QUIDDITY, 76
WAR BABY, 47; plus "Meanderings" and "Hypatia's Bookroom"
WAR BABY
I wrote War Baby for my children, grandchildren, and for anyone else curious about a time not to be forgotten. I wrote it to give them some sense of what it was like growing up in a particular place at a particular time, and how those events shaped me as a person. But, the past is a moving target. Someone with firsthand experience of an event who tells a second person about it no longer controls the narrative. That second person may, then, retell the story adding to it her own information based on reflection, opinion or hearsay. Even two people present at the very same event will often view it differently. So, how do you tease out the truth, which can mean different things to different people?” —Leah Napolin
NOTE: Leah’s original print version of War Baby was a series of brief narratives or descriptions arranged alone on a single page and accompanied, at times, with related drawings she created during this time period, family photos, or WWII propaganda posters. Quiddity space doesn’t really allow for the images to be presented in a large format, but if you wish to enlarge an image, click on it, and an enhanced image will appear on the screen. Also, the language/idiom in this text is what this young girl would hear and use 1935-1950.
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PUCKER UP
First comes cake, then comes ice cream, then comes Spin the Bottle. Chaperone for the evening is Hazel who has offered to host my birthday party in her apartment on the top floor of 117-06 89th Avenue, Richmond Hill. Kids like and respect Hazel. She may be an adult but she’s laid-back. She may be laid-back but she has boundaries. My mother has absolute faith in her as the right person to preside over an appropriate but fun-filled evening with fourteen-year olds.
My feelings about boys have lately undergone a radical transformation. I’ve started to view them as objects of beauty. Not unattainable like the Freddie Bartholomews and Dean Stockwells of the world but minor suns in my own personal firmament, answering to descriptions like “dreamy” and “swoony.” Definitely attainable. But the question remains: once attained, what do I do with them?
The girls at my party are bouncing with energy. They giggle and whisper. On the other hand, the objects of beauty are a mixed bag. Bashful, shorter than the girls and, in spite of our dancing classes in the school gym, not socially adept. Once announced, the kissing game appears to be a big hit. The girls take the lead. The boys hang back.
In the days leading up to the party I’ve given Spin the Bottle a lot of thought. I need to practice kissing but there is no one to advise me on the rules. Eyes open or closed?
Closed. Mouth open or closed? Closed, of course. How much lip pressure? Not too much, not too little. Where do you put your nose? Sideways. Do you swallow your spit before you pucker up, or not? Ye gods yes, swallow!
Kissing is a touchy subject in our home. When Daddy, who is demonstrative in his affection, approaches Mother with arms held out and tries to embrace her she shrinks and turns away but laughs as if it tickles. Daddy doesn’t take no for an answer. He will grab her in a hug and smother her with kisses to make her laugh more, but I can see the look on her face of uptightness and the whole thing sends me a mixed message. Doesn’t she like Daddy kissing her? Doesn’t she want to kiss him back? Maybe she doesn’t like kissing, period.
Maybe she doesn’t like him. Or, is she as embarrassed by kissing as I am about crying? Because sometimes she’ll say, “Not in front of the children!” We kids are rooting for him, though, hoping always that Mother responds. We kids want to see kissing and lots of it because kissing means love, which is a good thing.
Now we’re seated in a circle on the floor of Hazel’s living room and in the middle of the circle lies an empty soda bottle. As the birthday girl I get first spin. Accompanied by nervous laughter and self-conscious shouts of encouragement as if it’s a sporting event, the lucky couple retire to Hazel’s walk-in cedar closet under the eaves and shut the door. After what seems like forever but is probably no more than ten seconds they burst out of the closet, the boy first, hurling himself back into the safety of the circle. The girl follows. Their cheeks are flaming. The second couple take maybe eleven and a half seconds but when the door opens it’s the girl who skips out first, grinning, followed by the boy—Howie, of “Kiss me in the dark, baby!” fame. He struts out with his arms raised over his head like a prizefighter who’s just scored a knockout.
This continues until everyone’s pretty much had a turn with everyone else. We’re all excited, a little tousled, our eyes shining. There is no one boy here who I want to kiss solely because he’s the dreamiest or the swooniest. I’m hoping for the least objectionable of the lot.
What I learn from my time in the closet under the eaves is that after the initial awkwardness first contact with the lips of another is a lovely shock. All the senses engage. As for the mechanics of it, noses seem to know where to go naturally; eyes close on their own except I open mine out of curiosity during the kiss in order to see my kissing partner’s face close-up, to read the expression on his face. What surprises me most is the tenderness I feel for each of the boys, some of whom seem to be suffering greatly from anxiety, others who give themselves so perfectly to the moment.
One question I never anticipated, though: where do you put your hands?
