When you're a young boy, there are certain kinds of activities you don't want to be caught doing by your mother. Antiquing , however, is one activity that you don't want to be caught doing with your mother. Merriam-Webster defines 'antiquing' as ' to shop around for antiques.' The definition alone makes it the gayest verb in the dictionary.
My brother, Mitchell, who was two years older than me, sensed the gayness of antiquing early, just like he sensed the gayness of me. As a matter of fact, at 12 years old he declared that antiquing and me were the two gayest things in the world (at least he said antiquing was first and I was second).
My mother Priscilla had to force him to go to antique shows with us, but she finally gave up and let him stay at home on Sundays to watch sports on TV with our father, Bernie, who also refused to go antiquing. Mitchell was so happy the first Sunday he was antique-free that he jumped up and down on our driveway in front of his friends like he scored a touchdown as my mother backed up our white Cadillac into the street with me alone in the backseat.
"Hey Aunt Eeek! Have fun aunteeking!" he yelled before I could get the car window shut, making his friends laugh at the new nickname he had for me.
"What did your brother just say about antiques? I didn't hear him," my mother asked me as she pulled away from the house.
I was not about to embarrass myself by explaining to my mother that I was now known as 'Aunt Eeek' to Mitchell and his friends. This was supposed to replace 'Helen', his other nickname for me ( This of course referred to the only Helen more famous than Helen Of Troy, Helen Keller. Mitchell had started off by using her full name, but he called me it so often that he switched to a first name basis for convenience sake. 'Aunt Eeek' actually only lasted a month or two before Mitchell went back to calling me 'Helen', which is a testament to Ms. Keller's enduring legacy as the Queen of The Handicapped).
I looked in my mother's rear view mirror and shrugged like I didn't hear him either, then glanced out the back window to see which of Mitchell's friends were laughing most. Seeing how many friends he always had around him made my lack of friends even more obvious. The only real friend I actually had was my mother, a fact that embarrassed me especially in front of all of Mitchell's friends. Priscilla and I had an unspoken agreement never to acknowledge it, but Mitchell was always more than happy to point it out whenever he could.
At the time, not having friends was safer. Priscilla was the only one in the world who I could totally trust not to tease me. This was one of the reasons why I liked to go antiquing. It was a world of adults with no kids around to make fun of my stutter, or my big glasses, or my little raccoon coat that matched my mother's full-length one.
Another reason why I liked antiquing with Priscilla was that when she was around antiques she was at her happiest and could still have fun. It was the only time she was able to distract herself from her own mind and not think about the things she always obsessed over, which were all related to Bernie. Antiques have always had this magical power over her for as long as I can remember. Not once did I ever see her cry while antiquing, which was amazing for a woman who cried almost everywhere else.
The best memories I have of her all involve antiquing in the shops on Austin Street when we lived in Queens, and in our travels to flea markets, garage and yard sales, and in the basements, attics, and barns of anyone who had an 'Antiques for Sale' sign. I loved listening to Priscilla bargain with the gay antique dealers who knew her, and how she always made them laugh. It amazed me how easily she entertained people and how comfortable she seemed. But what amazed me even more was how she was able to do the same with strangers. Growing up with my stutter, I was in awe of the lack of effort it took for her to speak to anyone she wanted to either in person or over the phone. She didn't see this as any great talent or attribute of hers, like she saw her talent for decorating. I was the one who considered her genuine, ballsy, unpretentious, fearless way of speaking to be one of her most defining qualities, and I have always envied and tried to emulate it the best a stutterer could.
I would have to say that the hardest part of trying to speak to the world like Priscilla is the spontaneity it needs. Verbal spontaneity is a luxury that stutterers don't have. I have spent my whole life timing words out to 'trick', or get past, my stutter. Stutterers have to perpetually plan against words that get stuck in our throats. Even though most of that planning happens in fractions of a second, it is still enough to keep me from ever experiencing the freedom of truly spontaneous speech.
