, grinning and grinning in Cramer Hill

Dear Readers,

Did you ever let yourself have a guilt-free day of relaxation?  Aw, the heck with the laundry?  Aw, the heck with cleaning the basement?  Aw, the heck with driving in the rain to food shop?

I permitted myself quite the lazy day.  My husband and I took our walk around the track in Von Neida Park across from the playground and we noted that we were the sixth and seventh walkers.  We stepped up the pace today, but we were outdone by others power walking and by one woman who was walking backward around the track.

The air proved to be unusually cool.  Strong breezes rushed between my fingers as I walked and I thought what an odd and pleasant sensation that was. 

We returned via Lincoln Avenue which is parallel to our street and admired the front yard gardens of our neighbors–roses, bushes, ornamental grass, trees, little statues and rock arrangements. I asked my husband to get ideas for next year for our front yard.  Our yard décor is called plain grass.  He looked enthusiastic.  Not.

I kept thinking that it was going to rain any minute—because I stupidly believe weather reports–but, we got home without getting wet.

My old way of thinking, I MUST BE PRODUCTIVE EVERY DAY! slid away when it started to rain.  It’s a rainy day.  Aren’t they supposed to be somewhat lazy?

I did make to-do lists–for me and  for my husband.  I wouldn’t want him to feel left out.  I read my e-mails and checked Facebook. I sorted a bit of laundry. I talked to my daughter on the phone.

Then, it was time to become productive.  How about brushing up on my French again?  I watched three movies on Netflix–one about a French banker who becomes a CEO, the next about a cleaning woman who becomes obsessed with chess and the last about another CEO who falls in love with a ceramic artist. Perhaps I picked up a bit of current French slang and I noted that the French seem to be as obsessed with cell phones and electronic devices as we are.  Productive day, ne-c’est-pas?

It’s still raining and I’m glad to have had a perfect and purely lazy day.

Hope you had one, too?

Written by Marguerite Ferra…Camden, NJ…who will be PRODUCTIVE tomorrow!!!

Dear Readers,

Does it seem to you that everywhere you go in South Jersey this summer that there are detours?  That drives me crazy.

I never saw so many streets dug up in all my life.  Whenever I see those orange and white striped barriers, I feel upset because I’m thinking where the heck will I end up when I take the detour? 

Getting lost is not my cup of tea, especially if I find myself forced to get onto a highway where I don’t know where I’m going.  Does this bother you? Or, am I a big wuss?  Okay, I know I’m a wuss.

I left in plenty of time to be at my daughter’s house at ten a.m., but from Camden to Cherry Hill, I had to drive around and around and around to get there because of two detours.

Then, to make my short trip longer, there was a procession of funeral cars on Maple Avenue.  However, I do sit patiently and respectfully during this type of delay and I’m grateful that I’m not in the car as a deceased person and that I’m not a mourner.  Reality check.  The extra five or ten minutes are fine with me because I’m waiting in my air-conditioned Camry with the radio on and about to see my Kim.

By the time I had reached my daughter’s house and had seen her beautiful smiling self come out of her house, I had decided that the morning’s delays were a lesson in life.  We’re always going to have detours and delays in life.  But, how wonderful if you reach your destination safely… and I did.

Dear Readers,

Since I did a blog about a Camden City morning, I thought I’d do a Camden City evening…   Tonight, Saturday night…

It started when my husband, Carlos, arrived home from Nery’s Restaurant at Lois and River Avenue in Cramer Hill with a big brown paper bag of Dominican food–roast chicken, salad, yuca   (yuca is something like a potato) and white rice with red beans.  We didn’t get the tostones (fried plantain slices) or the plantanos maduros (sweet fried plantains) because my mom and my brothers were coming over for dinner and they wouldn’t eat them.  We’ve tried. 

My husband is Cuban and he likes the Dominican food because it is quite similar to Cuban food.  I am American and I like all food. Is there a food that I don’t like?  Oh!  I’m allergic to nuts and I don’t eat much red meat.

I opened a can of French string beans and creamed corn because I knew that my mom and brothers would appreciate those back in the day American foods.

My brother, Bill, arrived with extra ice cubes and we talked about his friend who had lost a family member.  I finished putting out the plates and the silverware and my brother, Ken, arrived with a jug of sweet iced tea from Popeye’s–made with real cane sugar. I put the cubes in the glasses and sliced a lemon for the iced tea. 

