Kendall Bell

Trinkets
By Kirsten Ellis
Berlin, Md.

My Nana and Pop Pop lived in a brick row house on South 10th Street in Allentown, Pa. It was one of many pre war houses that lined the roller coaster street in a blue collar town where everything was old. Everyone on the block had a connection to either Mack Truck or Bethlehem Steel. They understood each other and all lived in the same homes from when they were young marrieds until it seemed there was a funeral every week.

I would stay with them for a few weeks each summer, starting when I was just a toddler. Behind my grandparent’s house was a service road and a minor league baseball park. The street was quiet except on Friday nights, when the announcer’s voice boomed through the neighborhood, sharp and loud enough for my grandparents and their friends to catch the games from the comfort of their back porches. It seemed the world was listening to the game and inhaling the summer breeze while they shelled peanuts and laughed about last night’s pinochle game.

I was often sent to the ballpark with a tall order for ice cream cones and sundaes for Nan, Pop and the neighbors. Not only did I get to have whatever I wanted, I also got to deliver the orders and keep the change. The only neighbor missing was Mary, who lived alone next door to my grandparents.

Like any other kid, I loved to wander the block and greet the neighbors, who were all gray or still wore beehive hairdos they maintained on weekly standing appointments that spanned decades. The Kesslers, three doors down, had a grapevine arbor in their small backyard. Ethel and Richard, who shared an alley with my grandparents that a kid couldn’t fit a bicycle through, owned two elderly bulldogs named Patrick and Bullet. They were all young compared to Mary, who was old even to the old folks.

Each house on 10th Street had a front porch nobody ever used. The back porch was where all the action was. Looking from one vacant front porch to the next, a kid could see forever or at least to the end of the street. The porch floors were painted battleship gray with a high gloss that made them look permanently freshly mopped and still wet. They were separated by low brick walls. We always entered the house through the back door. After a few hugs, I’d race through the house, right out the front door. Once on the front porch, I’d hop the wall and bang on Mary’s door.

She always knew I was coming. She’d feebly coo for me to come visit. Her house was the mirror opposite of my grandparents. The wall they shared seemed to slice the houses in two for the other side of each was full of sloping ceilings, funny angles and stairs. Mary’s house was cluttered but neat. It was darker in her home than at my Nana’s so it seemed the day inside Mary’s was always slightly overcast. Her house smelled of dusting powder and overripe bananas.

Every square inch held curiosities and knickknacks, running the gamut from ceramic figures of Spanish dancing women and pouting puppies to hobos leaning on fence posts, all shiny and delicate. Cut glass candy dishes, all brimming with dusty but still prized sourballs, were placed low, within easy reach. Mary wore a house dress that billowed around her frame, making her cloud-like as she moved to hug me hello as I raced into her arms. The oldest woman on the street, she no longer dyed her hair. She kept it swept into a bun, with odd, frizzled hairs that waved in the air as if by static electricity. Her cloudy eyes emphasized her gentle, kind nature.

She was a sturdy woman, yet at the same time feeble. She moved slowly and purposefully. Her mouth seemed clenched in a permanent smile that consumed her delicate face. Mary let me gorge on candy while I answered her questions about school or summer lessons or Bible camp. She wanted me to sing for her and I happily complied. She let me paw her miniatures and figurines, never telling me to be careful. This behavior would not have been tolerated at Nana’s, so I would play with reckless abandon, thinking it could end very quickly so I’d better play with them all.

While Mary giggled encouragement, I made up elaborate plays for the hodgepodge collection to star in. A spare doily, and there were many, was used as a performer’s bridal veil or for a center stage spotlight on the menagerie. A statuette of a woman in a pre-Civil War gown would play opposite a fisherman holding his writhing catch while oversized ducklings formed a chorus. A portly Dutch child figure, towering over the cast, would make a sudden entrance into the play, or a ceramic cat of near actual size would be the raging villain. A swan with an over pronounced neck would serve as sage, solving the players’ dilemmas, while a statuette of a boy flutist stood on a porcelain turtle’s craggy back. A hardy squirrel, painted in faux wood carving deep greens and browns, narrated.

Mary was an excellent audience. She was a one-person crowd, rapt by any sudden developments in the lengthy, complex storyline. She even got my jokes and clapped when players broke into a musical finale. By the end of each visit, I could proudly assess that every figurine within reach was part of my production. No trinket went untouched. For a child, it was the heaven of forbidden breakables that was so delightful it was nearly wicked. Upon my return, Nana would sternly ask if I had bothered Mary or if I had made a mess next door. I always said no because I hadn’t ever considered either.

