The Girl In The Red Dress: Sixty Years On The Rockpile

By Barbara Blake

The Girl in the Red Dress is the story of a vivacious, talented young woman whose life falls apart through a succession of bad marriages. Driven by her refusal to accept advice and her insistence upon nursing grievances, she gradually loses contact with her close relations and friends. Left only with relatives she rarely sees, internet acquaintances she has never met, and a large collection of gemstone jewelry, she dies impoverished and alone.

Sixty Years on the Rockpile is a humorous, often tongue-in-cheek account of a housewife that evokes tears as well as laughter in the reader. It appeals to women of all ages and to everyone who has ever tried to raise a family. Written over a period of six years, the final compilation is basically a memoir containing nostalgic references to the early forties, when the prevailing mindset relegated women's position in society to cooking for their families or typing for their bosses. The author hopes this book will further the efforts of the more liberated women of today to fulfill their goals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886542752

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The Girl In The Red Dress

Sixty Years On The Rockpile

Barbara Blake

Copyright © 2022 Barbara Blake

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 979-8-88654-274-5 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-275-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Postscript

Introduction

Early Childhood

School Days

My Singing Career

Two Raisins on a Breadboard

Sorry, Mom! I Fall in Love

My Writing Career

Raising a Family

Crushed

I Write Plays

Daredevil Skier

Traveling Is a Fool's Paradise

Youthening or We Get Younger

Life Is Not a Bowl of Cherries

The Grandbabies Come

Christmas 2017

2018 Well, Who's Rich and Famous Now?

A Visit to the Poor Relations (9/19)

Anxiety

Concerns Regarding My Grandchildren

Spring 2020—The Coronavirus

Spring 2020—The Rock Pile Reviewed

Spring 2020—Postscript

About the Author

Chapter 1

She was radiant. She was beautiful in a sparkling red dress, bubbling with happiness as she opened the front door for her guests. She was twenty-one years old and newly married for the second time. Her joy seemed infectious as she passed out gifts to those entering and collected the handmade tree ornaments she had requested they make.

Hello! Welcome! Merry Christmas to all! Ho ho ho! Meredith, how lovely you look! And your ornament! Did you really make that? It'll be the star attraction on our tree! Aunt Eva, you brought one too! I love it! A porpoise ornament! How original!

I thought about making a shark, but that might scare the kids. Porpoises are friendly fish. Remember I told you about the time a school of porpoises nudged me closer to shore when I was swimming way out in the ocean?

Yes, do you still swim way out like the other lifeguards at the club?

"Are you kidding? I saw Jaws six times!"

Harriet! You came all the way from Manhattan! Now all my bridesmaids are here. How was the traffic?

Usual. You look spectacular! Say, where's Phil? In the kitchen? I haven't seen him since the wedding. Do you have him cooking already?

Phil is working.

On Christmas Eve?

Someone has to stay late. We publish a paper tomorrow.

"But he is coming, isn't he?"

Of course.

Say, how's the old guy doing? Can he still—

Oh Joan! There you are. I was afraid you wouldn't come. I see you brought the boys. You must be finished with the chicken pox. You had quite a time, didn't you?

Jack is just recovering. Danny and Billy had it a few weeks ago. Boy, it's been hectic! But I couldn't miss my sister's first party as a married woman.

Let me have your ornament. Everyone has made such clever ornaments. I can't wait to see yours.

Abashed, Joan said, Here, for what it's worth.

Why it's just a circle cut out of red construction paper with a hole punched at the top. For shame! You could've done better than that with your eyes closed.

"You did want me to come, didn't you?"

Hugging her, Donna said, Of course! It wouldn't be a party without my maid of honor sister and her family. Come on in and say hello to my friends.

Donna frowned slightly as she accepted my contribution and reluctantly hung it on her tree. With three young sons to dress for her party, I hadn't been able to share her interest in decorating. I did, however, appreciate her zest for the tree trimming and her holiday spirit. And I recognized that beyond a doubt the loveliest handmade ornaments were her own. She had always been gifted with an imaginative flair and was clever with her hands.

Oh, there they are! Hi, kids! Come and get a Santa Claus lollipop!

What cute kids! Look at them run in and dive for the lollipops! You'd think they'd never had one before.

Joan doesn't allow them to eat candy, Harriet. Their father is a dentist.

Hey, Billy took two lollipops! I only got one. And Danny has three, Mommy! Make them give me another.

Now boys, there are six lollipops. Everyone gets two.

Not fair! I got mine first!

You better give me one, or I'll punch you in the face.

Hey, Jack punched me, Mommy!

Watch out you don't break the coffee table! Here, Jack. Stop fighting. Here's another lollipop for you, okay?

Look at the little devils! Boy, am I glad I don't have children. What could've possessed Joan—super intelligent Joan, Phi Beta Kappa Joan—to get herself saddled with three kids?

I will always remember that girl in the red dress—with her long chestnut hair, her sleek figure, and especially her beautiful smile. What happened to her? I wonder as I visualize her wrinkled, crippled body racked with pain, waiting for death. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was eleven years younger than me. She should have outlived me.