Bello, our big cat, watched everything from the dining room windowsill.  He knew that he might be put upstairs so he tried to be discreet so he could stay there as long as possible.

My husband, Carlos, walked my mom very slowly from her house to mine–we live next door.   When you’re going to be ninety next month, you walk slowly and carefully.  My mom walks extra slowly because she wants to talk and to look around with each step.

Mom wore her new pink Phillies shirt and a pretty bejeweled barrette in her white hair. She sat down in her favorite chair and noticed my new white teapot that’s covered with birds and flowers.  I collect teapots.  “Do I see a new teapot?  Where did you get it?”

“Christmas Tree Shoppe.  We could shop there, Mom, if you’d let us get you a wheelchair to go around the store.”

Silence.  She can barely walk and she is not strong enough to go around an entire store with her walker.  However, she doesn’t want to sit in a wheelchair even temporarily. 

Carlos opened up a folding table and we set out the boxes of food–not enough room on our postage-sized countertop.  I dished out the food and everyone “ordered” a different assortment of foods on their plate. 

Some wouldn’t eat yuca which is too bad because Nery’s prepares it to perfection with little rings of onion.  Some wouldn’t eat creamed corn. Some didn’t want salad. Some turned down rice. 

“I don’t want those red beans.”

Someone wanted bread and butter.  Everyone wanted the chicken and canned green beans.  I wanted a little of everything.  Finally, all of us had what we wanted on our plates.

Reina, the smallest cat, our moody tortoiseshell, decided to jump on my shoulder so she was put upstairs and Bello smirked from his perch on the windowsill.   Our other cat, Lovey, didn’t even come downstairs because she is our shy girl.

We ate and talked about Gray, the cat of Bill and Ken. They rescued him from last year’s harsh winter and he’s becoming more tame every day.  Our Bello jumped to the floor and took a nap, secure that he had been able to stay and to enjoy the sound of our voices.

 Mom pointed to her grandmother’s teapot that was on my dining room shelf and asked to see it.  She inspected the bottom and found a stamped label that said HAND PAINTED JAPAN and T-T in two diamond shapes. 

Now that we have phones with access to the Internet, we found that T/T stood for a Japanese pottery firm, Takito. We guessed that the teapot and its matching sugar bowl had to be a hundred years or older since Mom is almost ninety and they belonged to her grandmother.

Mom told us about how the U.S. government told American citizens not to buy things made in Japan during World War Two, but the teapot and the sugar bowl were made before the war. She looked carefully at the painted pink roses and the lines of gold.

“I wonder if there are any other pieces of this set,” she said.  Her memory is not perfect and none of us knew.  Our memories are not perfect!

My mom talked about her large and beautiful childhood home in North Camden and how her grandmother had two glass china cabinets.  Then, she remembered other stories about people from that time and shared them with us.

  “My grandmother belonged to a ladies’ lodge and its ceremonies were secret.  I witnessed a lodge meeting as a kid and saw the women parading around carrying crooks–I guess crooks that a shepherdess would use.  I wished that I could join, but when I became old enough to join, I no longer had that interest.”

When the conversation lagged for a moment or two, I brought down a watercolor of a vase of flowers that one of my bilingual third-graders had painted and had given to me.  Carlos and I had framed it a few weeks ago and my folks admired it, especially Ken, who is an artist and professional photographer.

Thinking about my former students and knowing that I’d never see them again almost made me cry, but I did not.  I said, “It was great that my last year of students were so super.  I retired at a good time.”  And I meant it, but I had a sad moment there at the table and I turned my face from my family.

Before we knew it, it was past nine o’clock.  So much food had been eaten.  So much iced tea had been drunk.  So many topics of conversation had been covered.

It was a night where the moon was bright and big and neighbors were sitting outside with the kids and Dominican music was playing.  The neighbors waved and said hi as we took my Mom home.  I heard them say, “La abuela.”  The grandmother.  We’re in a family-oriented neighborhood and the families are close-knit.  They loved to see us with my mom.

Now it’s late, almost midnight.  The neighborhood is quiet.  That was our Saturday evening in the Cramer Hill section of Camden.

