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During the war, my Mother and I had an apartment in a large
house, which had been separated into rental units. At the front door,
we went up one flight of steps, turned left and entered our living
room, which also served as the bedroom, after we transformed the
studio couch into a bed. Beyond this versatile room was our kitchen.
Both were large, sunny rooms and we considered ourselves fortunate
to inhabit them. There were several drawbacks, however. Our ice-box
stood in the hall beside our apartment door, so it could be serviced
by the ice-man, when no one was home. It was bad enough to run from
the kitchen, through the living room, then out into the hall every
time we needed something from the cooler, but this unfortunate placement
also gave our neighbors the freedom to help themselves to anything
they wanted. The other disadvantage was the community bathroom,
shared by all the tenants, which was across the hall at the top
of the stairs.
Our neighbors were, to say the least, colorful people.
The only daughter of our land-lady lived right next door to us,
with her young husband. She and I were near the same age, so we
found many things in common. The interests, we shared, were fairly
acceptable past times for a woman of the world, such as she, married
and away from parental control. But many an eye brow raised when I,
a high school sophomore, Joined in these activities.
I remember clearly the adventure she, her husband and I, undertook
to discover Just how high people can fly, when they are pretending
to be kites and their fuel is alcohol. The three of us sat at their
kitchen table as we carried on this experiment. The room grew fuzzier
and our spirits flew higher, until someone suggested taking a walk,
if we could proceed to the street, unattended. This required standing,
walking and descending the steps, while attempting to suppress our
silly giggles, but we were game. We needed the fresh air!
Feeling no pain, we managed to float into the hall, where we
came face to face with the land-lady, who had come to visit the
happy newlyweds. Momentarily stunned at the sight of our condition,
she shook with rage, while her lips groped for fitting words of
condemnation. We took advantage of her temporary surprise, half
stumbling, half falling down the stairs in fear of our very lives.
Our fears were well founded, although somewhat out of proportion,
for the land-lady had earned her reputation of a fiery temper, a
roaring voice and a vocabulary befitting a rough and tumble sailor.
That was the one and only time I saw her speechless.
At the other end of the hall lived Julie, a divorcee with two
small children. Julie was a secretary, who dressed with a style and
taste, I openly envied. Often, I wandered down to her end of the hall,
where we would visit over a cup of coffee. The topic of our discussions
was usually men. She told me about her dates and I hung on every
syllable. These chats were brightened even more, for a second reason.
During the course of our conversation, Julie would always offer
me a cigarette.
Upstairs on the third floor lived Dolly, an elderly widow. With
a sparkle in her eyes and a quick, snappy sense of humor. Though
she used a cane to support her aging body, she moved at a lively,
alert pace. I listened, with delight, to the stories she told describing
her glamorous past. Mother was even more fascinated with her vivid
anecdotes. The two of them passed countless hours in what appeared
to be small talk, yet now and again, one would smile or nod in a
special way, as though they shared a private joke.
While Julie worked, Dolly took care of her children. This produced
a constant friction between the two women, for they would argue about
Dolly�s wages, Julie's children and any other point on which they
Disagreed. This in turn, caused our intimate quarters to take on a
frigid atmosphere, for Mother insisted Dolly was in the right and
I was just as certain, that Julie could do no wrong. At times, we
carried this cool stubbornness out into the hall, where we wore it
with pride. Mother and I would raise our chins, straighten our shoulders
and go to our friends, who were on opposite sides, prepared to stand
in defense of our loyal comrades.
There were also apartments on the first floor. In a housekeeping
room, reached by a side entrance, lived a midget. She was a friendly
girl in her late twenties, who mended hosiery in a ten cent store.
Sometimes, when I was in the back yard, she walked out on the porch
and we would exchange a few words over the rail. One day, for a reason
I have long since forgotten, she invited me into her room. It was a
pleasant room, decorated with the souvenirs, that any sentimental
woman might save. I had imagined her room filled with miniature furniture
and was disappointed to find everything of normal size. I noticed a
framed photograph on her dresser and bent to study it more closely.
It was a picture of a movie star! Under the handsome face, in large,
clear handwriting was an autograph, which read, �To my good friend,
Vivian, from Zachory Scott.� Here in the center of her universe, she
displayed her dearest possession, a picture of a famous man, personally
inscribed to her.
I looked at the woman sitting on the edge of a straight back
chair, so her toes could touch the floor. I did not see a midget!
For the first time in all the months she had been living there, I saw a
Person. I saw an Individual with feelings and hopes and dreams, the
same as mine.
I will never forget the time I spent, or the people I met under
the roof of that big, old house. The small, comical land-lord, who
saved money on repair bills by doing the work himself, although the
paint never seemed to dry and the plumbing took on weird noises and
numerous leaks. The friends, who relaxed in our apartment, grateful
for our hospitality and offered in return a deep, genuine companionship.
The old woman, who never grew old, because she moved with purpose and
Humor. The unsure bride, who was still dominated by her Mother. The
attractive divorcee, who had little chance to be gay, while she worked
to support her children. The midget, who was not deformed, where it
really counted, in her heart and in her mind.
The lessons, these people taught me, were far greater than the
ones found in text books, as I went about the daily routine away from
home. These people were real. They were near and alive. Each in her
own way, showed courage and kindness and a faint touch of greatness.
Each was making a strong effort to understand and fit in to the little
slice of life, she had been handed.
These people and others like them, are called the characters of
the world. They are accepted at face value, by most citizens as non-
conformists and feared as bad influences. But these people are my
wealth! They were my teachers and my confidants and my helping hands.
They are my strength and my heritage. They will always be my
key to the true measure of a human beings worth.
They whisper in my ear, with their distant, peculiar voices,
"Don't Judge another, until you know her! Then you will realize,
it is not your place to pass judgment. Just accept her, as the person
she is - - And you will find something in her, that is good!�
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