The two month summer vacation in our cottage on the farm was almost over. My momma’s large pickling jar sat on the warm porch. One last pickle remained in the warm brine. I looked at the floating pickle and thought back to momma’s pregnancy many years ago. That’s how I must have floated in the amniotic fluid in my mother’s belly. That fluid was my brine, my cushion. When Momma’s water broke, she knew her labor was beginning since I was her third pregnancy. “Hey momma, let’s get moving to Montefiore Hospital. PRONTO!!. It’s time to get the action going; I want out. I’m feeling those persistent contractions. Poppa got momma, my sister Bea and my brother Irving into his old car and we were off. Momma is moaning and groaning. She has begun trying some relaxing techniques, pant and blow, pant and blow.
She was readily settled into a room. Hey momma, start pushing to get me into the world of humans. I’m your third child, so it should be “a piece of cake.” Such carrying on; so much screaming! Hold on momma, here comes my head, and now my body. Don’t worry momma, they know all about umbilical cords, placenta, and such. Sure, they’ll let you hold me. I’m real cute! I’m so glad you will be breast feeding me.
They want to know what name to write down. Ettle, that’s Yiddish for Ethel. Tell them Ethel. The person in charge of recording the name has been studying about Ethyl alcohol and spells my name ETHYL. I’ve been Ethyl with a ‘y’ ever since.
Ethyl Haber
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