Polichinka Memories

   When I was young, we Moran kids were far from affluent.  Accordingly, most of our clothes were hand-me-downs.  Well, not really.  You see, "hand-me-downs" generally come from older members of the same family.  We wore "hand-it-overs" -- clothes given to us by distant relatives or complete strangers.  It really wasn't so bad, though.  It was like heading over to the armory for blocks of government cheese.  Quite simply, it's what you did to get by in life.  And, fortunately, I never ran into a strange kid who pointed at me and said, "Hey, that's my old shirt".  (If I did, I've totally blocked it out.)

   I remember wondering if I hadn't been born with special skills because it said "Lover" on the waistband of my jockey shorts.  I don't recall exactly who the Lover family were, but I'm pretty sure our connection to them was through my Aunt Harriet.  At any rate, we wore a lot of their stuff, and the Lover boys (Billy, Stephen and Alec) took real good care of their wardrobe.  But, to this day, I curse Billy Lover because he had such narrow feet.  Fifty-something years later, I still suffer with a chronic ingrown toenail stemming from having to squeeze into Billy's oppressively tight shoes lo those many years ago.

   But this blog entry is not about  "Lover Memories", (for those, you'll have to buy my book).  No, this is about "Polichinka" memories, and it involves Mr. Baxter who used to donate his daughter's cast-offs to the needy (guess who).  But Mr. Baxter took benevolence to the extreme -- he delivered the goods personally, so he could see the joy on my sisters' faces and the sparkle in their eyes over the prospect of donning Elizabeth's yellowing duds.

   One fine day, he showed up at our door in the projects with a paper shopping bag under his arm (no doubt containing one or more of Elizabeth's half slips and perhaps a frayed cardigan sweater).  His intentions were noble, but he had a truly superior attitude about the transaction, and he spoke in such patronizing tones.  He had been at our place before, but he must've been unsure of our last name.  (He sounded like a constipated
Arthur Treacher).

   My Mom answered the door.  Taking a deep breath, and sounding as benevolent as he possibly could,
Mr. Baxter asked, "Is this the residue of Mrs. Polichinka?"  No response.  He asked the question again -- this time with his eyes and a tilt of his head.  "No", my Mother finally said, "It's the RESIDENCE OF MRS. MORAN!" -- whereupon she slammed the door.  Poor woman; I believe she was having a really bad week, and his high-fallutin' benevolence was too great a strain to bear. 

   Also, my guess is that the Polichinka girls, (undoubtedly his next stop), received some bonus "Moran" threads that fine day.

   And here comes the fun part of that memory.  For decades after that, Mom and I would re-live that scene whenever I came home on leave from the service.  Over time, we changed it a little, but we both got a kick out of doing it.

   I'd show up at her door and, in my most condescending Thursten Howell voice, I'd inquire, "Is this the residue of Mrs. Polichinka?"  "Yes, it is", she'd reply in her best Hermione Gingold, "What treasures do you have for me?"  Then we'd laugh and laugh for the longest time.  Over the decades, we relived the encounter
dozens of times.

   God bless that wonderful man -- Mr. Baxter!  There is no possible way he could appreciate the years of joy he brought our faces or the untold number of eyes he made twinkle with his innocent little mistake.

   Well into her 80's, we played the game.  Even after she moved to Northview, (when she wasn't always sure of a lot of things), Mom recalled and enjoyed our Polichinka memory.