In 1951 when I was eight, I was skinny and sickly, allergic to everything. My front teeth protruded and the rest were crooked. My mother feared that I might fall and knock my new permanent front ones out. Thus it was that early that year I began going to an orthodontist, who insisted on installing a full set of braces on my teeth even though most of my permanent teeth had not yet emerged.
That same eventful year my father died after a prolonged illness, that left the rest of us, my mother, my brother and I, with financial and emotional instability. The power of his loss didn’t hit us until we were deep in mourning. I in fact didn’t feel the effects until much later as an adult.
Mother did her best to console my older brother, Harry, with whom my father had been extremely close. Daddy’s death came two weeks before Harry’s Bar Mitzvah at thirteen. I was too young to comprehend the loss and had not been permitted to attend the funeral. Mother showered me with all of the concern and attention she could spare to fill the empty space she knew I would feel some day.
I believed that all of this concern over my health and my teeth was designed to hold me back from being happy in school an among my friends. Then I was the allergy victim who was constantly receiving shots, and he “wire” mouth whose teeth appeared more silver than white. I was not the happiest of children my age, and the only solace I felt was in the fact that I didn’t have pimples like my brother.
Anyway, every two weeks I had a dental appointment. The orthodontist practiced his seemingly endless variety of tortures within my mouth. For some time during the first year of my ordeal Mother would accompany to the appointments, but as it became more and more difficult for her to leave her store, my brother grudgingly became her replacement. With him I could look forward to appointment day as the opportunity to enter the magic world of the Horn and Hardart Automat (cafeteria) to snack on a pot of baked beans or some hot apple pie with vanilla sauce. He had the money for which he’d get change to slide dimes and quarters into slots next to the food choices.
We always used the same transportation to travel to town, walked the same streets from the train terminal to the dental office, and since my brother was itching to get rid of his albatross little brother, Mother finally consented to allow me to travel into town by myself.
I continued to go for my snack at the Automat, but now that I was alone, I began to see other sights along the route. I looked in every store window, and became fascinated by all the unusual decorations and merchandise displayed, especially in the toy stores.
Late in September I saw him for the first time. He stared at me from his seat with a slight but inviting smile that drew me closer to the window with every visit. The display window was filled with exotic and expensive stuffed animals and mechanical toys, but he stood out in his chair in the center, blurring all the rest of the clutter. An exact “life sized” replica of Paul Winchell’s ventriloquist dummy, Jerry Mahoney. No he was not a replica, he was Jerry, and he watched me watch him every three weeks. I knew immediately that I had to own him.
Storekeepers have a tendency to ignore or to be gruff with small children shopping alone who ask prices. I knew this and was afraid, yet after weeks of yearning, I had to know how much he cost. Surprisingly the store owner was very kind and even insisted upon removing Jerry from the window so that I might hold him.
Wow! He wasn’t much smaller than I, and he was so real. A neatly concealed string in an opening in his back smoothly opened and closed his mouth. He was perfect in every dteal from the top of his head to his shoes.
“How much is he?” I asked, sheepishly.
“Fourteen Dollars.” Was the hopeless answer.
Totally destroyed, I handed him back, and watched as he was returned to his seat in the window.
“May I come to see him again when I come into town?”
“Yes, of course, but why don’t you ask your parents to buy him for you?”
I merely looked at the man and quietly, sadly said: “No”.
Of course, I mentioned my visits to Jerry to Mother, but omitted the price.
Appointment after appointment was preceded by a visit with Jerry. He made me very happy.
December came and most of my friends and classmates were becoming obsessed with the Christmas spirit and gifts. Since we were a Jewish family, and didn’t celebrate Christmas, we exchanged small gifts with each other for the eight days of Chanukah earlier in the month. I appreciated my gifts but continued to look forward to my adventures into town.
After Chanukah had passed I went to my last appointment before the Christmas vacation. As usual I rushed to the toy store for my visit. He was gone! Where? How could this happen? His empty chair was still in the window. My best friend was gone.
I stood in the street and sobbed, oblivious of everyone and everything around me. Jerry’s disappearance was so painful, and so personal, that I totally lost control.
Then I became angry and rushed into the store. I demanded to see Jerry. I truly upset the owner, who, with a pained expression informed me that he had been sold.
“How could you do that?”
I ran all the way to my dental appointment, and the adjustment of my braces didn’t hurt as usual. I couldn’t feel mere physical pain.
At home that evening I was quiet and moody. In school for days after I was just not excited about the whole Christmas thing. What could Christmas mean to me? I’m Jewish, and I’ve lost my best friend.
Christmas Eve arrived and neighboring houses glowed with countless lights and decorations. Our house seemed so very dark and sad, as if reflecting my mood. We could not have a Christmas tree, and Santa Claus was going to skip our chimney.
Mother sensed my sadness, and said we could tack stockings up on the fireplace mantel in our basement recreation room. Surely Santa would not forget us. I smiled and felt amused and a little better, spending the rest of the evening alternately staring at the flames of the peaceful fire and at those ridiculous odd socks hanging above.
After assuring myself that the fire was totally out, I went upstairs to sleep. I was still thinking about Jerry, but happy to have a little bit of everyone else’s Christmas.
At eight o’clock the next morning, Christmas Day, Harry and I raced down the two flights to the recreation room to find the socks stretched and bulging with cookies and candy. Soon we were stuffing ourselves with sweets. Our laughter woke Mother and she joined us. She didn’t scold us for eating all that junk so early in the morning. I knew she had done this so that we wouldn’t feel so different and so alone. I was aware of that and was grateful even then. She was grateful too for our smiles and laughter, smiling contentedly for almost the first time since Daddy died. I told her how I had felt about losing Jerry, how I cried, and how angry I had been. She smiled and hugged me knowing my pain.
She told me to go back up to my bedroom to get dressed so we could visit some of our neighbors. As I entered my room, I saw him sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of my bed. He was smiling slightly as if to say, no he did say in my mind:
“I’m here, I’m yours, just as before.”
I look back at that Christmas morning as one of the happiest of my life.
As all children do, I soon tired of playing with Jerry and carefully stored him away in my closet. I took him out again for my little cousin years later. I watched his eyes light up and again saw that slight smile on Jerry’s face. I was prepared to pass him on, to give him away to another thrilled child.
In 1951 when I was eight, my father died. I hardly knew him, and I suddenly lost him. I didn’t realize until much later how much I missed knowing him and having him with me as I grew up. I missed his fatherly attention and love. I felt the pain of loss over many years later.
I felt that I knew Jerry and I suddenly lost him. I immediately felt the pain of that loss, then thanks to my mother, found him again. When I think about my father and try to envision him, or visit his and my mother’s graves, I feel the sadness about the loss of both. I thank my mother for her love and for giving my brother and me the best of both parents.