Chapter 2

Donna was always a star. When she was born, she was the star of my life. I was eleven years old, and I had always wanted a little sister. My parents, however, were less than thrilled by this unplanned pregnancy.

Are you sure, Sonia? Did Dr. Besson confirm this?

Here are the test results. Read for yourself.

Jesus! This will drain all our savings. We'll never be able to get our own house.

Hey, I didn't do this all by myself. Listen, I can't be pregnant. The doctor must've made a mistake. I'm thirty-two, too old to have children. I must be starting my changes. That's all.

Now, Sonia, it's unlikely the doctor is mistaken. Thirty-two is not ancient. Just because Joan is ten and Steve is seven doesn't mean—

But I wear dentures! Dr. Cowan pulled out all my top teeth to get at that cyst. I'm old, Fred. Too old to raise another child.

Yes, it'll be hard for us. Just when we were hoping to buy our own home.

Now we'll never get out of here. We've already been in my mother's house six years, and she can't wait to get rid of us. She certainly doesn't like children. She raised hell about Joan practicing her tap dancing in our apartment.

"Joan has to practice, or there's no sense paying for the classes. With the baby coming, maybe we should stop the classes anyway. Things will be tight for us."

Living in my crotchety Polish grandmother's house was often a trial. I had to tap dance in the dark basement on a cement floor so the noise wouldn't disturb Babcia. The fairly large backyard was off-limits to my brother and me. If I tried to plant some of the seeds we brought home from school, Babcia would dig up the seedlings and plant flowers. I remember begging for just a small patch of dirt to plant, but she refused my request in no uncertain terms. The only time my brother and I were allowed in the yard was to pluck Japanese beetles from her rose bushes, for which she paid us a penny a beetle.

The saving grace of living there was my Polish grandfather. I remember him sitting in his rocking chair, smelling of whiskey and smoking cigars. He was always smiling as he rocked, and he gave us quarters when we came upstairs to visit.

Donna was a wonder child. She walked at nine months, was reciting nursery rhymes at age two, and, at age three, surprised everyone by standing on her head. She saw me struggling to practice a high school gym requirement. This was difficult for me even when I was allowed to balance my legs against the wall. Donna could do it without the wall. What's more, she was able to turn around while standing on her head. A natural gymnast, she later took acrobat lessons and became a cheerleader for her school.

Donna was almost like my own child. I babysat her, walked her, and taught her to talk. I read to her from the masterpieces I was studying in high school: Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Keats' La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (which was her favorite). She was never tired of hearing that long poetic work about enchantment and redemption. Through my high school, I was entered into some dramatic monologue competitions, and I went about the house practicing: Baptiste! Baptiste! Mom, and especially Dad, joked about my efforts, but little Donna followed me about enthusiastically, often imitating my recitations.

At some point, Donna developed an eating problem. This appeared to have started when she was ten years old and a little chubby, like many preadolescents. She was attending a Catholic grammar school at the time, and a well-meaning nun's remark may have changed her life.

Donna dear, you seem to be putting on a few pounds. Maybe you should start watching what you eat. You don't want to be a fat teenager, do you? Boys don't like fat girls.

Donna was exiting the school as Sister Marian said this, and some of the other students passed by, close enough to hear.

So she's gonna be a fat cow. Willy Brown chuckled. Who cares? My mom's fat, and my grandma too. All the women in my family are fat. Maybe Donna wants to be fat. Do you wanna be fat, Donna?

The boys teased, Yeah, fat Donna!

Willy said, Why not? Fat is where it's at! Right, Donna?

I hate you! Donna replied to the nun angrily. And I hate this school and all this religious business! I'm never going to church again." And she stomped away to return home in tears.

Donna had to finish out her last year in that school, but she stopped going to Mass on Sundays. Our mother had also stopped going to Mass the year it had snowed on her birthday, and she had been unable to attend the local bingo. Our mother played bingo at least five nights a week in different locations, and as she had never learned to drive, she was forced to rely upon our father for transportation. When the untimely March 2 storm made the roads impassable, Mother blamed God and retaliated by ceasing to attend Mass. Her anger persisted for decades. Forgiveness was not part of her character. Unfortunately, Donna was to resemble our mother in this respect.

Chapter 3

From being a child not particularly wanted, Donna advanced to become her parents' pet. When I married and moved away and brother Steve joined the navy, my parents were finally able to afford their own home. The only child remaining, Donna enjoyed many of the advantages that my brother and I had been denied. I had always felt poorly dressed in high school, where the girls had seemed to sport an endless display of fashionable new clothes. I was allowed to buy only one new outfit a year. My other clothing consisted of hand-me-downs from my aunt Sofie or irregulars my grandmother had brought home from the sewing factory where she worked. I remember being quite desperate to obtain a pair of Bermuda shorts, which had just become the rage.

"Please, please, please, Dad! I can get a pair for $2. All the kids are wearing Bermuda shorts this year! It's the latest thing!"

I don't know. Two dollars is a lot of money for something you don't need. You seem to have enough clothing already.

"I don't have Bermuda shorts. They're new, Dad. I'll be a freak if I don't have a pair. I won't have any friends. They'll be ashamed to be seen with me. Look, I'll scratch your back