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MEMORIES OF A ROTTEN CHILDHOOD, Part 8, Honey’s Death

I am writing this from the perspective of 50 years.  Even now, it is hard to do so, because there are things in our earlier life that impact in ways we don’t dare investigate.  Perhaps we are too confused, or ‘we don’t go there’ because of the pain we know that lurks right under the surface.  Any disturbance of that soil, and we are thrown back into a part of life we have tried to bury.

On my 13^th birthday, my horse, Honey died. She was old, probably older than we knew.  My father bought her from some farmer who had three horses;  Zebbie, an old thoroughbred, Penny, a small pony and Honey.  Zebbie and Penny were bought by a neighbor, and our local milkman, Ozzie Hoephner.  My father brought home Honey.  I don’t know if that was her name already, or what we named her, but I was about 11 years old and crazy about horses.  I had collected over 50 horse statues and as many books about horses as many little girls do.

It was a great sacrifice for my father, with an old pre-Revolutionary house to restore and three children to feed, plus a wife, to buy a horse.  He took down a barn about 5 miles away, made of chestnut, and moved it to our back acreage. 

It’s funny what you remember from childhood.  I remember the flatbed truck my father moved the pieces of barn on, but I don’t remember the re-construction of the barn.  It was really a small barn, as barns go, but a lovely one.  One side was to be a tack room, which really held my father’s welding equipment, various saws and carpenter’s equipment, and the other side was a large stall, more like a room with two windows.  In the middle was a open area that could be used to park a car, a carriage, etc.  There was loft upstairs over the stall, and I spent hours up there reading.

For some reason, my rather taciturn father, one that never was wont to speak at great length, saw that his only daughter, his oldest child was faltering.  I was not a very pretty child, ungainly, with few social skills.  I was more a book worm and fixated on horses and animals because there were no children really around to play with.  At least no girls.

“Are you joining up, mate?”

“Why? It’s the Brit’s war”.

“Cause Aussies are part of the empire, ‘one for all’…you know the drill”.

Both young men soon in the trenches, barely eight meters from the enemy.

“Hasim, leave off the plowing, we all go to fight the British.”

“My wheat will not be planted in time for the rains.”

“Forget the planting…leave the plowing to the women.  If you don’t go, the infidels will take your fields… Once more our country will be invaded.”

Both young men crawled into their trenches, pushing past bodies bobbing like apples in gore.

The slaughter was horrific.  New men replaced dying men. Then, within hours, they  too were dead.

The trenches filled with blood, guts, madness – a stinking circle of Hell serving all faiths, welcoming all comers.  Plenty of seating.

The Aussie mates and the Turkish farm boys didn’t last the night.  Their bodies, shoved aside by a seemingly endless supply, sank in the mud.

These were the “Founding myths” of nations, claimed with pride by politicians who never saw the muck up close or personally.

Beautiful Gallipoli.

 Turkish soil and streams nourished by the mixed fruit of the dead.  

All Mothers, your children rest in the now gentle bosom of the land. They sleep as brothers. Your tears feed the oceans forever.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyright, 2007, 2010, 2023

MEMORIES OF A ROTTEN CHILDHOOD, -PART 7, MY FATHER

My father was a tender man. He came back from WWII, from the Pacific Rim, probably shell shocked, certainly a pacifist.

It was somewhere in the 50′s. My parents had bought their dream house: a very old, and badly- needing- restoration pre-Revolutionary War house. My father, along with my 9 months pregnant mother, moved into this house and began the necessary restoration. I remember my brother and I bedded down in what was to be the dining room.

Both my parents were biting off probably more than they could chew with this property. There were two barns, a few sheds, and lo and behold! An outhouse. That was the toilet…the only toilet.

My mother, being city bred, and also so heavily pregnant, refused to use that black walnut-built two seater outhouse, and since it was already winter, who could blame her? My father worked nights putting in a proper bathroom, and peace reigned again. Sort of.

