Steady Ender

I was talking to my friend Anne the other day. We were exchanging stories about our childhoods growing up in Northeast Philadelphia.

She asked, "do you remember the term steady ender?" I hadn't heard the expression for over 70 years; but, yes, I did remember.

It was the spring of 1951 and the kids on Montague Street were covering the black asphalt of the 7100 block with white chalk hopscotches. Everywhere except in front of Mrs. Fager's house. She was always threatening to call the police if we ran on her tiny, manicured lawn; but today, if the necessity arose, the red cars driven by the Philly Police would be answering a complaint concerning Mrs. Fager's disdain for our hopscotches. We always respected her wishes, but we weren't afraid of her because we knew that Mrs. Fager never followed through on her threats.

Finished chalking, my younger sister Ronnie and I began digging through the paint splattered wooden crate in our cellar looking for our clip-on roller skates.

Once found the probability was high that we'd have to untangle the buckle of at least one of

them from my dad's old work boot shoelaces.

Next, would be a scramble through the junk drawer of what we referred to as the work bench table, searching for a skate key. A bonus find would be a small, beaded chain that practically guaranteed success when aiming for that designated numbered square in hopscotch.

I loved the games we kids played during the spring and summer...except for one.

Double Dutch!

Double Dutch jump rope required skill in foot movement and balance. It was an art form. Janey Driscoll, the Krause twins; Gerry and Dolores, Mary Ann Strain performed like leaping dancers, gracefully jumping in and out, over and under the double clothesline ropes. They were the Montague Street Double Dutch superstars.

I could hold my own in single rope jumping and I had pretty good balance while hopping on one leg in hopscotch, but when it came time for team selection in Double Dutch, I was always last chosen and not as a jumper, but to be an ender.

Once in awhile one of the better Double Dutch jumpers would hop out and take an end, allowing the ender a chance to show her stuff, a stab at redemption. There were no hoppers ready to offer me redemption, especially after the time one put forward and I blew it; getting tangled in the rope, holding up the game while freeing myself.

I wouldn't be surprised if somewhere in my permanent record, written in red ink, is an italicized notation that I am to go down in Montague Street Double Dutch history as a steady ender.

Another notation in that same record book might read...please note, this girl has only one foot capable of learning to tap dance. The other has absolutely no talent!

The spring of 1951, besides being the time of street games, also included a big talent show presenting the acrobatic skills and dancing abilities of students attending classes at the Disston Recreation Center.

Janey Driscoll and the Krause twins took lessons at Disston and back in September, I begged my mother to enroll me so I could be in the spring show.

Janey was not only the best jumper in Double Dutch, but she was also a great dancer, a cool dresser, and the prettiest girl on our block. I wanted to be just like her.

We were as different as night and day. She had short blonde hair, I had long brown hair. She was short and I was taller than most of the girls on our block. At least until 8th grade when I stopped growing. Above all, Janey was coordinated. Being just like Janey was going to be challenging.

In September when I asked my mother to enroll me at Disston, she said yes, but under one condition, I had to take my sister Ronnie who was just shy of 3 years younger than me.

Our group of four, plus Ronnie would meet in front of the Driscoll's house on Saturday mornings and walk the several blocks to the Rec Center.

The first week we went, my mother walked with us. She received a list of what Ronnie and I would need for our tap-dancing class. I also wanted to be part of the acrobatic class, but didn't want to ask my mother to pay extra, although I pictured myself looking like the beautiful Grace Kelly, my quick running feet barely touching the ground as I flew across the polished floor, throwing out my arms at just the perfect time as my hands touched down on the mat, fingers outstretched, elegantly executing the perfect somersault.

During the week my mother told me to take the pair of of Mary Jane shoes that my cousin Claire had outgrown to the shoemaker for taps. Claire and I were the same age, but she had big feet.

Across the counter, I handed the shoemaker Claire's Mary Janes, noticing the black shoe polish thick under his fingernails. He wore a heavy leather apron, but I could tell that he was pretty round. He had black curly hair and spoke with an accent that I decided was Italian and immediately I made him a secret opera singer. In my silent conversation with myself, I imagined him waiting for customers to leave and only upon hearing the tingle of the tiny bell hanging over the door signaling departure would he burst into a robust aria.

He asked me if I wanted to wait or come back later. I decided to wait, enjoying the scent of the shoe polish and the somewhat peaceful feeling I got from being in the small, sort of subterranean shop. He offered me to sit down in the worn leather chair that was in the corner by the window, the only chair in the room.

I watched with interest as he hammered the little nails through the taps and onto the soles and heels of the shoes, placing the pennies I gave him under the taps to make them sound louder when they would hit the wooden floor. When I left, I climbed the steps up to the sidewalk and looked back at the cardboard black cat waving his paw from the inside of the window. I wondered if his owner was singing.

The following Saturday, our little circle of dancers met in front of Janey's house. Arriving at the Rec Center, we changed into our tap shoes. Ronnie and I headed into the beginners' class, hopefully , we'd prove ourselves good enough to be candidates for the spring show. Meanwhile, the other three went and joined the more advanced group.

Ronnie and I took our assigned places in a horizontal line of dancers who were arranged by height across the mirrored room.

Heel-toe, heel-toe...tap, tap, tap...1,2,3 were the instructions being shouted by the stern looking, skinny teacher who was dressed in a black leotard and wore her dark hair in a slightly crooked bun held by a hair net on the top of her head. I couldn't calculate her age, because to me, people were either young kids, teenagers, or old. She fit into my "old" box. I thought I spotted a hint of dandruff on her shoulder but tried to ignore it. I wasn't sure why I noticed those kinds of things, but I did. She wasn't what I pictured a dance teacher to be, but I could tell that she took her job here at the Disston Recreation Center seriously. By the time she was finished with us, we'd be worthy of the stage at Radio City, or she'd know the reason why.

My right foot was fully engaged as I smacked the taps of Claire's shoes in unison with the other students. Heel, toe, heel,toe...1,2,3. This was fun.

"Now, left," the skinny teacher commanded, stepping up the pace a bit. "Heel-toe, heel-toe." My left foot seemed to do a quick slide of the taps going from first , directly to third, a speedy surprise that almost sent me backward into the line behind. Maybe it was the taps. Maybe the floor where I stood was slippery. I tried again. No luck. My left foot had a mind of its own and it hated tap dancing.

I was called aside after class and the teacher suggested I switch over to the acrobatic class. It cost the same as tap. The following week, I saw the new class as my last chance for being in the spring show.

I sat on the floor watching the girls take their stance before running towards the blue mat in front of them. I observed that cute, little hop they did before throwing their arms into the air resulting in the perfect cartwheel. I watched them walk away in satisfied triumph, their friends smiling and patting them on the back.

It was my turn to stand in line. With 5 girls in front of me, I was full of confidence. Although I had never even attempted a cartwheel before, I had this.

My turn.

I did the quick, confident run across the floor, all eyes on me. I threw my arms into the air, forgetting the all-important hop and landed on the mat. That's ok, I'd go to the back of the line and try again. The second and third tries proved unsuccessful as I developed hop fright. I'd get to the mat after the long run and freeze. Three strikes...I was out. No spring show for me.

My sister Ronnie, however, would be in the spring show, wearing a costume and lipstick when she performed as a Scottish Lass on the stage at Lincoln High School, along with Janey and the Krause twins, and I'd be there in the audience with my parents to cheer them on.

I have learned that sometimes you're the star and sometimes, you're the seat. Sometimes you're the jumper and sometimes, you're the steady ender so others can jump.

Whatever your position, enjoy being you.

It's all good.

Til next week...Ja.