Sans Souci and little sister, Laurita
about a year or two before our evening winter journey on East 14th Street.

	(left) Sans Souci pointing to toys in the window of Murray’s. That’s the name that popped into my head. It was on 1st Avenue and about 16th Street in Manhattan in the development called Stuyvesant Town where Laurita and I grew up.
(Right) A Sunday walk from Stuyvesant Town to the United Nations, over 2 miles. Mom, as usual, was in her heels. I was about 12 and Laurita, 6.

Early 60’s.~The Sans Souci archives. Photos by dad, Jack Margulies

addendum: to see the rewritten version for publication, scroll down to bottom.

A Poem For My Sister
©12/7/08

I might have been 11, so
you were 5 and under my care;
mom worked.
She brought home the groceries after a day
at the dictaphone machine and
the 90 words per minute
typewriter,
stepped out of her her high heels,
and returned to 5 feet tall.She handed me five dollars and told me
to take you to buy a birthday present.
“OK, Ma, “ I think I dutifully answered.

She must have been tired, really tired
to have forgotten to pick up a gift,
and to send us out in the dark.

I suppose she was going to start making dinner.
Sometimes, after we ate,
she’d clear the little kitchen counters
and set up the typewriter,
the old Remington.
She sat on the huge Manhattan Yellow Pages
that were atop the step stool, and typed briefs for the
law firm on the corner, or invoices for dad’s camera repair
business; his second job.
I don’t know how such a little woman
could work so much
and still take care of a family.

I can’t remember what happened after dinner that night,
December 10, in 1958 or ’59,
I just know that we put on our jackets
at about 5 o’clock
and went down the elevator from the 5th floor,
as though we were going to school;
I can feel that the day was a Wednesday or Thursday.

We exited the front door of the building
into the darkness,
and cold,
and my stomach, always anxious,
quaked a little.
One hand held your hand and the other
the five dollar bill.

We walked for 15 minutes or more,
under the lamp lights of the development,
around the playground,
down the huge, wide, shallow stairs,
to 14th Street and then
Avenue B,
then Avenue A,
before they were known as “Alphabet City.”
The red, Avenue B bus lumbered along 14th Street,
toward us, from Union Square,
bringing people home from the subway,
and shoppers from Klein’s,
the best bargain department store around.

If I were to walk those city blocks today,
I know they would seem shorter and
possibly more interesting,
but then, the streets seemed endless
and they took on an aura in the darkness
that was familiar yet distorted by neon.

Our side, The Stuyvesant town side,
was lined with pink building after pink building,
each with eleven stories,
now grayish in the diminished light,
but across 14th Street, the stores were lit
and beckoned brightly like a circus:
The Prince of Pizza on the corner,
where I would have my first slice and burn my mouth;
Town Rose Bakery,
where the lady with black hair and long red nails
stuffed pastry into boxes and tied them up with red and white string;
The little law office, where mom sometimes worked;
Woolworth’s,
where we bought our pet GiGi, the Java Temple bird,
PermaCut,
where we sat in airplane seats and Mr. Joseph cut our hair;
John’s Bargain Store,
where we’d pick through pins of vinyl and plastic;
Thom McCann Shoes, where I would later get my first pair of little heels that I wore to Paul Leonard’s Bar Mitzvah;
Barricini Chocolates,
on the corner of Avenue A, where the smell of cocoa was overwhelming.
Pam Pam Burgers, juicy, with the shiny, puffy bun,
and maybe 20 more stores scattered in between.

It was nice to feel your hand in mine,
I was so adult and in control,
a small mother; my ears rang in the cold, under my hat.
You were probably in kindergarten,
no longer a 4 year old with a
baby tummy, full and rounded from your chest down.
Still, small and fragile, with large blue eyes and ash hair,
Running to keep up with me.

We arrived at the corner of 14th Street and First Avenue
where the subway began,
the LL line to Brooklyn that we knew went to
our two grandmas, and the beach.
Traffic picked up here, yellow taxis honking their way
uptown and downtown on First Avenue;
we turned right at the corner.

There were shops embedded into the First Avenue side
of our familiar cookie cutter buildings;
a Kodak store where dad’s photo of me and another little girl
was blown up into a poster and once displayed;
a Good Humor Store—or did that come later?
An original Howard Johnson’s Restaurant that
I think later became something with an Irish name.
McKenna’s?
Then,
The First National City Bank; it had a highly polished brass safe
or drop on the outside, round,
raised like a huge, prized medallion,
the outside façade glasslike black marble,
banking hours: 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.

And then there! Next door!
Murray’s.

There’s a picture that dad took
of tiny me pointing at the toys in the window
of Murray’s.
Toys.
Housewares, pots, curtains, measuring cups,
appliances, to the left.
Toys to the right.
When we entered the store
we left the darkness and chill behind,
and the fluorescent lights took over.
Metal trucks, cars, bubble blowers, things to build, puzzles,
games in long rectangular boxes, coloring books all beckoned.
Then we found the dolls.

I think you picked a baby doll with a soft body
in a dress with open-close glass eyes.
I see myself reaching for it in its box, pulling it down,
handing it to you,
and in my pre-teen awkwardness and embarrassment
I asked in an overly loud, take-charge, bordering impatient,
parent voice:
“Is this the one you want?”

