The Day Mary Poppins Died

Grandma got this book for me when I was a kid. Still have it and it keeps me connected to my past.

(Introduction: I wrote this entry about nine years ago when I began a mission to reacquire bits and pieces of my past from E-bay. At that time, I bought a whole bunch of personal treasures “(junk” to those  who are not lost in a 1970’s time warp) from a Partridge Family lunchbox & thermos set to original Chrissy, Cinammon and Kerry dolls from Ideal in mint condition. I have since reconnected with one of my sixth grade classmates who I refer to in this post that caused me a lot of prepubescent anguish back in elementary school. “Evelyn” is actually a very nice grown-up, a great mom and has turned into a good friend since we reconnected on Facebook a couple of years ago.  She even had her teeth fixed! (And I hope that if she ever reads this, will not be mad at me for sharing). The point here is that “stuff” that happens when you’re twelve sticks with you…forever. Well, especially if you are someone who just can’t let go of that polyester, mood ring and tie-dyed decade).

I am going to kill my father! I said to myself about two and a half years ago as I was sitting on the couch in my parents’ living room, stroking the silky, black fur of Mookie, the family cat.  I took another glance over towards the bookcase in the dining room, shocked at what I did not see. Where are they? Where’s Nancy Drew?  The Hardy Boys?  Mary Poppins? My Partridge Family books?  What did he do with them? I thought to myself.

For years, the metal and wood-paneled case housed all of my literary favorites from Carolyn Keene’s Nancy Drew and Dana Girls mysteries to Judy Blume’s Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and her other tales about growing up.  Then there were the TV books featuring the likes of the Partridge Family and Charlie’s Angels.  As an only (and often lonely) child, I longed to be the sixth Partridge Family kid and get to ride on the groovy, psychedelic bus. I would often lull myself to sleep, dreaming about being up onstage belting out I Think I Love You along with Shirley, Keith and the rest of the sensational, singing clan.

A few years later in my pimply, frizzy-haired, round-bodied, pre-adolescence, I yearned to be thin, blonde, gorgeous and popular like Farrah Fawcett.  See dad.  Not only did you dispose of my books; you threw away chapters of childhood memories.  Suddenly, they were flashing before my eyes.

There was the quintessential pre-pubescent tale of angst, Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret?   I had an original copy with a worn-out, purple cover featuring a young girl, with her blonde hair flowing and floating in air.  I remember pouring over that book, over and over again as I began my dreadful descent into puberty.  I could relate to 12-year old Margaret’s struggles to come to terms with body changes, annoying relatives, conceited classmates and most of all, the desire to fit in and be popular.  When I was 12, I was in a sixth grade IGC class (supposedly standing for—intellectually gifted children).  It should have been called the ICC class (incredibly cruel children).  Thankfully, I only spent one year in that school with those kids.

Probably my all-time favorite book about growing up. Judy Blume always told the truth. That's the way to do it!

 

“Hey, want to come out and have lunch with us?” gap-toothed Evelyn asked with her usual sheepish grin. 

I knew some of my classmates headed to McDonald’s for lunch. After all, the sixth graders were allowed to leave the building lunchtime.  I was always up for a quarter pounder.  Plus, I could not pass up the opportunity to join the gang.  This was my first invitation, even though it was now January.  Here’s my chance to fit in.  But yikes!  Smack!  The snowball hit me square on the back of the noggin!  It didn’t hurt too much.  But I discovered shortly after that the only reason I was asked to make the trek to Mickey D’s was to be target practice.  That hurt more than the cold snow that landed on my head.

Then there was the time my teacher was absent. On this day, a couple of girls convinced me to have a few itchy dandruff flakes checked for those creepy head bugs.  I noticed those girls snickering as the sub wrote out a pass to the nurse’s office. For some reason, I ended up instead in the principal’s office.

I forgot the head honcho’s name. Let’s call him Mr. Prince. Well, Mr. Prince took out some wooden tongue depressor device and used it to mow through my curly, afro-like mop. “Hmm,” he mused, noticing some small white flakes. “Interesting,” he noted.  He then proceeded to summon the assistant principal whose name also escapes me. Let’s call him Mr. Pal. Well, Mr. Prince and Mr. Pal were going through my tight curls like Eddie Albert on Green Acres raking through the leaves and manure. Finally, Mr. Pal said, “Nope. It is looks just like dandruff to me since it moves easily.” (The real deal buggers stick to the scalp and don’t budge). Eww! Was this all some really bad Head and Shoulders commercial? Nope. It was just one very embarrassing moment. Of course, there were no lice, just some hurt feelings and back I went to class.

