I cannot recall why I first started cutting the heavy plastic on the best chair ever; Mother had just recently had it reupholstered, a light gray vinyl material with a white crisscrossed pattern. We liked, no, we loved that chair with its weird, almost horizontal S shape, and handbrake. It was shaped like this ~ .
A kid could lie in that chair, rock it and get it going really fast, then slam on the brake causing the foot of the chair to be suspended 2 1/2 feet above the floor.
Moving slightly toward the middle of the chair,if the brake was left locked, would tip the whole chair forward, making the foot of the chair fall the entire distance to the floor, slamming the long chair downward and jerking the kid backwards.
Crawling further toward the foot of the chair resulted in being dumped on the floor while the back of the chair rose unnaturally in the air,like the back half of a bucking horse, the wooden feet slamming loudly to the vinyl tile floor seconds later.
The latter was the preferred way to "ride" the chair and always brought waves of laughter from observers, as long as they were about the same age as the chair rider.
It was great fun, something we did to entertain our friends, "riding" the chair as many times as possible until the telltale pop of the brake gave us away, and an adult or older sibling put an end to it. People older than we never seemed to understand the joy of it.
We always complained bitterly, and halfheartedly drug ourselves outside to find something else to do.
Even now, when I think of that day, I feel some sense of shame because really, the chair had been a good toy for us. It seemed like being mean to a good friend. And still, I can't explain why we did it.
I'd like to blame it on someone else, but I'm pretty sure I made the first cut. And after that, everyone wanted to make a cut in the gray material, forming the tic tac toe pattern we decided on. Vertical cut, vertical cut, horizontal cut, horizontal cut, and there we had it, tic tac toe. Only suddenly no one wanted to play tic tac toe.
The reality of what we'd done hit us, particularly when the cotton stuffing poked through the lines, and some fell out on the floor in a little clump- evidence, silently mocking us-there for anyone who entered the room to see.
The leather had felt so soft and pliable under the razor blade I had retrieved from my dad's shaving kit in the bathroom. Surely I planned it if I went to that much trouble, but honestly I can't remember. Maybe the regret of it clouded my memory.
The cuts were smooth and effortless. Each of us, Marie, me and I'm not sure who else, took turns. But the pleasure was so momentary, and the panic so overwhelming, that it was truly one of the worst moments of my life. It was right up there with the day Evelyn got so mad at Boy and me for redoing her wallpaper with crayon rainbows.
Marie and I looked at the chair, looked at each other, and wordlessly looked around for something to cover it up. I found a small satin doll blanket in my room and tossed it over the chair seat. The room contained no doilies, afghans, or pillows.
Our living room was strictly furniture and a few pictures on the wall. The only "decorative items" were ashtrays, one small one on the coffee table and a large one that sat beside Daddy's chair on an ornate gold metal stand.
A solitary yellow looped rug sprawled in front of the space heater, and I realized with a sickening feeling that it had replaced the rug that I had set on fire about six months before. I had been experimenting with a brown paper bag out of which I had just eaten the last lemondrop.
While the rest of the family innocently ate breakfast, I rolled the paper bag into a tight roll and stuck it into the flame in the grates of the spaceheater. It caught on fire, catching me by surprise and almost burned my finger, so I dropped it on the rug.
The rug seemed to catch fire instantly, and I didn't know what to do. I jumped up and silently stomped on the flames, but they wouldn't die. Just before I had to call for help, I smothered the flame by flopping the rug over on itself. Tiny wisps of smoke rose a few inches above the yellow loops. After I'd made sure the fire was out, I flipped the corner of the rug over to cover the burned part, and ran and hid behind the bed in Neila's room, right next to the living room.
In just a few minutes, the four older kids came to the front of the house to leave for school. Mother started calling me, so I knew she had seen the rug by the way she called me, with an upward emphasis on the last syllable of my name. "Fe-li-SA?" she called. I knew what the question was.
Now I felt that same desire to hide again. What would she think? What would she do? She would be so mad about the chair, especially since she just had it re-covered a month or so ago.
After we tossed the dollblanket casually over the hole, by tacit understanding we walked outside, looking for something to occupy us. We rode the bike outside on the gravel driveway. It still had training wheels and was hard to ride. Still, the big kids' bicycles were far too large to manage. They were all at school, and they'd probably get mad anyway, even if we could ride them.
We soon got bored with riding, and I suggested we go to the barn. It was two pastures away and contained a large walk-in freezer, now abandoned, which we had been sternly told to stay away from. Somehow, that dark space appealed to me just now.
Both of us pushed hard in tandem to open the gate nearest the house. I looked back and couldn't believe our good fortune. Mother had not called for us. She was probably rocking Jan for her nap.
We trudged past the toolshed, past the long low metal shed where my dad attempted an ill-fated mink raising business, and past the rough shingled building with attached wire aviary where he attempted an ill-fated parakeet raising business.
We passed through a second gate which was open and walked the quarter mile or so to the barn. We were both a little afraid to go in because it was dark inside. The dirt floor appeared wet and had patches of mossy growth in some areas. A plank shelf ran the width of the building. It had some interesting rusted metal items on it, so we stepped inside and picked several of them up and looked at them, trying to figure out what they were used for before they rusted.
The black boards of the enormous freezer loomed above us, and it took up most of the room inside the barn, with four foot wide trails to walk on around three sides of it. One side abutted the outside wall of the barn. It had been built in there, a black tomb about nine feet tall, maybe eight feet long and four feet wide, with a metal liner inside.