When I visited my grandparents for Christmas or Easter, I would again bound next door with an ornament or holiday card I made for Mary. I would ask my Nana why Mary never came to dinner or why she never got in on the ice cream and baseball. Nana said Mary was old and she had her own family, but to me she was always alone and in need of a good, rousing play.

One summer, I flew across the wall to Mary’s and banged on her door as was custom. Her voice seemed far away as she called me to her. I had never been upstairs, so I followed her chirping voice and found Mary in a giant bed, bundled under blankets, her arms outstretched. The bed’s height forced me to hop up to Mary. I snuggled her as she told me she was happy to see me. She didn’t have to say it, I knew.

Among her numerous pill bottles stood a well-stocked candy dish on a pedestal. All the goodies were for me. After we caught up with each other’s news and I de-candied the bowl, she asked ask for a play. Nervously, I told her that the figurines were all the way downstairs. Carrying them to her would be a feat not trusted to a child. Nonetheless, Mary said “well then, go get them.” Without hesitation, I made an impromptu basket with my shirtfront, piled my favorites inside and climbed the stairs with clumsy care. Mary asked if I had enough “people” for the play, so I went back downstairs and got more.

I arranged them around Mary on her mammoth bed and launched an epic drama turned musical that would put MGM to shame. Bucking pewter horses galloped, hollow ducks zigzagged and translucent ballerinas pirouetted as part of an ensemble that spanned from the animal kingdom into the other figurine world of sad clowns, tramps and exotic island ladies. Mary had a part too. She was the stage.

The new stage plan continued for many visits, which became shorter but no less robust. The only thing that changed was that Mary asked me to put the figures back when I had to leave for dinner. I put them back in their new places as best I could. I never told anyone about the plays or about Mary’s vast collection. It was the kind of relationship I thought no one would understand, nor would the plays or candy rituals be appreciated. It was the kind of quiet love that was best kept between the two of us.

Summer came again. I brimmed with news and longed to play with Mary’s toys. I sprinted through the house from back door to front and jumped the wall. Nana caught me in mid-pound at Mary’s door. After she gently pulled me back into her front parlor, Nana told me Mary was dead. She died a few weeks ago and she was very old, Nana said. I didn’t understand what she meant, and ran to the Kisslers’ grape arbor to be alone. No one discussed it further. There was nothing more to say.

Time passed. I became a spirited junior high schooler, an angry, sullen teen, a rebellious youth and a serious student. Then I became — sometimes simultaneously — a frivolous coed, a pessimist, a waitress, an amateur philosopher, a fool, a corporate flack, an optimist, a writer, a girlfriend, a crime reporter and a fiancée. We got engaged in mid-November. Thanksgiving at my Dad’s was a dual celebration with champagne poured as wedding plans were made. While the pie was handed around, my Dad gave my fiancé and me the first gift we received as a couple.

The gifts, swathed in tissue, were nestled in a deep, rectangular box with the geometric, shiny pattern of an old-time department store. The tissue revealed four delicate figurines the size of formal salt shakers. Painted in milky pastel were two gentle ladies, one with a tiny violin at her chin and the other with her skirt lifted in dance. Completing the ensemble was a dandy fellow in 18th century garb, with his gray wig in a black ribbon. He sat on a cushion with his tiny fingers poised over a white, gold-trimmed, scrolled leg harpsichord. I arranged them and asked what they were.

My dad explained that Mary gave them to him shortly before she died. She wanted him to give them to me when I was to be married. He kept them for nearly 20 years. Don’t you remember the blind woman who lived next door to Nana?,” he asked. Tears welled as memories of Mary and her kindness flooded back to me. I never knew she was blind. Holding the figurines, I realized why Mary asked so many questions about the plays. I keep them on a low shelf, within reach.

Kirsten Ellis is a graduate of the University of Tennessee where she earned her degree in journalism. She has worked for several newspapers in various editorial capacities including The Delaware Coast Press, The Beaufort Gazette, The Gloucester County Times, The Current and The Press of Atlantic City. She wrote this story for her father, Henry W. Hartman, with the loving support of her friend, Karen Marks. She lives in Berlin, Maryland.

If you would like to schedule an appearence or you have any questions or comments, please fill out the form below and someone will contact you to make arrangements.

Back to Front

© Kendall Bell. All rights reserved. Any copying, redistribution, or retransmission of any of the contents of this service without the written consent of Kendall Bell is expressly prohibited. Site design and layout by SCnetSolutions.