~ GYPSIES ~

Some of our greatest family fun times are when we do dishes together. We play guessing games and tell stories. When we sing together, mostly cowboy songs, Mama joins in and harmonizes with us, even if she’s in another room.

Today, we’re singing “When it’s springtime in the Rockies,” because it’s springtime in Wisconsin. Tiny green shoots are peeking up in our small garden next to the chicken coop.

Because Daddy was a farmer, he still likes to do some farming. He rents a plowed lot outside the city, where we grow rows and rows of vegetables. We kids go there in Daddy’s car to pull weeds, pick bugs, and other work. Mama keeps reminding us, “Extra work means extra food.” Mama thinks about food a lot. We kids do, too, but not in the same way.

Each spring, our school launches the annual seed-selling program, sponsored by a local seed company. Prizes are given for selling certain amounts of seeds: Mickey Mouse watches, fancy yo-yos, fountain pen sets. We’re each handed 25 seed packets. It’s up to us to sell them, return the right amount of money to the nuns, pick out our prizes, then sell more if we wish. But 25 always seems like more than enough for me to sell. And a yo-yo’s a good enough prize.

Contests are everywhere these days—newspapers, magazines, over the radio—all promising grand prizes, attainable dreams for the lucky, lucky winners.

Geraldine always wants to enter every contest, not caring if she wins or not.

“It’s always possible to win,” Geraldine claims. “And we can have so much fun just trying to win.” She gets excited about each contest she sees. “Just look at all the possibilities for winning!” she exclaims, reading them off to me. Her excitement is catching, convincing me to enter, too.

“Here’s a new contest!” she says, pointing to a large cartoon square in the newspaper. “All you have to do is find all the mistakes in each of these pictures.”

“Looks too hard,” is my ready reply.

“So what! We can figure out the answers together. We’re both smart,” she prods me. “And the winner gets a new car, a brand new sedan!”

A new car—that’s unbelievable. No one we know has a new car.

Different squares are printed every day. We work on them diligently, over and over, positive we’ve found all the mistakes, sending in the carefully cut out answers all together at the end of the week.

Anxiously, we await our letter telling us we’ve won. It takes a while.

“We are winners!” Geraldine screams as soon as she sees me at school one morning. “I told you we’d win.” She’s waving the letter. “We’ll open it together at my house after school.” We race to her house and go to her small bedroom. Excitedly, she tears open the envelope. I hold my breath, waiting to hear what it says.

Geraldine begins reading. “Congratulations—you are a winner!” She starts jumping up and down, reads further, stops, then goes on hesitatingly. “Because so many others have found all the mistakes too, there will be another play-off contest for those who tied in the first one. In order to break the tie, new winners will be chosen from those who sell the most jars of Rosaline Salve.” What? We have to sell salve!

“The top one hundred salve sellers will have their names drawn randomly for that big, big prize—the new sedan.” Geraldine is quiet, nothing to say. That’s unusual for her. I’m ready to give up right then and there. I never expected to win anyway.

“We can’t quit now. We have just as much chance as those others,” Geraldine says after a moment, with renewed enthusiasm. “Together, we can sell lots of salve.”

“I don’t know. Selling seeds is hard enough,” I say. I really don’t like selling anything. I’m very shy about making requests in person, especially to adults. But I also have a hard time saying no to Geraldine.

The jars of Rosaline Salve come by mail, 25 of them, to Geraldine’s house. The company letter says that when we sell all of these and send in the money, we can order even more to sell. More?

Geraldine tries to get me excited about selling more salve.

“We could pretend we are traveling gypsies selling our magic salve. That’ll make it more fun.” Geraldine knows I’m always interested in anything to do with Gypsies.

It began when Geraldine and I saw the movie The Hunchback Of Notre Dame. Quasimodo looked so scary and pitiful on that big movie screen, with his scrunched face and twisted body. My eyes would tear up when he’d cry out “Watah, watah!” over and over as he was turned round and round, tied up on that heavy wheel.