"We shouldn't be here," I said, the first sensible thing I had thought or said all day.
"Let's just look around a little," Marie said. "Why did your dad have this big freezer?"
"I think he put meat in here to feed the mink. But I think my older brother and sister did most of the feeding. That's what they told me. They hated it. They were glad when he got rid of the mink because they were mean and bit them."
"What do you do with mink?" Marie asked.
"Make mink coats, I guess." I answered. "But my mother never had one. I know they don't make good pets."
"Let's look in the freezer," she said.
"We're not supposed to. We're probably in enough trouble already."
"I want to see inside-please," she wheedled, getting on my frayed nerves.
It took both of us, but we got hold of the massive handle, braced our feet against the wood facing, and pulled hard. Finally, the lock gave way, and the door cracked open. Marie, who was definitely braver than I, wedged herself in the crack and heaved. The door moved slowly, pushing several layered inches of dirt back with it. Both of us pressed our hands against the inside of the door now and pushed hard. It opened almost all the way.
It was dark in the barn, but even darker inside the old freezer. A musty smell covered us and settled in our noses. We stepped tentatively inside and our eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was almost completely clean. Nothing of interest at all. Meatladen shelves stripped bare to feed those gnawing animals with their sharp teeth.
"Ok, there's nothing here." Marie reported, like I couldn't see for myself.
"Let's go," I said, suddenly feeling very uneasy.
We left the barn in a hurry, then decided to race to the house. We ran through the open gate, past all the failed business buildings and stopped abruptly at the gate near the house, both breathing hard. Together, we pulled open the tall hogwire gate with its tight spring and solid steel frame, and ran to the house.
"I went to the animal fair, the birds and the beasts were there,
The old baboon, by the light of the moon, was combing his auburn hair.
You ought to see the monk, he jumped on the elephant's trunk,
The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees and what became of the monk, the monk, the monk?"
I heard the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair; Mother was still singing to Jan. Had she not seen the chair yet? Ugh, I hated to think of it. Marie and I exchanged looks of dread just before we took hold of the handle and opened the back screened door.
Mother stood up and laid Jan down in the babybed as we walked in the back door, letting it slam behind us.
"Girls, come here just a minute." she motioned toward the living room.
We followed slowly, dragging our toes with each step. "Do you know anything about this?" she asked, lifting the doll blanket and revealing the ugly cuts on the naugahyde.
We just stood there silently, looking at what we'd done. I wanted to fold in on myself like the burned rug, covering the ugly parts, but I couldn't.
I'd never gotten a spanking, but I figured I was about to find out what it felt like. Our heads hung low like an internal rod had bent our necks down. We looked down at the floor, at our tennis shoes, at the tiny piece of cotton that had escaped from the chair and lay there, an evil mute witness, staring up at us.
"I don't know why you did this," Mother said quietly. "And I really wish you hadn't," she continued. I expected her to go for the belt now. "But I remember being a kid and doing some things just because they felt good, but knowing I shouldn't," she continued in a calm voice. "Are you sorry for this?"
"Yes ma'am," we said in unison.
"All right. Go play."
That was it. No recrimination, no reprimand. We were sorry, she forgave us. Criminals both, we got a pardon. I think from the sound of a discussion I heard later that night that my dad did not have the same sort of forgiveness as she did, but she prevailed. We were never punished for it, except in our own minds. And that, in this case, was enough. I never cut up another chair, and I'm pretty sure Marie didn't either.
My dad was pretty mad a few weeks later when he went to the barn and some possums had taken up residence in the freezer. I think they startled him. He did interrogations in shifts one night, asking all us kids about it, but no one confessed.
I think my mother figured it out, but she just smiled at me and didn't say anything. That was the least of the things I had done that particular day, and leaving a door open was nothing compared to cutting a tic tac toe pattern in an old friend.
Installed
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: WOLF HOWLS
"Oh my gosh, is he here again?" I asked Mother as she stood frying steak in front of the gas range.
"Shh," she hushed me. "He might hear you."
"Well I don't care. Maybe he'll quit coming so much if he hears me," I whined. "Does he have to be here every day when we eat supper?"
"He's not here every day. Maybe a little more often, lately. He and your Daddy like to go hunting, and he enjoys talking. John Henry's not married. He probably gets lonely.--Come on in, John Henry. Have a seat. Yes, right there by the table. Would you like some iced tea?"
"Yes ma'am, shore would. That'd be real nice. Thankee."
I hated the way he said "shore" and "thankee". I just wanted to correct him about that one thing. He acted real nice , always tipping his hat to us, and taking it off while we ate. He wore a narrow brim fedora hat made out of corduroy of some kind. It seemed like more of a gentleman's hat, not a hunting hat.
He was a rather nice looking man with dark hair and tanned skin, but he wore overalls and thick plaid shirts that made him look older than his 38 years.
The reason I didn't like his coming all the time was that we had to be quieter than usual at the table when he was there. Mealtime was when we all tried to talk at the same time, telling everything we had done that day, what we planned to do the next day, and what made us mad, sad, or happy in the past twelve hours since breakfast. We'd talk over each other, and sometimes get louder and louder until one of our parents had to call time, and a sudden silence ensued, which lasted only a few seconds before we started again.
