The Bracelets

The Bracelets

A Short Story

by

Pauline Scinto Whitchurch

Growing up during the late 1950’s, part of a huge and loving extended Italian family in the agricultural beauty of Northern California was as pretty close to paradise as one could possibly get. And even though these memories of that time are of a very young girl, I still agree with them today, 60 years later. Get-togethers with relatives were an almost everyday occurrence. Whether it was just walking next door to see our grandparents,  Noni and Nono, or huge family gatherings on holidays, it was all about family. We were fortunate during this time that so many relatives on the family tree, which included both my mother’s and my father’s branches, lived in the same town. But some, did not.

She was the mysterious relative some members of the family spoke about only in whispers at get-togethers and holidays. While the kids, which I was at the time…about 5 or 6…played Old Maid at the card table, we would hear her name spoken in hushed tones. A quiet whistling sound just like the one you hear when there’s a leak in the air mattresses we slept on during over night stays at our cousin’s houses. We knew when children were around and adult voices were lowered, gossip was about to seep out.

“Oh, Auntie Lucy” one of the grown-ups would quietly murmur and our ears would perk up. We knew in our very limited view of important matters; they were trying to protect us from some extremely juicy family secret.  But as adults are always saying, kids are like sponges and they soak up whatever they hear. When we heard that name, it was like the floodgates were opened and we were close by to do our jobs and soak up the gossip that was about to spout.

We strained our ears to hear more, but then someone at the table in this heated game of pairing, got left with the Old Maid and we were yanked back to our world of giggling and card playing. And, of course, teasing the player that, according to the written rules, which we considered gospel at the time, would never marry. The adult world was soon forgotten as we had much more important matters to discuss.  It had been decided, usually by one of the older kids, that one of us, usually the youngest kid…me…needed to go into the kitchen and sneak some of Auntie Helen’s gooey and delicious chocolate cookies and bring some back to this troop of cousins. I was a bit gullible back then. 

Back to Auntie Lucy. Now we did have some important and very vital facts about this shadowy relative of ours. We knew that she lived in another city about 2 hours away and her name was Lucy and she was my father’s sister.

Yep, that was the extent of it. Quite the dossier.  Some of the older cousins had actually seen her at weddings and baptisms, but their reports proved to be untrustworthy as would any 11-year old’s account when it was uncovered during a big party. There is far too much fun stuff to do at a huge family gathering. Especially one held in the local grange or sometimes in a fancy rented hall with exciting new places to discover and explore.  Being led over by the hand  by your mother to meet just another relative was not high on our list of “Reasons Why I Want to Stand Still”. So, the second we could bolt…we did. The one tidbit of gossip about Auntie Lucy that all the cousins who had met her could agree upon was the very interesting fact that she wore a lot of make-up. After much debate this fact, although noteworthy, had yet to be permanently categorized under “A Fun Thing” or “A Weird Thing” as the expression “a lot” was subjective.  Therefore,  this morsel of intelligence was deemed of little value and did not quality as “juicy”. 

Then one spring day, like so many other days in our peaceful and cozy home…we got the news. It began as a normal weeknight. Dad had just gotten home from work and was changing out of his dirty clothes. Mom was cooking dinner,  preparing her delicious spaghetti that we all took for granted, because we had it all the time and tossing an organic (before it became the rage) salad from the vegetable garden. I was setting the table, as was my household task. Dad took his place at the head of the table while the rest of the family chatted and got ready to sit down to eat. We took our places, said grace and picked up our forks. For a brief moment it was quiet except for metal cutlery against Melamine dishes as we all enjoyed our delicious meal. Then my father broke the silence and announced right there at the dinner table, without any kind of warning whatsoever, that we were all motoring two hours to Sacramento this weekend to visit Auntie Lucy.

Forks stopped in midair. Teeth ceased to chew the yummy Italian meatballs that were inside our mouths, and all eyes were fixed on our dad…waiting. Waiting for, well we didn’t know, but we waited. It was Mom who spoke next as only our eyeballs slowly redirected to her. “Oh, that will be nice.” 

Forks lowered slowly to the table and our little eyes all squinted at the same time. That kind of squint where you absolutely do not understand the meaning of the comment someone just said out loud and your young brain is trying to process the remark.  Did Mom really think it was nice or was she trying to avoid an argument in front of us? As in any close Italian family, we stayed quiet. This was the late 1950’s…a time when children did not have a say in crucial family matters, like who they were going to visit on the weekend and if it was optional. The decision was made, it was set in stone. Our father had proclaimed it. 

