Little Me

So now I finally make my appearance on December 19, 1954. I was two weeks late which meant that Mom brought me home around Christmas. She told me later it was very busy and she had trouble getting my grandmother to help. Grandma was very busy with all the Christmas preparations, Mom complained, and there was baby me crying and crying. Oh dear. At least I'm not crying in this picture.


My Grandma was the most important person in my life other than my parents. I loved going to see her and was very attached to her.


Here is my mom and me...


and my dad and me. My parents look so young, hardly more than kids themselves! Things were different in the 1950s, though, and they were considered mature adults at 24 and 25.


Here I am again with my grandparents. Although I remember my Grandma hugging and kissing me, I don't remember my Grandfather ever showing any affection. He was very cold and aloof and pretty sick by the time I developed any memories of him.

I was fascinated with our Christmas tree. I believe this picture was taken in 1956, when I was around 2 years old. I loved all the pretty lights.

In 1956, my parents were struggling and it was hard for them to make ends meet. My father was and is a proud man and never liked to ask for help from family or a handout. That year, my mother told me they couldn't afford to get me any presents but that she'd saved up all these Campbell's soup labels so that she could get me a doll. She said that I looked so sad that year and they felt guilty. I don't know...I think I look pretty happy in this picture. I think Mom's guilt may have been getting the better of her.

1957 was a much better year in terms of Christmas. I loved my rocking horse and spent hours rocking back and forth.


I got another gift earlier that year, one that I think I was not so pleased with at first: a baby brother, Peter Jr. I remember going to see my parents at the hospital after my brother was born. I wasn't allowed inside so my grandparents stood with me on the lawn while Mom and Dad appeared in the window with baby Pete. I don't think I was very impressed at first.



Later, though, he became more interesting and I liked him a whole lot better. The quality of this picture is terrible, I know, but I wanted to show the contrast of feelings I had for my brother when we were just babies.

My Parents

This is my mom in her early 20s. She was born in 1930, the youngest of 6 children. My grandmother's friend once told me that my mom was so small, "she could fit right into the palm of my hand." Mom's older sister was born deaf (in 1928) and it turns out, Mom was born hearing impaired. She remembers hearing music and dancing in front of the radio. After a bout with an illness that caused a high fever, Mom couldn't hear anymore.

The youngest brother Gil (born in 1926) was their playmate and acted as the family interpreter. I think they used home signs with their brother. When they were older, my aunt and mother were sent to Lexington School for the Deaf in New York City.

At that time, the prevailing philosophy at Lexington was oral education only--no signing! The teachers and administrators told my grandparents if they used sign language it would inhibit their girls from learning to speak. My mom and aunt learned that there was something "wrong" with sign language--they learned but they had to keep their knowledge private. They'd sign in the bathroom or in other secret places. They developed negative feelings toward it thanks to these hearing idiots in charge of education for the deaf.

Communication was extremely frustrating for them both. At best, a skilled lipreader will pick up only 70% of the message. There are too many words and phrases that look alike on the lips. Mom grew sick of saying "ball ball ball" for hours and hours on end. She felt like she wasn't learning anything and so she dropped out of school when she was 16.

She's basically self taught. She developed a love for reading and so her skills developed that way.

My grandparents and the four brothers never learned to sign fluently. My Uncle John, my godfather, (born in 1922) tried to learn in the early 1980s but by then it was too difficult to pick up.




My dad had a totally different experience. He was born to my Irish immigrant grandparents in 1929, in either Harlem or the Bronx. We always thought he was #5 in a family of 6 but it turns out that there was another child who died. I'm not sure if this child was older or younger than my father.

Coincidentally (or not), the birth order in my father's family was 2 girls followed by 4 boys. In Mom's it was the other way around.

My father was very close to my Uncle Thomas. They were the closest in age and so Tommy acted as the family interpreter. The difference here is that the whole family used home signs to communicate with Dad. There was no shame amongst them and no one to tell them that my dad would never learn to speak.

We don't know why my dad is deaf. He thought it was because he had botched surgery as a child and that the surgeon cut into his neck and damaged a nerve. That's not right but what is the whole story? Not even the hearing members of the family seem to know.

My dad went to the state school for the deaf in upstate New York. They used sign language there and so he developed language early on. He learned to play the French horn! He participated in the school's marching band.

Dad's growing up years were rough. He won't talk about it. I know that his family was poor and that there are a lot of drinkers. Was his upbringing violent? Were there gangsters in his neighborhood? I can only guess. To this day he doesn't talk about it.



My parents met at a group date. They'd brought other dates to go out and when the evening was over, my dad escorted my mom to the train station. They hit it off and he asked her out. My mom thought my dad was so very handsome (and he was).

There were just a couple of stumbling blocks. Although my mom's family weren't especially well off my grandmother had a "pedigree" as long as your arm. It was sort of intimidating. The other bigger issue was of religion. My dad's family was Catholic and my mom's Presbyterian. Luckily my dad wasn't so attached to Catholicism and willingly gave it up to marry my mom.

Eventually any problems sorted themselves out and my parents got married in May 1951.

Beginnings

I started this blog with the idea that I'd go back and find pictures to blog about...pictures from my life.

I used to have pictures of my great-grandparents but those old photos have fallen apart and are gone. I think that's why I want to do this blog.



Here are my maternal grandparents at Seagate in 1915. They were married the following year on October 21, 1916. When this picture was taken, my grandmother was around 19 and grandfather was around 21. They were so young!

My grandmother was born here in the United States. Her family had been around since before the Revolutionary War. My grandfather emigrated from Norway. I still have family living there.




By 1927, Grandma was the mother of five children. I can't even imagine that! When I was her age, I hadn't even had Billy yet! My mother was born in 1930 and so she isn't in this picture. The baby is my aunt Betty and the four boys are (starting from behind Grandma's head) my uncles John, Russell, Gilbert and Bjorn.



Here is my grandfather with the kids. He doesn't look so terribly stern does he? Yet he was and he used to scare the dickens out of me! He was always gruff and cold. I don't remember him ever hugging me. On the other hand, my grandmother was always warm and loving.



This is a picture of my grandfather's younger sister, Ruth. She still lived in Norway and was in touch with us for many years.





Here is my grandmother on my dad's side of the family and her brother. I'm not sure where or when the picture was taken. My grandmother may have been as much as 10 years older than my other grandmother. I'm not sure where her brother ended up but my grandparents emigrated here from Ireland during the turn of the century. My grandmother was a super in her apartment building in the Bronx. I'm not sure about my grandfather; he was blinded by glaucoma. Sounds like A Tree Growns In Brooklyn, doesn't it?

Of all four grandparents, I know the most about my maternal grandmother thanks to her stories and thanks to members of the family interested in geneaology!