CHAPTER 1
Ten White, Two Chocolate
Clink! Clink! Clink! The familiar early morning rattling outsidemy bedroom window gently roused me from my slumber. A newday was dawning. Ten white, two chocolate, I thought sleepily. That wasthe number of milk bottles the delivery man from Westfall Dairy lefton our doorstep every other morning. Yes, that's a lot of milk for onefamily, but we were quite the blossoming tribe. "Ten white and twochocolate" was just right.
The early morning reveille was an anchor for my soul. The gentleidle of the milk truck and the clinking of glass against metal were subtlereminders that all was well in my world. Strange as it may seem, thoseordinary sounds set my roots secure and deep.
My bedroom was on the second floor of our old and rather largetwo-story, gray-shingled home. The house was originally a two-familydwelling; we lived in one half and for many years rented out the otherhalf. The time came, however, when Dad realized more space was neededfor his ever-expanding brood. So the two-family dwelling became a one-family"mansion" simply by opening up the second-floor wall at thetop of the staircase. That was when I lucked out and took up residencein a spacious bedroom in the front of the house, overlooking FergusonAvenue. It was a large, inviting room decked out in dainty blue-floweredwallpaper, with two large windows, and strategically positioned at theend of a long hallway. Despite the fact that the door to the creepy oldattic opened right outside my bedroom door, I felt privileged to occupythe best room in the house. My reasons may seem trivial to some, butnot to me.
First, being off by itself, that bedroom was a great place to hideout when the commotion that a large family naturally stirs up becameoverwhelming. Second, it was the sunniest room in the house. SinceI was and still am such a "sun worshipper," that was very important.Third, there was this gigantic, old red maple tree outside my window. Atleast it grew strong and tall until my father had it cut down for reasonsI am still at a loss to understand. I loved that old tree. The call of theblue jays who routinely rested in its branches and the chattering of thesquirrels who playfully frolicked on its outstretched arms, set my heartat peace and provided me with hours of amusement.
Dick, the eldest of our tribe, shared the middle bedroom withbrother Bob. It was sandwiched between my room and the room at theother end of the hall which our younger brothers Bill and Craig, shared.As such, the guys seldom got to hear the clink, clink, clink of those tenwhite and two chocolate. But they remember the routine well. They alsoremember that on really cold mornings when the milk wasn't brought inright away, it would partially freeze. Just for the record, there's nothingworse than partially frozen milk! What a waste of a perfectly goodbottle of chocolate milk!
Every time I think of that sacred room with its reassuring soundslike an early morning milk delivery, the chatter of squirrels, or the trillof the jays just outside my window, one word comes to mind ... roots.My roots run deep in the soil of my childhood home.
Roots
We all have memories that fasten us to our heritage – sights and soundsthat trigger a feeling of belonging. For me, it's the pealing of churchbells, the whistle of a passing train, certain songs that once blaredfrom a transistor radio ... Johnny Angel, Soldier Boy, It's My Party, BigGirls Don't Cry, Bobby's Girl. Remember Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny YellowPolka-Dot Bikini, and the Purple People Eater? And of course, whoof us growing up in Port Jervis could ever forget the theme song of"Reveille Ranch" greeting us each school morning as we stumbled intothe kitchen? The catchy, lively tune still rings in my ears ... "Come on ...get up ... the sun is up in the sky ..."
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But that was then, and, well, our world has changed. Life in our hecticmodern world begs us to question whether children today enjoy thatsame sense of security on which we thrived. Do people today, childrenor their parents for that matter, feel grounded? Do their roots run deepand stable?
In our mobile and global society, setting down roots appears tobe a luxury of an unrecognizable, distant past. According to the 2011Census Bureau, 11.6% of our population changed residences at leastonce in 2010 (approx. 45.3 million people). Amazingly, that indicatesa downward trend. In 1985, mobility had peaked with a rate thatclimbed to 20.2 %. In 2009, it had decreased to 12.5%. Now only 1in 9 households lives in a state of transition (about 11.6%) – still anintriguingly high figure.
Of those who changed residences in 2010, 6.7% moved to a differentstate entirely. Fifty-five thousand of those fled my home state of NewYork to take up residence in Florida. Forty-one thousand left New Yorkto go to New Jersey (go figure). As you might expect, California, perhapsthe most expensive state in which to reside, and one riddled with anincreasing number of economic problems, saw the largest migrationout of the state.
Since leaving our comfortable home at 8 Ferguson to begin lifeon my own, life has afforded me the opportunity to be among thoseincredible statistics regarding the mobility of life in America. I've beenmore like a rolling stone than a woman "rooted," at least as far asphysical roots are concerned. Let's see, is that twenty-nine or thirtymoves? But who's counting? Some have kindly noted that somewhere inmy ancestry there must be some Gypsy blood. If so, my siblings failedto...