The weekend was soon upon us. The family car was washed, and Dad had filled the tank with gasoline that he could not believe had cost him a whopping 31 cents per gallon. The fuel tirade was always the same and we listened with a deaf ear as we hopped into the car taking our usual seats.   Dad, of course driving and Mom riding shotgun. Us kids in the back seat with me in the middle of our two-tone green, 4-door, 1953 Chevrolet Bel Air.  We soon began playing with the car toys brought along to keep boredom at bay…an Etch-a-Sketch and a couple of story books. The two-hour drive was as any other. We did not fight in the back seat when Dad was driving. If we dared to, we would be the very unfortunate recipients of the “look”. You did not want to get the “look” and be the reason Dad had to pull off the freeway on a long drive to give you a talking-to. Bathroom breaks were bad enough. Going potty before you left for a long trip was just a matter of survival. Like filling your canteen before a long arid hike. If you’re smart and wanted to live, you remembered to do it.

And then we were there, parking the car on a city street completely shaded by the towering buildings. It was an apartment building. None of us had ever seen a real apartment building where actual people lived. It was confusing. Where do the kids play? Where does your dog poop? Where is your vegetable garden? These were questions that needed to be answered, because in our world everyone had a back yard, a dog and a vegetable garden. Little did we know there would be way more confusion ahead and, for some of us, amazement as the visit to Auntie Lucy’s progressed.

We all held hands and cautiously entered the vestibule of the apartment house. “Vestibule”  I had never heard that word before. Vestibule, vestibule, vestibule I repeated it about 10 times as I often did when I felt a new word interesting and repeat worthy. Then my mother shot me the “look” and I only got two more syllables out.   She was good at giving the “look” too, but not nearly as good as Dad.

We then had to climb stairs and find the right numbered apartment. This was all very strange to us. Santa Rosa and Mayberry were pretty much our entire sources of worldly information. I don’t think there was an apartment building in either of these two towns at that time. At least I had never seen one.  But there was no going back now, Dad had bravely located and knocked on the door marked  with one each gold metallic number and letter. This  was deemed to be the correct apartment by our parents. It was going to open, and Auntie Lucy was going to be on the other side. We stood there holding our breath, not a clue as to what was about to happen. Our little hearts beating a mile-a-minute and eyes wide open. At least mine were. We knew we were safe because Dad was there, but our imaginations were in hyperdrive. 

It happened way too fast. The door swung open causing a slight breeze that blew my hair back. And there she stood in all her glory. To tell you I was in awe would be a colossal understatement. We stood motionless as all the traditional Italian hugging, kissing and back-patting followed. Of course, this we were accustomed to and we just had to wait it out. 

However, this had the extra element always attached to these types of reunions. The obligatory exclamations about how much we had grown and the mandatory cheek pinching. You get used to the indignation of this ritual. There is no use in combating it, so you suffer through it.  Again, you don’t want to risk the ‘look’.

Until now, this story has been one about the Family interaction. All the experiences we had as a group,  celebrating, eating, driving, etc. and how I fit in to all of that. Let me now change the narrative and go inside the young, impressionable, innocent 5-year old mind that was Pauline.

I was now standing in front of “The” Auntie Lucy. My neck craned upward to get a better look. I was thunderstruck, Auntie Lucy was now my idol, my goddess. I was awash in wonderment. Complete awe and reverence had taken over my little mind. Of course, none of these words were in my vocabulary at the time, but you get the idea of what I was feeling. 

There she was…cheeks with so much foundation and rouge on them she must have applied them with a trowel. The eye make-up made me remember pictures I had seen in my story books of Cleopatra. Eyeliner out the sides of her temples, eye shadow the color of my favorite bright blue Crayola Crayon and lipstick applied to skin  a bit beyond the customary boundaries of the lip area.  The same rich crimson color as the vine ripened tomatoes from our garden. The clothes she so casually wore were beyond flamboyant and they were screaming defiantly, competing with each other to determine what color was the loudest. And every color of the rainbow was well represented,  plus a couple more hues that I am sure had yet to be discovered. But then I saw them, the  “piece-de-resistance”. (Dictionary.com defines this term as “the best feature of something, a showpiece or highlight.”)  I saw…the Bracelets! A hundred or more fabulously gaudy bracelets encircling not only her wrists, but all the way up each of her forearms almost to her elbow. Gold and silver, every color imaginable, wide, narrow, chain-links or solid, I just knew right then and there that I had never seen anything more beautiful in all my life. 

