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Authors: Mameve Medwed
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of their memoirs, working on oil rigs in Alaska, construction sites in New Jersey. They’re mostly people who realized Cambridge wasn’t a kingdom any king could force you to be a subspecies of. Young adults who are now thrilled not to be known as the child of fill-in-the-blank. Who are no longer in a position to embarrass parents or maintain standards others have set up for them.
Some of course stayed and thrived. These merry few now hold the positions their parents held, reap the esteem their parents reaped. But it’s the others who interest me. The falling/failing star kids of rising/ risen star parents.
Unlike some of us, Lavinia never fit that category of the minister’s daughter who ran wild, the professor’s son who flunked out, the chef ’s offspring who burnt toast. She was everybody’s pet. Let me rephrase this. She was the favorite of the grown-ups. The child our parents wished we could resemble more. Why can’t you be like Lavinia? rang out throughout our West Cambridge neighborhood. If only you had half her manners. Half her accomplishments.
How can I explain this phenomenon? Here’s an example. When we were kids, there was a toy store on Mass. Ave. called Irving’s. The kind of store that no longer exists. It sold everything: penny candy, fancy candy, candy bars, puzzles, games, masks, Slinkies, not to mention educational toys and books—Lincoln Logs and Make Way for Ducklings —and the noneducational ones we all coveted—Conan the Barbarian comics and GI Joes and Barbie dolls. It also brought adults to its aisles stuffed with pots and pans, needles and thread, crepe paper and ribbon, paints and staple guns and screwdrivers. Irving and his wife, Doris, ran their store like a small municipality. White-haired and fake jovial, they barricaded themselves behind the front counter on stools, Buddha stomachs cushioning their laps and Santa Claus smiles stretched across their commerce-seeking faces. Our dimes and quarters bought Irving his big white Cadillac and their winters in Florida and the sapphires sparkling in Doris’s ears.
When we came in with our parents, we were treated like precious little Shirley Temples and enchanting Lord Fauntleroys. How Abigail has grown, Irving would coo. Pick yourself out a lollipop, sweetheart, Doris would offer, and reach across the Matchstick cars to pat my pigtails and adjust my barrettes.
Once, however, my mother sent me in alone to return a plaster of Paris make-your-own-ballet-dancer kit. The plaster had solidified and cracked, its gray mass so dense there was no way you could follow the instructions and pour it into the ballet-dancer molds.
“You’ve used it wrong,” Irving complained. “You’ve ruined it. Don’t they teach you how to read directions at that fancy school of yours?”
“You broke it,” Doris seconded. No smiles, no pats, no lollipops. “We have so much shoplifting from you spoiled brats, who can tell if you even paid for it.”
I ran home in tears. My mother brought me back. “Oh, Mrs. Randolph,” Irving oozed, “what an unreliable manufacturer. We’ll order little Abigail another box immediately.”
“How can you even suggest we’d accuse this adorable child of stealing or lying,” Doris chimed in. “Obviously she has the overactive imagination of all creative types. She’s one of our favorites.” She reached for my braids. “Here, honeybunch,” she said. “Pick out two lollipops.”
What did I learn? Some people are nice to grown-ups and mean to kids.
That was Lavinia. Even as a kid.
Let me give you a couple of scenes from our childhood to illustrate this point.
Our families were neighbors. Our backyards abutted. We held duplicate keys to each other’s houses. On summer nights our parents poured gin and tonics from the Potters’ porch swing. In the winter, they filled brandy snifters in my father’s library. We kids knew where the Potters kept the Ritz crackers and the Randolphs the Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.
Some of course stayed and thrived. These merry few now hold the positions their parents held, reap the esteem their parents reaped. But it’s the others who interest me. The falling/failing star kids of rising/ risen star parents.
Unlike some of us, Lavinia never fit that category of the minister’s daughter who ran wild, the professor’s son who flunked out, the chef ’s offspring who burnt toast. She was everybody’s pet. Let me rephrase this. She was the favorite of the grown-ups. The child our parents wished we could resemble more. Why can’t you be like Lavinia? rang out throughout our West Cambridge neighborhood. If only you had half her manners. Half her accomplishments.
How can I explain this phenomenon? Here’s an example. When we were kids, there was a toy store on Mass. Ave. called Irving’s. The kind of store that no longer exists. It sold everything: penny candy, fancy candy, candy bars, puzzles, games, masks, Slinkies, not to mention educational toys and books—Lincoln Logs and Make Way for Ducklings —and the noneducational ones we all coveted—Conan the Barbarian comics and GI Joes and Barbie dolls. It also brought adults to its aisles stuffed with pots and pans, needles and thread, crepe paper and ribbon, paints and staple guns and screwdrivers. Irving and his wife, Doris, ran their store like a small municipality. White-haired and fake jovial, they barricaded themselves behind the front counter on stools, Buddha stomachs cushioning their laps and Santa Claus smiles stretched across their commerce-seeking faces. Our dimes and quarters bought Irving his big white Cadillac and their winters in Florida and the sapphires sparkling in Doris’s ears.
When we came in with our parents, we were treated like precious little Shirley Temples and enchanting Lord Fauntleroys. How Abigail has grown, Irving would coo. Pick yourself out a lollipop, sweetheart, Doris would offer, and reach across the Matchstick cars to pat my pigtails and adjust my barrettes.
Once, however, my mother sent me in alone to return a plaster of Paris make-your-own-ballet-dancer kit. The plaster had solidified and cracked, its gray mass so dense there was no way you could follow the instructions and pour it into the ballet-dancer molds.
“You’ve used it wrong,” Irving complained. “You’ve ruined it. Don’t they teach you how to read directions at that fancy school of yours?”
“You broke it,” Doris seconded. No smiles, no pats, no lollipops. “We have so much shoplifting from you spoiled brats, who can tell if you even paid for it.”
I ran home in tears. My mother brought me back. “Oh, Mrs. Randolph,” Irving oozed, “what an unreliable manufacturer. We’ll order little Abigail another box immediately.”
“How can you even suggest we’d accuse this adorable child of stealing or lying,” Doris chimed in. “Obviously she has the overactive imagination of all creative types. She’s one of our favorites.” She reached for my braids. “Here, honeybunch,” she said. “Pick out two lollipops.”
What did I learn? Some people are nice to grown-ups and mean to kids.
That was Lavinia. Even as a kid.
Let me give you a couple of scenes from our childhood to illustrate this point.
Our families were neighbors. Our backyards abutted. We held duplicate keys to each other’s houses. On summer nights our parents poured gin and tonics from the Potters’ porch swing. In the winter, they filled brandy snifters in my father’s library. We kids knew where the Potters kept the Ritz crackers and the Randolphs the Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.
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