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It is well known amongst my family that my father would give occasional advice that was clearly passed down to him from his father, and from his father, and so on. Given that he was a relatively more reserved man, he didn’t speak often, so when he did, you learned to listen intently. My father didn’t have the chance for higher schooling as grandpa pulled him from school as soon as he could to help on our family’s farm which dad eventually inherited. But he always gave me constant reminders of the classic mantra of ‘not everyone has had your advantages, so refrain from judging them’ which I of course took to heart in respect for his rare advice.
My mother on the other hand, I would speak to a sight more often than my father, we would always talk about this and that when she would tell me something not quite as eloquent as my father’s advice, but just as useful. Such as one day when we were peeling potatoes together as we discussed what I desired to become in life to be my living.
My eldest brother was to inherit the farm, and dad wanted me to go into finances in some way because I had some of the highest scores considering mathematics at school. I didn’t have the guts to announce I wanted to write.
But my mother was able to see right through me, she had since the time I was very small, as she was with all her kids. (there was no stealing from the cookie jar in our house) And on that day on the back porch while we were peeling potatoes for supper, she took my chin between her thumb and index finger, and forced my eyes up from my hands when I hesitated to answer her for what I wanted to go to college for.
‘Nickie, I want you to make something of yourself in this world, I want you to find a nice little hole where you’re happy, and I want to see you flourish in something you love. Never mind what your daddy says, your father’s family has lived by many mottos. My family only lives by one ‘Figure out what your heart and your head are arguing over, and be the diplomat between the two.’’
We continued to peel potatoes, I cut my thumb, and when I was shipped off to New Haven to attend college, I majored in English.
~
Then of course there was the war, fortunately from which I survived unscathed for the most part. Mustard gas was thrown into our trench, causing slight damage to my eyes as I was lucky enough to be further from the canister than some of my friends. Nothing visible on the surface, but I now needed to wear glasses for seeing longer distances. I originally thought the specs were horridly ugly, round things. But I’ve been told they suit me, so as long as I can see I don’t mind much.
When I returned home, my mother agreed with me that I couldn’t stay with them long as I was no longer (and honestly never had been) quite satisfied with our farm and the life that came with it. I knew that I wanted nothing to do with extravagancy and a life of riches. I decided that I would follow my mother’s original advice and find my niche.
I called a friend of mine in Harlem to ask around if there was any work for a writer of any sorts, be it a journalist, or an advertisement writer, I just needed something to keep myself afloat for a while until I could find something better. My friend called back a few days later saying the Herald was desperate for new editors as many hadn’t come back from the war and that was that.
I managed to find a small cottage-like house in what was called the West Egg of long island. It seemed a pleasant and quaint enough little place for only 50 dollars a month, it was a wonder no-one had snatched it up yet.
Well, at least it WAS a wonder to me until my first Saturday night at my new house.