Food was served family style, and as we passed all the food around, we talked. My oldest brother Elton, who was seventeen, moved, talked, and ate really fast. He couldn't even sit still in his chair, but jumped around in it, and when he told a story, he was quite expressive, and it usually ended with all of us laughing really loudly, and his smiling and watching everyone else laugh while he thought of his next story.
Mother was always getting up to get something somebody needed, worcestershire sauce, an extra napkin, tea, or ice, but the kitchen was so small, that with John Henry there, she practically had to crawl over him. Somebody could reach the refrigerator, sink, extra dishes and stove from one of the eight seats around the table. Mother would just ask one of us kids if we'd get whatever it was that another person needed when John Henry was there.
On John Henry Nights, as I called them, we'd kind of look at Elton, waiting for him to start off with a tale, and he'd look at us like WHAT? as though he didn't know our dinner routine and why we were looking at him. That got Susan and I mad, but we couldn't really say anything. We'd just have to wait till Daddy started talking to John Henry about wolf hunting. How did he think the weather was for hunting, John Henry? and did he think that new dog of Daddy's would stay on the trail? and had he heard that new dog of Cotton's that howled like a squealing pig?
Susan and I rolled our eyes, but we had to be careful. If Daddy saw us, we would at least be threatened with getting in trouble though he never made good on his threats. Elton was just eating as fast as he could, his fork working like a cotton stripping machine through the broccoli and mashed potatoes and gravy. He wasn't talking at all which meant he would probably finish his meal in under three minutes.
Neila sat quietly eating with consummate good manners while Stephen was eating and reading a copy of Mad Magazine which he had smuggled in and hidden in his lap. Reading at the table was strictly forbidden, even for Susan, and if Mother caught him, all his magazines would probably be burned in the trash barrel out back. Mealtime was family time, and it was one of the few things about which she was strict .
Mother always offered supper to John Henry, but he would never take anything more than a glass of tea. I imagine more than once he wanted to say he'd take a plateful of that delicious smelling food, but he always said he'd "just et". Once in a while he'd have dessert, especially if it was pecan pie, which he "allowed" was his favorite.
Tonight, we were having lemon pie, so he decided to have a piece, and Mother passed him the first slice on a small saucer, along with a fork and napkin.
Jan was sitting on her Mrs. Tucker's lard can in the chair between Mother and me, so she had a better vantage point of the whole table than I. After we all had been served pie, we started eating, but I noticed that Jan, who was left handed and sometimes did things differently than I did, was holding her fork oddly. She had her entire hand doubled around the fork, with her thumb folded over her fingers.
"Mother, what is wrong with Jan's hand?" I asked, peering around the lard can to see Mother.
"What?" she asked absentmindedly, taking a small bite of broccoli.
"Her hand," I said, growing more emphatic.
"What's wrong with her hand?" Mother asked, looking for the first time toward Jan. "Oh.........nothing, nothing at all. Just eat your pie."
"But that's not how you're supposed to hold your fork," I kept on.
I felt something tapping Morse code on my back and turned to see mother's index finger. Then I leaned forward around Jan so I could see Mother's face and got that "don't you dare say anything else" look, so I slumped dispiritedly in my chair and cut into my slice of pie.
As I looked across the table at Elton, who had finished his pie and was moving around a lot in his chair, looking like he would leave the table in one leaping bound, I noticed John Henry, eating his pie in exactly the same way that Jan was, his fork held with his entire hand clamped around the handle.
My surprise made me take a little shallow breath, and I immediately wanted to tell everyone why Jan was holding her fork that way. I started beating Morse code on Mother's back. It wasn't easy reaching all the way around the lard can, and my arm made little metal popping sounds on the can that certainly got everyone's attention, even my Dad's.
He sat at the head of the table near the door, and John Henry sat to his left and directly across from Jan. Daddy seemed to sense what was happening, so just as I burst out with "Mother I know why....", he stood up, got John Henry's arm, and said "Let's go load those dogs, John Henry. We're burnin' daylight." They left quickly and Elton vaulted over their two chairs to make his exit.
"Going to Deanna's," he yelled behind him.
All the activity had left me momentarily distracted, watching everyone leave in such a rush.
"I know," I started.
"I know what you know," Mother said, "and there's no reason to say anything further."
"But......."
"Felisa. I said stop-no more. Stop. And Stephen, I want you to bring all your Mad Magazines down from upstairs. I'm going to burn them, including that one in your lap."
"I really like Mad Magazine," Susan said quietly, looking sad.
"Oh all right," Mother relented, a little too quickly. "Leave them up there. But you must not read at the table any more."
Stephen grinned. He didn't even seem to notice that Susan's comment was probably what saved him.
We all spent our evening doing our usual routines. Mother read with me while Jan listened and looked at the pictures. Dick and Jane was beginning to seem too easy, but I did as instructed by my beloved Mrs. Hagle.
I was looking forward to reading some of Susan's books. She didn't seem as anxious to share them as I was to read them. Susan did homework sitting on her bed. Neila was studying and looking through college catalogs. Stephen was doing who knew what up there in their room upstairs. Probably working on some chemistry "experiment".
Our cousin Phil, who often came down to stay with us on weekends from Arlington, said the government environmental agency should have condemned that desk where they mixed their chemistry concoctions a long time ago. The paint and varnish were gummed up into balls and the top of the desk felt rough and grittty.
We took our baths and were getting ready for bed in the bathroom off the backporch when Elton came in the back door, let it slam, and started laughing. "What? What?" we all asked, Mother included.