Written by Marguerite Ferra, Cramer Hill

Dear Readers,

People usually think of Camden as a city of violence and crime and it is true, especially in some parts of Camden.  I don’t like to read about some of the things that happen in the area where I used to teach school.  However, I’m blessed that I live in a decent neighborhood with decent people who keep up their row homes, albeit with security systems and bars on windows.

However, here is a typical Saturday morning that will let you see a slice of Camden life.

My husband and I read the papers and we breakfasted on leftover hoagie slices from yesterday’s book club.  Our cats begged and got a tiny bit of meat.  They sniffed it and walked away to nap.  What cat would want a piece of salami for breakfast?

I am forced to tell you about an unusual occurrence.  A wasp arrived in our dining room and I expected my husband to do his usual.  Get a glass and a piece of paper, catch the wasp (still alive) and throw it outside.  Today he rolled up a piece of our newspaper and killed it.  Unusually violent.  I do love living creatures and wasps have a place in the world, but I was glad because I didn’t want my husband, my cats or myself to get stung.  Wasp stings–yow.

This incident led to something that Carlos and I had read about self-defense.  Keep a can of wasp spray around so that you can shoot it at someone who is trying to hurt you.  The article said that wasp spray shoots far and accurately and it works better than pepper spray.  After discussing this bit of self-defense, we decided to walk to the park down the block from our house.

Our development of row homes (Anthony Park Townhouses) was built in 1961 and my mother fell in love with the idea of a brand-new split level house so we moved from North Camden to Cramer Hill.  One of the draws was Von Neida Park, right down the street.  I live next door to my mom and voila!  the park is still there and it is looking good.  It’s clean, well-maintained and well-used. There is usually a police car parked nearby or patrolling.  (I was really sad that so many veteran policemen were let go, but I have to admit that it is good to have so many more policemen out there.)

Sometimes a team of prisoners come out and pick up litter so the playground and the fields are quite clean.  The County Park people cut the grass.  There is a fence around the playground.  That’s relatively new and my thought is that the fence is to prevent people from driving dirt bikes through the playground.  I’m not sure.

I was prepared for the walk.  I put on my new pedometer and slipped my cell phone in my pocket in case I wanted to take photos.  We walked down the back driveway and noted that most of the neighborhood dogs must be sleeping, except for one yappy Chihuahua who let us know that we were walking by his yard.

I did snap a photo of the big city garden at 29th and River Avenue.  My dad would have liked that and I’m sorry he didn’t lived to see that lovely spot of flowers and vegetables.

My husband and I strolled around the circular track on the field across the street from the playground.  There are usually five or six others walking, jogging or running there, but today we had it all to ourselves. We heard a rooster crow from some blocks away and I noted to my husband that I think that it is legal to have a chicken in the city.  However permissible, we aren’t getting one.

After a half hour or soon, we went back home to do some chores.  I washed clothing and I sorted out drawers while watching a French movie, The Women on the Sixth Floor.  The film did have subtitles, but I could understand quite a bit of it which consoled me that my long ago major in French at  Rutgers Camden was not in vain.

So, there you go.  A Camden Saturday morning–at least one in my neighborhood.

Did you ever live in Camden?

Written by Marguerite Ferra, Cramer Hill

Dear Readers,

     Although I have been a one-girl/woman book club ever since I learned to read in John S. Read School at 5th and York Streets in North Camden, I finally got to join a real book club. So far, we have no name, but we are composed of book lovers who have retired from teaching ESL in Camden, another ESL teacher who dreams of retiring and two others who probably feel that they have taught ESL in Camden since they have heard us talk so much about it.

     Today we met at Cathy’s condo pool and the sunshine, low humidity and surrounding trees contributed to a lovely afternoon with friends, food and books.  What a combo.  It’s hard to decide what is more fun…friends?  food?  books?  As usual, the book club food was good–whiskey cheese, prima donna cheese, gouda cheese, crackers, lots of fruit, brownies and hoagie slices.

     Our original goal was to discuss books with friends and to read books different from what we usually read.  We do discuss books when we are not talking or eating.  Talking and eating have pushed aside our original goal and all of us are good with it with that small change.

