A COZY RECKONING

I look out at the falling rain and watch as it slides steadily to the ground in uneven wet waves. The garden is a patchwork of slimy mud, silvery shrubs, and the promise of spring weeds. The trees bordering the yard and the brown fence beyond seem hunched against the blitz. The day is solemn, the sky dark and mumbling.

I think of my mother, who once told me to plant tulip bulbs in January to stave off an early bloom. This way, she said, the heavy winter rains will not trounce the delicate petals as they open themselves to a false California spring. Just now I see the green tips of tulips barely peeking out of the soil and I know she was right. By the time these fellows bloom, the heavy rains will have long passed. I wanted to call her and share my excitement. “You were right, Mom…the tulips are safe from this storm.” Then I remember I cannot because she died just three weeks before. Passed away suddenly, passed on to a more beautiful, serene place where she won’t feel any more pain or loneliness, I hoped. Somehow, this thought was comforting to me while I felt filled with sadness.

I look out once again and, though the rain has slowed, the sky is still somber and swollen. The promise of more rain makes me want to build a fire. There is company in a fire on a stormy day. While my cats watch, I crumble newspaper into balls and place them under dry sticks of kindling in the wood stove. Gray Gus and tortoise shell Big Kitty relax and ready themselves for an evening near the warm and reassuring heat. Soon, one will curl up in a basket by the stove, the other in a chair a short distance away.

There is also the dog, the silent, slow-to-react creature that my children ignore and my grandchildren adore. My sons have always preferred bouncing, playful dogs like Labs and spaniels; dogs that will bring back a ball when thrown. LeBrie, which is the name she came with when we adopted her, prefers to watch other dogs run and ‘get it’. Though they may think she is not bright, I find her to be a quiet comfort. So now we sit by the fire, me, Big Kitty, Gus cat, and the silent dog.

As the flames heighten, I watch the firelight dance on the shiny hardwood floor. There is coziness and life in a wood stove fire. Its wide warmth reaches each piece of furniture, every inch of floor, and the furthermost niche of the house. Nestling deeper into the corner of the couch, I again look out at the yard and watch two doves eating at the ground feeder. Their movements are anxious, and it’s clear their intent is to take flight soon…this garden may be their last stop before dark. Suddenly, a blue jay swoops down over the doves, his purpose to separate and drive them off. But the doves are not intimidated, not this time, and the jay lands some distance away, his feathers and spirit dampened. Today he has lost his potency; the storm has diluted his threat, leaving him to wait in line for his dinner.

I think about Nature and the natural workings and struggles of it. It seems we go through Life as does the tide… rushing in and then receding, at once gaining ground, again losing ground. Ultimately, in the very end, we neither gain nor lose, and all purpose seems moot. I think again about my mother, who lived a largely difficult life and yet who struggled stubbornly against those difficulties, winning a pocketful of joy here, losing to a chasm of grief there, but always righting herself and moving forward. Ultimately, she lost the last deluge, as will we all, leaving me to wonder if there is a purposeful worth to life after all.

 Most days are good days and I happily look back in time at the glad and sad events that are the benchmarks in my life’s timeline. I accept those things that are the substance of my being. What would my history be without the wonderful years of inspiration with my parents; or the deadly earthquake that shook me to my feet; or the travels that opened me to a wider understanding; or the sad and untimely death of my sister; or the chin hairs and transformation into manhood of each of my sons; or the relationships that happily began and unhappily ended; or the miraculous birth of each grandchild?

On a down day, and thank God they are few, I say that Life is made up of an accumulation of events that in the end become meaningless. But today, there is the rain, the fire, the birds outdoors and the animals in; and I am blessed with a safe and snug roof over my head. I have a close knit family that is healthy and happy and who are spiritually good people. Old friends are near and dear, and new friendships are always emerging. Moreover, I still find every second thing in the world amazingly interesting. Today…I cannot find any fault with Life and its properties, nor can I find fault with myself. Today, maybe tomorrow, hopefully the rest of the week, but certainly today, I feel as though I have been handed a magnificent gift.