"Well, don't tell Daddy this," he said. "Promise?"
"Promise," Jan and I nodded solemnly.
"Now I mean it. Felisa, you can't tell. Daddy would get mad at me."
That sealed it. I would never tell on him if it would get him in trouble. I adored him. He was the spark in our family, the livewire, and we always had fun when he was around.
"I won't tell, no matter what," I swore, right hand raised like I was taking an oath.
"I not tell needer," Jan squeaked, also raising her right hand.
"Ok," he started. "You know how Daddy likes to stand by the truck and howl like a wolf and try to get the wolves to howl back?"
We nodded and Mother said "yes".
"Well, I was at Deanna's and you know how far they live out in the sticks. I heard someone howling. From the front porch, I could see Daddy's pickup about a quarter mile down the road, lit up by the moonlight, him standing beside it with his hands cupped around his mouth, just howling to call those wolves. I just couldn't help myself. I howled back in my best wolf howl, and Daddy answered three different times. Finally, I started laughing so hard I just had to go in the house."
It was time for bed. Everyone except Daddy took their bath at night so the single bathroom wouldn't be crowded in the morning.
The next morning, Daddy was just ready to leave for work when we ambled into the kitchen in our pajamas. Rubbing my eyes, I asked Daddy, "How do you call wolves anyway? Like this?" Putting my hands around my mouth, I mimicked a howl.
Just then, Elton walked in and gave me a sharp look, so I stopped immediately, feeling ashamed. Daddy looked a little puzzled, but he was in a hurry and left the house right away. Mother, who was always in the kitchen at breakfast time, finished putting eight pieces of "egg on toast", a concoction of diced boiled eggs combined with white gravy, that was slathered on bread and toasted, into the oven.
She laughed, looking at Elton. "Some people might not tell a secret, but they might forget and act it out."
I still had my head down, embarrassed, and couldn't look at him. He walked over, picked me up and squeezed me real hard. "That's okay," he said. "You forgot it was a secret. And it was pretty funny, wasn't it? I'll show you how to call the wolves tonight. But let's don't tell Daddy. He might not think it's as funny as we do."
"Breakfast everyone," Mother called, as the rest of the pack assembled from all parts of the house.
Installed
"Shh," she hushed me. "He might hear you."
"Well I don't care. Maybe he'll quit coming so much if he hears me," I whined. "Does he have to be here every day when we eat supper?"
"He's not here every day. Maybe a little more often, lately. He and your Daddy like to go hunting, and he enjoys talking. John Henry's not married. He probably gets lonely.--Come on in, John Henry. Have a seat. Yes, right there by the table. Would you like some iced tea?"
"Yes ma'am, shore would. That'd be real nice. Thankee."
I hated the way he said "shore" and "thankee". I just wanted to correct him about that one thing. He acted real nice , always tipping his hat to us, and taking it off while we ate. He wore a narrow brim fedora hat made out of corduroy of some kind. It seemed like more of a gentleman's hat, not a hunting hat.
He was a rather nice looking man with dark hair and tanned skin, but he wore overalls and thick plaid shirts that made him look older than his 38 years.
The reason I didn't like his coming all the time was that we had to be quieter than usual at the table when he was there. Mealtime was when we all tried to talk at the same time, telling everything we had done that day, what we planned to do the next day, and what made us mad, sad, or happy in the past twelve hours since breakfast. We'd talk over each other, and sometimes get louder and louder until one of our parents had to call time, and a sudden silence ensued, which lasted only a few seconds before we started again.
Food was served family style, and as we passed all the food around, we talked. My oldest brother Elton, who was seventeen, moved, talked, and ate really fast. He couldn't even sit still in his chair, but jumped around in it, and when he told a story, he was quite expressive, and it usually ended with all of us laughing really loudly, and his smiling and watching everyone else laugh while he thought of his next story.
Mother was always getting up to get something somebody needed, worcestershire sauce, an extra napkin, tea, or ice, but the kitchen was so small, that with John Henry there, she practically had to crawl over him. Somebody could reach the refrigerator, sink, extra dishes and stove from one of the eight seats around the table. Mother would just ask one of us kids if we'd get whatever it was that another person needed when John Henry was there.
On John Henry Nights, as I called them, we'd kind of look at Elton, waiting for him to start off with a tale, and he'd look at us like WHAT? as though he didn't know our dinner routine and why we were looking at him. That got Susan and I mad, but we couldn't really say anything. We'd just have to wait till Daddy started talking to John Henry about wolf hunting. How did he think the weather was for hunting, John Henry? and did he think that new dog of Daddy's would stay on the trail? and had he heard that new dog of Cotton's that howled like a squealing pig?
Susan and I rolled our eyes, but we had to be careful. If Daddy saw us, we would at least be threatened with getting in trouble though he never made good on his threats. Elton was just eating as fast as he could, his fork working like a cotton stripping machine through the broccoli and mashed potatoes and gravy. He wasn't talking at all which meant he would probably finish his meal in under three minutes.
Neila sat quietly eating with consummate good manners while Stephen was eating and reading a copy of Mad Magazine which he had smuggled in and hidden in his lap. Reading at the table was strictly forbidden, even for Susan, and if Mother caught him, all his magazines would probably be burned in the trash barrel out back. Mealtime was family time, and it was one of the few things about which she was strict .
Mother always offered supper to John Henry, but he would never take anything more than a glass of tea. I imagine more than once he wanted to say he'd take a plateful of that delicious smelling food, but he always said he'd "just et". Once in a while he'd have dessert, especially if it was pecan pie, which he "allowed" was his favorite.
