I started first grade at St. Nicholas Catholic Elementary School in Struthers, Ohio. It was difficult because all the other children in the ‘neighbourhood’ were already attending or starting school in the local public school system in Poland. I didn’t understand, but Mom told me that we were Catholic and that I was going to get a good education in a Catholic school.
The Struthers boys were all strangers to me. I had no friends there. Not one. Even the school bus ride was difficult. When you have no one to sit with. . . and you try to find a seat and sink into the background of cacophony that only this type of trip can offer. . . you feel so raw and helpless!
I don’t remember how I discovered Mom’s ‘smell’ on the handkerchief she always gave me before I left the house. Maybe I actually pulled it out of my pants to blow my nose. Maybe I put in a tear, or pulled it out to free up three cents for milk money. But there she was. That fragrance!
Who knows for sure if it was Calgon, starch or a mixture of fabric softener and soap that he used in the laundry. Goal, yes! That bandana and a quick dab on my face during the day. . . he brought her right next to me. Sometimes I would just grab it inside my pocket. You don’t even need to take it out.
It was important to have mom with me all day. The nuns were brutal. . . and she just joined the torture of the first grade at St. Nick Elementary School. If she didn’t drink her ice cold milk to the last drop, and she did it quickly (think a milk break might actually be a nice thing in the mornings!), Sister Mary stomped her foot and held the entire class up until that you swallowed yours. She didn’t care about your little stomach ache.
Just knowing that my scarf was always ready, in case I needed a whiff of its scent to reconnect with someone who cared about me, meant everything. To hell with those nuns!
Of course, I never mentioned my ‘accessory’ to Mom, or anyone else. Not for years and years. As an adult, I finally reminded my Mother of these details, on one of our never-long-enough visits. She didn’t have a handkerchief to offer him, as her eyes misted up. She grabbed a box or two of tissues. . . and she handed me one. The edge of my index finger had already done the work for me. Instinctively, though, I brought the Kleenex she handed me up to my face. . . and she took a quick, light breath.
No soap smell. Single . . . a touch of mother
Darry Roseman
Happy Mother’s Day, 2006