    We do discuss other topics than teaching.  What did we talk about today?  Swimsuits of European men vs. American men, old age, food, Obama, war, dogs, cats, Woody Allen, tattoos, piercings, PBS, Whole Foods, Wegmans,  travel and, last, but not least, Janet Evanovich’s Top Secret Twenty-One, a Stephanie Plum novel.

      We take turns choosing books:  The Husband’s Secret by Liane Moriarty, Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner,  A Small Town in Germany by John le Carre, The Golden Egg by Donna Leon, and today’s pick, Top Secret Twenty-One by Janet Evanovich.  We agreed that the book of the day was a fast and funny read. 

       I said that I was going to write a letter to Janet Evanovich and ask her to let Stephanie and the other characters step out of the same roles that they have played for twenty-one books and do something a little different.  Maybe I’ll write it this weekend.  I once met Janet Evanovich at the Cherry Hill Barnes and Noble and she signed a book for me. She is such a gracious and lovely person and I’m sure she’ll read my letter.  However, I don’t think she will remember me.  I think that there were about six hundred people there to see her.  I was there a good two hours early and there were three or four hundred fans ahead of me.  I did wait.  I can’t believe it, but I did.

     For our next get-together,  we plan to talk about The Golden One by Elizabeth Peters.  All of us love mysteries so we are back to reading our favorite genre.

     I had proposed, A Spy Among Friends, Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal, by Ben MacIntyre with an afterword with John le Carre.  However, I do like the Elizabeth Peters and this one is set in Egypt–it looks good.  But, I think that I’ll read the nonfiction A Spy Among Friends in a few minutes.  Nothing more fun than having a new book waiting for me…

    What are you reading?  Do you have any recommendations?

Written from Cramer Hill on a quiet Friday night

Marguerite Ferra

Dear Readers,

In one of my less productive moments of the day, I showed my husband a Facebook illustration of a woman turning her face in distress and the caption said something like  For teachers, August is like one long Sunday night.

He looked at it twice–blankly.  I said, “You can tell that you never taught school.  You know, Sunday nights for teachers.  They start to think about what unexpected things will pop up during the week.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, but he didn’t really get it.

You have to teach to get it and if you teach in an urban district taken over by the state (maybe Camden?), you really, really get it.

No matter how much you love to teach, how much you love the kids, what a great teacher you are, you will have those Sunday night butterflies.

I’m not going to say that you worry that your car window might get smashed, that a mouse will run across the room or that the pencil sharpener will stop working.  Nor would I say that you might have a great lesson that will change the lives of your students, but there will be a fire drill or a lock down.  Who would believe me if I say that every day new and unexpected demands appear on your school e-mail?

Would your co-workers or you get transferred or laid off?  Would evaluators pop in?  Would all the excessive testing prevent your students from learning enough to pass the tests?

This is a tiny peek of stress producers that might produce those Sunday night anxieties.

However, when you walk into school on Monday mornings and you greet staff members and the students, you lose those butterflies because you will be too busy.

I’m not going to have those Sunday night butterflies or month of August butterflies because I retired.  However, I won’t forget them.

Written from Camden, NJ, Marguerite Ferra, retired teacher ( Ah! )

Dear Readers,

Dear Readers,

Home sweet home.  My bus tour to Hyannis, Martha’s Vineyard and Provincetown showed me sights not found in Camden.  I liked all the sleep that I got on the bus.  It’s lovely to get away, but lovely to come back home.

Here I am back at my dining room table in Cramer Hill with my husband, Carlos, our three cats, Reina, Lovey and Bello and a cup of hot tea with lemon–could life get better?  Well, yes.  I also have my Sunday New York Times and my Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer.  When I see a good Sunday newspaper, and I mean a paper newspaper, life is just too good for words.

However, today’s pleasure for newspapers lessened when I had to face (vicariously) how the world is a terrible mess–war, disease, unemployment and so on and so on. Real people suffering, here and all over the world.   My selfish little bubble of Sunday papers happiness was bursting.

Just when I was about to stop looking at the papers, a color illustration of a small man hugging his big orange cat, jumped out.  The essay, A Man and His Cat, in the NYT Sunday Review starts, “I was not going to be one of those pitiful pet people.  Not me.”

I had to read it.  I wondered if I was a pitiful pet person.