Tonight, we were having lemon pie, so he decided to have a piece, and Mother passed him the first slice on a small saucer, along with a fork and napkin.
Jan was sitting on her Mrs. Tucker's lard can in the chair between Mother and me, so she had a better vantage point of the whole table than I. After we all had been served pie, we started eating, but I noticed that Jan, who was left handed and sometimes did things differently than I did, was holding her fork oddly. She had her entire hand doubled around the fork, with her thumb folded over her fingers.
"Mother, what is wrong with Jan's hand?" I asked, peering around the lard can to see Mother.
"What?" she asked absentmindedly, taking a small bite of broccoli.
"Her hand," I said, growing more emphatic.
"What's wrong with her hand?" Mother asked, looking for the first time toward Jan. "Oh.........nothing, nothing at all. Just eat your pie."
"But that's not how you're supposed to hold your fork," I kept on.
I felt something tapping Morse code on my back and turned to see mother's index finger. Then I leaned forward around Jan so I could see Mother's face and got that "don't you dare say anything else" look, so I slumped dispiritedly in my chair and cut into my slice of pie.
As I looked across the table at Elton, who had finished his pie and was moving around a lot in his chair, looking like he would leave the table in one leaping bound, I noticed John Henry, eating his pie in exactly the same way that Jan was, his fork held with his entire hand clamped around the handle.
My surprise made me take a little shallow breath, and I immediately wanted to tell everyone why Jan was holding her fork that way. I started beating Morse code on Mother's back. It wasn't easy reaching all the way around the lard can, and my arm made little metal popping sounds on the can that certainly got everyone's attention, even my Dad's.
He sat at the head of the table near the door, and John Henry sat to his left and directly across from Jan. Daddy seemed to sense what was happening, so just as I burst out with "Mother I know why....", he stood up, got John Henry's arm, and said "Let's go load those dogs, John Henry. We're burnin' daylight." They left quickly and Elton vaulted over their two chairs to make his exit.
"Going to Deanna's," he yelled behind him.
All the activity had left me momentarily distracted, watching everyone leave in such a rush.
"I know," I started.
"I know what you know," Mother said, "and there's no reason to say anything further."
"But......."
"Felisa. I said stop-no more. Stop. And Stephen, I want you to bring all your Mad Magazines down from upstairs. I'm going to burn them, including that one in your lap."
"I really like Mad Magazine," Susan said quietly, looking sad.
"Oh all right," Mother relented, a little too quickly. "Leave them up there. But you must not read at the table any more."
Stephen grinned. He didn't even seem to notice that Susan's comment was probably what saved him.
We all spent our evening doing our usual routines. Mother read with me while Jan listened and looked at the pictures. Dick and Jane was beginning to seem too easy, but I did as instructed by my beloved Mrs. Hagle.
I was looking forward to reading some of Susan's books. She didn't seem as anxious to share them as I was to read them. Susan did homework sitting on her bed. Neila was studying and looking through college catalogs. Stephen was doing who knew what up there in their room upstairs. Probably working on some chemistry "experiment".
Our cousin Phil, who often came down to stay with us on weekends from Arlington, said the government environmental agency should have condemned that desk where they mixed their chemistry concoctions a long time ago. The paint and varnish were gummed up into balls and the top of the desk felt rough and grittty.
We took our baths and were getting ready for bed in the bathroom off the backporch when Elton came in the back door, let it slam, and started laughing. "What? What?" we all asked, Mother included.
"Well, don't tell Daddy this," he said. "Promise?"
"Promise," Jan and I nodded solemnly.
"Now I mean it. Felisa, you can't tell. Daddy would get mad at me."
That sealed it. I would never tell on him if it would get him in trouble. I adored him. He was the spark in our family, the livewire, and we always had fun when he was around.
"I won't tell, no matter what," I swore, right hand raised like I was taking an oath.
"I not tell needer," Jan squeaked, also raising her right hand.
"Ok," he started. "You know how Daddy likes to stand by the truck and howl like a wolf and try to get the wolves to howl back?"
We nodded and Mother said "yes".
"Well, I was at Deanna's and you know how far they live out in the sticks. I heard someone howling. From the front porch, I could see Daddy's pickup about a quarter mile down the road, lit up by the moonlight, him standing beside it with his hands cupped around his mouth, just howling to call those wolves. I just couldn't help myself. I howled back in my best wolf howl, and Daddy answered three different times. Finally, I started laughing so hard I just had to go in the house."
It was time for bed. Everyone except Daddy took their bath at night so the single bathroom wouldn't be crowded in the morning.
The next morning, Daddy was just ready to leave for work when we ambled into the kitchen in our pajamas. Rubbing my eyes, I asked Daddy, "How do you call wolves anyway? Like this?" Putting my hands around my mouth, I mimicked a howl.
Just then, Elton walked in and gave me a sharp look, so I stopped immediately, feeling ashamed. Daddy looked a little puzzled, but he was in a hurry and left the house right away. Mother, who was always in the kitchen at breakfast time, finished putting eight pieces of "egg on toast", a concoction of diced boiled eggs combined with white gravy, that was slathered on bread and toasted, into the oven.
She laughed, looking at Elton. "Some people might not tell a secret, but they might forget and act it out."