(Black walnut is beautiful wood, and since they were surrounded with acres of it, that particular wood was used for just about everything, including the beautiful curving banister in the front hall. My father also tore apart the outhouse and used some of the wood in constructing a cabinet under the back staircase, accessible from the kitchen. It was a great place for us to play hide and seek as children.)

Thanksgiving was coming one year, and my father decided he would buy a live turkey, fatten it up and slaughter it for the day. I vaguely remember going with him one night, when it was already dark and cold, and what I remember was a very large, dark room, lit by a bare bulb hardly casting light on the proceedings. If I remember correctly, it probably was a poultry farm somewhere in Middlesex County, probably in Millstone. Back in the 50′s and 60′s, five miles from Princeton, all of this area was farm country. Very old, English, Scottish then Dutch countryside with huge acreage of farms, dairy and grains.

So my father brings home a live turkey, and with two kids and a toddler, he thinks he is going to make “Tom” dinner.

My father soon realized his now-country- bred children had made friends with Tom and the idea of eating a friend, well, this wasn’t on the menu for us kids.

My mother wasn’t about to pluck or clean a turkey. She was a nurse and ballet dancer and hadn’t education in this. She didn’t like to even touch fish to be cooked.

So Tom went to Ham MacDonald in Rocky Hill. He had 12 children and I am sure Tom served the purpose he was bred for very nicely there.

My father went to his friend in Millstone, Chester, who was a butcher, and got a goose. I think he decided on goose because of the quick disappearance of Tom and he knew any turkey carcass showing up on a plate would have been suspect.

So that Thanksgiving we had goose, which was rather strange because Thanksgiving wasn’t called “Goose Day”.

My father was a tender man. Perhaps WWII and the times made him tender. Perhaps having children made him see life through our eyes. Some men become harder faced with life. I think it was because of his nature. He practiced compassion, even to the sensitivities of children.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Tags: children, compassion to turkeys, Happy Thanksgiving, New Jersey c

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Jane Kohut-Bartels

thank you, guys for reading this memory,

did a podcast today and they will have to do a lot of editing. LOL. two plus hours and it was fun. about my street, Erin avenue in atlanta and I have lived here for 50 years. Of course the house i bought in 1978 is very different now… six rooms then …now 11 rooms. LOL. two aging people with more antiques than sense. but it is beautiful and our street has really changed. gentrification is the reason. went to a porch meeting of our street residents and they were wonderful. a few of them, elderly like us, but vital people. all the new and different cultures who have moved into our area and our street are great: people from Ukrainia, Africa, Puerto RIcan, and just younger people….it is good that we didn’t move when we thought about relocating. we couldn’t afford the houses now if we ever did. LOL.

We lived in the countryside of New Jersey and the winters were fierce.  Grey, snow-swirled days of deep snow and sometimes if we were lucky: missed school.  My mother had a personal vendetta against the Johnsons, the old married couple (at least they seemed old to me) who drove the school bus in our neck of the woods.  They were farmers themselves, and I remember just glimpsing their farm one day, set back from the road, when Mrs. Johnson stopped there for some reason. She was always trying to give us kittens from the farm, and my mother would have fits.  She hated cats, some ‘trauma’ that happened to her with a cat when she was young, but we loved them. And the countryside was the perfect place for kittens and cats.  My father loved cats, and would bring one home every few years. I remember one cat, we called “General McArthur”  (this was only years, probably a decade or a little more after WWII, so that became a point of reference for us) because he would always return in some state of fight-injury, and one day he said on the outside window sill with an eyeball hanging from his socket.  He disappeared for good after that.

I remember a particular snow fall.  We were supposed to get dressed and stand at the bottom of the driveway awaiting the Johnson’s school bus.  We were sure that it wouldn’t come because the snow was heavy the night before and we were looking for a winter vacation.  We didn’t get dressed, but sneaked out of the house with our pajamas concealed under our longer winter coats.  The bus came, and we were caught, having to run back in  the house and face our mother’s wrath. 