This essay from Tim Kreider’s essay from his book, WE LEARN NOTHING, made me laugh. I understood that I might be a pitiful pet person.  We do love our feline kids. The oldest and smallest in size, Reina, screamed wildly from inside the dining room windowsill when she saw me arriving home from my Cape Cod trip.  “Mother!  Come in and see me.  I missed you.”   This was in cat language and I know what she said because I looked it up on Google Translate.

This proclamation of love from a cat that we rescued from the other side of the windowsill came from my Reina. I put my face to her, she kissed me and allowed me to pet her.  She’s five now, almost six, our queen— a.k.a. Reina Anne Cleopatra Ferra, a.k.a. Reinita, the Teeny Weeny Queenie or a.k.a., the Tortie.  Carlos rescued her from a bully tomcat who was about twenty pounds and she was a tiny, starving tortoiseshell kitten in our Cramer Hill yard.

Sometimes she is affectionate, sometimes she turns away from us. I worried if she acts cranky because she has too many names.

I asked my husband, the softie who took her in and named her Reina, “How can she act like that to me when I love her so much?”

“She can,” he said, looking wise, “because she is a queen.”

Sometimes Carlos calls her a gremlin because she has such big ears, but I try to make sure she never hears it.

I read that in the USA tortoiseshell cats are supposed to be good luck about money.  We are waiting.

Our next cat is Lovey, a.k.a. Lovey Anne Ferra, and she was rescued from our former window well about two years after Reina.  My husband had gone out to cement up the window well and he found a calico kitten who had fallen into it and who couldn’t get out of it.  I couldn’t say no to this soft, sweet baby.  Carlos was home from work after recovering from a heart attack and the smile on his face made me say, “Sure, we’ll keep her.”

Carlos fell deeply in love with this palm-sized kitty and she is his favorite cat. He is her favorite person.  Lovey likes me well enough, especially if she hears me opening a can of tuna fish.  But, her bond is with her papi.  I may give her a little kiss and pet her if her father is not home, but I know that I’m not her Numero Uno.

She didn’t even run downstairs to greet me when I returned home from my travels, but she greeted me graciously with a kiss when I went upstairs and put my face to hers.

Our last cat, and I mean, the last, the very, very last cat, is Bello Antonio Ferra, who is as handsome as his name.  Two summers ago, he staggered around the back driveway between Wayne and Lincoln Avenues, a gray fur-covered, limping skeleton.  Neighbors tried to feed him, but he was in bad shape. We took this sick young cat into our home and then right to the vet.  After a handsome sum of money for his medical care and my husband’s dedication nursing him, Bello grew healthy and deserving of his name.

After weeks of good food, Bello became quite a large fellow. Since he had been a cat on his own on the streets of Camden, he was aggressive and I worried about the other cats.   After some time of living in different areas of the house, they all decided to live cooperatively.

Big Bello is crazy about my shoes and if Bello could marry a sweaty sneaker of mine, he would take the No Balance right down to the Justice of the Peace in Camden and have a quirky wedding ceremony.

So, I’m home now…with my sweet husband, Carlos, my cats and my newspapers.  Yep, home sweet home.

Dear Readers,

I have not been blogging since I didn’t bring my laptop on my four-day Starr Tours vacation.  I am trying desperately to make life easier and lighter and to fulfill that goal I went on this bus trip without my laptop.

Ooh.  I really miss my laptop.  I didn’t realize how attached I had become to it.

I thought that this would be a super trip—you know that a teacher (recently retired) dreams of a trip where she doesn’t have to spend most of the time looking for restrooms, eating in strange places and walking though gift shops.  The kids always had to pee, to eat and to buy some overpriced souvenir in the gift shop.

We’ve been to Martha’s Vineyard, Edgartown and Provincetown and while all of them were great, we spend most of the time looking for a places to pee, to eat and to shop.

However, it’s easier just to take care of myself, not a group of students.  I only have to check if I have my own purse, bag of gifts and sweater.

By the way, I’ll be home tomorrow and my husband and our three ferocious cats are guarding the house.  Not to mention that my mom and brothers and their ferocious cat live next door and are looking out the windows to check on my house…  So, I did feel free to tell you that I was on vacation.

What kind of vacation are YOU taking this summer?