I couldn’t take my eyes off them. As we all know, Italians do half their talking with their hands. Auntie Lucy’s arms and bracelets were unrestrained with glorious conversation. They jangled, they jingled, they mesmerized. My mouth was agape with wonder and amazement as I gazed at this vision of exquisite beauty. I WAS 5!

The next few hours I sat on the couch with my hands politely folded as I had been taught. I watched and listened to the adult’s chit-chat as they engaged in “catching-up”. Speaking when spoken to and respectfully answering questions that were asked of me, I made my mother proud. My siblings, appreciatively, occupied themselves in a quiet corner with the Etch-a-Sketch and the books that had done such a great job in the back seat of the car. I, however, stayed put on the sofa next to my mother where I had a clear and unobstructed view of this real-life masterpiece all to myself. I couldn’t get enough of Auntie Lucy. I sat and rejoiced in her every move. I listened to her raspy voice caused from too many years of smoking as a young girl and I watched those bracelets.   A life altering decision was made during that visit…I wanted to be exactly like her when I grew up. This was now my goal in life. To collect enough bracelets to go all the way up my arm and wear clothes that caused people around me to put on sunglasses or insert earplugs. Or both, that was fine with me. From that moment I had found my mentor.  Unfortunately, I would only be in her majestic presence a couple of more times in my life, as we never seemed to find the time to visit her. But in that one brief visit, she had managed to make an indelible and lifelong impression. Auntie Lucy was now my heroine.

Once back home our daily lives returned to the familiar routine, we all knew and enjoyed so well.  But I was headed down a new path and for the next few years, I put a considerable effort in collecting bracelets. And I wore them all with complete delight and the self-confidence that I was indeed a fashion icon and trendsetter only a 7-year old can get away with. If we had the word “fashionista” back in those days, that would have been me. My mother would just shake her head at the outfits I would painstakingly put together for my myself. I thought every outfit I completed was fit for the runway. However, she absolutely put her foot down when I was dressed and ready for school wearing an old hot-pink feather boa that I found in the Halloween costume box we kept in the garage. I was devastated that my fashion sense was being questioned, but there was no arguing with my mother when her mind was made up. I took it off with a heavy sigh. She just didn’t understand.

As with any life altering decisions you make in the single digit years of one’s youth, my goal soon became a bit hazy and almost a forgotten target.  The few bracelets I did manage to buy with my allowance or plead with my mother to buy for me at Woolworth’s Five & Dime, were relegated to a cardboard Buster Brown shoebox in my closet and soon forgotten.   As a teenage girl, boys. fashion trends and school dances push all other thoughts out of your head for quite a while. And I was no exception. But soon, serious studying, getting your driver’s license and first car, part-time jobs and college applications took precedent…it was time to become an adult.

Fast forward 60 years. My haute couture has changed through the years. Now at the age of 66, retirement, I believe, mandates that one’s wardrobe consists of mainly comfortable clothes, loose fitting and a bit on the dreary side.  I willingly comply.  I chuckle when I think of the ratty old pink boa I found in that box and the utter disappointment I felt when I was told I would not be allowed to wear it to school. I remember it all fondly. I rarely wear make-up because, well, really…why? This is my face, liver spots and all. It won’t get any worse. Wrinkled yes…worse no! And my every day jewelry is limited to my wedding ring, a beautiful cross pendant that was my mothers and a pair of small diamond stud earrings. 

As I write this story, Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and my beloved Valentine, of almost five decades,  purchased me yet another…in fact two…beautiful bracelets. I am beyond delighted. As an adult, I have again attempted to achieve my youthful goal of amassing oodles of stunning arm jewelry. Diamonds, white gold, platinum and now pearl has been added to the mix. Some worth hundreds of dollars and some a bit less, but each and every one has tremendous sentimental value.  These exquisite pieces have replaced the budget dime store bangles from my childhood. Every month or so I clasp all of my beautiful bracelets around my wrist, sometimes with great difficulty because of the beginnings of arthritis. But I slowly get them on, one-by-one and affectionately remember how each came to have its place on my wrist. Past birthdays, anniversaries, Mother’s Day and Valentines, I wear the entire collection 24/7 for a couple of months because they make me happy, very happy.  They remind me of that little girl watching that amazing old woman and wanting to be just like her.  And then when I am ready and enough time has passed, I lovingly take them all off, clean them up and retire them to their special handmade wooden chest to give my arm a rest. They are nothing like my collection in the shoebox or the garish, plastic bangles my aunt wore that day in the apartment building in Sacramento so many years ago. But the memories of them on my little wrist, on Auntie Lucy’s tan and wrinkled old wrist, and, more importantly, of Auntie Lucy herself, are forever priceless.