I still had my head down, embarrassed, and couldn't look at him. He walked over, picked me up and squeezed me real hard. "That's okay," he said. "You forgot it was a secret. And it was pretty funny, wasn't it? I'll show you how to call the wolves tonight. But let's don't tell Daddy. He might not think it's as funny as we do."
"Breakfast everyone," Mother called, as the rest of the pack assembled from all parts of the house.
Installed
Friday, January 22, 2010
1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: BASKETBALL FREE FOR ALL
Lots of things seemed to be happening the year I started school in Purdon. A singer named Elvis Presley was on The Ed Sullivan Show on September 9, 1956, but Ed wasn't even the host that night. I overheard my parents whispering that Ed had been hurt real bad in a car accident. We called him Ed because we watched his show weekly in our living room, and he seemed like a friend, even if an odd one with a weird accent and a dull, horse-shaped face. And he placed his hands under his armpits like he was trying to hide his hands or control them. It was really unsettling. He'd always say "Tonight we have a really big shoe." I waited a long time till I asked why he said that, and when I asked, the rest of the family laughed rudely at my question.
"It's just the way he says 'show'", someone called out in the darkened room, and everyone laughed again.
I was glad the only light in the room was from the glare of the black and white television screen. I crossed my arms and pouted inside myself, feeling like I wanted to cry.
Crying would have just made someone tease me more. My mother would have stopped the teasing, but then they'd probably be mad at me and wait till she wasn't around and bring it up in a mean-spirited way.
We watched Ed's show on Sunday nights almost every week. After it was over tonight, we had to go to bed because school was the next day. We'd only been in school a week. My brother Stephen, who was 13 at the time, was fascinated by Elvis, not by his gyrating hips, which they hardly showed that night, but by his hair. After we heard Elvis sing Don't Be Cruel and Love Me Tender, it seemed like my brother became obsessed with him.
He spent lots of time trying to sculpt his hair into a devil- may- care look. He didn't get the hang of it right away, but in the next two years, he perfected the look, even though at times the long hair in front looked like a bird had left an upward angled wing on his head while zipping by. He also started wearing a black motorcycle jacket with silver zippers to complete "the look." And he must have practiced the sexy scowl because slowly he morphed from a goofy 13 year-old to a more Elvis-like facial expression.
A lot of parents in Purdon were buzzing about Elvis's appearing on the show. The next day at school I heard some of the teachers talking about it.
"Can you believe that boy?", the sixth grade teacher said at lunch, leaning toward Mrs. Hagle.
"Who?" Mrs. Hagle asked.
"You know," Mrs. Walters said in a loud whisper. " That singer."
"Oh, him." Mrs. Hagle laughed, fingering the big teardrop pearls on her long elegant necklace "I liked his singing."
"Well, it's just scanda....," Mrs. Walters stopped talking abruptly and reached up absendmindedly, touching her hair as though embarrassed, as she returned the gaze of thirty sets of eyes focused on her by children sitting at the long gray plank tables that ran the length of the lunchroom.
Most of the teenagers liked Elvis's singing and bought his records and listened to them for hours on end, but spending time with Elvis was limited once school started as everyone who was anyone started practicing for the big sport at Purdon High School-basketball.
Both the girls and the boys played on teams, and the whole town, with a few exceptions, turned out for the home games. Caravans of cars often made the trip for out of town games in Blooming Grove, Frost, Dawson and points south and west. Tournaments at the end of the year were held at a huge old gym, a converted airplane hangar, at the junior college in Corsicana. But the local games played out in our own white clapboard gym with its creaking wooden bleachers.
Neila and Elton were already involved in practicing. They loved basketball and played it with a passion. Both of them were short, but feisty. I loved watching them play. It was like they were big athletic stars and I hoped to play like them some day. Several years they made the All Star teams, and I screamed so hard for them when they were awarded trophies that my throat was raw.
It was cold that Thursday night in November, and the three of us girls were sitting packed together in our heavy coats in the back seat of the Buick while our dad drove the car to the basketball game at the Purdon gym. Susan and I were talking about The Wizard of Oz, which was just shown on television for the first time the past Saturday. Of course the whole family watched it, except my oldest brother, who was gone somewhere on a date. We were talking about which of Dorothy's three friends we liked. I liked the Tin Man because he seemed kind, even though he didn't have a heart.
Susan liked the scarecrow. He seemed sincere and a lot smarter than he thought he was. She said he didn't give himself enough credit. She had a soft spot for people who thought they weren't smart; she always encouraged them that they could learn, and she believed it.
Neither of us liked the lion that much, even though he was funny during parts of the movie. But according to Susan, he seemed like he "liked drawing all the attention to himself".
Jan wanted in on the conversation even though I didn't really want to include her.
"Which one did you like?" Susan asked kindly.
"I like Toto!" she said in her high pitched voice, a little too enthusiastic to suit me.
"No, Jan," I said, without much heart. "It has to be one of the three who were Dorothy's friends."
"Um, Toto!" she said proudly-for the second time.
"Oh brother," I muttered, with increasing irritation.
"Jan, it has to be either the Tin Man, The Scarecrow, or The Cowardly Lion," Susan
explained. "Dorothy's friends," she added helpfully.
"Um, the witch! The good witch!" She was obviously proud of herself.
"Let's just don't talk about this right now," I suggested, not kindly.
"Ok," Susan said, "but she's just three. She likes to be included."
