In the
war years of the 1940's, in the small town of Mamaroneck where I live, Gypsies
come to town most years. There’s an open
field near Mamaroneck High where they set up camp. They arrive over several days in cars with
tents and a few trucks with trailers. Many
arrive in closed wagons, painted and decorated in once bright colors and, to
me, mysterious looking scrolling designs and flowers. Those wagons are pulled by large, well-cared
for horses. Gas is scarce during the war
and hay is cheap.
Mom says
they are families that come together for marriages. She warns the Gypsies steal children and I'm
to play in the backyard while they’re in town.
I want to go to the Gypsy camp but I've only seen it driving by. I'm not allowed to visit there when Mom and
Nan go. They say I'm too young. The two of them whisper together about the
camp and it's possible dangers: pickpockets, child-stealers and black magic
spells; but it doesn’t stop the two of them from going to have their fortunes
told and later whispering together about their future.
When the camp is in town, a very handsome
Gypsy man comes to our street with a pony cart and a bell he rings so we know
he's here to take us kids on rides for a quarter. One time he has a monkey on his shoulder too.
Mom lets me ride in the cart all the way down the block and back. The pony’s buff colored with a long brushed
light blonde mane and a braided tail. It’s
glossy fur looks like gold in the afternoon sunlight. The cart is painted shiny
black like my patent leather Sally pumps, with some delicate designs in gold
paint and has red plush cushions with gold fringe. The harness and fittings are polished leather
with silver. To my innocent eyes, it's the
height of elegance.
I take
my seat alone in the cart, touching the softness of the red plush spread around
me. The driver turns to me and smiles,
his big black moustache is long and soft looking—much handsomer than Pop’s grey
and red one—and his teeth shine white against his dark skin. He flicks his whip over the pony’s head and
we begin our leisurely trip to one end of the long block and back. He walks
next to the cart with his whip in one hand and the other on the harness to make
sure the pony doesn't steal me, a delighted little girl with blonde curls and a
missing front tooth. He walks at a slow
pace, the pony clopping next to him, and I notice he has a ring in one ear,
pierced. I've never seen a pierced ear
before. It's almost as fascinating as
the pony and cart.
As we
turn the bend in the road, Mom and Nan
and our house disappear from sight. The big maple and oak trees on either side wave
their canopy over Stuart Avenue and change it from a country street to a
far-away place. The sun filtering
through the leaves dance shadows across my private coach, surely a magic spell
transporting us...somewhere else. The
lazy summer air fills with the drone of bees, birds and insects, the hum of a
few cars or an occasional truck left with enough gas to drive the Boston Post
Road, and the clop-clop of the pony on its slow journey. Several orange and black butterflies come and
visit this strange entourage.
The
Gypsy turns back to make sure I'm still there. I've been very quiet. He smiles.
I smile back. A tear slides down
my cheek. I'm so thrilled with this
adventure I can't control the joy. All by
myself. No one else to share the magic
with. I imagine for these special
moments I’m transported beyond imagination into the reality of my mind: a princess
riding in a magical coach.
We go to
the corner of Sophia Street and turn around.
A dog barks off in the distance, probably chasing something down by
Guion Creek. No cars pass us. No one is on the street or in their
yards. We have the whole road to
ourselves. I look around our
neighborhood for the first time with total clarity and see the Victorian
houses, the large three story monsters with verandas that lace around them,
gliders on some, others with a chair or two to catch the cooling summer air in
the stifling heat of summer. Two story
houses, country farm style sprawling into lawns that languish down the hill in
back to touch the creek. A 1920's French
replica with stucco and odd shaped roof-line, and then our house, Mom calls it
a Dutch Colonial, with Mom and Nan standing talking together as they wait for
me to return from my journey. I can see
them as soon as we clear the bend. They turn
and wave.
As my
coach stops in front of the welcoming slate step, crooked and raised on one end
punched by a giants fist, a root from the tall maple that shades our front walk,
Mom and Nan have been joined by Gongie, my grandmother. They stop talking to greet me, their princess,
as is my due. I'm smiling so hard I fear
my cheeks will crumble under the pressure as I get down and turn to grab the
man around the waist and hug him. I
whisper so only he can hear, "Oh, thank you, it was especially wonderful." He seems shy. He pats me on the head and says
nothing. Do Gypsies speak our language?
I wonder.
"Did
you have fun?" Mom asks as she hands the man a quarter, plus a generous
ten cent tip.
"Oh
yes." My eyes must still be shining,
not dimmed by the fading magic of the ride.
"It was wonderful. Thank you Mom." I sigh.
A princess must be gracious.
He turns
the cart to back down the street and I wave goodbye to him. He waves back with a grin.
I give all
three of them a hug before I sweep majestically up the walk.
It takes
almost two days before the glow of my journey fades. By then the Gypsies have packed up their
tents and wagons, gone for places unknown.
I cross my fingers and with eyes closed, wish very hard that the Gypsies
come back again next year.