Priscilla has never had to plan how she spoke. Talking seemed to be the easiest thing in the world for her to do, the thing she had to think about least. There was never any hesitation or nervousness in how she approached people, nor was she ever shy about asking for directions or any other kind of help she needed, no matter who the person was. No one intimidated Priscilla. Once she walked right up to Jackie O and told her how much she loved what Jackie did with the White House when she was First Lady except for the one chair in The Red Room that my mother, during a White House tour, tried to move to a spot that looked better before being interrogated by The Secret Service.
Being as outgoing and as friendly as she was usually made our afternoons together adventurous. We ended up meeting different kinds of people from all over New York State and in Pennsylvania too (most of them not Jewish, which was new for me) who sometimes would invite us inside to their homes for lunch or dessert in exchange for decorating advice from my mother. She would proudly introduce me to whomever we met, taking my hand and speaking for me whenever she knew I didn't want to talk. It felt like we were a real team, and that we were both happiest when we were out with each other away from the rest of our family.
That was what made me hate having to go home, where she would either fight with my father in person or scream at him over the phone. I would try to think of places that I could get her to drive to just to keep her away from home and the telephone.
Don't forget I'm talking about 1970, 25 years before cells phones became commonplace. Back then there was no way of taking an argument on the road with you unless she traveled with a pocket full of dimes and was willing to stand in a phone booth while other people waited on line for their turn.
Usually, I would lose her immediately after we pulled into our driveway. As soon as we came through the front door, she would hurry to the telephone to call up my father's store with the same urgency that someone hurries to the toilet. Other days, our morning couldn't officially start until she phoned Bernie at the fur store at least thirty or forty times. She would call, scream' fuck you!' to him or to my grandmother Sally who he worked with, then hang up and do the same thing again, over and over.
The only thing that could keep Priscilla away from the phone when we were at home was redecorating. I was more than happy to help her move whatever antique she wanted as I followed her from room to room to make sure she stayed occupied and distracted. She was as strong as a Longshoreman when it came to moving furniture (they say a mother's love of a child can lift a car off her baby; well, a mother's love of decorating can lift a dresser onto her head).
Luckily, there were so much furniture in the house from years of antiquing that the redecorating possibilities were endless. She had no specific period or style of decorating that she tried to imitate, and would mix and match in ways that other housewives or decorators would never think of or dare to do. The only thing Priscilla would never think of doing would be decorating with furniture that was brand new.
New furniture has never spoken to her, and doesn't make her feel anything inside. It's lifeless. Something needs a past to give it a pulse. Believe it or not, Priscilla has never bought one single piece of new furniture in her entire life. It wasn't intentional; she has just always been drawn to used things. Stop and think about it. Imagine that at 76 years old, she has still not ever walked into a store and bought a new chair, table, lamp, dish, painting, drinking glass, picture frame, mirror,cabinet, dresser,shelf, or even an ashtray. Besides appliances and mattresses, pillows and carpeting, everything she has ever bought came with a past. When I asked her to think of any new piece of furniture that she might have ever bought, the only two things she could think of was a beach chair (which I said didn't count because it was outdoor furniture) and a cushioned toilet seat.
Some of her antiques cost alot, some she got bargains on, and some she found for really cheap or even free. Whether a piece was considered to be valuable or not was unimportant. As long as something was old and swirly, it could be considered an antique, and she would love it as such. It didn't have to be in perfect condition, or even work.
I remember specifically a very fancy umbrella stand filled with antique French parasols that she had in the foyer by the front door of our first apartment in Queens. My father got angry enough to kick it one raining night when none of the parasols would open.
" I can't find one normal umbrella in this thing! None of them even open!"
" It's a parasol stand, Bernie."
" No Priscilla, it's an umbrella bucket!"
" They're not meant to be used."
" What kind of umbrella isn't meant to be used," my father fumed as he pulled one out of the stand and tried to open it with all his strength.