Marguerite Ferra, writing from Hyannis, Massachusetts

Dear Reader,

I was happy when my little ESL students went out of their way to be nice to the new boy or girl.  I was sad and disappointed when they did not, I tried to explain how important it is to make a new person feel comfortable.

I wrote a true story for them to read about my first day at Veterans Memorial Junior High School in Cramer Hill.  I rewrote it every year and it would differ a little depending on the level of English of my students.  But, they loved it every year.  I called it, “Three Donnas and One Kathy.”

I was sad to leave John S. Read Elementary School in North Camden and my classmates who had been my friends since kindergarten.  But, our North Camden row house was tiny and my mother was in love with the new split-level townhouses that were built in Cramer Hill.  We moved in that October of 1961.  I dreaded the first day in a new school where I knew no one.

My dad had to go to work at Magnetic Metals and my mom had to care for my two-week old brother, Kenny.   My other brother, Billy, was going to go to Sharp School and someone took him there.  So, who was going to walk me to school on the first day?  It  wasn’t going to be one of those children’s books where parents take the little girl to school and introduce her to her school and loving classmates.  My mother had arranged for Read School to send my report card and records to Vets and she had called Vets to tell them that someone would bring me to school the first day.

My mom’s friend had moved across the street from us, another North Camden to Cramer Hill move, and it was agreed that one of her sons would walk me to Vets.  I didn’t know him very well.  He was a year older than me and he’d gone to Read School, too.  All I knew was that he was supposed to be very smart.

He knocked on the front door, grinning widely, and I reluctantly started on my walk to Vets with him.  I was wearing a blue plaid jumper that I hated, but the rest of my clothing was packed and if I had complained, my mom would have to take out something that was wrinkled and iron it.  I knew better than to ask her to dig through the boxes, much less to iron it.  (No permanent press in those days.)  We’d moved the day before that and there was that tiny new baby.  I also knew that I would have to wear my new blue, plastic-framed glasses.  They made me feel homely.

The neighbor boy walked fast and I had to hurry to keep up with him.  He enjoyed his role as advisor.

“There are five sixth grades.  Six-One is the smartest kids and Six-Five is for the kids who are not too smart.  You will probably be in Six-Five.”

I felt that he was right.  After all, he was older than I was and had experience in a junior high school.  I was feeling not only ugly, but stupid.

He went on and on about how strict the school was and how hard it was to be new.  He had been new in Grade Seven.

By the time, we got to Vets, I was trembling, but grateful that my neighbor would be there to introduce me.  I wasn’t totally alone.

He took me to the front door and we walked into the junior high, teeming with students.  Vets looked huge after having gone to a small school.  My neighbor pointed to the office and said, “See ya!”

He walked away–fast.

I took a deep breath, entered the office and told the secretary that I was the new girl.  She found my name on a piece of paper and took me to my class.

We walked briskly down the hall and I hated my plaid jumper and I really hated wearing my new blue glasses.

The secretary rapped on the door and the young, red-lipsticked teacher opened the door and welcomed me to the class. I felt the eyes of the students on me.  The teacher put me next to a girl named Margaret.  I thought that was funny, Margaret and Marguerite.  Margaret whispered to me, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, no, I don’t,” I said, but I was thrilled that she thought that there was such a possibility.

“What grade is this?” I asked her.

“Six-Two,” she said.  What a relief.  I probably wasn’t as stupid as the neighbor boy had thought.

When the bell rang for lunch, four girls approached me.  The blonde girl with short curly hair said, “We’re here to take you to lunch with us.  This is Donna Rott.  That’s Donna Brooks and I’m Donna Turner.  Three Donnas.  And, this is Kathy Stanton.  We wanted to welcome you.”

I’ll always remember how happy I was to meet Kathy and the three Donnas.  I couldn’t have been happier than if they had been four winged-angels in white robes and golden halos. They walked me up to the cafeteria and with the money that my mother had given me, I bought a tomato and lunch sandwich on a hamburger roll.  It’s funny what you remember.

Thanks to the Donnas and the Kathy.  I bet they’re just as kind now as they were fifty-three years ago.

Marguerite Ferra, writing from Cramer Hill

Dear Readers,

When I grew up in North Camden, we rarely went out to eat.  No one did.  No pizza, no McDonald’s, no take-out Chinese food.  Moms on Grant Street cooked every night unless it was such a super hot and humid Camden night that we made hoagies.  What a treat!

