Writing by Patricia Petro

Featured Writing

Princess in the Tower

The snow came swiftly, silently in the night, like an illicit lover, gently caressing the landscape and leaving behind, shivering and breathless under its touches, what appeared to be a true winter wonderland when, if fact, it was springtime in Ohio.

Snow always seemed to come with the Ides of March. As if to mimic the treachery of Brutus, the sweet promise of spring was buried deep beneath nature’s final fury. Winter winds whipped barren branches against the house, whistled through the rafters and chilled the attic bedroom Susan and I shared.

I was afraid of the dark. When the wind’s anger died away, the only sounds were unexplained footfalls and taps, the rattle of pipes, the house settling into the frozen earth. I feared the unknown and the unseen spirits lurking beneath my bed, haunting the chilly darkness, and waiting to reach out to caress my cheek.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself a princess in the tower. Mama said if I brushed my hair a hundred strokes a night, it would grow long and thick as Rapunzel’s. Safe and warm, up to my neck in soft flannel, wrapped snug and tight in the plump goose down comforter Grandma McKay had given me for Christmas, I was protected by my handsome and devoted knight who, with his brave and loyal army, staunchly held the barbarians beyond the castle walls.

Sleep came easily then. I hated to leave my bed in the morning, it was so icy-cold in the room.

Snowdays

Outside, the world was white as the whitest fleece, roads slippery as skating rinks and Snake Hill hazardous for the school buses to climb. The snow meant no school. Susan and I were giddy with joy at our sudden parole. Over the radio came news of school closings city-wide. My father grumbled because it would take him forever to cross town for work. Mama said she hated snow days and listlessly phoned the corner gas station for someone to please come and plow the drive.

I was itchy to be out. Anxious to follow deer prints and animal tracks that disappeared into the woods. Or glide on the ice at Miller’s pond in what I pretended were perfect figure-eights. I wanted to feel Jack Frost nipping at my nose and laugh in his face. The winter world never felt so good as when Susan and I were on reprieve.

Mama made us linger over hot oatmeal with raisins and a litany of dos and mostly don’ts—Do be careful . . . Don’t sled ride on the street . . . Stay away from Snake Hill . . . Don’t stand on your sleds . . . Check the ice first, before you skate on that pond; if there’s any doubt, don’t take any chances . . . Don’t lose your gloves . . . Don’t eat the snow. Don’t don’t don’t . . . like a clock ticking away to my reckless doom.

My father heard, but did not listen. It was Mama’s place to raise her daughters.

Playing with the Boys

Susan never held it against me that Mama insisted I tag along with her and her friends. “It’s not your fault, kiddo,” she said.

The boys who liked Susan called me Shadow, as in, I see you have your shadow with you. They laced my ice skates and grudgingly pulled me on sleds up the hill in the park just because my sister asked them to do it. They helped her up if she fell in the snow, carried her skates so they could walk with her, and offered their gloves when hers became too wet. They treated her like the princess in the tower. They offered me money to get lost.

There was a whole gaggle of neighborhood kids who gathered in the park on snow days. I was breathless with excitement when my friend, Julia Faraday, was there.

We raced the boys down the hills in the park. Running and falling belly-down on our sleds, steering as straight as possible, the idea was not so much how fast, but how far; the point being, whoever went furthest, won.

I heard John Galvani tell my sister. “I’ll make you a bet; If I win, you’ll let me kiss you.”

“And if I win?” Susan asked.

He answered with a smile, “I’ll let you kiss me.”

It was the most romantic thing in my young mind, exciting in a forbidden kind of way, for a boy like John Galvani to want to kiss my sister. The Galvani boys were generally considered off-limits, and brought a shudder to Mama with the mere mention of their names. There were five of them—dark-haired, swarthy hoodlums, Mama called them. Their fate had been sealed after John, who was the oldest boy, drove off with my father’s new red convertible one summer day when it was parked at the corner store. Hey—! My father gave chase for a ways, then called Mr. Galvani to make him make his son give the car back.

The boys my age were my friends. They helped Julia and me build tunnels in the deep, heavy snow that led under the Faraday’s rickety front porch we used as a fort. Warm and cozy, there was just enough crawl space to sit around three candles we lit as campfire. Sometimes the boys told us amazing ghost stories, holding flashlights under their chins for an eerie effect. Most of the time we simply talked about school and other things, or the boys would make fun of us and we would make fun right back at them.

Swish Swish Swish

I wore horrid snow pants all winter. They swished when I walked. Waving to Mama at the kitchen window, on school days I trudged after pretty, popular Susan—swish swish swish—up our long driveway, lined with mountains of plowed snow, to the road where we separated to wait for our school buses.

Our four-year age difference made all the difference in the world then.

Susan and her friends watched American Bandstand and General Hospital, cut and permed their hair curly as poodles and complained about boys who tried to kiss them on a first date. They all wanted to be like Gidget. On snowy afternoons, I sat in the shadows as they sat on the rug in our attic bedroom sharing a Chef-Boy-R-Dee pizza and a couple of bottles of Pepsi talking about California girls and why boys liked them so much.

