I had the good fortune of growing up when life was much simpler. We listened to the radio for entertainment and our news came from the daily paper. I was eleven years old before we had our first television, black and white, of course. We established a bond with the TV repairman, who made frequent house calls. We could get three channels, two came in clearly, the third looked like a nor'easter in the middle of winter.
Our schools were safe. It never entered our minds that someone may try to harm us while we were struggling to learn the three Rs. Of course, we were warned to "never take candy from strangers…it might have drugs in it." I envisioned an aspirin tucked into a Hershey chocolate bar. We had no concept of "illegal" drugs, nor had we ever heard of anyone bringing a gun to school and shooting children and teachers. Yes, it was a much simpler time.
In the winter we played in the snow, built snowmen and ice skated at one of the city parks. Summer was the most fun of all…we played hopscotch on the sidewalk, kickball in the street, hide 'n seek, we roller skated…yes, we used skate keys to attach them to the soles of our shoes. My skate key hung from a ribbon around my neck so I wouldn't lose it. I don't ever remember not feeling "safe." Not only did our own families look out for us, but the neighbors did as well. We didn't get away with anything either! If Susie down the street looked out and saw you smacking your little brother, she'd be on her porch in seconds, giving you a tongue lashing and you'd think twice before you smacked him again.
We lived at the "South End," an Italian neighborhood with a nearby factory where many of the immigrants found work. These people came to America, looking for a better life for their families. They came with very little and worked very hard to take care of each other. Almost every family had a beautiful garden where they grew the best tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, onions, garlic, parsley, etc. In the summertime, when the windows and doors were left open, the wonderful aroma of tomato sauce, peppers, sausage and garlic filled the air. It makes me hungry just thinking about it!
Over the years, many of the families moved away, the homes were sold and the neighborhood lost its ethnicity. But sometimes I like to visit the street where I'd spent part of my childhood. One Saturday several years ago, I drove past our old house and I noticed that one of the few "original" neighbors was hosting a yard sale. Her husband had passed away and she had sold their house and was preparing to move to an apartment. It was late in the afternoon and there wasn't much left, having been picked over by the diehard "salers" who arrive early for the best selection. But I stopped, mostly because I wanted to say hello.
It is impossible for me to remember a time when I didn't know Ruby. She and her family lived a few doors away from our house. I remember the day when her young son, Paulie, was running with a ruler in his mouth. He fell and the ruler was driven into the roof of his mouth. He was taken to the hospital and, even though I was only six years old at the time, I was very upset and worried about him. Eventually he came home and he was going to be okay, but all of us kids learned a valuable lesson: "Don't run with stuff in your mouth!"
That particular Saturday, I pulled up in front of Ruby's house, got out of the car and walked up the gravel driveway. Ruby seemed happy to see me, it had been a long time. We chatted while I looked over the remains of her "downsizing sale." As I browsed the assorted household things…a lace tablecloth, small dishes, knick knacks and miscellaneous items, a small ladle with a dark red handle caught my eye. For some reason, I love ladles and I felt I had to have this one. Ruby and I talked for awhile, then I made my purchase and, after a quick hug, I drove off.
The red-handled ladle was washed and put away in the drawer with my other kitchen gadgets and utensils. Right from the beginning, that second hand ladle was my absolute favorite. It was a little shorter than the other ladles in the drawer and it was comfortable to use. I found I reached for it whenever I wanted to serve up soup or chowder, or spread spicy, homemade tomato sauce over a bowl of hot pasta. I've referred to it as the "Ruby Ladle" since the day it became part of my kitchen, not because of the red handle, but because it had belonged to a beautiful Italian lady I had known and respected my whole life. And it reminds me of a part of my childhood that I will always cherish.
