Dawn Byrne

I didn’t mind hoisting a collapsed baby coach, a baby, diaper bag and purse on and off buses, up to and down from elevated platforms, and in and out of trolley cars. I folded a week’s worth of dirty laundry for three to fit in a shopping cart, and hauled the load uphill to our local laundry mat. Losing my post-pregnancy baby fat while getting chores done at the same time exhilarated me.

Clean clothes folded and back in their drawers and closets, I returned to the shopping center up the hill to food shop. Steadying a huge box of Pampers atop the jam-packed cart of survival supplies for the coming week, I always arriving home with no broken eggs.

I put many miles on my sturdy Graco coach. With our daughter along for the ride, I walked to local shops to buy other essentials, and to my mom’s house for visits. If an odometer spun on that blue buggy, it would’ve turned over.

Then we moved from the city. Almost overnight, I got a driver’s license, drove over a bridge that opened for large boats to pass, and up the boulevard. That same city looked different from behind a wheel than from a bus seat, where I had safely witnessed accidents and an arrest through the bus’s deluxe-sized windows.

I was a married mother, worked full-time and cared for our home. So why did I shirk from the responsibilities of driving? Driving’s a must for busy mothers and makes life easier. Right?

Not in 1988 when operating a green 1970 Chevy Nova. The thing crapped out on me in parking lots, on the bridge, just over the bridge and starting out from any Point A. Each time, after a push from another driver, including the police once, or some magic my husband did underneath it, I chugged on.

While driving to my second shift job, most vehicles headed in the opposite direction, on their way home from day shifts. Traffic was even lighter when I left work, driving home through sleeping neighborhoods. These lucky facts lessened my odds of being in someone’s way and backing up traffic when the testy Nova broke down.

I didn’t believe that the cost of insurance and the upkeep of an automobile was money well spent. Maybe if we could’ve afforded a car that wasn’t almost as old as I was, I’d have felt differently. But for our child to escape the mire of the same city schools I crawled out of, we had to move to an area with limited public transit. I guessed those late shifters without cars swam across the river, and under the bridge that was closed to foot traffic at night, to get home.

My confidence as a driver budded a few weeks after my latest incident. Would I actually experience transporting myself to work and home each night without fear of a breakdown? I started to feel empowered inside the fading green Chevy with its stinky fumes.

Until a cloud hissed in front of me from under the hood. I was near the turn off for the bridge. If I could only get over it, I’d at least be in my new home state for damage assessment.

The few cars that passed me, waved and pointed. But I didn’t stop. Not in the middle of the boulevard!

The white smoke thickened and my visibility dropped. I missed the tricky left turn to the bridge and kept going, afraid to stop in case the car wouldn’t start again. I finally found a gas station and pulled into it. Somehow I had exited the boulevard and was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I couldn’t call my husband to come get me because our 4-year-old daughter was asleep. He’d have to wake her and bring her with him.

Making sure my official-looking badge was still clipped to my blouse, I approached the gas station hut on its island surrounded by pumps, and asked if they had a phone. The attendant didn’t speak English, but pointed to my left.

I scanned the gray, empty, non-residential streets. A public phone hung inside its extended, tri-sided frame across the intersection. Adrenaline still at high pumping power, I power walked to the pay phone.

The dial tone in my ear answered my rushed prayer. I noted the cross streets as I punched in Mom’s number that I had memorized as a child. She was sending my brother to save me. I got back in my car that had stopped streaming smoke and locked myself in as Mom had instructed.

A man knocked on my window a minute later. I lowered the window half an inch to hear what he asked.

“What’s wrong with the car?”

I willed my voice not to shake but sound as official as my badge appeared. “I don’t know. It was smoking. My brother’s on his way.”

He ducked under the hood and then came back to the window. “A hose is cracked. I can clamp it so you can get home.”

My spider senses tingled as he scanned the inside of my car through the window. His too sweet smile and prowling eyes lingered seconds on me. He clearly didn’t work at the station because he hadn’t come from the hut or pumps.