But Esmeralda, the beautiful Gypsy girl who gave him water—she fascinated both of us.

“I wish I looked like her, have long dark wavy hair, wear lots of spangly necklaces and jingly bracelets,” I say to Geraldine after the show.

“Me, I’d rather dance around in bare feet like she does, and shake a tambourine as wildly as she does,” Geraldine adds. “Such mysterious eyes—Let’s stay and see this movie twice.” We did, and talked about it so many times.

From that day on, I wanted to know more about Gypsies. I’d search in the school and public library for books that told about Gypsies, captivated by the colorful pictures of them, riding in decorated wagons, playing violins, dancing about in bright colors and gaudy jewelry, capturing me in the mystique foreign people always conjured up in me. Their carefree lifestyle and vagabond ways—what fun to live like that.

Sometimes, I’d hear talk about Gypsies on the front porch steps. I always listened avidly. Warm nights are an open invitation for renters and neighbors to gather on our front porch. They sit on the steps, spinning never-ending tales, relating stories from bygone days. I never tire of listening. They’re like talking books, many times telling stories without endings. It’s nice to hear stories in different voices in the near dark.

Once a subject is brought up, each person on the porch has to relate their own personal experiences. The grown-ups use hushed tones when speaking about “the Gypsies.” Everybody has a different story to tell about them. It’s upsetting, hearing some Gypsy tales about chicken thefts, phony fortune tellers, and things hidden in their huge skirts.

What they said on the porch can’t be true, can it? These are a fairy tale kind of people for me.

“You be careful when those Gypsies are around,” Jake, the old neighbor who’s always teasing, warns in a threatening tone, looking right at me. “They like little blonde girls, and try to kidnap them.”

“Jake, stop scaring the kids all the time,” Mama tells him.

“Kids need to be told about such things,” he retorts, waving his finger at me in the dusky twilight. “You just stay away from those Gypsies! Run, fast as you can, if one even comes near you.”

He must know, since he’s an adult. So I decide I’ll stay away from Gypsies, even if I still enjoy reading about them.

Just outside of Manitowoc is a semi-wooded area where bands of Gypsies sometimes camp. Mama always remarks, “That’s where the Gypsies gather,” whenever we drive by the spot on our way to visit our country cousins. Black poles stand like skeletons over darkened fire sites. A wagon without wheels is partially buried. I always imagine Gypsies dancing about, shaking their tambourines.

Sometimes, they really are there. For several weeks each summer, the Gypsies come back to the camp. I scrunch down in our old car, packed between the other kids, as we drive past, listening to Mama’s comments. I’m afraid to look, yet fascinated when I do give a quick peek. It’s like watching a movie that goes by quickly. When the Gypsies are there, the site takes on a carnival air. Huge black kettles now hang on the poles, makeshift tents and battered old cars crowd the area, and even a few horses. Screaming, laughing children scurry around, dancing about in bare feet.

What fun to live like they do. But I don’t see any blonde children.

“Well, the Gypsies have finally gone,” Mama says, driving by the next time. “Vanished like the moon. But they’ll return when we least expect them. Seems they just can’t stay put.”

Some Gypsies did stay put, settling in town in an abandoned grocery store. They hung colorful shawls over the soaped-up windows. “After a while, wanderlust beckons,” Mama remarks. “And most move on.”

Still, one old Gypsy stayed, living alone upstairs over that same store. I would hear neighbors gossip about her.

“You know, that one, she reads tea leaves and tells fortunes to make her living.”

“Well, course, there’s no sign over da outside door, or on her vindow,” Mrs. Schultz, our neighbor who talks with a thick German accent, comments. “But evryvun knows da Gypsy lives there. Yah.”

“Oh, lots of people go to see her secretly,” neighbor Jessie adds in a lowered voice. “To learn their fortunes.”

“Throwing money away on such trash. Sinful.”

“I don’t know why they allow her to stay in this town.”

The women usually meander into our backyard if they see someone out there, an excuse for a break in their housework.