I also remember how I found out about menstruation.  I was about eight or nine and had an abscessed molar.  My mother drove me to a local dentist, Dr. Pullen.  Appropriate name for a dentist, and the next one was Dr. Peck.  In the car, me crying with pain and a swollen face, my mother elected to tell me about ‘ the great transition to becoming a woman’.  That was the first time I heard about that rite of passage, and I think it made a link between menstruation and pain.  I never had easy periods, but this didn’t help.  I don’t blame my mother for this, she was trying to ‘entertain me’ in some weird way on that trip to the dentist.  Dentist visits were rare in anycase, but not because I had good teeth.  Teeth were pulled and no fillings were evident until you got rid of all the baby teeth.

I do remember the first period, a traumatic time because my horse had died the night before.  It was on my 13^th birthday that I started to bleed.  My father had to go out and buy the Kotex and the sanitary belt.  I remember my shame that he even knew about this stuff, and I remember the look that passed between my parents.  Things certainly have changed in days now.  I don’t think there would be such shame and embarrassment now but then again, I don’t know.

Jane Kohut-Bartels Copyrighted

died 5 days ago. I just was called by a cousin. my other brother david kohut and chris’ wife ellen never bothered to call me. a good friend said this to me: You may live in a garage, but that doesn’t mean you are a car. You may call yourself a christian, but that doesn’t mean you are.

poor youngest brother: 72 and diabetic. He was a good man.

I am typing this here as my microsoft site is screwed again.

Erin ave. wasn’t called that until after 1914. before it was McFarland. The only reason I know this is because I talked to a gentleman, CT Ragsdale, Atlanta’s first fire chief in 1930, and he was a member of the Ragsdale family. He drove a mule wagon around 1914 when he was 14 years old to Broad st. market downtown. He said our house was on the back of the property (1/4 acre) and rolled up around 1920 for the sewer line. Must have been quite a job. Erin on the north side was truck gardens, strawberry fields, corn and watermelons. It was flatter terrain. On the south side towards Dill, it was more hilly and the houses dated from 1914-1923. Basically brick and wood cottages. The arch. varied from Queen Anne to our house which had a big porch and called Plantation Plain. we think our house was a stable as the Ragsdales came from England in 1860 or a little earlier and had “West End Horse and Mule” There were rooms in the second story for bedrooms and of course everyone had an outhouse. Every house north and south of Erin also had a screened in ‘summer house” where people could cool off in the hot summers. Dr. Flint at 649 Erin had a Queen Anne house with a cowshed and corn shed. In 1973, I wandered in this deserted barn and saw the stall. there also was a once beautiful grotto, with a stoned in pond, rose bushes and carved flint seatings. It was torn down by some realestate dealer who had no respect for the property. Years ago we took some of the slates that were rounds that went around young trees. we used them in our own property. There are many stories about Erin ave and now it is considered ‘bougie’ by other streets in Capitol View. LOL. Ok with me, we went through Hell back in the 80’s and 90’s until our neighborhood gentrified. we battled drug dealers, prostitutes and vagrants, and thieves for decades. also corrupt cops (Zone 3 was infamous for this and finally, the city noticed and a number of them went to prison….not long enough) The street is lovely, with a mixture of old, new and really new residents. people are planting flowers, taking care of their propertys, and it now is a pleasant place to live. Years ago we found a cannon ball (lead) on our property and though the battle of Atlanta was not fought near here, there were defense structures (mostly dugouts) because Atlanta did burn the Termnus (railstation) at the beginning of the war. Many decades ago there was a house on Stewart Avenue that had a collection of civil war impliments: cannon balls, swords, metal bits and pieces, etc. It died when the owner died. The history of Erin Avenue is still changing and evolving. Long may it do so.

Signor Balsamo laughed, and infected with her happiness, said, “Ah! Punchinello!  Coglinni!  Does he never change, my dear? He is universal for bravery, for laziness, for pride and bawdiness!  He embodies the best and worst in mankind.  Bravo, my friend!”

Signor Balsamo greeted this huge headed, almost human sized puppet with the enthusiasm one would greet an old friend.  Perhaps he was related.

“Ah! He is ugly, and that never changes!”  A true observation that made the crowd laugh.

