Canterbury Tales…

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By Janet Grace

We moved to Queens, NY when I was 19, a Music Manor at QCNY, I’d bike back and forth to school, prop my bike up by a lamp post and join the latch key kids playing stick ball outside our building, while waiting for their parents to arrive. Their ages ranged from five to eleven and if truth be told, my inner judgment believing children needed to be protected was what nudged me to join them. Yes, I was doing it for myself. The neighborhood was changing and cars raced up and down that street as children darted to get a ball or miss getting hit by speeding cars weigh little regard for much.

During foul weather, I’d invite them over to my house. They each called their parents from my home to tell their parents where they were while I got the water boiling for two pounds of spaghetti with copious amounts of butter for kids that had no problem eating bowlfuls and requesting seconds.

Soon, those parents were asking if I babysat kids who were now telling their parents of how they acted out Peter Pan, Annie, Oliver, sang songs and enjoyed sing alongs while banging, strumming every instrument I owned. “Consider yourself at home. Consider yourself one of the family.”

One day, I was lounging on the couch, doing absolutely nothing but humming to myself, when my cranky sister decided to come at me about my devil may care habits. “ You are never going to find a job”, as if I wanted one, “from the comfort of the couch.”

At that very second, our doorbell rang. She rushed to get it. A woman’s voice said: “Hello, I’m looking for Janet Grace?” I jumped off the couch. That’s me. I was offered a babysitting job for 3 of the brothers that joined me for our pasta marathons, with lucrative pay, while my sister stood there, mouth ajar, like the door knob of a haunted house. “Only you!” was her critique after the Mom left. Yes, I did a little dance mocking her words as she shook her head in disbelief. “Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight, whooo, get down tonight, baby.”

Thus began Janet’s babysitting service which filled no-rehearsal, no-gig nights with extra pay.

One mother that approached me was a 25 year old widow, mother of five boys aged 8 months to 9 years old. She’d recently lost her husband to a motorcycle crash, as he made his way home from his trucking job, hoping to be home in time for Mother’s day.

I took the job, gladly. Her babies were adorable. The kids raced home to hug me, do their homework, take their showers and sit down for a hot supper with tons of laughter, before bedtime.
One particular Friday afternoon, I heard someone struggling to open their front door. In my deepest, most threatening voice, I asked who was there. The voice on the other end said it was “GaGa”. Given, The Mom hadn’t told me about this person, she was getting in the house over my dead body.

Half an hour later, The Mom called laughing. “GaGa” was her mother, coming to visit for the weekend. Sheepishly opening the door to this older woman who had to walk to the corner pay phone to get authorization for me to open the door, I expected she’d be pretty upset. Instead, she threw her arms around me saying: “Girl, you’re fabulous. Now, I know my babies are protected”
The reason for my over protection was that the Mom had received a letter from the youngest boys bio-dad, a Texan, who had boarded a bus and was on his way to claim his son, her youngest.

That day came. Mom had taken the letter to the local authorities who told her that they could not assist, as no crime had yet been committed. I had already told my sister, mom and best friend, who lived next door and shared babysitting duties with me, when I was gigging.

It was a Friday night. The kids were in their pajamas watching TV, I was washing the dinner dishes. The knock that came at the door was loud enough to wake the dead. The kids, frightened, huddled behind me. I motioned to them silently to go into the bedroom which had the fire escape As the banging continued, I called the troops. My sister and friend rushed across the street and one by one, I handed child after child down to awaiting arms and off to safety, while behind me, the horrifying sound of the door being hit with a hammer or something gripped my gut. I called the cops to no avail given the man claimed his name was on the lease and I was the intruder. I was the last one down the fire escape. By the time he got in, all the children were tucked into my mother’s huge king sized bed, drinking hot cocoa and enjoying cookies.

The Mom was able to finish her shift at IHOP knowing the entire neighborhood was on her side and her children were safe. The bio-dad was removed from the premise, locks changed again, a police report listed him as persona non grata and we all lived to laugh another day.

The Mom finally met a knight in shining armour, the IHOP chef, who married her, adopted all the children and moved the tribe to the west coast where they had four more children, including a set of twins. The kids are in their 30’s and 40’s now but thanks to the magic of social media, we’re still connected and still laugh about the days of old, playing stick ball in the street and binging on spaghetti with copious amounts of butter.

I believe in Angels. I believe in guides. I believe I was exactly where I was supposed to be to be used as a guardian for these babies, who’s lives could have met different fates were it not for that which protects children from realms we may not see. Thanks to their Ghost Dad, Angels and Guides.

If you’ve enjoyed this article or care to share your thoughts, please do comment and thank you. I will respond.

Peace n Restful Sleep to all.
Blessed be. )O(
JG 😀

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