AND IF YOU ASK ME

by Grayce Pitera

People always ask me how I keep going with insurmountable tasks before me without becoming depressed. “Why ask you how you’re doing?” one friend chidingly remarked one day, “You’ll only say ‘Great’ anyway.”
And she was probably right. I grew up in an “it’s better than nothing” environment. Whenever I complained about anything, my mother always answered in a loaded cavalier tone, “Well, it’s better than nothing.”
And she was right too. When compared to nothing, anything is good, probably down right fabulous in some cases.
I don’t ever recall being envious of any of my friends or wanting what they or anyone else had. I was satisfied with my lot in life and didn’t wish for anything that wasn’t mine or was out of my reach for whatever reasons.
For my twelfth birthday I received a second hand bike. I had been given a brand new three-quarter style when I was much younger. However, now my parents knew I wouldn’t be riding this one for very long since kids in those days outgrew such things when they reached their teens.
So Dad accepted my cousin Fini’s bike and decided to supplement my birthday gifts with this unexpected surprise. It was blue with that 1940s especially thick bar that gracefully went toward the pedals and held a horn inside, regulated by a button which, incidentally, didn’t work anymore.
I was happy to receive it and never expressed any feelings about how totally outdated its design would seem to my friends because it was, of course, better than nothing.
My life was filled with such incidents, like the time my parents went to Rubba’s Furniture store to purchase a living room chair. While there, they noticed a really low price on a hard rock twin bed with an embossed ship in its headboard, obviously meant for a boy. Mr. (Frank) Rubba quoted Dad a price he couldn’t refuse, and that is how I ended up sleeping for the rest of my single life in a bed with a nautical theme and very much not designed for a little girl. I somehow already knew it was better than nothing.
Then Mom tried to balance things by selecting a pink wallpaper with a repetitive pattern of a ballerina dressed in a blue tutu, wearing blue ballet slippers standing on her toes, arms to one side in the air, head peering down. I was not the dainty type, although Mom always had high hopes for me.
In the end I liked the bed more than the wallpaper because my friends at that time were Bob Colucci, Sammy and Anthony Mazza and Homer Archer. I was a tomboy and felt most comfortable in that role.
Many Saturdays the boys came to the gravel pit in the far back of our poultry farm and we played all sorts of running games. I still remember the exhilarating feeling that came as we ran down the deep, severely steep sides of the pit, arms out for balance, with speed that was totally out of our control.
We yelled as we flew down to the bottom only to rush up and do it again. That was the kind of fun middle-income family kids had in those days, and even though it was better than nothing, there was no place I would rather be than with Sammy, my favorite pal of all times in those days.
With no previous agreement, we sat next to each other in class with a group of kids who were placed together in first grade and remained intact until sixth when for some unknown reason, our educators felt we needed to be broken up and mixed with students from other classrooms.
I remember teaming up with Sammy as we tore paper for a paper mache project in Miss Phillips’ fourth grade class. We all later covered a pair of wooden bookends with that pasty mixture, which we then sprayed gold and placed a decal on each to give our mothers for Christmas.
I don’t believe Sam and I ever had an argument. How could anyone argue with him anyway - that good looking, mild-mannered amiable boy?
One day he brought a roll of film to school in Miss Errichetto’s third grade class. It was the right film for Mom’s Kodak Brownie camera. Again, Sammy sat across from me in the very next aisle. At the end of the day he asked me if I wanted it. Of course, I did. That’s what pals did back then, shared what they had, and Sammy was a pal.
During our noon hours we sometimes joined together in the schoolyard game of the day. Later, though, when we were older and no longer in each other’s classroom, we walked into town with our friends. We effortlessly maintained our friendship all through our school years.
As I look back I am not certain I ever said to Sam, “I really like you. You are my really good friend.” It didn’t seem necessary. I believe he instinctively knew that.
Years later when my husband was gravely ill at Doctors Hospital in New York City, Sam rode the bus and stood by my side to keep me company and give Dan comfort.
When Dan later ran for school board, Sam came to the house and helped make phone calls to remind voters to get to the polls to vote. Dan came in as the highest vote getter that year.
As I walked down Horton toward the metal detectors on my way to attend President Reagan’s appearance here in the 1980s, Sam walked with me. We just seemed to “bump” into each other, Hammonton style. That’s how our friendship has been all these years. Sammy sort of shows up just like when we were kids.
In the 1990s, Harry attended cardiac rehab after his heart attack. The first night Harry came home and told me Sam was in his class, and I could see he found comfort in that.
I was smart enough to realize early on that Sam was not only a loyal pal, but also a real keeper. Together we understood that better-than-nothing philosophy. I am certain he heard that reasoning from his mom on many occasions. Italian kids of that era often did.
However, I really bought into it and aspire to it even today. My home is filled with accessories that are chipped, faded or damaged in some way. I place those marred areas away from view. If I like something at an estate sale and it is scarred, I purchase it anyway at an unbelievably low price and work it into my other belongings. All my furniture was given to me or bought on sale. Every piece has a story and I love telling it.
And yes, everything I own falls into the “it’s better than nothing” grouping.
Sammy? He was my pal and you never own a friend but I would say he fell into the “better than anything” category, and in my book, that is just about as good as you can get.

Grayce Pitera is a weekly columnist for The Gazette.