A Frightful Day

My Mom had a full-time job, and before I enrolled in kindergarten, my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, took care of me when Mom and Dad were at work. A babysitter came over to the house late in the afternoon so Tatjana could cook dinner. For the rest of the day, however, Tatjana watched over me. I don't remember how we passed the morning. But at lunch time, we often ate large-curd cottage cheese swimming in canned, heavy-syrup, cling peaches. We took naps every afternoon. When the nap ended, we watched General Hospital while Tatjana ironed in the Rec Room. Sometimes she turned on WTTW-TV, the Chicago PBS affiliate, because the station aired a program designed to teach children the French language. Tatjana would practice French with me regularly because she believed every cultured person should be fluent in French.

My Parents and Tatjana decided it would be a good idea for me to attend a nursery school for a few days each week. That would free some time up for Tatjana: she was, after all, in her early sixties.

I don't know how my Mom learned about the nursery school, but it was not too far from our home. It may have been in Elmwood Park. On a Tuesday morning, Mom and Tatjana dressed me in a teal, bouclé coat and handed me my Raggedy Ann doll. I think they chose that doll because I didn't like it, and they knew I would not be inconsolable were I to lose it. We waited on the sidewalk for the owner of the nursery school, a woman, to pick me up in her pale yellow, Buick station wagon.

I don't remember the ride to the nursery school, but I recall feeling panicked from the moment I arrived at the place. The furniture was plastic and painted in bright, primary colors. At mid-day, the teachers served graham crackers (I hated graham crackers) and milk (I was lactose intolerant).

When the long day ended, I sat in the back seat of the pale yellow, Buick station wagon for the ride home. The woman dropped the other children off at their houses, one by one. Finally, I was the last one in the car, and the woman was lost. I repeated the name of our street, but she seemed incredulous that a street could have such a name. I remember repeatedly telling her that I lived near three landmarks: Kiddieland, Polk Brothers, and the Forest Preserve.

When she pulled into our driveway—one hour later than the time Tatjana had expected me to be home—I was in tears. I could not believe that an adult had not been able to find my house.

That was the end of my nursery-school career.

Suburban Chicago, November 1960. I don't look too happy about going to nursery school.