It was the baby doll in the cardboard box
looking out the cellophane window,
probably in a blue dress.
I handed the man the money.
He put the box in a bag and most likely
gave me change.

We went back out into the darkness,
along the busy street;
to me it felt like midnight, and I wasn’t ready
for the burden of responsibility, and I silently
questioned why it was given to me.

We walked back the way we came,
the neon was now on our right, and the wind pushed us along,
to lamb chops, or meat loaf, or chicken.

I can still feel your hand in my hand.

Return to the party here.

 

Original Romper Room***
**
Captain Kangaroo***

**The Little Rascals
****Farmer Gray
***
Rewritten for book: 4/09

Birthday Doll

I might have been twelve, so
you were six and under my care;
mom worked.
She brought home the groceries after a day
at the Dictaphone machine and
the ninety words per minute
typewriter,
stepped out of her high heels,
returning to five feet tall.

She handed me five dollars and told me
to take you to buy a birthday present.
OK, Ma, I think I dutifully answered.

She must have been tired, really tired,
to have forgotten to pick up a gift,
and to send us out in the dark.

I suppose she was going to start making dinner.
Sometimes, after we ate,
she’d clear the little kitchen counters
and set up the typewriter,
the old Remington.
She would sit on the thick Manhattan Yellow Pages,
atop the step stool, typing briefs for the
law firm on the corner, and invoices
for dad’s camera repair business—his second job.
I don’t know how such a little woman
could work so much
and still take care of a family.

It was a December evening,
around five o’clock,
a Wednesday.
We put on our jackets,
took the elevator down;
it was dark and cold,
my stomach was quaking.
I held your hand
and clutched the five-dollar bill.

We walked ten minutes or more,
under the lamp lights,
around the playground,
down the wide stairs
onto Fourteenth Street,
Avenue B,
then to Avenue A.
A bus lumbered along Fourteenth Street,
coming from Union Square,
bringing people home from the subway,
and shoppers from S. Klein’s—
the best bargain department store around.

If I were to walk those city blocks today,
I know they would seem shorter and
possibly more interesting;
but then, the streets seemed endless
and in the darkness they took on an aura
that was familiar yet distorted by neon.

Our side, the Stuyvesant Town side,
was lined with pink building after pink building,
each eleven stories,
now grayish in the diminished light.
Across Fourteenth Street, the stores were lit
and beckoned brightly like a circus:
The Prince of Pizza on the corner,
where I would have my first slice and burn my mouth;
Town Rose Bakery,
where the lady with black hair and long red nails
stuffed pastry into boxes and tied them up with red and white string;
The little law office, where mom sometimes worked;
Woolworth’s,
where we bought our pet GiGi, the Java Temple bird,
PermaCut,
where we sat in airplane seats in the basement and Mr. Joseph cut our hair;
John’s Bargain Store,
where we’d pick through bins of vinyl and plastic;
Thom McCann Shoes, where I would later get the first pair of little heels
that I wore to Paul Leonard’s bar mitzvah;
Barricini Chocolates,
on the corner of Avenue A, where the smell of cocoa was overwhelming;
Pam Pam Burgers, juicy, with the shiny, puffy bun,
and maybe twenty more stores in between.

It was nice to feel your hand in mine;
I was so adult and in control,
a small mother. My ears rang with cold, under my hat.
You were probably in kindergarten,
no longer a four year old with a
baby tummy, full and rounded from your chest down.
Still small and fragile, with large blue eyes and ash hair,
you ran to keep up with me.

We arrived at the corner of Fourteenth Street and First Avenue,
where the subway was,
the LL line to Brooklyn that we knew went to
our two grandmas, and to the beach.
Traffic picked up here, yellow taxis honking their way
uptown on First Avenue;
we turned right at the corner.

There were shops embedded into the First Avenue side
of our cookie cutter buildings;
a Kodak store
where dad’s photo of me and another little girl
was blown up into a poster and once displayed;
a Good Humor store—or did that come later?
An original Howard Johnson’s restaurant that
later became something with an Irish name.
McKenna’s?
The First National City Bank,
its name on a highly polished brass medallion.
Banking hours: 9:00 AM to 3:00 PM

And then! There! Next door!
Murray’s!
Toys!
(My dad once took a picture of tiny me
pointing at the toys in the window.)
Toys to the right.
Housewares, pots, curtains, measuring cups,
appliances, to the left.

When we entered the store,
we left the darkness and chill behind,
and fluorescent lights took over.
Metal trucks, cars, bubble blowers, things to build, puzzles,
games in long rectangular boxes, coloring books – they all beckoned.
Then we found the dolls.

You pointed to a baby-doll
in a cardboard box,
looking out through the cellophane window.
I see myself reaching for it, pulling it down,
handing it to you;
and in my pre-teen awkwardness
I asked in an overly loud, take-charge,
impatient, parent voice:
Is this the one you want?

You liked the blue dress and
the glass eyes that opened and closed.
I handed the man the money.
He put the box in a bag and
gave me change.

We went out onto the dark, busy street;
it felt like midnight, and I wasn’t ready
for the burden of responsibility.
I silently questioned why
it was given to me.

We walked back the way we came,
the neon now on our right,
the wind pushing us along,
to lamb chops, or meat loaf, or chicken.

I can still feel your hand in my hand.