Mom bought hoagie rolls, lunch meat and cheese, lettuce, tomato and onions. She put oil, vinegar, salt and pepper on the hoagies and they were delicious.  She made what they now call sweet iced tea in a big sweating glass pitcher.  She didn’t skimp on big ice cubes from those metal ice cube trays with that obstinate lever.

The little metal fan whirred on the table and barely stirred the air in our peach Congoleum-walled kitchen. Row houses in North Camden were insufferably hot sometimes.  There was a small air-conditioning unit in my parents’ bedroom so that my dad could sleep well enough to go to work every day.  The unit also made enough noise to drown out the sounds of kids playing in the street when he had to work nights and to sleep days.  But, the rest of the house was H-O-T.

My family listened to Phillies’ baseball games on the radio while we ate.  I never liked listening to the games, but it was the norm so I never questioned it.  We didn’t talk, we listened to the game. The Phillies were important, I knew, and I thought about them playing baseball in the miserable heat.  I vowed that I’d never play sports, nor watch or listen to them when I grew up.  Who would imagine that one day I’d have to watch hundreds of softball games in the heat while my daughter played?  The “I love sports” gene skipped me completely, but was passed on to Kim.

I do remember Mom cooking hot meals on hot nights, though, especially spaghetti and meatballs with a sauce made from a powder called Spatini.  My brother, Bill, and I washed and dried dishes and I hated how the sauce stuck to the Melmac plates.  Bill and I took turns washing  and drying dishes.  I admit that he was the better dishwasher and on the odd night that was not specifically for either one of us, the kid with the most “rejects” got to wash.  Sadly, I was the one who got to wash dishes four nights a week.  Bill bested me in the perfect dishwashing competition.  I always seemed to have a few specks of that pink dish detergent powder, Dreft, that would stick to one or two of my plates.

My parents retired to the porch while we finished the dishes.  All the adults on our street sat outside in the evenings to try to catch a cool breeze. Neighbors chatted, smoked and drank.  Soon we’d hear the Mr. Softee truck come and many times I’d dig into my bank to buy a small frozen vanilla custard.  I can taste it now.

All the kids in the neighborhood came out and we played games in the street because few cars went down that street.  Almost no one had a car so the street was our playground.  Hopscotch, jump rope, wiffle ball, stick ball, tag, games where we threw balls on beer bottle caps, yo-yo’s and hide and seek occupied the evenings. I even remember a game where we pitched cardboard coasters that advertised different beers.

We didn’t bother our parents and we couldn’t run in and out of the house except to use the bathroom.  Once in a while, the phone would ring and if it was our party line, I might run into the dining room to answer it.  But, the phone was not a big part of our lives.

One rare night my mother let me go into the house of my friend who lived across the street.  Her mother agreed, too.  We were pleased.  Susan took me up to her brother’s room.  He was out on a date.  We were about eight or nine years old and Eddie was a grown-up to us. His room smelled like soap and cologne.

Susan showed me how we could fling ourselves from the top of Eddie’s big dresser onto his bed.

I can never forget how much fun that was.  It was the closest that I’ve ever come to flying.  We jumped and jumped.  On one of Susan’s jumps, the bed broke.  We were scared to death.  Her dad, Harry, would be angry.  However, Susan’s mom, Martha, came over to get something from the house.  Martha said not to worry, that she would get Eddie to fix it and would not tell the dad. We were so relieved.  I never told my mother.  Luckily, she does not read my blog.

There are other good memories of summer nights on Grant Street.  The men would hang a sheet in front of a porch and they would put a movie projector on a porch across the street.  They rented cartoons and showed home movies of neighborhood barbeques in postage-sized backyard, Christmas and New Year celebrations.  My Aunt Vera bought a movie of chimpanzees dressed up and acting like humans.  I think that the poor chimps even smoked.  Sometimes the men ran the movies backwards which seemed to be the funniest thing in the world.

What a different time that was…

It’s lovely to think of those summer nights in Camden, except for the fourth night where I had to wash the dishes one more time than Bill.

Marguerite Ferra, writing from Cramer Hill

.

Dear Readers,

I once had a student who said that he remembered being born.  Now that was a real first memory!  I can’t go back that far, but I remember a night when I was less than two years old, probably about 1951 or 1952.  I’m sure that I should have a much lovelier memory that this one, but this is it.