“That’s okay. My brother’ll be here soon,” I said, and wound up the window, staring straight ahead at my open hood.

I thought he'd left, but he reappeared and stared working on my car.

I cracked the window again and said, “I don’t want you to get hurt working under there. It might still be hot.”

He came back to my window and said, “It’s fixed. I clamped it.”

“Oh, thank you.” Could he really have repaired my car? “I’m sorry I don’t have any money to pay you for your help.”

“Well.” He grinned and again his eyes swaggered to the interior of my car. “That’s okay.”

He walked away. Time tick inside me as I breathed; one, two, three minutes maybe.

Movement reflected in my side view mirror. That same man led a group of men. I heard their course language as they headed towards me.

I hoped the man in the hut wasn’t a friend of theirs and would call the police if needed.

You may have guessed that my lone cavalry arrived. My brother screeched into the station. I became hysterical, not improving the situation in which my brother was now involved. He shut the Nova’s hood and I followed him to the bridge.

“Yes, he’s home now, honey. Are you alright?” Mom asked when I called her from my side of the bridge. We continued to chat until we both had settled our nerves, then said good-night.

My husband was impressed the next day with the stranger’s handiwork. But he told me not to advertise my disability next time by keeping the hood opened while waiting for assistance. I entertained the thought that the man who helped was a good Samaritan. But in my husband’s strained face staring back at me, I knew the stranger probably fixed the car because he and his friends didn’t have one, or they wouldn’t have walked to the station. This is where my story ends, and I thank God and brother.

Sewer lines are marked green. Yellow signifies gas, and blue of course, water. I’ve seen blue plumbing trucks and green ones too. No wonder those PSE&G trucks are yellow and white.

Fall leaves decorated the sidewalk as I learned that colors are used to communicate for reasons other than a flag on sports fields and traffic signs and signals. But when Father Time allows Mother Earth to reclaim human markers, the sage advice Call Before Digging should flash in neon hues.

It didn’t.

The result: Learning enough about the sewage system in my 90-year-old house to satisfy any question a curious potty-training grandchild may ask.

More words of wisdom: “I don’t think this is a good place to plant the pine. Your plumbing might be under here.”

My response: “It’ll be okay. It’s just a seedling.”

Later: “You weren’t supposed to let the tree get so big.”

Later than that: Massive evergreen arms dripping with needles reached over our house in a hug. Living inside that embrace distracted me from realizing roots, hidden beneath, invaded our sewer line. The water main and sewage cleanout at the curb had disappeared below grass and clay soil so deep that even the plumbing companies couldn’t tell they were there until excavation, and after using a divining rod that looked like a metal detector. The green and blue markings added contrast to the townships’ yellow spry painted gas alerts.

What I also learned, $5,000 later:

· Cast iron and terra cotta sewer pipes were set underground in sections 90 years ago.

· Sewer pipes are now made of a heavy-duty PVC material cut to length so that tree roots can’t grow through seams.

· You can see inside your sewer line using a lighted camera snake with a cool video screen.

· Large plumbing companies can come out right away when you call them, even at 11:45 pm, so you can flush without being sorry.

· Small plumbing companies are able to charge half of what a large company has to.

· Some companies return for the tool they left behind, and some don’t.

Now, tree-less and color-coded, the front of our house looks like it did when we bought it almost 30 year ago. The freshly seeded mound of brown that used to be our front lawn most vividly reminds me to request utility coloring before planting.

“My mom'll be disappointed if we move back to the old neighborhood, Joe,” I said to my husband.

I was nine when Dad died. Mom had struggled as a single mother raising me and my four siblings. When crime began to move in, she transitioned our family to a safer area.

Now, I stood in the hall of our second floor apartment less than a mile from Mom. Stretching my back, I leaned on the railing, scanning our simple living room, kitchen and bedroom.

“We won't have to live there long,” Joe replied, organizing his tools as he boxed them up for transport. “My aunt said we could rent to buy. We don't even need a down payment.”