“I hear she even casts spells—for a price,” Mrs. Kolancheck, our know-it-all neighbor, adds.

“You can’t believe every story you hear,” is Mama’s usual answer to Mrs. Kolancheck and others.

But I believe. They’re grown-ups.

Sometimes they talk over wash lines on Monday morning. In the summer, I’m out there handing Mama wooden clothespins, making sure to listen, not letting on that I am. You can learn lots by listening—about childbirth, sicknesses different people have, and family fights. Sometimes they make sure I don’t hear about certain subjects, pointing to me, then continuing to talk in whispers, faces turned away.

Children are never told about certain subjects by parents or the nuns in school. Only the allusion to “sin” makes us aware that some topics are to be kept hidden from us.

How and when will I ever find out if no one ever talks about those things we aren’t supposed to know about?

I figure out many things on my own. I conclude that music from the phonograph comes from little bands that play inside the wooden box. The record you put on top tells them what song to play. It’s the only explanation I could think of. It makes perfect sense to me, till my big sister tells me how foolish I am. But even she doesn’t know exactly how music comes out of that wooden box we call a talking machine.

I don’t know why the Great Depression and stock market crashes make people jump out of high windows, or live in tents down by the railroad tracks, either. When I ask, Mama just says, “You kids don’t need to know about such things.” But I feel I do need to know.

Sometimes I give up trying to figure things out. It makes it easier, just believing, like I do when I read story books. I never bother figuring out stories, just let them tell me whatever they want, without any questions.

After the Rosaline Salve arrives, Geraldine calls a two-person meeting, making me agree to her pact to go door-to-door every evening after school.

“We have to go to every single house.” Geraldine makes it sound like both a threat and a promise.

“Every single one?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “You said you would do whatever I decided so we can win that sedan.”

Winning the sedan and keeping Geraldine happy move my trudging feet from house to house, when I’d rather be home playing jacks or with my Shirley Temple paper dolls. I didn’t even tell Mama about selling salve, as the jars are kept at Geraldine’s house. I just say, “I’m going over to Geraldine’s.” Mama usually lets us kids do what we want after our chores, as long as we’re home for supper.

The selling business is bad. When Geraldine asks, “Would you like to buy some Rosaline Salve?” doors shut almost as fast as they’re opened.

We’ve been knocking on doors all week and are pretty discouraged. It’s already Saturday, the day we scheduled to go up and down both sides of 11th Street. The last building on the block is the abandoned store with soaped up windows.

“Okay, time to go home,” I say, turning around.

“You can’t go home, not yet. We have to go upstairs here.” Geraldine stands firmly in front of me, the shopping bag full of salve on the sidewalk beside her.

“But that’s where the Gypsy lives.”

“We said we’d go to every house, no matter what,” reminds Geraldine.

“This isn’t a house. This is a store.” I don’t want to go anywhere near the Gypsy, much less try to sell her some salve. Once we go up those stairs, no one will ever know what happened to us. Even Mama doesn’t know I’m out selling salve today.

Looking up, I see a wavering lace-curtained window above the ghostly empty store. I’m positive I see a face peering out, someone holding a crystal ball—a kerchiefed head with golden earrings. The setting sun shines brightly against the bleary window, causing all sorts of distorted patterns.

“You don’t even want to win this car!” Geraldine chides.

We had such grand illusions about the car, taking turns driving, maybe even letting our parents use it sometimes. We never even consider that we aren’t old enough to drive. If you have a car, you just drive it.

We walk up to the paint-chipped outside door. I’m hoping it will be tightly locked. It isn’t, and Geraldine easily yanks it open. Reluctantly, I follow Geraldine up the shadowy dark stairway, floorboards creaking extra loud. Maybe the Gypsy won’t even be home, I think, my heart thumping faster with each step. If we knock softly and leave quickly—

But Geraldine is already knocking loudly. Why isn’t she afraid of Gypsies?

