COLD DAZE

We live on the top floor

This morning, as I looked out the window and saw the early morning sun, rising from behind the horizon, it all came back to me! Growing up in Brooklyn in the early to mid 1950’s, the winters were the worst. It seemed the coldest days occurred then in my life as a little kid and it affected every phrase of life.

We didn’t have central heating, what we had in our 5-room apartment was a cast iron stove at the end of the line of rooms that was suppose to heat the whole apartment! It didn’t.

The day started with us undressing from bedtime to dress for school. We wore clothes to bed to keep warm; Dad would put a hot brick at the foot of the bed from the stovetop to help warm our feet. Moving about as we walked to the kitchen in the morning was difficult, the urge to run back to the bed and bury our heads under the covers great.

Mom would make us Farina or oatmeal for breakfast because it was hot. Our clothes for school, including underwear sat on the caste iron stove waiting to be worn, my white starched shirt, blue tie and suit sat ready over the back of a kitchen chair. My shoes, newly polished from the night before were toasty warm on the feet and I can still feel the warmth as it rose around the ankles!

We would bundle up in a suit jacket, a sweater and an overcoat, scarf and gloves or mittens, plus the obligatory hat with ear muffs, making me feel dorky. Once we hit the street for school, we would pass the corner where the wind blew down from Eastern Parkway and bit your face, your eyes tearing and causing a burn on your cheek from rubbing against the coat that covered your face.

Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school

Our school, Our Lady of Lourdes was run like a penitentiary: that is there was an exercise yard where we were to wait for the bell to ring, go to our respective class line and march into the building one class at a time, waiting in the cold frigid air for our turn! There was no mercy!

Once you entered the building, the smell from the steam emanating from the old radiators filled your nostrils, making a smell that said: “Let’s get down to business, and keep quiet unless spoken to!”

Once in your classroom, you were for the only moments in the day, glad to be there.

Going home was not bad, since the day warmed up usually, but at night, the cold and dark took over, always an exacting experience! Mom would hand me the brown bag of garbage if there was too much of it and send me down two flights of stairs to the outside garbage can to dispose of it after dinner. Stepping outside, I would look down the street toward Rockaway Avenue, which was further away than the other end of the street, and feel the distant darkness and cold even more, making it feel like the Arctic air would make me feel even colder and lost in the darkness.

Dad would often take oranges and put them into the homemade wine my grandmother Frances made into a glass pitcher at dinner time, making them stand out against the glass. He would often take the skins and place them onto the top of the hot caste iron stove, creating this special smell, almost a perfume if you will, that permeated the whole apartment we lived in.

In the caste iron stove was fuel that came from an iron can that was stored in the hallway next to the steps. As fuel was needed, Mom or Dad would send me out of the warmth of light in the apartment to get it, the cold air and darkness of the hall would creep into my shirt or pants leg, sending a chill up and down my spine, an iciness crept onto my hands from the cold can, even with the wooden handle to hold on to.

Today, in the winter, every time I look up into the early morning sky, seeing the sun peeking out from behind the horizon, that cold feeling comes across once again reminding me how nice it is-finally, as it all comes back to me!