Guilt tainted my excitement of being a first time homeowner. But I'd never seen Joe's handsome face so full of drive. Was I choosing between my husband and mother?

A 28-year-old widow, Mom had been left with a disabled son and mother to add to her tragic situation. She stood poised as a super heroine in my mind as she continued to care for my brother.

“We could just stay here a little while longer to save up for a bigger apartment,” I suggested to Joe.

He waved his arm towards our living room stacked almost to the ceiling with baby gifts from my showers. “Dawn, we need more room. Once the baby comes, we won't be able to walk around in here.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, I think our landlady wouldn't like hearing a baby crying at night.”

That patient woman downstairs had allowed us to bring our cat when Joe and I moved in two years before, even though she initially said “No.” She took a chance renting to a young couple with no references. After late rent payments, a clogged toilet, cat urine and our squeaky bed, adding a crying baby seemed too cruel.

“How am I going to help you with all those repairs, and take care of a newborn?”

“We'll be okay,” Joe coaxed. “I can do the work myself.”

“Joe, I don’t want to bring my mother's first grandchild home to an unfinished place to live? And she'll worry too much about our safety.” But waddling into our living room, I began to see the opportunity of a larger home as providential. “I guess we don't have a choice.”

I didn't want Mom to think I disrespected her earlier efforts by agreeing to take the house. However, she had taught me to put my husband first when making a decision.

Joe kissed me. Once more, he assured: “It won't be for long, I promise.”

Hauling a huge belly into my mother's home after one of my last prenatal appointments, I told Mom about our decision. Lowering myself into her chaise lounge chair, I elevated my swollen legs. Mom believed that anxiety wasn't good for a pregnant woman or her baby, so yes, I played hard on her sympathies.

She handed me a glass of lemonade and asked, “What's the address?”

That question rocked me. The thought of her visiting us had never crossed my mind. She had stopped by the apartment only once, since Joe worked two jobs and I had worked a crazy shift doing overnights. But now that I'd be leaving my job to care for the baby, Mom would surely visit.

At that time, I wasn't sure of the answer to her question. I knew how to get there, but hadn't written down the exact number and street. Mom didn't press me for more information than what I gave: “A big drug store's on the corner.”

Two weeks later, past my due date to have the baby, I happily scraped off old living room wallpaper in the house we called our own. Despite my condition, I wanted to help my over-achieving husband with home improvements.

I dabbed at perspiration under my glasses as Joe worked on the testy front door.

Throwing his hands up he said, “I'm gonna work on the bathroom.” He shuffled upstairs

mumbling a list of tools and materials to purchase on his next trip to the hardware store.

A half hour later, he came back down and put his face close to mine. With a twinkle in his eye, he whispered, “Your mom's outside walking around.”

“Yeah, yeah, right.” I wound up to playfully slap him.

“Dawn, I'm serious.” Joe nodded to the window. “She's out front looking around right now.”

My sudden nausea wasn't from morning sickness. “Did you give her the address?”

The way he said “No,” made me put down my scraper. I couldn't believe her homing instinct in finding her very pregnant chick.

I hid behind the wall between the door and front window. I didn't want her to see the place until it was perfect, at least on the inside.

Mom smiled the whole time I watched her wondering the sidewalk in front of our home, hesitating at each house on our block. How did she know from the sketchy information I gave her where to find us? We didn't even own a car parked out front to give her a clue. How long had she been canvassing the neighborhood? I couldn't let her continue walking around in the heat.

I came out of hiding like a little child and called out the front window. “Mom.”

She beamed and came up to the screen.

“Mom, the door worked this morning but I'm not sure if I can open it now. I'm sorry. You might have to climb through here.” We laughed. With Mom pushing from the outside, and Joe pulling from inside, the door opened.

My feeling of pride in being a first time homeowner returned when Mom took in a deep breath and said, “The woodwork in here is beautiful. What a cozy house.” She handed me a box of donuts and a bag of soft pretzels, our first house warming gifts, and perfect for a pregnant woman.