Patty Morelli

Boo-boos and Band-aids

When I was a small child, perhaps 3 years old or so, I would walk each morning  from my home to the home of my Nona, just one short block away. She would greet me happily and then fix me a breakfast of warm milk over buttered toast with a sprinkling of sugar overall. She would make herself a cup of coffee by boiling water in a saucepan, then sprinkling in some coffee grounds, stirring it, then pouring it through a strainer into a cup. (I still think of her cozy kitchen and those mornings whenever I get a whiff of fresh made coffee.) Then she would watch me eat while she sipped her coffee. After breakfast, she would brush my very curly hair and manipulate it into two braids. Then it was time to go out and water and weed  her garden. While Nona worked, I chased after butterflies and lizards. One day, while sprinting after a dragonfly, I tripped over the garden hose and down I went, scratching my knee.

“Nona,” I cried out as I ran to my grandmother, dragging my leg in an exaggerated limp. “I fell…ow-w-w-…ow-w-w-....I have a booboo on my leg!” It was a warm day with a light breeze softening the sun’s heat. Nona was bent over rows of carrots and lettuce, weeding and cultivating. Her backyard was made up of a number of raised growing beds that allowed for good drainage and also gave a semblance of visual order. In between the beds lay green roofing paper to discourage the growth of weeds and to provide a dry walkway. It was on that walkway that I had fallen and scratched my knee. The paper was stiff and coarse, much like grainy sandpaper. 

At the sound of my wailing, Nona dropped her hoe and came to my side. Speaking softly in Italian and blowing on the ‘boo-boo’, she made a quick appraisal of my roughed up knee; then she sat me in the curve of a warm canvas chair under the apricot tree and went into the house. I sat there alone, whimpering, with my arms wrapped about both my knees. Looking down at the wound, a salty tear slide off my cheek and onto the raw patch of skin, and I would blow bubbly breaths onto it to lessen the sting.

Nona soon returned with a metal Band-Aid box in one hand and a little bottle of mercurochrome in the other. The sight of the small, brown bottle brought more tears and loud protests.  But the grandmother nurse won out. Murmuring quiet endearments she shook the bottle, then opening the cap, she carefully guided several drops of the metallic orange liquid down the glass wand and onto the boo-boo. More sobbing---more blubbering of “Blow! Blow! Blow!” Nona swelled her chest and emitted stout bursts of warm breath onto the blazing inferno. Slowly, the stinging grew less fierce. After another moment, she resettled me on her lap and reached for the Band-Aid box on the nearby table. Oh, what a marvelous thing, the Band-Aid! She opened the box and slowly pushed her finger around its insides. Wanting to find just the right one, she would glance once or twice at my wound to appraise it. Finally she pulled out a thin strip. She showed it to me and then snapped the box shut. I immediately felt safer. Once that small, filmy thing was stuck on, I knew I’d be fine.

Carefully, Nona tore off one end of the wrapper and then , wetting her thumb and finger, she seized the orange string that dangled from the wrapper and pulled on it. Zip! There it was! My Band-aid! I offered her my knee…..by now my tears and sniffy nose had both dried up. She gently pressed the Band-Aid over my ‘boo-boo’; the tiny perforations of the padded center filled with the fluorescence of the mercurochrome. To test my new badge of courage, I flexed my knee and felt no pain. Then Nona wrapped her smooth sunburned arms around me and tucked me into her large lap. We sat there quietly while she rocked me. There was the faint smell of garlic on her breath and when I looked up at her, the sun shone strongly behind her head forming a fuzzy white halo of hair about her face. At that moment she seemed like an angel to me.

After some moments, Nona and I got up and straightened our cotton skirts. Then Nona looked up into the branches of the apricot tree and picked a large, blushing apricot. She twisted it clean in her apron and gave it to me. I sat back down in the canvas chair and sucked on the soft, darker side of the fruit and watched Nona return to her garden.

Those were days of warmth and companionship and complete security for me. There was never a doubt or mistrust to pass my mind. How trivial were the pleasures, yet, how grand they were….even such a tiny thing as a boo-boo and a Band-aid.