I clearly recall a hot summer night when I was watching “the fights” with my mother and father at our little row house on Grant Street in North Camden.   I was sitting on my father’s lap and he held me with one hand.  He kept the other hand away from me because he was smoking.  Later, I would know that Daddy smoked Chesterfields and I would admire the camel on the cigarette pack.  He wore a white T-shirt and workpants and was sitting on “his” armchair, gray mohair.

Mommy was quite thin and she smoked, too.  Viceroys. Was there a little crown on that pack?   She wore shorts and sat on a gray metal folding chair with a maroon seat pad and she was next to my dad. She got up to adjust the rabbit ears of the antenna on the black and white TV.

I remember the brass stand with the amber glass ashtray that I would learn had been a wedding present for my parents.  We would have a lot of ashtrays, something that seems funny to me now.  I never liked smoking, although I imagine that I have done my share of involuntary second-hand smoking.

 I remember the fringed Oriental living room rug that had belonged to my mom’s grandmother and I would grow up to love its dark red, gray and blue patterns.  I still love Oriental rugs.

I remember a dark brown glass bottle of beer on the rug, perhaps a quart, and the Pilsner glasses that they had. On the end table was a beer can opener given to us by the beer company who delivered beer and a beer bottle cap.  Dad’s beer was Schmidts.  My mom drank Piels.  I didn’t like the smell, although it was familiar. 

 I felt special to stay up late to be with them because this time of night was my bedtime.  It’s a good memory because I sensed my parents were happy.   They leaned toward the TV and talked about the boxing. They were in their twenties and in love with each other and with their first child.

My parents played with me, read to me, sang to me and took excellent care of me.  However, watching the fights has remained as my first memory.

What is your first memory?

Written by Marguerite Ferra who has no cigarettes and no beer, but who has an Oriental rug and a color TV….and a husband who watches THE BIG BANG THEORY with the cats and me here in Cramer Hill…

Dear Readers,

After a leisurely morning of paging through Traditional Homes, New Yorkers, O!s, Travelers and neaTodays and deciding what to keep, I realized it was one p.m. and I almost (note:  ALMOST) had forgotten about eating lunch.

I went downstairs to the kitchen/dining room area in our Camden row house and something felt weird.  Weird, but good.  But, still weird. 

 I finally realized that we had extra space because we decided to get rid of our old mammoth Emerson microwave oven.   I sighed happily. We’re on the way to achieve our goal to have more space and less stuff.

Hunger pangs distracted me from my sense of satisfaction that the microwave was gone.  I looked in the fridge and took out a container of the world’s best soup.  (Not a paid advertisement, but a recommendation from me to you…Mi Tierra: Colombia, next to the Radio Shack at Browning and 130 in Pennsauken…)

I dumped the ox tail soup into a bowl and turned to put it in the microwave.  Oh, duh, it wasn’t there.  So, I put the soup in a pot and heated it up.  Old school.

I try not to think about the name of the soup while I’m eating it and I tell myself it’s beef soup which probably is accurate, anyway.

My oldest, but smallest cat, Reina, sat on the floor and kept me company while I ate the soup and thought about no microwave.  I had wanted to get a small, sleeker microwave because I didn’t expect my husband who loves appliances to agree to have no microwave.  However, he surprised me because he told me that he had wanted to get rid of it because microwaves are supposed to do bad things to the food.  He said this in much more technical terms, but I boiled it down.

Technology is funny.  First, it was great to have a microwave.  I do remember when no one had a microwave.  That’s when the dinosaurs ruled the streets of Camden?  Now people are worried that it’s not so great to have a microwave oven.

I washed the bowl, the pan and the spoon.  We never got around to getting a dishwasher.   It’s a one-person kitchen or maybe a two-very compatible-person kitchen and it would be hard to put in a dishwasher.  With only two people and three cats at home, we don’t need a dishwasher, anyway.

Now I’m going to return to sorting magazines while Reina naps nearby.  What a peaceful day.  I’m loving it.

Written by Marguerite Ferra, Cramer Hill

PS  Now you can find me at    Margueriteblogs.com             I decided to pay a little bit of money to have my own address.  Hope that is helpful for you.