“Mom, how did you know where we were?” I asked.

She just walked past me into the kitchen, lovingly fingering the dusty wood.

Years later we realized Mom had known the area well not only because she had lived in it for years, but also because that pharmacy, at the corner of our block, was where she went to get my dad's prescriptions filled when he was dying of cancer.

Knowing Mom, she hadn't shared this information with her pregnant daughter because she didn't want to upset me or put a damper on our impromptu celebration that day.

When our baby girl turned four, the sale of that sweet small row house was enough for a down payment on our single suburban home where we had three more children. That time, before moving, I gave Mom the address.

I don't remember Grandma moving in. She must've gotten as far as the living room and plopped down her recliner. She didn't have a bedroom, just a bureau (it appeared magically upstairs). Like the chair, we never touched this piece of furniture unless told to (she'd know if we did, it's part of the magic).

Puffy like her, the chair's crinkly material matched her skin in summertime. That's when she guarded us on our fenced-in cement slab out back. Grandma had a glow like the sheen of that fake leather. Its pores sweated out her essence even when she wasn't sitting.

The chair and its entourage of items piled behind and around it, hid one corner of our living room. Because of all the stuff, no way could the chair's head rest tip back to stretch out Grandma. It and Grandma were upright at all times.

No one got into our house without Grandma heralding them. She welcomed neighbors with witty greetings as they slipped through our vestibule: "Hey, Dick. How's

tricks?" or "Hey Joe, don'tcha know...?"

When not entertaining, and the house quieted, she let out roll call: “Where’s Donny? Where’s Allen?” If the one named didn’t answer, she'd send out the nearest scout.

My youngest brother may know what was at the bottom of the heap behind Grandma. She coaxed him to climb on the back of her recliner. Then she grabbed his chunky feet and hoisted him down, head first, behind her into the stuff. He came up with pinking shears on his first descent. "No, that's not it," she said, and let him down again.

Grandma took the fly swatter he came up with on his second upside down trip. "Try again." The rest of us had gathered around.

After the third dip, Benny came up with scraps of material and a centerpiece from the Boy Scout banquet, now a flattened blue and gold blob. My brother was a human crane, the kind you see in convenience stores that grabs prizes with a claw. Each time he emerged, his round face was redder, his blonde hair brighter. His smile strained, and the blue in his eyes drained.

A bit envious, I was mostly glad I wasn’t as compact as Benny. When he retrieved Grandma's plastic reach extender, we cheered and Grandma yelled, “Atta boy, Benny Boy!” On his feet, and no longer red, he staggered into the kitchen. The rest of us jumped up and down asking Grandma if she needed something else from behind her chair.

When Grandma needed something from her bureau, we scattered. Someone had painted this chest of drawers the exact steely silver that streaked from Grandma’s widow's point to the base of her head. Old Gray, with its crystal nobs, cramped the room my sister and I shared. One of us always wound up ascending the stairs to it on a treasure hunt that wasn't fun.

"Don't pull them drawers out too far. They're heavy and'll fall on ya," Grandma called over leadened feet trudging upwards.

The object was in drawer number One with its sharp smell of metal and 3-IN-1 OIL, or Two which puffed talc at me when I swished around the clothes in there, or Three with its grabbing odor of rubber and stockings that could be worn once more before the next washing.

Grandma never believed that the fourth and fifth drawer bottoms were gone. If she insisted something was in drawer number Four or Five, we’d start from Three and work our way up. The lower drawers must've been invisible. I saw the dusty floor beyond wooden strips that supported real drawers. The things we never found must have been (magically) in there.

At the end of the day, moonlight silhouetted this hulk housing Grandma’s personables. Its shadow crossed us as we slept on our cots. But even without this evening shade, the gray form held a presence in our bedroom.

We slept at ease, secure from above and below, resting in the fact that Grandma and her things were permanent.

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