Summertimes

 

My early summer years were spent in “The Old House.” This was a white clapboard rooming house on Scheinman’s farm in the Catskills. My memories of these summers always include rocking chairs on a wraparound porch (our rainy-day playground). The old iron pump brought forth the most delicious ice-cold drinking water. Milk came fresh from the cows and corn, fresh from Mrs. Scheinman’s garden. The house had two toilets but no showers or bathtubs. Cold water showers were behind the house, but we preferred to wash and shampoo in the warm swimming lake down the hill.

After a number of years in “The Old House,” we were able to afford the two summer months in “The New House” both on the same property. This location was mildly upscale. While we were still a family of five cramped into one bedroom, there were features which made the move worthwhile. The New House had an indoor shower and bathtub to be shared by the six other families renting for the summer.

Fast forward to the years when I was married and a parent of two beautiful little children. We really moved up, since my parents now owned the small cottage on the same property as The Old House and The New House. This felt like we were landed aristocracy. The house had three bedrooms surrounding a dining area and kitchen. We even had our own indoor shower. An enclosed sunporch housed momma’s treadle sewing machine. On rainy days, the sound of rain on the metal roof provided restful tranquility.

The cottage basement was divided into two areas; one a kind of bedroom with mattress upon mattress where grandpa could nap and escape from the noisy grandchildren. The other area stored a hodgepodge of stuff. This included a real army helmet and three rifles (never loaded). Grandpa would amuse the children when he played soldier. The children’s accumulated toys were housed down there too. Each of the toys seemed damaged; a wheel missing from the red fire truck; an eye missing from the stuffed teddy bear; an arm missing from the baby doll. Occasionally, one of the children would comment about the shabbiness of the toys, but they could play hospital. With nature and friends all around them, there was always so much to do. The basement also housed many cartons of odds and ends dishes. Treasure that I now own, and use are all the cobalt blue depression glass dishes that my mother acquired and collected each time she went to the Freeman Movie theater in the Bronx. For the 10-cent admission, a dish was given.

The large tree in front of the cottage became the base for the tree house that my husband Ben built. He added a steering wheel and a functioning pulley. When the pulley came down with a metal pail attached, we could send up the peanut and jelly picnic lunch. The small swing was another outdoor pleasure.

Memories in that summer activities abound. I remember the ever-present pickling jars on the porch table. The abundance of cucumbers in momma’s garden led to the successful pickling project and the accumulation of enough sour pickles to compete with Jake the Pickle King on Jenning Street back home in the Bronx. I remember the aroma of huckleberries cooking in large vats to become our winter supply of jelly and filling for blintzes and pierogi. 

Now more than sixty years have passed since we stayed in the cottage. A humorous reminder came when my niece recently joined us for lunch. We were reminiscing about her childhood and her occasional overnight visits to the cottage. She talked about her terrifying experience there. She told of how frightening a nighttime visit to the bathroom was. When the elderly folks went to bed, they would remove their false teeth. When she viewed the windowsill with the three water glasses containing my mother’s, father’s and bubbe’s false teeth, she feared they would hop out and bite her.

If we are ever in the area of what was once my idyllic summertime's, we always drive by to view all the changes. What has remained is the small child’s swing we had put up between two trees. When a gentle breeze moves it, I seem to hear the echoes of children at play. The children are now adults with grown children of their own.

Ethyl Haber