Tales of a Third Grade Tomboy

      Anthony smells like my father’s hairbrush—a mixture of Lanolin and Old Spice. He sits in front of me, and I can see small flakes of dandruff on his sweater. He’s so prudish, I’m thinking, and so studious. I envy his ability with arithmetic. As I sit listening to our teacher, Mrs. Thompson, I play with my tooth. It’s an upper front tooth, and it feels wiggly. One finger is busy with my mouth, while the other traces over a crudely engraved name on my desk. The name is ‘Andy’ and the boldness and depth of the letters indicates the resolve of an academically disinterested boy.  Because of the darkness of the carving it’s obvious to me that Andy had done his deed many years before.  Just above ‘Andy’ is the hole where an inkbottle once fit; however, now the ink bottle is gone—taken from all the school desks long ago. I remember my mom telling me that when she attended this school, a boy had taken the pigtail of the girl sitting in front of him and stuffed it into his ink bottle, changing the pigtail from blonde to black. For some reason when she told that story, it sounded deliciously wonderful to me. I figured all the inkwells disappeared after that prank.

     Our teacher, Mrs. Thompson, prattles on—interrupting her lecture to scold a wiggle-worm or to acknowledge Arlene’s waving hand in her desperate need to go to the bathroom. We all whisper remarks to Arlene as she pushes down our row of desks and hurries out the back door. We’re smarties, alright, confident and trouble-free. My fingers continue to massage my tooth. By now I think I can taste the faint sweetness of blood, but when I examine my finger, it shines messy with saliva, nothing more.

        I glance over at Maryann in the next row and my confidence wavers for a moment. Maryann is wearing a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar and a neatly pleated wool skirt. A soft pink cardigan sweater rests perfectly on her shoulders; the top button is fastened at the throat, setting off that starched white collar. Her hair is smooth and shiny, her fingernails clean and neatly trimmed. Even now, as we squirm with boredom, she sits straight and quietly at her desk—hands folded in front of her.  A small gold ring encircles her middle finger. I glance at my cotton skirt, my skinned knees, my blotchy nails, my ring-less fingers. Perhaps if I hadn’t climbed that tree over the weekend...racing my brother to the top...my hands would be smoother, the nails intact, my knees unscuffed. But I did climb it and I gasped at the view from the top, calling to my sweet brother who was panting just one limb below me. Can you see the ocean? Look, there’s Mrs. Steffani  in her garden! The eternal wind buffeted our faces and gently swayed the tree top as we took it all in. What could be better than that? Nothing’s better than that…..Then I remember my tooth and put my fingers in my mouth, gently pushing it forward and back. Maybe by the time I get home, it will be ready to be pulled. Maybe….

Patty Morelli   

Leaving Davenport

By Patty Morelli

I have so many wonderful experiences to share about my childhood in Davenport. Both my Mom, Evelyn Collins, and my Dad, Mac Morelli, grew up in Davenport as did their parents (Gilda Bertacca and Tony Collins; Roy 'Tootsie' Morelli and Violet Dingwall). As a result, there is a wealth of stories to share. There were happy times, sad times, and times of change. Still, for me, it was life at its best.

Davenport is a small agricultural and cement producing town situated about 70 miles south of San Francisco on the Pacific Coast. I lived in Davenport until I was 13 years old and then, one day, we moved to Santa Cruz. I remember very well the day we left. It was the day after Easter vacation started in 1953. We had stuffed the last of our boxed up belongings between my 2 sisters, Margo and Carole, in the back seat of our old Chevy. My brother Mackie and I climbed halfheartedly into the front seat. My Mom was driving and I could see she was eager to move, to shake the dust off her shoes and move on. She’d been a Davenport girl since she was 3 years old and now she was starting a new life ‘in the big city’ of Santa Cruz., 10 miles south.

As we pulled away from our house on First Street, she chatted happily, creating wonderful scenarios of times to come. I remember feeling quiet and depressed. I loved my little town and now that the car was moving, I suddenly felt the consequences of not living there. It dawned on me that I would no longer see Pacific School and my teachers, Mrs. Emery and Mrs. Thompson. Even more, I would miss becoming the long awaited upperclassman of the school of 38 students; I would miss graduating from 8th grade with my 4 other classmates.