"Yeah, I know, but she doesn't listen. She just says something. Maybe we could talk about Mr. Potato Head or something. She could probably talk about that. Ok, we're here!" I said, glad to be able to fling open the car door, causing it to strain at its hinges. I took off running for the gym. Marie would be there saving a seat for me. Her mother taught at the school, and she always went early to help if she was needed.
Inside, the noise electrified me. Two hundred people talking and laughing, babies crying, large ceiling- mounted heaters humming loudly, ten or more basketballs bouncing on the floor rhythmically, balls hitting the wooden backboard, tennis shoes squeaking. Mrs. Burleson waved me through. "I'll get your ticket money from your parents," she smiled.
The stands were already packed. We never got anywhere early. Mother tried to do ten things in the five minutes before we were to leave the house for any place we were supposed to be. "Just a second, just a second," she'd say as Daddy sat tapping his foot, or honking the car horn. People were used to it, so they just expected us to all drag in just as the buzzer sounded.
Marie stood up and waved for me to climb up to where she was sitting on the sixth riser. I picked my way through the people saying "Scuse me, scuse me", and they put out their hands and steadied me or patted me on the back. "Sure honey," they'd say. "Go ahead up there. Marie's waitin' for ya." Mr. McElhenny, a kindly farmer in overalls offered his big, rough hand to me as I made the last step, and I sensed the stability of his grip, forged from years of work that began before the sun woke up and continued after it went to bed. He wouldn't miss a basketball game though, even if the crop had to wait.
The rest of the family sat on the other end of the bleachers. We could see the game well, even though part of the time we were playing with a tiny windup dog that Marie brought. People yelled, jumped up, screamed for their kids, covered their eyes when their kids messed up, ate sandwiches made by some of the mothers and sold in the concession stand, tossed popcorn into their mouths, chewed on candy and drank cokes.
Watching all that made me hungry, so I had to go look up my dad to get some money to buy food. I told him I wanted a tuna sandwich, and he told me I could get a coke and some candy and popcorn too if I wanted.
"One candy bar only," Mother said firmly.
I ran along in front of the bleachers, as close as I could get, keeping a watchful eye on the ball and the players who seemed to charge from the other end as soon as I started out. A player standing near me on the side of the court popped his hand on the ball and that seemed to cause most of the players on the court to start moving. He threw the ball in, and followed it inside the boundary lines. I took that as my cue to tear off to the concession stand.
My food was loaded in a little cardboard carton, one of the mothers selling the food commenting on a little girl eating so much. I didn't want her to know I'd had supper. We always did. All of us. Around that yellow formica table. I had gotten an extra coke for Marie, but I think she was referring to the amount of food, not the drinks.
I started back, walking the entire length of the gym next to the bleachers, balancing the cardboard carton with both hands. The game was safely in the center of the court most of the time. About the time I was starting to step up on the first bleacher, I heard a whistle and turned to see a referee talking to a Purdon player and a player from the Dawson team.
My first step up, someone helped me, but they weren't looking at me and talking nice to me like before. It was like they didn't really see me, but they reached out to help me anyway.
"Hey, ref. You need glasses?" one of them said, as he grabbed my elbow and gave me a little lift.
"What kind of call was that?" another said, while steadying me on the third step up, "Didn't you see him shove him?"
It went on like that for a minute or so, blind hands reaching to help me until I'd reached the sixth bleacher. Marie grabbed her coke, upsetting the balance in the carton, and I almost spilled my coke, popcorn, sandwich, and candybar.
About that time, I caught a glimpse of someone fairly substantial moving quickly out of the bleachers and onto the floor. Marie and I started eating the popcorn at the same time, stuffing our awestruck mouths full. Mrs. Haynes, the mother of the player that was fouled had left the bleachers and started after the referee with her huge purse swinging like a wrecking ball.
The referee was backing up fast, blowing his whistle, trying to avoid her swing and obviously not wanting to get into a fight with the mother of a player.
"You are not going to treat my son like that," she yelled. "You apologize to him. That was not his fault!"
I looked at her son. He appeared stricken. None of the players or the coach seemed to know what to do.
They stood frozen in place all over the court. Elton was standing midcourt, holding a basketball, staring at the action.
She pulled an umbrella out of her purse and began to jab at him. Then they did a little dance. Jab, quickstep, jab, jab, quickstep, jab, jab, jab, quickstep, quickstep, quickstep.
Finally, the referee looked like he'd had enough. His face was red, and sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. After the last quickstep, he planted his feet and refused to back up. Then the dance went in reverse. He moved toward her with a swush, swush, swush step, and she backed up with equally big steps, holding her umbrella out like a sword and her purse like a shield. Unbelievably, he danced her right back to the stands, where the last step caused her to stumble backwards and sit down clumsily on the bleachers, where still startled fans made room for her ample body.
"And stay there lady!" he yelled, blowing his whistle loudly.
Silence took the place of the jumble of noises that had filled the gym seconds before. You could have heard ice crunch in people's mouths, but no one seemed to be crunching. People who were talking seemed to have stopped mid-sentence and those who were eating let the food stick in their throats, too shocked to swallow.
Mrs. Haynes looked stunned. Her loud voice was still. People were staring at her, and at the referee.
Her son was looking down, toeing some unseen thing on the court. The coach took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a perfectly ironed white handkerchief. Elton looked toward his team mate with concern, but when his glance fell on Mrs. Haynes, he pressed his lips together and pulled them inside so he wouldn't laugh. I'd seen him do that many times.
