So many thoughts and memories—————–I feel, that, if I don’t get them to “paper” now, they will all be lost.
So, I start my Blog.
God knows I’m not very good at writing a story: But, telling a story, I’m good.
I just needed to get started.
I don’t know of anyone’s interest in this story beyond my own family, however I’m a-go at it anyway.
I need to tell it: The Story of A Time. My time. Starting 1926, to today, and who knows how far beyond.
I will try to keep the story chronological; however I will write as I remember. With one thought awakening another.
I was born in Saint Raphael’s Hospital, New Haven, Conn., January 19, 1926.
I am told, that at that time, we lived in a small house somewhere in New Haven, Connecticut, but immediately moved to 405 Fountain Street, Westville/New Haven, CT. I grew up in a beautiful English Tutor house, on a hill, that my Mom and Dad owned. The house had 3 flats—similar to English home flats. We lived on the second floor. I remained there until I married Carl Pite in 1947. (More stories about our “renters” later).
My Mom, Nettie Kellert, was born December 13, 1901, in New Haven, to Samuel and Betsy Kellert. Zade and Bubby, came to America from Russia, probably for safety and political reasons. There were 6 children. Sarah, Rose, Frank, Nettie, Albert, Jean. Sisters and brothers very close and helping each other to live and survive. I will try to tell you some stories about my Aunts and Uncles and their families as I remember them and as we go along with The Story. My grandmother died when I was about 3/4 years old, however I remember her apartment, wonderful scrambled eggs made with matzo meal and chicken fat, and my Uncle Al’s drum set in front of the window in the parlor. I also remember all of my Aunt’s tending to my grandmother when she was dying in her bed. “Uncle Al”, (a neighbor), lived across the street. When I came to visit Zade and Bubby I would run across the street to have their special meal. (I was a terrible/fussy eater) It was a bowl of mashed white potatoes. (All that they could afford). My Mother thrilled that I would eat anything. I was never told how poor they, and my Grandparents were, just that they were wonderful loving people and to enjoy being with them.
We had many family parties and celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, holidays together. My Mother always said–“Your Birthday was the luckiest day of your life” and must be celebrated.
My early memories of school start at elementary school. Davis Street School. Kindergarten through 6th grade.
I remember most of my teacher’s names. Our house backed on to a community driveway and the school yard. The fence that is there now was not there in the years when I went there. I just walked from my house through the school yard to school. Marilyn was my best friend in kindergarten and remained so until she died about 2 years ago. You will read her name over and over again as I write The Story of A Time.