We continued down the road past the Cement Plant and more thoughts came rushing. I would never again climb up into the tree house my brother and I built in the dusty eucalyptus trees near the railroad tracks. We loved sitting in the safety of “our fort” while the huge, black train engine would slowly puff past us as it pulled filled boxcars from the Cement Plant. I probably would never again see Lenny Domenicelli’s horses, Pal, Lucky, and Babe, who were corralled near our home. My brother, Mackie, my sister, Margo, and I would pet them, feed them rich green weeds pulled from the fields, and then finally chase them and one another all over the hillside.I would miss seeing Georgie Mungai, my very first crush. My Dad was the bartender at the Ocean View Hotel and we would often stop by with our Mom to visit him. Once in awhile, Georgie would drop in and my heart would skip a beat…… my brother, Macie, would tease me and call out “Georgie….Patty loves you!” And I would hit him. I thought about Catechism classes at St. Vincent de Paul’s Church and wondered where I would go for Catechism in Santa Cruz. Would it be the same nuns or different ones?

While my head raced with anxious worries, there whorled in the background the sound of sirens. By this time we had moved onto Highway 1 and were approaching Gregory’s Gas Station, the first of the few Davenport businesses that lined the highway. Suddenly, in the distance, I saw smoke on the left hand side of the road. My Mom slowed down and, just as we approached the Davenport Cash Store, it became evident that it was on fire. I remember having this great feeling of panic and I begged my Mom to stop, to pull over. But we couldn’t stop, she explained, because we had to meet the landlord at our new house in Santa Cruz. We were running late. “Don’t worry, honey” she said. “They’ll rebuild it. Davenport can’t be without a grocery store.” Somehow that didn’t appease me. I knew it didn’t matter, even if they did build a new store, I knew it would never be the same…..not the old Cash Store with its oiled floors; its glass display cases; its hanging sticks of salami and white balls of provolone cheese; and its gasoline pumps outside with the tiny windows that whirled gas as it was being pumped into the waiting cars.

As my Mom drove past, we kids turned around in our seats and sat on our knees to watch through the car's rear window. Smoke and flames billowed out of the roof of the building and men dashed about waving their arms and shouting orders. My heart sank. We continued down the Highway towards Santa Cruz in silence and soon could no longer see the smoke; the hills had gotten in the way. We turned in our seats then and focused on the road ahead. Still no one spoke.

It was a time of transition for us as a family, and a long period of ‘breaking away’ for me. I was becoming a teen-ager, yet I wanted so badly to hang onto my childhood. I felt so protected in Davenport. I knew everyone and everyone knew me. I had the whole countryside as my playground, and the bright blue sky and the sparkling gray-blue ocean for my times of wonder. Never mind the cement dust that caked our sidewalks and coated our cars. Never mind the wind that fluffed my curly hair into a halo of fuzz around my face. Never mind that we didn’t have a movie house or television reception, that there weren’t any Boy Scouts or Brownie Troops. My best friends and favorite playmates were my brother and sisters and we pretty much covered it all. We caught snakes and frogs in the shallow irrigation ditches; we visited with neighbors who rocked on their front porches and offered us cookies; we played pirates and fought bravely with our swords made of wild carrot stalks; we built scooters out of apple boxes and carved guns out of bar soap; we pilfered apricots and apples from neighbors’ sprawling tree branches;  we delighted in reading Superman and Dagwood comic books while sucking on penny candy. We were safe, we were loved, we were one big family in Davenport.

I survived the move, but it took a long time, or what felt to be a long time. I slowly learned ’to be a lady’ and gave up my Tom Boy ways. I adapted to my classroom with as many kids in it as were in the whole of Pacific School in Davenport. I found new friends while my brother went on to play Little League and my sisters joined the Brownies. But, for me, I will never forget my childhood in Davenport. I will never forget who I was when we lived there.

It took quite a while to settle into my new life in Santa Cruz; eventually I fell into the routine of living in a 'big city'. But I never let go of my childhood memories of Davenport and the freedom and safety that I felt living there....that small, windswept farming and cement-producing town of my parents and their parents.....that tight knit community of Italians, Greeks, and Phillipinos who worked, played and somehow stayed together despite time and adversity. This is their story, and ultimately, it has become mine.



Patty, Mackie, Margo and Carole Morelli
In Davenport (New Town) c1952

Davenport Cash Store burning - April 1953