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MEANDERINGS: “Eenie, Meenie, Miney…? ”
The question at hand is who, what, why. Which of these is going to occupy my attention for the next minute or two? A couple of hours? A few days? Several months? Which has more importance? (Importance to whom? For what?)…
I’m sorry. Allow me to introduce you to my angst which began to scout its boundaries on November 5 and set up its permanent occupation on January 20 with a four year lease. It’s a messy, demanding tenant that insists on a great deal of attention. Plus, without my permission, it has allowed “the blues” to move in, and this is wreaking havoc with yours truly.
I scour the media, searching for something to divert my ever deepening dread. And, by heavens, I may have found just the thing: “Scientists Claim to Have Cracked the Recipe for the Perfect Boiled Egg.” Are they serious? I have to test this out.
Boiled egg perfection becomes the new shiny object to capture my attention and “novacaine”my angst for at least a few news cycles.
A roly-poly nun armored with a white canvas apron taught me how to perfectly boil an egg. I was in eighth grade, and I took any order from the “kitchen sister” as coming directly from the lord almighty. “Yes, sister chef.” Fifteen minutes it was then and fifteen minutes it has remained.
But, challenged by my need for diversion, by my confidence in the scientific method, and by sister chef’s edict, empiricism was afoot.
Sister’s formula: 1 egg + boiling water +15 minutes = perfect boiled egg. OR Scientist’s formula: 1 egg + (212o water @ 2 minutes)3 + (86o water @ 2 minutes)3 = perfect boiled egg.
In the TikTok world, the entire experiment would take 30 seconds within a horizontal frame. However, in the real kitchen world: Sister chef’s egg takes 16 minutes from lowering the egg into boiling water to retrieving it 15 minutes later. Science egg consumes a total of 36 minutes using 2 pots ( one for water @ 212o and one for water @ 86o) + 4 minutes for switching pots and measuring temps every 2 minutes.
Given its ever rising cost, perhaps the egg is entitled to the worshipfully slow-paced science method and being served by bowing waiters wearing white gloves. But, I believe the diner is entitled to enough time to appreciatively eat it after literally shuffling between a couple of pots of water for more than half an hour. To be honest, who has this kind of time to “coddle” an “egnematic” and slightly runny egg? (Ouch, I’m really sorry for this pun, but I just couldn’t resist it.)
For this old dame, it’s the 15 minute wonder for both its prep time and just plain good taste. Yep, Sister chef’s egg will always come first — except, maybe, in chicken salad.
Perhaps, with their rising price and their conceivably being carriers of bird-flu, eggs could become no more than collector’s objects kept in bejeweled, refrigerated cases.
Or, I could end this column with an AI-generated President with the perfectly boiled egg on his face. (It would easily match the color of his ‘‘make-upped’’ facade.)
But, I won’t.
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HYPATIA’S BOOKROOM
A New Kind of Library
“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of a Library.” –Jorge Luis Borges
QUIDDITY, is building its own library of books that are of importance to us--intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, ethically, etc.-- books that we would definitely rescue from a trash pile. We’re calling it Hypatia's Bookroom after the chief librarian of the ancient library of Alexandria. Tell us the title, author, category, and why this book is important to you. Questions you might consider include: Would you read this book again? Would you gift it to someone (who, why)? What note would you write on the cover page?
On the shelves so far: The rescued books selected by readers has grown and takes up too much space to list them all here. You can peruse the entire listing by going to the blog section of my website at blmurphy.com.
"There are so very many books, and we have forgotten almost all of them." (Lit.Hub) May we save all we can.
Kafka’s ideal of what a book should be: “An ax for the frozen sea within us.” (Sigrid Nuez interview in “By the Book,” NYT Book Review, 12/10/23)
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A phone call interrupted my selecting the newest addition to “Hypatia’s Bookroom.” The caller wanted to chat about the previous night’s dinner party at her home. We reviewed the menu, the guests and the conversations. After saying goodbye, I remembered that one of the most interesting tête-à-têtes was with the hosts’ youngest child. Five year old Zane is always happy to tell me about the latest books he’s read. And, I’m always happy to hear about them. Just for the heck of it, I asked him what his favorite book is. Without hesitation he shouted, “The Day the Crayons Quit,” as he took my hand and led me to his bookcady in the den. He took it off the shelf and handed it to me with his personal review: “My favorite part is the naked peach crayon because he was naked. It made me laugh.” You can’t ignore this kind of praise. So, it is with Zane’s recommendation, The Day the Crayons Quit is hereby added to Hypatia’s Bookroom.
Those planning to accept Zane’s endorsement should know The Day the Crayons Quit was written by Drew Daywalt (2013). The plot centers around Duncan who wants to color but who is disappointed to find, when he opens the box, that the crayons have quit. They’ve had enough. Each crayon has its own reason for quitting. What can Duncan possibly do to address all of the crayons’ opinions and needs and get them back to doing what they do best? Lots to read and learn here.