Melting Pot

1:00 p.m. Another lovely spring day here. This morning the sky was overcast and grey, but now it is partly sunny and warmer. Tab is working in the back yard with Daniel's assistance. The twins are playing out front on their Little Tikes ride-on cars, and I'm sitting on the porch watching them.

When we were out here on Wednesday, the street was fairly quiet since most of our neighbors work during the day. Today it is bustling. I have seen several people on their way to the Roman Catholic church, carrying baskets of food to be blessed. Mr. Byron and Miss Samantha, who live three doors down from us, are unloading groceries from the back of their car. Miss Samantha just handed Stephen three oatmeal cookies in a plastic bag. "Thank you!" he yells, and then runs up to the porch to hand the bag to me to hold.

"Guess what, Mama? On Mr. Byron's truck I saw a dragonfly!" he reports.

The driveway next to our house belongs to the house on the other side of it, which is owned by John and Brenda, a couple about our age with two little girls. Last year they moved in with John's parents in Lawrenceville and are currently renting the house to a bunch of Ukrainians. We're not sure exactly how many people live there. There seem to be three or four middle-aged women and several men, one of whom is quite good looking and slightly younger than the women. On weekends they often have guests, other Ukrainians who drive cars with Pennsylvania and Connecticut license plates. On Saturday nights last summer, the sounds of Eastern European music would drift through the open windows. They would dance, laugh, sing, and sometimes argue loudly and then start crying. They are very friendly to us, although they speak little English. Last summer the ladies were always giving the boys oranges and ice cream sandwiches.

One of the Ukrainian men is walking up the street. He must be coming from the Eagle Bakery; loaves of bread are visible through the plastic bag he is carrying. One of the women just came out and gave Stephen a big hug and kiss. He smiled and let her pick him up for a hug. She turned to hug Matthew, but he ran away and hid behind me. "He's shy," I explain, not knowing if she understands me. She smiles and nods, giving Stephen another hug before going back into the house.

Kaj, our Polish neighbor across the street, is rubbing his pickup truck with a chamois cloth and whistling. He waves at me and the boys. Down the street, Rudy from Guatemala is pulling up in front of his house. He opens the car door, and his two little dark haired sons emerge. "Hi, Eduardo!" Stephen calls to the older one, a boy about 5.

Our street is the American experience in microcosm; our own miniature, multi-cultural melting pot. For the first three quarters of this century, the ethnic make-up of this neighborhood was primarily Polish with a smattering of other Eastern European nationalities thrown in, along with the remnants of the English potters who were imported to work in the city's porcelain factories in the 1880s and 90s. While there is still a substantial Polish presence, most of the remaining Poles are older people. Recent additions to our block are a couple of African-American families and even more Guatemalans.

My fingers on this tiny Zaurus keypad still have faint yellow and purple stains, the residue of Easter egg dye. The boys and I colored a dozen Easter eggs this morning. Actually we did eleven: I noticed one of the eggs cracked during the boiling so I ate it. The boys had great fun dipping the eggs in and out of the dye. It was a little nervewracking to watch Stephen; he was continually reaching in to the dye with his fingers instead of using the dipper. I kept expecting him to knock over one of the cups of dye, but fortunately it didn't happen.

One of the best things about having small children is the chance to re-live some of my favorite childhood memories. My sisters and I always loved coloring Easter eggs. I liked watching the color dye tablets fizzing away in the vinegar and seeing a carton full of ordinary white eggs transformed into a veritable rainbow. Even the prospect of several days of hardboiled eggs in my lunchbag after Easter instead of my beloved peanut butter sandwiches did not diminish the pleasure I took in the task.

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