Andy, the first dog I wasn't afraid of.

 

I have been afraid of animals since I was 2 years old. The incident that brought on this fear involved a cat at a motel in Houston, Texas. I had just turned 2. We were leaving California and heading for Massachusetts but that's another story. 

Cats were the worst, a phobia although a past friend found testing me worth losing our friendship over, that plagued me until a few years ago. I tried to hold in that fear but there were times I just couldn't. Still, another story. 

When I was 9 or so, a neighbor found out I was afraid of dogs and she just couldn't tolerate that so she helped me to at least learn that touching a dog wouldn't literally kill me.  She invited me into her house to visit with her dog, a female as I recall. We sat with her dog, its back to us and she guided my hand to her (the dogs) back. The dog did nothing. I continued to pet her for a few minutes. I was still afraid but not of this dog. So it was and still is that I make friends one dog at a time letting them come to me. Except of course for the River Rats (a dog pack) but that's another story. 

We had friends who owned a farm in Tewksbury, Mass. where they raised pigs, kept chickens and always had dogs. One day, when I was about 6, I sat in a metal lawn chair on the back porch enjoying the sunlight and the beautiful surroundings. While I was taking it all in their Collie puppy, Lassie,  came running to me and out of no where it's paws were on my left hand and I jumped up and ran into the house. The dogs were rarely in the house. We visited Sonja and Bror and Stevie most summers, sometimes holidays and they would visit us. I guess it was the summer after I met my neighbor's dog that I was less apprehensive with the farm dogs but they were still high energy and funny. They didn't stop anyone from going in but they would surround anyone, barking anxiously when anyone tried to leave the house before the Berg's came out. One of the dogs, a Dalmation named Andy, was older and allowed in the house because of his age. I would sit with him and he let me pet him, never moving, never making a sound. I wanted to take him home to live with us. Everyone in the family knew about my fear and I suppose they were encouraged by my closeness to this dog. Maybe I was growing out of  it. Then I told them I wanted Andy to come home with us. My parents and Sonja were really supportive, kind, gentle in denying me my wish. Sonja explained that Andy was old and sick and he cried during the night because of his pain. My parents said that he wouldn't be able  to walk up the stairs to the house or my bedroom. He would have to sleep in the ground floor basement. He would be lonely. At some point I understood that I wasn't going to bring Andy home and it was best for him. It never occured to me that I wanted to take away someone's dog. While I might joke about that now, I would never seriouslly suggest taking away someone's pet. But I was 9. Andy wasn't there the next summer. No one had to say anything. 

Andy was the first dog I wasn't afraid of. Over time my mother and family members got dogs but I didn't get my first dog until I was 62. He as a gift from G-d. He was Renard.

I don't think of Andy often but from time to time I see a photo of a Dalmation and I remember. I painted this portrait in 2019 from a photo of a senior Dalmation with blue eyes, just like Andy. 

Feeling different

 

I don't remember when exactly it struck me that somehow my immigrant mother knew what her children needed to have in their new schools. We always had everything we needed, extra socks for gym class, oil cloth for art class, paper covers for our books, valentine cards for our classroom exchange and end of the year gifts for our teachers. We never talked about it. I guess there were notes sent home to all of the households and my older brother and sister had been through these things first as immigrants in new schools. And I wasn't the only one. Other of my classmates were the children of immigrants. Not many, but enough to know we weren't alone. My mother came to class visits. My father went to visit teachers if there were problems. Never with me or Jeannie but with Rose and Gunnar. It was always to do with learning and grades; never behavior. While there was respect for the teachers, my father insisted in understanding both sides and would argued successfully on his children's behalf. 

I remember when I was in the 4^th or 5^th grade, parents visited during our reading session. We were divided into sections by ability and 3 or 4 our us were at a round table at the front of the classroom. The parents sat in the back and watching and listening. When I got home my mother asked me why I was at a different table. Had I been talking? Oh no. I sit there during reading because I was a good reader. One of the best readers. Okay. my report card reflected my skill in reading. She smiled.

But as she got older, she attended fewer programs. I don't know why. Maybe she was tired. My parents didn't attend the Freshman program. I was one of the students chosen to participate in the Indian Clubs demo. There weren't any programs after that. I was part of the Polish Culture club but they never attended those programs. They weren't Polish so I guess they didn't think it was important. I never worried about it. I never expected it. I do remember my high school graduation; mid June in New Jersey; I looked up into the stands and saw my mother and father standing to leave the ceremony before my name had been called. Yeah. No hurt feeling just. Yeah. When I got home my mother told me she just couldn't take the heat. I didn't even ask. She just told me they had left early. 

I was on my own at school. Well, I knew if anything happened they would come. I knew that they would stand up for me. But I also knew they somehow expected me to be in control; organized. 

I don't think it was any different for Jeannie. Jeannie had a speech problem in early grade school and went to speech therapy classes but she never got into trouble in school.  Neither did my older sister or brother. I'm not saying we didn't fight with each other or disobey but there was never any trouble involving neighbors or the school. We were normal kids. But I always felt we weren't. Looking back now I realize that no one had a normal childhood. We had all of our needs met. Even at our poorest, and we had been poor, we were clean and well fed and looked after. My mother was always at home for us. My father came home after work and on weekends we would go as a family to the park, Lincoln Park in Jersey City or Battery Park in NYC. We were always dressed up in our Sunday best although we didn't go to church very often. We were always loved. 

As I was entereing 6th grade we moved to Newark, N.J. No happy memories there. Lots of hate from the black population in the preriot years that took me to my 50s to deal with. They liked the apartment and it was practically on top of the grammar school. That's where I met my oldest friend, Yim Yi and her sister Yim Wah. Yim lived in the projects that separated me from the junior high school we would be attending. Well, my parents were prejudiced so I couldn't have black friends. Most of the kids were okay but there were some black kids who just flat out hated me and other whitie kids for being white. Not long ago, my sister Jean told me that she worried about me going to the junior high school because I wasn't safe. She wanted us to move so I would be safe. We did move before I the summer of 9th grade but not for my safety; for Jean's safety because they were afraid she wouldn't keep quiet with the black kids. They were sure she would be beaten up for speaking up. I told Jean this and explained that I handled the kids who tried to bully me and shake me down because I responded without fear. I just knew what to say. They would leave me alone. Still, I was glad we moved. I made great friends in Bayonne. I felt different. I still feel different.

There were many moves. Many jobs. I finally returned to New Jersey and to college. My parents proudly attended that graduation. It was June but it was inside. My father was filled with joy and pride. I was the first and only child to graduate from college.