I never got it.  Back in October, my parents invited just about all of my classmates over for a Halloween costume party.  They cooked up huge pots of spaghetti and meatballs.  Everyone seemed to be having a great time as we bobbed for apples, did the musical chair routine and told scary stories.  But just a few short days later, I was ignored again. 

“Go away and leave us alone,””Tina” shouted as I attempted to park my lunchroom tray next to her and some classmates. “Go and make some other friends! We are not interested!”  So my sloppy joes and I slid down to the edge of the table, sadly settling in at the corner of the table, alone again naturally.

Since these ICC kids knew where I lived, they would often buzz me on the intercom from downstairs and run away.  They would also call my house and hang up or say really silly things I can’t even remember.  I knew it was them! I could hear that silly Evelyn’s  voice snickering on the other end of the phone.

 

You know something?  Maybe it was just as well that the Margaret book was gone. Perhaps, throwing away the book would help me get rid of the snowballs, lice, sloppy joes and some other really bad memories. Maybe some sort of cathartic experience? But along with Margaret went a whole bunch of good reads and good memories.  How could you dad? I thought to myself. 

He said he gave me advanced warning to come and pack up Nancy Drew’s magnifying glass, Margaret’s angst and Mary Poppins and her umbrella.  But I never expected that if I continued to dilly-dally, a clean, chimney sweep of my prized possessions would take place.

“How many times did I have to tell you to come and get your books?”

“Well, yeah.  But you didn’t say you would exterminate them if I didn’t pick them up.” 

Hey, he just killed some of my closest friends.  You know what they say about books being those perfect companions?  I was just trying to figure out where I was going to put them all.  I ran out of shelf space.  Didn’t he realize I just moved into a new apartment and needed some time to plan where to put things? 

I thought for a moment and I was just so grateful that a couple of months earlier, I rescued my Archie comics collection and Tiger Beat teen magazines from possible oblivion.  I also made a mental note to pack up my entire record album collection and board games so they would not meet the same sorry fate as my books.

“Look, you moved out almost two years ago!  And I told you if you didn’t come and get them they were going down the incinerator!”

No point in continuing this argument.  I looked over at the bookcase that was now as empty as an amusement park in the midst of winter. Well, the 1977 World Book Encyclopedia remained along with a few newspaper clippings, some folders and one lonely Jetsons comic book that somehow managed to survive the purge.

“So tell me dad,” although at this point, I seriously doubted that this sixty something, balding man with similar facial features could ever be my father.  Any dad of mine would understand my life-long affinity for all things Nancy Drew and Partridge.

 “Why in the world did you throw out all of my childhood books?  Didn’t you realize they were pieces of my heart?”

“Don’t be so dramatic!” he interrupted. “Besides I didn’t throw everything away.  I saved the encyclopedia.  I figured you might need it for your students at school!”   (I now teach kids who are the same age I was when I first discovered Margaret’s puberty and how heavenly Charlie’s Angels were).

He just doesn’t get it.  Look maybe it is not my dad’s fault.  After all, he is afflicted with manic-depressive disorder as a result of his horrific experiences as a Holocaust survivor.  I suspect these books were probably flung down the trash chute during one of his manic episodes.  I could just picture him being unable to sleep and deciding to do some massive cleaning.  What a vision!  One by one—Nancy Drew, Partridges, all disappearing down that compactor, kind of like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when that nasty Veruka Salt went down the bad egg chute.  But she got what she deserved. But not my books!  My life-long friends clearly did not deserve being turned into dust.

Certainly not childhood chums like Mary Poppins. I remember being eight and spending several weekends in the Bronx with my grandparents before they moved to Florida.  I was back on Fordham Road, walking alongside my grandma.  We stopped in her favorite department store, a great place for bargains, Alexander’s.  We headed to the children’s book section.  I picked out the marvelous Mary Poppins.  I had seen the delightful movie starring Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke.  I remember Mary floating in the sky with her umbrella and tending to Van Dyke’s kids.  Grandma got the book for me.  It was an over-sized version with a picture of Mary on the cover.  I remember clutching it on the way to the park, humming, “Just a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down. . .” along the way.  I devoured the book when we got back to grandmas.  I read while she prepared my favorite supper—spaghetti and meatballs.

