There lived two nice older ladies on North Avenue in a house that was around the corner from our basement apartment at North and Etting and about four or five houses from the corner. My sister, Rosalie, and I liked to visit them now and then. When Mom would take us and our brother out for play, Rosalie and I frolicked on the wide sidewalk and Mom would play with Kenneth and sit on the large white marble steps at the front of the house we lived in. These ladies would hear us laughing and playing and come out on their steps and call for us to come over for a little visit and sometimes we would ask Mom if we could go see if the "old ladies" were home as soon as we went out. Either way, Mom would say it was alright and to be sure not to take but just a little and to thank the ladies.
At times it seemed almost creepy going into their dimly lit home. It was always the same. Unless they were getting ready to go out, we would stand at their doorway and exchange a few words, but they would always ask if we would like some goodies. Quite naturally we always answered politely, "Yes, thank you." or just, "Yes Ma'am." They would leave the door open and precede us past their living room on the right to the end of the hallway where there was a stand with a couple of containers with candy and, sometimes, cookies also. If Rosalie was not able to come, I would ask if I could take some for her. The answer was always something like, "Yes. That's a good brother." The last thing was to say thanks as we turned to leave. I really wasn't all that frightened of going into their home, but I couldn't help but think of Hansel and Gretel. These days, I feel that the influence of those two old ladies helped me form an attitude of giving to little children which I do to this day.
Of the times I would help my mother around the apartment, I vividly remember the time I tried to help her and burned my hands. Mom had deep fried something for supper and poured the hot grease into a large can probably one that originally held three pounds of shortening. I was the only one in the kitchen, the can of hot grease was sitting on the work surface of a kitchen cabinet and I knew that Mom kept the can of grease on the lower shelf of the cabinet. I was going to help by putting it down there for her. The top of the can was a little above eye level for me; it was not going to be a problem. I took hold of the can with both hands and started lifting it.
It took no time to realize the pain. I started screaming. What was I to do? I was holding the can a little above the surface, I was frozen motionless, I couldn't let go of the can for fear of it tipping and creating a mess of the whole area and then I'd be in big trouble. I stood there screaming while Mom and Dad came running and took the can away from me. The palms of both of my hands were totally red and blistered and I was wimpering with lots of tears streaming from my eyes. I got a ton of TLC that night. They put my hands under the kitchen faucet and let cold water run on my palms for a while, then patted cornstarch on them as I continuing the wimpering. The pain just wouldn't stop.
They wrapped my hands with a couple of old olive drab handkerchiefs from Dad's army days and put me to bed. I was lying on my right side holding those two throbbing wrapped hands on the pillow in front of my face and continuing to whimper and sob, giving way now and then to a louder moan as the pain wouldn't stop. My father came in, leaned over, patted me on the back and told me that I was going to be alright in the morning. My mother came in, generously coated my palms with butter and rewrapped my hands. She sat by me rubbing my shoulder and telling me how good I was for trying to help her. I'm not positive, but I think she must have stayed with me until I finally and mercifully fell asleep. I remember this event as if it just happened a few moments ago rather than over sixty years ago.
From the time we spent in this apartment, I remember having some Western Maryland Dairy milk crates around to sit on, play in and store things in. I remember that Mom slipped on some ice while walking down that sloping sidewalk to reach the stairs leading to the apartment. The fall broke her arm and we all helped her do the housekeeping things. There was a time when my father tossed a cigarette to the sidewalk as he was starting down the stairs to the apartment. I picked it up and tried to take puff on it like he did, but couldn't so I sat it on the edge of the propped-up door which is where it was when he came back out and caught me with it. This was also the year Mom went to the hospital to get us a new sister, Catherine.
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