Stories from the Basement

My parents' basement was a center of activity. There was no air
conditioning; a breeze would circulate from the back and front
windows.

Our large row home in SW Philly had an equally large cellar. A basement
implies being refinished; this was a cellar. The walls were painted
cement and in places the granite would show through. Dad would use
cement and mesh to repair it if the red clay dirt would come through.
It was always cool and dry in the cellar. Dad always swept it
clean.

The front section was my father's work area. He was a tailor. His
nickname was a knockoff of his very ethenic name; it was "Baldy"
(pronounced Baal-dee). His power machine, a dress form, an ironing
horse, natural sponges, drawers and shelves with other supplies were
all meticulously arranged. Skeins of thread hung from nails in the
beams above. He worked daily at regular tailoring jobs in clothing
stores; he worked after dinner fixing clothes for family and friends,
or for people that they had referred. Sometimes I'd have to model some
kid's clothes while he checked, tugged, or made mysterious marks with
his tailor's chalk. I hated it, but stood obediently just the same. I
had the only Barbie doll with a mink stole, made from the trimming of
an altered mink coat.

I must have also been the only kid who knew what a simulcast was. Dad's
radio was set to the opera station, and he'd sing in Italian in loud
outbursts. A street urchin neighbor, little Richy, would imitate him,
singing along in our back yard. A metal circular fan nodded in a
corner. Dad set the ironing horse on the ping-pong table and would
thump with his heavy iron. Radiator poles ran along the wall from the
second floor to the cellar, and I could see dad sewing through the
opening in the living room floor. I would float bits of paper to him.
Halloween costumes were a no-brainer. I had the best, lined poncho
coat, blue with red buttons and red zigzag edging; he made his own
patterns. Dad worked quickly. When he was on a roll, you stayed out of
his way.

Dad set up the makeshift ping-pong table by placing a large panel on
top of a wooden dining room table with clawed feet. We had gotten the
table from someone in the family. Tournaments raged nightly between
dad, my brother and myself. My cousin "Carline", Sister of Notre Dame,
gave us an old chalkboard when the modern boards were installed in her
school. Dad suspended it from the cellar beams. My skinny athletic
brother would travel through the cellar hanging hand over hand from the
larger suspended pipes. He was never caught. He jokingly called our
father "Joe." Our toys were kept in the basement. On rainy days the
cellar was the place to roller skate or do a messy project. All of the
neighborhood kids played in each other's basements; I think ours was
the best.

A previous owner of the house had constructed a large lighted wooden
bar complete with mirrors in the center section of the cellar. It was a
great playhouse. Dad kept his mysterious sea trunk there with photos of
battleships, a uniform, and Boy Scout patches. The bar would later
become my art studio.

The back of the cellar was the washing area, furnace, water heater,
cabinets, clothing bags, and my father's home built workbench. This was
also perfectly arranged. My father was a master tailor, avid reader and
a card shark; he was not talented in home repair. That didn't stop him.
The workbench was also useful for potting plants or separating
seedlings; we were always growing something, especially tomatoes. He
rested bulbs or cuttings in its dark corners. Dad once constructed a
large balsa wood airplane with a wind up rubber band engine for my
brother. He covered it with beige tissue paper and painted it stiff
with special glue. He repaired it at his workbench after each flight. I
later used his area when I attended college to construct stretchers for
homemade canvases; it kept costs down. My sister, LeeLee, became an art
teacher but stayed in the dorm at Rosemont. I don't know how she
managed it.