Maybe because she has thick black hair—mine is blonde. Jake said Gypsies only kidnapped blonde-haired children. I hear his gravelly voice and see his grim face as we wait in the small dark hallway at the top of the stairs.

Peculiar smells fill the tiny area, wrinkling my nose. What are they? Where are they coming from? Nothing seems right about this trip today.

I hear noises stirring, then the shuffling of footsteps behind the door. The click of a lock. The doorknob rattles. Squeak. Creak.

Slowly, the door begins to open. The smells become stronger. I’m all set to run. “What do you want?” a raspy voice asks.

I can’t look up. I don’t even want to peek, and have her put the “evil eye” on me.

“Would you like to buy some Rosaline Salve?” Geraldine asks matter-of-factly in her practiced manner.

“Come in, come in, children,” the voice invites.

I panic. We can’t go in. We never go inside homes—Mama has strictly forbidden it. But Geraldine is already over the threshold, so I follow, whether in fear of being left alone in that dark hall or to protect Geraldine, I’m not sure. But suddenly, I’m inside, the door slamming shut behind me.

“What do you want?” the voice asks. “Why have you come to see me?”

I expect the witch from Hansel and Gretel to materialize. I have to see what she looks like. Slowly, I lift my head, and take a quick peek at the person with the strange voice.

Why, she just looks plain, like any other old woman. She has crinkly skin and wears a wrinkled, soiled blouse with a tattered lace collar, an ornate pin at her neckline, and a long dark skirt. A black fringed shawl covers her stooped shoulders. Her graying hair is tied back into a knot. She isn’t even wearing any earrings or beads. “Sit down, girls,” she orders.

Geraldine sits primly on the rickety wooden settee. I remain standing, stiff with fright, my eyes wandering everywhere, making plans for a quick escape.

The feeling of being in a very strange place overtakes me. The room is small, cluttered with so many foreign-looking items. There is a mixture of old and odd furniture crowded together and piled up, with wild plants intertwining everywhere. Walls and tabletops are covered with once-bright shawls, framed pictures of people and places, and curious knickknacks. The floor is covered by a worn carpet with huge faded roses, and scatterings of smaller rugs on top. Everywhere I look, something unusual holds my attention. This is better than a book beginning; I’m standing right in the description.

All of a sudden, a strange noise startles me. There, sitting on a perch nearby, is the most brilliantly colored parrot I have ever seen. He’s huge, and he’s not even in a cage, just sitting there, out in the open, on a wooden perch. I’m afraid he’ll fly at me and bite me with his huge beak. I’m ready to run, but stay frozen, not wanting to turn my back on this giant bird.

Geraldine is busy pitching her salve. “Rosaline Salve is a wonderful, one-of-a-kind ointment, and it can only be bought from us.”

She opens the sample jar, rubs a bit on her index finger, and waves it in the air with a flourish. The sweet smell of Rosaline Salve obscures the other unsavory scents for a moment, then blends back into the mixture.

Geraldine is talking faster than usual, almost as if she too wants to get out of here. “We only have a few more jars left—”

The old Gypsy sits in a moss-green worn velvet armchair, with a dirty frayed rug under her slippered feet. She listens, chewing on her thick lips, breathing heavily through her half-opened mouth. She doesn’t say anything.

Quite suddenly, Geraldine stops talking and begins packing up her things. Why is she giving up already? Usually she tries harder.

Something about this place must affect those who enter—maybe a spell? I’m not sure, but I know I feel different since entering, and I also know I don’t want to leave anymore.

“All right, all right, I’ll take a jar of your salve,” the Gypsy says, then gets up with great effort and disappears into another room behind a fringe-curtained doorway.

I’m stunned. She’s really going to buy a jar of salve from us? Why would a Gypsy need salve, when she has so many magic potions of her own to use for cures?

We wait in silence. Geraldine gives me a smug smile as she digs out a jar of salve from her rattling paper bag. After what seems like an extra-long time, the Gypsy shuffles back in and sits down once more in the big armchair, sinking into the dented pillows, exhaling a huge sigh, followed by a snorting grunt and wrinkling of her nose. I don’t take my eyes off her.