The ‘teste di fantasia” in Venice were known in Europe to be the finest.  But this was not a Venetian production, but the work of a Russian, who was known as a Count, or perhaps he was a Prince.  Who could tell?  The mystery surrounding M. Swartzskya was thick as the fog over the canals in winter.

They watched the puppets and marveled how realistic they were.  Dressed in sumptuous fashion, even if a few years out of date, their puppetry revealed only by the wires that went from their moving parts to high above where the puppeteer was controlling them, they were almost human to observers.

A dance, an awkward embrace, the tangling of wires, the sound of puppet feet hitting the stage and on occasion, a groan.  Ah, this Count Swartzskya was a genius! The Doge himself would be entertained, for Signora Faini and Signor Balsamo had never seen such a display of pure delight!  All the gold in Venice couldn’t replace the sheer magic of Swartzskya!

LA VENDETTA

Chapter One

Maria de Guiseppa Agnesi Faini sprawled on a brocade-covered chair. Summer in Venice was always hot, humid and moldy.  She crinkled her nose at the smell of the water and the slime rotting the stucco sides of the villa. 

Her apartments were on the third floor but very little air this sultry morning was  coming through the long, opened windows.   She could hear music of gondola men, their songs always the same of beautiful women and brokenhearted lovers as they plied their way down the Grand Canal. The men’s lilting voices called out the names of local courtesans, much as the sellers of fish or fruit sang of their ware’s desirability. 

“ A lira for a squeeze of Maria’s breast, with a couple of oranges to sweeten the deal!”

Signora Faini squirmed in her chair.  The brocade was hot to her skin, though she wore a muslin morning dress. Sweat dripped down the viola curve of her back to the crease of her buttocks and she scratched where it tickled.  L’Inglese had introduced muslin and it was all the rage in Venice this season.  She thought them a bloodless race, a country of bad teeth.

*“Where is he?”  She tapped her foot impatiently.  “He better bring some good gossip for his lateness”*

Signor Alessandro Balsamo was her friend.  Actually he was her ciscebo, tolerated by her husband because Signor Balsamo was a castrato.  He had been cut when only a young boy (“Viva il coltello!” the audience yelled when he appeared on the stage) and sang until his voice disappeared.  Other patrons supported him, but alas, Signor Balsamo was growing old and unattractive.  His nose was arching to meet his chin, his belly could no longer be contained in his waistcoat and even his corset was straining. 

Signora Faini sighed.  This heat would not let up, and there were at least two more months of this weather.  She promenaded upon the stones of San Marco plaza, hoping for a breeze from the sea until she had worn out 10 pairs of slippers in one month, bowing to the left and right, stopping to gossip with her few friends. Now her feet hurt.

She thought of her new lover and her nipples hardened. Her hand strayed to her bosom and she squeezed a breast, rubbing shapely thighs together.  A soft groan escaped her throat. 

He was an officer, a dashing lieutenant, now on maneuvers somewhere across the Alps.  She remembered the first time, when in Signora Mortanti’s garden, with her skirts flipped over his kneeling form before her.  She caught the eye of her husband and had the presence of mind to flutter her fan at him.  He barely acknowledged his wife so intent was he in arguing the latest political scandal.  Leaning upon a tree, she inched her was around it, better to obscure her lover’s behavior.   He obediently followed on his knees.  There would have been two scandals discussed that soft, spring night, and this one ending in bloodshed.

Ah, she missed her Alfredo!  He was bold, but perhaps all Romans were so.  There was a difference between the men of Venice and Roma.  In Venice they talked of commerce, but the men of Roma talked of love, and made exciting scandal.

Venice was still a wicked city.  There were plenty of places to indulge in passionate embraces.  Her husband’s gondola was a cozy place, with the canopy making them a snug nest inside if a bit too warm.  A few extra lira to their boatman, and she was assured of her secrets.  Of course, they could never be completely unclothed, but the necessary parts ‘d’amour’ were available.  They tried numerous positions, but the best for her was to bounce upon him.  Then the boatman did not have to compensate for the thrusts of her lover.  Her hands strayed downward to that secret place, not so secret anymore to Alfredo.  Ah, Alfredo! I miss your long sword.   Not the insignificant dagger of her husband.  No, a real sword, one that pierced to her empty womb and she could take in her mouth like a regular puttana.  The weight of his balls in her hands were like the golden——

“Signora?”  A maid knocked upon her door, interrupting her thoughts.