" Bernie, stop! You're going to break it. Those parasols are very special to me. I love them."
" Priscilla, what kind of crazy person loves umbrellas that don't open."
I stood in the corner with my thick glasses on crying as I watched my mother defend the parasols.
For all these years I never knew why it made me cry, until now. I must have realized at that moment that as long as Priscilla loved antiques for their imperfections, she would always love me for mine.
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"Hey Aunt Eeek! Have fun aunteeking!" he yelled before I could get the car window shut, making his friends laugh at the new nickname he had for me.
"What did your brother just say about antiques? I didn't hear him," my mother asked me as she pulled away from the house.
I was not about to embarrass myself by explaining to my mother that I was now known as 'Aunt Eeek' to Mitchell and his friends. This was supposed to replace 'Helen', his other nickname for me ( This of course referred to the only Helen more famous than Helen Of Troy, Helen Keller. Mitchell had started off by using her full name, but he called me it so often that he switched to a first name basis for convenience sake. 'Aunt Eeek' actually only lasted a month or two before Mitchell went back to calling me 'Helen', which is a testament to Ms. Keller's enduring legacy as the Queen of The Handicapped).
I looked in my mother's rear view mirror and shrugged like I didn't hear him either, then glanced out the back window to see which of Mitchell's friends were laughing most. Seeing how many friends he always had around him made my lack of friends even more obvious. The only real friend I actually had was my mother, a fact that embarrassed me especially in front of all of Mitchell's friends. Priscilla and I had an unspoken agreement never to acknowledge it, but Mitchell was always more than happy to point it out whenever he could.
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| Aunt Eeek AS IF STUTTERING AND WEARING TRI-FOCAL GLASSES WASN'T BAD ENOUGH, I HAD TO ADD FUEL TO THE FIRE BY WEARING A FUR COAT. |
Another reason why I liked antiquing with Priscilla was that when she was around antiques she was at her happiest and could still have fun. It was the only time she was able to distract herself from her own mind and not think about the things she always obsessed over, which were all related to Bernie. Antiques have always had this magical power over her for as long as I can remember. Not once did I ever see her cry while antiquing, which was amazing for a woman who cried almost everywhere else.
The best memories I have of her all involve antiquing in the shops on Austin Street when we lived in Queens, and in our travels to flea markets, garage and yard sales, and in the basements, attics, and barns of anyone who had an 'Antiques for Sale' sign. I loved listening to Priscilla bargain with the gay antique dealers who knew her, and how she always made them laugh. It amazed me how easily she entertained people and how comfortable she seemed. But what amazed me even more was how she was able to do the same with strangers. Growing up with my stutter, I was in awe of the lack of effort it took for her to speak to anyone she wanted to either in person or over the phone. She didn't see this as any great talent or attribute of hers, like she saw her talent for decorating. I was the one who considered her genuine, ballsy, unpretentious, fearless way of speaking to be one of her most defining qualities, and I have always envied and tried to emulate it the best a stutterer could.I would have to say that the hardest part of trying to speak to the world like Priscilla is the spontaneity it needs. Verbal spontaneity is a luxury that stutterers don't have. I have spent my whole life timing words out to 'trick', or get past, my stutter. Stutterers have to perpetually plan against words that get stuck in our throats. Even though most of that planning happens in fractions of a second, it is still enough to keep me from ever experiencing the freedom of truly spontaneous speech.
Priscilla has never had to plan how she spoke. Talking seemed to be the easiest thing in the world for her to do, the thing she had to think about least. There was never any hesitation or nervousness in how she approached people, nor was she ever shy about asking for directions or any other kind of help she needed, no matter who the person was. No one intimidated Priscilla. Once she walked right up to Jackie O and told her how much she loved what Jackie did with the White House when she was First Lady except for the one chair in The Red Room that my mother, during a White House tour, tried to move to a spot that looked better before being interrogated by The Secret Service.