Grandma was long gone.  But every time I would visit my parents’ house and see Mary Poppins on the shelf, I was eight again, sitting in grandma’s kitchen while she lovingly prepared our meals.

I remember being in fourth grade and my mom taking me to Playworld or Korvette’s to get the latest installment of Nancy Drew.  I remember the $1.25 price tag on the top right-handed corner. I would quickly finish it and then take it to school.  “Hey, Erica.  I’ll trade you The Secret of the Hidden Staircase for the Bungalow Mystery.” 

Erica and all of my friends and I would lend each other Nancy Drews and other books.  We would sit in the schoolyard, talking about our favorite novels and mysteries as we made paper fortune cookies and pretended to be Charlie’s Angels. 

My dad finally said he was sorry for throwing away my books, not realizing he was disposing of important chapters of my life.  But what could I do?  It’s the whole spilled milk thing or in my case, demolished Dana Girls.

The first ever Nancy Drew book (not first edition. This is a mid 1970's version).  Another one of my childhood favorites!

 

I decided I would head to E-bay, the auction service, punch in Partridge Family, Nancy Drew and Charlie’s Angels and attempt to slowly rebuild my collection. But did I really need to? Even though those books were no longer gathering dust on the shelves, they would be permanently affixed to my heart.

 Epilogue: : I actually found the giant Golden Book’s Walt Disney’s Mary Poppins on E-bay and it is currently collecting dust on my book shelf—next to my Grease picture novel and the Partridge Family Album, a fun, mid 1990’s fun retrospective written by Joey Green. So is all of the other memorabilia. Fortunately, I have not added much to the collection in the past few years. Yet the I Dream of Jeannie bottle remains perched on the coffee table with its two painted-on cartoon eyes staring at me (and often in desperate need of a cleaning).

 "Is this really the first thing that you want people to see when they come in here?" quizzes my husband, referring to the Partridge Family and Family Affair lunchboxes that sit on the rattan display case on a wall towards the front of our apartment.  Well, not sure if it is who I am. Trying to sort it out. At times, I think I remain that kooky "lost in the 70's" chick who sometimes has a hard time letting go of the past. After all, there's something comforting about having the "stuff" around, like a security blanket. But in some ways, they're a burden, too, reminding you of a time and place when you were that little girl who serenely and safely sat nested in her yellow bean bag chair, eating a Drake's devil dog, watching a favorite old sitcom and dreaming of a better life. I am now an alleged responsible adult. A teacher. A wife. Is it safe to let go?

A piece of memorabilia I wished I owned as a kid but acquired about ten years ago on an "ebay shopping spree." Just can't let go of the past!

Do I want to keep going back to a time when my only companions were television friends from the "reel" world, who helped keep me, an only (and often, lonely) child company?  Conflicting. Sometimes, it is reassuring to revisit a time when life’s problems were always neatly wrapped up in a half- hour episode, tied together with a moral. Love. Compassion. Understanding. Why can’t everyone get along so well in the real world as they do in the reel world? I used to think to myself.  

While I missed having siblings around and there was not a friend in sight, I remember soaring to the top of Uncle Bill’s luxury apartment in the Manhattan sky with Buffy and Jody on Family Affair and recall Uncle Bill sitting on the edge of his niece’s bed and uttering those three magic reassuring words, “I love you!” And then there was Phoebe Figalily (the original Nanny from Nanny & the Professor) who reminded everyone in the show’s opening theme song to “have a little bit of faith and lots of love.”  A few other words that have transcended time and stuck by me in times of trouble…

But you are not there anymore. I have to constantly tell myself. You are married to a great guy who accepts you and even embraces that inner child. For the past several years, I have  formed a few valued friendships and met some great real people with whom I can turn to and confide in. You are no longer that frightened, ostracized grade schooler. Got to keep reminding myself. In fact, you are now middle-aged and need to grow up. Even my new (old friend) Evelyn has urged me to let go of the past and embrace the present which includes a loving husband, a good job, good health, good friends and thankfully, a still decent appearance.

The inner ping pong tournament continues.