“Signor Balsamo has arrived.”

“Well, let him in.”  Signora Faini’s tone expressed her annoyance at the stupid maid.

Signor Balsamo entered and made his best leg.  His wig was freshly curled and his waistcoat beautifully embroidered.  He was a small, stout man, and still there was a certain charm about him.

Signora barely nodded her head.  She continued to fan herself with her limp lace handkerchief.

“So, Allesandro, my love, you dare to show up late….Again?”

“Forgive me, my dearest Maria, there was a large puppet show at San Marco.  I thought of you and your love of puppets and perhaps we could walk down and see.  They are quite remarkable, almost life sized.  The staging is well done.”

Ah, thought Signora Faini.  Puppets!  I am in the mood for such entertainment. I won’t have to wear out another pair of slippers.  I must remind myself to either hide the shoemaker’s bill or lie to my husband.  He will start yelling again, and there goes my fun.

The signora rang a small porcelain hand bell and called for her personal maid.

Signor Balsamo did not remove himself, for he had been present many times when she was at her toilette.  He had little interest in a woman’s charms, with one exception.  He sat, leaning his chin on his cane and watched her being undressed by her maid.

She shed the morning dress, a confection of muslin and ruffles.  Then, stepping out of two petticoats, she stood in a chemise.  Already corseted, the maid went behind the Signora and tightened her laces.  Sitting, she lifted a slim leg to her maid, not caring that she exposed her fregna to the eyes of her ciscebo.  He blinked, knowing she did it to humiliate him.  It was an old and cruel game she played.

Today, she was even crueler. Lifting both breasts from her corset, she examined the nipples.  She knew her ciscebo had an attachment to women’s breasts, probably something from his childhood.  She twisted each nipple, making the small dark pink flesh stand at attention. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the Signor.  She knew he wanted a suck, something she rarely rewarded him with. She could see the hunger, his mouth open like a fish and his eyes droopy with sadness.   She found a perverse thrill in hurting him. He was such a child, so malleable, so predictable.

Rolling up each silk stocking, the maid tied garters around the Signora’s knees.  Then she hurried to a large armoire.  Opening it, she awaited her mistress’ decision.

“No, not anything heavy this morning, it grows too hot and already the morning breezes are gone.  Perhaps a silk.  What do you think, Alessandro?  Perhaps this watered blue with the ecru lace?  Does it look cool to you?”

Signor Balsamo had been present for this game many times.  If he said ‘yes’ to her selection, she would discard it.  If he said “no” she would consider it, but there would be layers of clothes spread on the floor and sofas before Signora made up her mind.  She was woman!  What could one expect?

Sitting at the vanity while completing her toilette, she suffered her maid to pin her hair high on her head. Dark, chestnut curls tumbled to her shoulders.  At least they would not create heat on the back of her neck.  She was a small woman, like a china doll, all curves and bright eyes and rose tinted lips.  She rose and turned to her ciscebo.

“Ah, Signora!  A vision of radiant beauty, a cornucopia of delights, a —-“

“Enough, Allessandro.”  She turned to the window overlooking the canal, dismissing him unkindly. 

“You weary me with the same chants.  Let us leave, though the hour not fashionable.  Come Alessandro, you have promised me a puppet show and perhaps a glace?”

“Ah, something sweet would be very nice!  The ice from the Alps is packed in straw.  Last time I got a bit of chaff in my ice, this time I will run the vendor through with my sword.”

Signora Faini laughed, her tones like a tinkling bell.  “Ah, Alessandro, you are such a man, so bold and advancing.  Too bad about the missing parts.” 

With that she grabbed up her parasol and took his arm, not caring for the pain in his eyes.  He was to pay, and pay dearly for making her wait this morning.

jane kohut-bartels

copyrighted, 2025