Waiting for the school bus, Susan paired off with the high school crowd and I stood with Julia. Julia’s older brother, Tommy, noticed the swish swish swish one day and called me Thunder Thighs, which made everyone laugh and not only mortified me, but hurt my feelings too, I had such a crush on him.

When I caught a snow ball in the mouth, I whimpered mercilessly, it hurt so much. I let everyone think Tommy had knocked my front teeth out, it served him right, so appalled they were that he would purposely maim a little girl.

Home Sweet Home

Nestled among the old pines and tall oak trees, our house was a cozy, safe haven.

Susan and I stood in the kitchen doorway shaking off the snow for the umpteenth time. Our noses and cheeks cherry-red. Our teeth chattering behind itchy scarves wrapped so tightly around our faces we could hardly breath. Our gloves were sopping wet and heavy with clumps of tiny ice balls.

Mama crabbed, “In or out, make up your minds.”

We were just coming in for a minute to thaw. Layered in clothing, we were chilled to the bone, badly beaten in snowball fights with the neighborhood boys. It was so cold outside your nostrils would stick together when you breathed in the freezing air, which looked so silly on Susan when she crossed her eyes, I thought it was the most hilarious thing.

Mama took our frozen fingers between her hands and blew on them, rubbing them warm. Later came hot, sudsy baths after which she wrapped us in oversized towels just out of the dryer, toasty warm and soft.

The whole winter season our house smelled of wet wool drying on the registers. And good things to eat—the aroma of homemade vegetable soup or a hearty chicken stew with dumplings simmering on the stove, fresh-baked cranberry muffins or hot apple pie.

Our house was a favorite with our friends who knew they were always welcome to stop by to warm up with a cup of Mama’s creamy hot chocolate.

Grounded

“These kids, honest to God, I could strangle them sometimes,” Mama was telling Aunt Meg. “If it isn’t one, it’s the other.”

Mama was frustrated with Susan who would not surrender detailed information about her life in general, her dating in particular.

“Why should I tell you anything?” Susan argued. “You’ll just use it against me.”

Now I was the one creating a whole new set of problems with the stupid things Mama said I was doing. She was referring this time to a certain Cheetos fight six weeks before that had erupted on our front lawn. After casing the neighborhood for Halloween treats, Julia and I returned home in the raw and misty darkness only to be attacked by five ghouls with Crazy Foam. The boys grabbed us, sprayed and stuffed foam and handfuls of the scratchy orange munchies down the front and back of our clothes, then wrestled us to the ground so it all would smash, scrunch and smoosh up against our bare skin. It was awful. We screamed and screamed. Mama thought the police siren was part of the Halloween record that had been playing all evening so she never bothered to check, and was only made aware there was trouble when the cops came tap-tap-tapping at the door.

I was grounded. No outside. No phone. No Julia. No no no boys.

When you are young, a month is a lifetime. Two is an eternity. Nothing for a twelve-year-old exists but the present. Instant gratification, Mama called it. “Kids live only for the moment,” she said. “They can’t even think past the day.”

Mama did not understand. Each new day brought discovery and challenge and wonder. I did not want to be left out of any of it. I came home from school and sat at the window wanting desperately to go out again, wondering what Julia was doing and who she was doing it with. I wondered if I would be forgotten; if my friends would realize they could have fun without me. I worried I would not be missed, they did not need me—Who really liked Katey anyway?

Mama barked, “Stop acting like a martyr.”

But I could not help myself. I missed my friends and was on my honor not to speak to any of them. I could feel them becoming remote as I kept my distance, sitting with others at lunch time, standing alone at the bus stop.

I watched the first snowfall in abject misery, and was sure winter would melt into spring without me.

Mama’s Love

Mama was firm in her resolve and grounded me for nearly two months that year; until one day, just before school was letting out for the Christmas holiday, she suddenly announced I could go to the eighth grade Christmas dance.

Mama bought me a miracle in forest green satin with puffy sleeves and a white lace collar. She helped me to dress, gently brushing my long hair and pulling the sides up using her prized pearl clips. My father said I looked like a princess. I felt like Cinderella going to the ball. Mama fed me a litany of dos and don’ts . . . with emphasis on don’t lose the hair clips . . . before she kissed my forehead and smiled, “Have a nice time with your friends.” My father drove me to the school, chatting on and on about Christmas, but I scarcely heard a word. I was too excited . . . and apprehensive, too, not knowing what to expect, worried my friends might ignore me. I could think of nothing else the whole ride there. Imagine my joy when I entered the gym and saw Julia and the rest rushing to greet me, so glad they were to see me there. In my young mind, it was a night of miracles. Even Tommy Faraday, who came later to take his sister home, smiled and said I looked nice.

Life is a subtle process. You learn and grow; and oftentimes, in the warm glow of nostalgia and wisdom of retrospect, you discover the hidden truths that were always there.

Growing up, the world was our playground; and Susan and I were free to explore it to our heart’s content. Mama’s rules were meant to keep us safe. Her love was constant and unconditional. We were healthy and wholesome, and . . . for the most part . . . very, very happy.

In the still darkness of our bedroom, where moonlight once played shadows across the ceiling and the only sound was the winter wind whispering in the woods, Mama’s soft voice, heard through the paper-thin walls, still echoes in the night, “The best I can hope to do is give our girls wings.”

Mama understood better than I knew.