It was the fragrance of a bar of soap
called Bee & Flower Sandalwood that transported me back forty years, to childhood days spent at my Grandpa’s magical
house at 3965 Sacramento Street in San Francisco. As I unwrapped the soap I wondered would it be earthy and orange
in color like I remembered?
Yes, it was.
The
orange soap contrasted the forest green porcelain pedestal sink in the house’s
bathroom, so vivid in my memory. In
front of the sink, a textured clear glass window faced a square light well— a narrow
separation between this house and the one next door. A family of pigeons had chosen the sheltered
light well to establish their home; thus, their rhythmic coo-ing could be heard
through the window as could the voices of the neighbors whose window faced ours. Often I was startled by the sudden appearance
of pigeons sputtering up out of the light well, batting their wings
frantically, and making that funny squeaking sound as they rose up into the sky
overhead.
My
memory then moved beyond the special bathroom to the real adventure during one
particular visit to Grandpa’s.
He
had invited all of his five grandchildren—my three-year-old brother, me, and
cousins Tes, Angie, and Lydia* to stay over at the house. We shared the bedroom
located across the hall
from the bathroom. It was large enough to fit a four-poster
double bed, a solid oak highboy chest of drawers next to the corner window; and
next to the bed, a vanity of quarter sawn oak veneers, backed with a round
mirror framed in round light bulbs. The
large double-hung window in the far corner had sheer white curtains hanging
half open. To its left, the narrow door
to a closet cluttered with the belongings of Manong Sarmiento, a former renter,
even contained a small shaving sink the size of a salad bowl. His razor, a can of shaving cream, and comb
sat on a narrow wooden shelf above the sink waiting for his return in the
summertime after picking strawberries in Delano. Cedar planks lay on top of the painted
softwood floor, giving off a pungent odor.
Imagine a mix of the wood and the residual pipe tobacco smell on Manong
Sarmiento’s wool shirts hanging on silver hooks along the back of the closet;
such was the aroma of this magical closet space in the bedroom the cousins were
to share tonight.
“Dibs
on the bed!” declared Tes. She grabbed
on to one of the posts, and threw her leg over onto the bed set high off the
ground on a stained pine frame. The deluxe Serta mattress stacked atop a
squeaky box spring made the bed even higher.
She motioned the next two eldest, Angie and me to follow. Lydia and my brother slept low to the ground,
on narrow green army cots placed at the foot of the bed on the floor. A twenty-inch Zenith TV set, the largest one
in the house, sat on top of the oak highboy.
The antennas—called “rabbit ears” because of the way they sat in a “V”
on top of the television, scraped against the chalk white ceiling, leaving gray
scratch marks on the water-stained paint.
“Lydia,
put it on Channel 5,” directed Tes. ‘Song of Bernadette’ is on tonight. We’re
gonna see a miracle happen in the movie!”
“Oh,
Angie, you’ll like this movie since you’re the nut in the family who wants to
be a nun when she grows up,” I poked.
With
lights off and just the glow of the black and white screen to illuminate the
room, all the kids sat up in their beds watching “Song of Bernadette”. Angie, nestled between Tes and me, began to
cry the first time Bernadette saw the vision of The Lady in the grotto.
“Oh-h,
that’s the Virgin Mary. She’s so
beautiful,” Angie whispered in wonder.
“Angie,
your eyes are as wide as Bernadette’s.
You’d think you’re the one seeing the miracle.”
“Yeah,
‘Sister’ Angie’,” added Tes. “The only thing that you have in common is that
your feet probably smell as bad as that garbage grotto where Bernadette saw The
Lady!”
“Sh-h-h.
Let’s watch the movie now. Besides,
we’d better not make fun. It’s a sin,
isn’t it?” I warned, half joking, half concerned that the three older ones
might have to go to confession before church on Sunday. Everyone became quiet and engrossed in “Song
of Bernadette” as news of Bernadette’s vision spread throughout Lourdes. In the entire bedroom the only sound that
could be heard was the occasional crackling of the picture tubes inside of the
television.
Suddenly,
my little brother screamed. He pointed to the eighteen-inch crucifix hanging on
the wall over his head. “Look! Jesus’ face is all lit up!
“Hey,
look at the Crown of Thorns on His head!
Real blood is dripping from it.
Touch it and see if you get blood on your finger,” Lydia added.
“No-o-o!”
My brother leapt off his cot and
climbed into the bed with me. Lydia
laughed but she too moved away from the cross to the other side of the
room. At this all the kids looked more
intently toward the cross. Sure enough,
there was a circle of light surrounding Jesus’ face.
“Is
it a miracle? Is Jesus alive?” asked
Angie in awe. She stuffed her fist into her mouth stifling her wailing like a
cat on the fence. Tears welled up in her
frightened eyes.
Tes
called for calm. “Angie, shut up and stop that blubbering! Your stupid hysteria will make everyone
panic. Gee whiz! Lisa, you’re eight-years-old, and the second
oldest. Go turn on the light. There must be a logical explanation.”
I
did not want to get out of bed, but I knew that if I didn’t, either Tes would smack
Angie and there would be big drama, or the little ones would be scared all
night from having to gaze at Jesus’ glowing face in the darkness. I turned on the light and everyone quieted
down.
“Okay,
we’ve seen enough miracles for tonight.
Turn off the TV. Get to sleep you
guys.”
A
strange tension remained in the room. As
we lay down in the beds and cots, Lydia pointed to the cross on the wall. “Look!
The circle of light is still around the Savior’s face!”
“That’s
enough, Lydia!” chastised Tes. “Close
your eyes and stop looking at the crucifix, you understand? Or something really scary will happen to
you!”
Pouting,
Lydia puffed up the cushion under her head and pulled the blanket over herself
as she lay down on the cot. My brother
copied her and lay down too. He looked
at me but I just smiled at him reassuringly, and comforted by that look, he
stuck his thumb into his mouth.
I
whispered, “What do you think’s going on, Tes? Maybe we should stay up and keep
an eye on the crucifix tonight.”
“Okay,
good. You go ahead and rest first, Lisa.
Then, when I get sleepy, I’ll wake you
up and you can take a shift.”
For
a time, both of us sat up against the headboard of the huge bed, hugging our
knees, eyes blinking sleepily as we watched the light shine onto Jesus’ body
nailed to the simple oak cross.
“That’s
a big ol’ cross,” said Tes, moving her hands apart from each other vertically
until they matched the eighteen-inch length of the cross hanging on the wall
above my brother’s cot. I nodded in
agreement and lay down. In minutes, I
was asleep, while Tes held vigil.
I
was startled awake when Tes suddenly shook me, pointing to the Crucifix on the
wall. I gasped. The light beam had moved. It was over to the right of Jesus’ face. Then, all at once we understood.
Tes
looked toward the window opposite the wall.
Now, high up in the sky, a full moon cast brightness against the wall
where the crucifix hung. Gathering
clouds floated in front of it every now and then, partially blocking its
light. Earlier, when the sky had been
clearer, the moon was in position to rest moonbeams right on the face of Jesus
on the wall. The subdued but constant
focus of light had seemed to appear from nowhere in particular.
Tes
and I began to giggle in the quiet darkness, while the younger kids snored in
deep slumber around them. Angie, in the
bed between them, clasped her hands together in a prayer position. Tes rolled her eyes at the sight of her pious
younger sister and jumped down from the bed to pull the window shade down.
“Well,
cousin, let’s keep the mystery of tonight’s “miracle” to ourselves, shall we?”
offered Tes.
“Amen
to that, ‘Bernadette.’”
*names changed