Being as outgoing and as friendly as she was usually made our afternoons together adventurous. We ended up meeting different kinds of people from all over New York State and in Pennsylvania too (most of them not Jewish, which was new for me) who sometimes would invite us inside to their homes for lunch or dessert in exchange for decorating advice from my mother. She would proudly introduce me to whomever we met, taking my hand and speaking for me whenever she knew I didn't want to talk. It felt like we were a real team, and that we were both happiest when we were out with each other away from the rest of our family.
That was what made me hate having to go home, where she would either fight with my father in person or scream at him over the phone. I would try to think of places that I could get her to drive to just to keep her away from home and the telephone.
Don't forget I'm talking about 1970, 25 years before cells phones became commonplace. Back then there was no way of taking an argument on the road with you unless she traveled with a pocket full of dimes and was willing to stand in a phone booth while other people waited on line for their turn.
Usually, I would lose her immediately after we pulled into our driveway. As soon as we came through the front door, she would hurry to the telephone to call up my father's store with the same urgency that someone hurries to the toilet. Other days, our morning couldn't officially start until she phoned Bernie at the fur store at least thirty or forty times. She would call, scream' fuck you!' to him or to my grandmother Sally who he worked with, then hang up and do the same thing again, over and over.
The only thing that could keep Priscilla away from the phone when we were at home was redecorating. I was more than happy to help her move whatever antique she wanted as I followed her from room to room to make sure she stayed occupied and distracted. She was as strong as a Longshoreman when it came to moving furniture (they say a mother's love of a child can lift a car off her baby; well, a mother's love of decorating can lift a dresser onto her head). Luckily, there were so much furniture in the house from years of antiquing that the redecorating possibilities were endless. She had no specific period or style of decorating that she tried to imitate, and would mix and match in ways that other housewives or decorators would never think of or dare to do. The only thing Priscilla would never think of doing would be decorating with furniture that was brand new.
New furniture has never spoken to her, and doesn't make her feel anything inside. It's lifeless. Something needs a past to give it a pulse. Believe it or not, Priscilla has never bought one single piece of new furniture in her entire life. It wasn't intentional; she has just always been drawn to used things. Stop and think about it. Imagine that at 76 years old, she has still not ever walked into a store and bought a new chair, table, lamp, dish, painting, drinking glass, picture frame, mirror,cabinet, dresser,shelf, or even an ashtray. Besides appliances and mattresses, pillows and carpeting, everything she has ever bought came with a past. When I asked her to think of any new piece of furniture that she might have ever bought, the only two things she could think of was a beach chair (which I said didn't count because it was outdoor furniture) and a cushioned toilet seat.
Some of her antiques cost alot, some she got bargains on, and some she found for really cheap or even free. Whether a piece was considered to be valuable or not was unimportant. As long as something was old and swirly, it could be considered an antique, and she would love it as such. It didn't have to be in perfect condition, or even work.
I remember specifically a very fancy umbrella stand filled with antique French parasols that she had in the foyer by the front door of our first apartment in Queens. My father got angry enough to kick it one raining night when none of the parasols would open.
" I can't find one normal umbrella in this thing! None of them even open!"
" It's a parasol stand, Bernie."
" No Priscilla, it's an umbrella bucket!"
" They're not meant to be used."
" What kind of umbrella isn't meant to be used," my father fumed as he pulled one out of the stand and tried to open it with all his strength.
" Bernie, stop! You're going to break it. Those parasols are very special to me. I love them."
" Priscilla, what kind of crazy person loves umbrellas that don't open."
I stood in the corner with my thick glasses on crying as I watched my mother defend the parasols.
For all these years I never knew why it made me cry, until now. I must have realized at that moment that as long as Priscilla loved antiques for their imperfections, she would always love me for mine.
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| PRISCILLA PROUDLY POSING ON A THANKSGIVING IN THE LATE 1980'S WITH ANTIQUES ALL AROUND ( EXCEPT THE TURKEY, I HOPE). |
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