Turkeys, Balloons

Perhaps it is the avalanche of all the flyers with turkey sale prices, or the falling leaves.  I’m not quite certain, but I keep revisiting The Neighborhood, The Avenue, and the Thanksgiving dinners always spent at my Grandfather’s home.  We didn’t walk through the woods, but simply went up one flight of stairs in the tenement on West 58h Street to the Patriarch’s home.

That was after the Parade, of course, which was a Thanksgiving Day ritual for my Father, Ellen, and I.  Mom always stayed home, “To help with the vegetables.”

Memories, of course, are always selective.  We savor the good ones, discard the unpleasant ones, and somewhere trapped in between are the odd ones.  The few that make us aware of the passage not only of time,. but viewpoints and opinions

Snuggled between the memories of turkeys roasting and the cold winds waiting for the balloons to pass on 7th Avenue, I remember Mom’s collection of “Poor Souls” and “Broken Hearts.”  I know it was the “Broken Hearts” that always fascinated me.  I was an eccentric youngster, always dwelling on the literate meaning of the word, and intrigued with the collection of ”Broken Hearts” living in the neighborhood.

They were viewed with the utmost sympathy by their female peers, and given the ultimate respect.  Odd in today’s world when women are praised for their achievements and strength and ability to make demands not only in the workplace, but socially.  It is the era of a Carly Fiorina and Hillary Clinton; neither anyone would dare to term broken hearted.

Back then, as hard as it may be for any of the current generation to comprehend, there was neither TV, computer, nor did our homes have phones, either landline or cell.  Communication was strictly vocal, either on the Avenue returning from Paddy’s Market, outside the Church after 12:40 Mass, or perhaps lingering on the stoop while waiting for the Mailman.  I would stand closely by so I could overhear the conversations and determine whose heart was recently broken.

There were usually three reasons for the disaster.  None involved physical trauma or a life threatening illness.  The majority were caused by a son, and also involving the Church.  The worst scenario occurred when a loving Mother had a son who left the Seminary prior to ordination.  I recall that was the worst of the worsts, followed by a son who refused to enter the Seminary, and then, of course, a son who married not only out of the neighborhood, but a woman of a different nationality, a/k/a not Irish.

 I have to wonder about all those broken hearts today as I read about income inequality, and women’s rights.  In 2015 women are respected for their ability to cope, and it is difficult to imagine any sympathy being extended to a broken hearted victim.  In one sense we have certainly come a long, long way.  In another, are we desensitized?  Have we realistically accepted the choices our sons and daughters make rather than feeling victimized?  Or have we removed ourselves emotionally to another less involved level?  I am not certain.  Nor do I pretend to know which is the better scenario.

I only know that the times, they are indeed different.  Be that as it may, some things will remain the same.  A roasting turkey will always smell enticing, and soon the balloons will make it down the Avenue again, thanks to Macy’s, and life will go on.  And if in 2015 there are females with hearts that have been broken for decidedly different reasons, they will hide it well this year.  Because as the song goes, “We Are Woman,” and all of us have chosen to stop being victims.