Patty
One summer while we still lived in the Cape in Lee, my parents signed up for ‘Fresh Air’ – a non-profit program for disadvantaged kids from inner-city residences. Patty was an African American teenager, a year or so younger than I was, and she stayed with us for several weeks. We drove the Travelall down to Dorchester, Massachusetts to pick her up. The whole family climbed several flights of stairs in an old brick tenement building. I was shocked to see many of the windows broken, and although the small apartment was clean and had a color TV it was devoid of books– the opposite of our house which was filled with books and still had a black and white T.V. Her mother gave instructions to my parents to “make sure she behaves,” and they assured her that she would live by our own family rules – consistent and enforced.
She was quiet on the trip to New Hampshire and very well-behaved. The only significant comment she made was when passing a dairy farm in rural New Hampshire. “Look at those nasty old cows,” she said. I got the impression that she had never seen real cows before.
My parents had bought bunk beds for my room, and that is where she slept. We got along fine, but she had a much more stringent hygiene regimen, showering daily and applying night moisturizer to her skin. She was always clean and fresh and unlike the rest of us never needed to be reminded to wash up for dinner, or brush her teeth before bed. She was always on her best behavior and my apprehensions that she would compete with me, or follow me around like a puppy were completely unfounded – she did neither. As was true with Beth, our foster child from Iowa, our rules were her rules and she participated in all family activities. This included Saturday morning chores, playing board games, hiking in the White Mountains and trips to Mendum’s Pond, the UNH recreation area. Mom brought muffin batter previously prepared at home, an old muffin tin and aluminum foil, and Patty and I mixed in wild blueberries (freshly picked from the low bushes on the ½ mile hike from the parking lot to the pond). While Dad and my brothers swam, we cooked bacon and eggs in a cast iron pan over the campfire and the muffins cooked slowly off to the side. The meal was excellent and Patty was thrilled. It became increasingly clear that she had never left the city, so experiences that were normal and frequent for us, were all new for her.
We had a family pass to the town pool in Durham, and the first time we went with Patty, the person at the ticket booth refused to let her in. My parents explained that she was part of our family for the next few weeks, and that the expectation was that they would treat her as such. I remember a fairly heated exchange with a manager and my parent’s threat to request a full refund for our family pass before the manager finally agreed to include her. We all had a great time swimming and playing in the water.
We had all been raised to take a little of everything on the table, clean our plates and ask to be excused from the dinner table, but there was an almost daily reminder to “Finish your milk,” to at least one of us. She nearly always asked for ‘seconds’ on her milk and I remember the shock on her face when my mother told her as she filled her glass, “This milk comes from those ‘nasty old cows’.” It wasn’t that we didn’t like milk, but it was nothing special and at the end of the meal, the last few swallows were a bit warm and not as palatable as the fresh, chilled milk at the start of the meal. It was unclear if she wanted the extra glass because she really liked milk, or if she was pleasantly surprised that a second glass was allowed.
My mother supplied her with writing implements and paper and made it clear that she was expected to write home to her mother, which she did. She asked my mother if she wanted to read the letter before it was mailed and my mother told her that it was personal and not necessary. Later I found out that she had conveniently left it out on the kitchen table for several hours while playing outside with the rest of us kids, so it was in plain sight for my mother to see while working in the kitchen. My mother said what was easily visible was clearly raving about how much fun she was having and how she was being treated “Just like one of their own kids.”
When we drove her back home, we were all very sad to see her go and there were hugs and tears and plenty of accolades shared with her mother on what a good kid she was and how much we enjoyed having her. Like Beth, there was no further contact and I always wondered what ever happened to her. I still do.
On the ride back on I-95, the traffic slowed to a halt and was stop-and-go for nearly 30 minutes before we could see yellow, red and blue flashing lights ahead. We were all wondering what was going on and my Dad said he thought there was probably an accident up ahead. I remember craning my neck with intense curiosity to see, and hoping, even yearning that I would be able to see what had happened. The 4 lanes were being funneled into two while emergency and police vehicles processed the scene. The traffic was so slow that the two covered bodies were easily seen by all in the car and there was dead silence as we all realized we had experienced a double fatality. It was my first experience with the proximal death of a human being and I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I also felt intense guilt for being so eager to see such a thing – as if the two people would still be living had I only looked away.
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