With great precision, she opens a black drawstring leather pouch. I notice her long fingers have sparkly jeweled rings on them. So she does wear jewelry. Maybe she wears her beads and earrings only when she goes out. Maybe she looks prettier then too, I think, imagining her in a colorful Gypsy costume. But I could never picture her with a tambourine, or dancing about in bare feet.

“Here you are, girls,” she says, carefully counting out the right amount of coins, then she closes the pouch tightly. She places the salve and pouch on the nearby table next to a lamp with beaded fringe dangling from its crooked shade.

Geraldine takes the coins, thanks her, and hastily gets up to depart. But I’m reluctant to leave at this point. I want something more

to happen. Here I am, in a real Gypsy’s home, and nothing unusual has occurred. I’m in the heart of an adventure—I can’t step out of it so quickly. Something more has to happen. I don’t want this special chapter to end just yet; there’s no skipping to the back of the book this time.

All of a sudden, the parrot lets out a loud, frightening squawk. Even Geraldine jumps at the sound.

I rein in my fright and, with a big gulp, ask, “What’s the parrot’s name?” Those are the first words I’ve spoken since we arrived. If I make small talk, maybe I can prolong our visit.

“Persa,” the Gypsy answers, walking over to the bird. She squawks again.

“Persa?” I repeat and walk closer. “Persa! Persa!” I call, but not too loud, fascinated that the bird recognizes its name.

“Oh, that one’s a hundred years old,” the Gypsy cackles. “Really?” A hundred years seems like forever.

“Oh yes. She’s been in the family for many generations. Traveled all across Europe with us.” She pauses, “That’s when we had the wagons yet…”

She gently pets the bird with her bent, ringed fingers. Persa ruffles her feathers and begins talking. It seems like she’s saying words, but they aren’t like regular sounding words. Maybe it’s special parrot talk.

“What is she saying?” I really want to know.

“Oh, Persa, she only talks in Roumanian,” the Gypsy sighs, then sits down. Her eyes look into the distance, squinting in the fading sunlight, the lace curtains making wiggly patterns on her wrinkled skin.

“The tales that one could tell. . . .” The Gypsy shakes her head from side to side. She sounds sad, yet gives me a mysterious, toothless smile.

That smile erases my remaining fears. I want to stay and hear more about Persa—the stories that bird could tell, and whatever else the Gypsy might tell me.

“Would you girls like some tea and cookies?” the Gypsy asks, getting up from her chair.

Tea and cookies with a Gypsy? That surely would make this an extra exciting adventure. Already, I’m wondering what kind of cookies she would serve and on what kind of dishes.

“No, thank you,” Geraldine says, quickly moving toward the door. “I don’t drink tea, but I might like a cookie—” I try to say as Geraldine grabs my arm and drags me through the doorway.

“We have to leave now, but thank you for your purchase,” Geraldine utters in a voice I’ve never heard her use before, almost scared.

“I enjoyed meeting you,” I quickly blurt, “and your bird, Persa.”

I never hear what the Gypsy replies. Was it, “Come back and see me again”? I’m not sure, because Geraldine is hurriedly shutting the door.

I half turn around to go back in, but Geraldine is already halfway down the dark stairway. What to do? Stay alone, or—

I follow dejectedly, my heart still lingering in that memorable room.

The joy of selling a jar of salve doesn’t override the feeling that I lost out on a rare opportunity to connect with a real live Gypsy, an opening into another world that might never come my way again.

My steps downward are slow, reluctant.

Back on the sidewalk, I turn around and look up at the window above. I’m sure I see the Gypsy waving her ringed hand at me. I even hear Persa squawking in the distance, or is it only remembered sounds spinning in my jumbled head? Geraldine mutters, “Who knows what might have happened to us if we ate or drank something in that weird place.”

Who knows indeed? I know I never will.