Suddenly, the shrill sound of the whistle startled everyone into action. "Play ball," the same referee said with authority.
I looked at Marie and we both started laughing. Then I looked down toward my parents at the far end of the gym. My dad held his hat in front of his face, but I could see his shoulders shaking. Mother had a strange smile on her face, like she was in a strain of some kind. But she wasn't laughing. She was patting the knee of the robust woman next to her who was trying to stuff her umbrella inside her extra large purse.
Installed
"It's just the way he says 'show'", someone called out in the darkened room, and everyone laughed again.
I was glad the only light in the room was from the glare of the black and white television screen. I crossed my arms and pouted inside myself, feeling like I wanted to cry.
Crying would have just made someone tease me more. My mother would have stopped the teasing, but then they'd probably be mad at me and wait till she wasn't around and bring it up in a mean-spirited way.
We watched Ed's show on Sunday nights almost every week. After it was over tonight, we had to go to bed because school was the next day. We'd only been in school a week. My brother Stephen, who was 13 at the time, was fascinated by Elvis, not by his gyrating hips, which they hardly showed that night, but by his hair. After we heard Elvis sing Don't Be Cruel and Love Me Tender, it seemed like my brother became obsessed with him.
He spent lots of time trying to sculpt his hair into a devil- may- care look. He didn't get the hang of it right away, but in the next two years, he perfected the look, even though at times the long hair in front looked like a bird had left an upward angled wing on his head while zipping by. He also started wearing a black motorcycle jacket with silver zippers to complete "the look." And he must have practiced the sexy scowl because slowly he morphed from a goofy 13 year-old to a more Elvis-like facial expression.
A lot of parents in Purdon were buzzing about Elvis's appearing on the show. The next day at school I heard some of the teachers talking about it.
"Can you believe that boy?", the sixth grade teacher said at lunch, leaning toward Mrs. Hagle.
"Who?" Mrs. Hagle asked.
"You know," Mrs. Walters said in a loud whisper. " That singer."
"Oh, him." Mrs. Hagle laughed, fingering the big teardrop pearls on her long elegant necklace "I liked his singing."
"Well, it's just scanda....," Mrs. Walters stopped talking abruptly and reached up absendmindedly, touching her hair as though embarrassed, as she returned the gaze of thirty sets of eyes focused on her by children sitting at the long gray plank tables that ran the length of the lunchroom.
Most of the teenagers liked Elvis's singing and bought his records and listened to them for hours on end, but spending time with Elvis was limited once school started as everyone who was anyone started practicing for the big sport at Purdon High School-basketball.
Both the girls and the boys played on teams, and the whole town, with a few exceptions, turned out for the home games. Caravans of cars often made the trip for out of town games in Blooming Grove, Frost, Dawson and points south and west. Tournaments at the end of the year were held at a huge old gym, a converted airplane hangar, at the junior college in Corsicana. But the local games played out in our own white clapboard gym with its creaking wooden bleachers.
Neila and Elton were already involved in practicing. They loved basketball and played it with a passion. Both of them were short, but feisty. I loved watching them play. It was like they were big athletic stars and I hoped to play like them some day. Several years they made the All Star teams, and I screamed so hard for them when they were awarded trophies that my throat was raw.
It was cold that Thursday night in November, and the three of us girls were sitting packed together in our heavy coats in the back seat of the Buick while our dad drove the car to the basketball game at the Purdon gym. Susan and I were talking about The Wizard of Oz, which was just shown on television for the first time the past Saturday. Of course the whole family watched it, except my oldest brother, who was gone somewhere on a date. We were talking about which of Dorothy's three friends we liked. I liked the Tin Man because he seemed kind, even though he didn't have a heart.
Susan liked the scarecrow. He seemed sincere and a lot smarter than he thought he was. She said he didn't give himself enough credit. She had a soft spot for people who thought they weren't smart; she always encouraged them that they could learn, and she believed it.
Neither of us liked the lion that much, even though he was funny during parts of the movie. But according to Susan, he seemed like he "liked drawing all the attention to himself".
Jan wanted in on the conversation even though I didn't really want to include her.
"Which one did you like?" Susan asked kindly.
"I like Toto!" she said in her high pitched voice, a little too enthusiastic to suit me.
"No, Jan," I said, without much heart. "It has to be one of the three who were Dorothy's friends."
"Um, Toto!" she said proudly-for the second time.
"Oh brother," I muttered, with increasing irritation.
"Jan, it has to be either the Tin Man, The Scarecrow, or The Cowardly Lion," Susan
explained. "Dorothy's friends," she added helpfully.
"Um, the witch! The good witch!" She was obviously proud of herself.
"Let's just don't talk about this right now," I suggested, not kindly.
"Ok," Susan said, "but she's just three. She likes to be included."
"Yeah, I know, but she doesn't listen. She just says something. Maybe we could talk about Mr. Potato Head or something. She could probably talk about that. Ok, we're here!" I said, glad to be able to fling open the car door, causing it to strain at its hinges. I took off running for the gym. Marie would be there saving a seat for me. Her mother taught at the school, and she always went early to help if she was needed.
Inside, the noise electrified me. Two hundred people talking and laughing, babies crying, large ceiling- mounted heaters humming loudly, ten or more basketballs bouncing on the floor rhythmically, balls hitting the wooden backboard, tennis shoes squeaking. Mrs. Burleson waved me through. "I'll get your ticket money from your parents," she smiled.
The stands were already packed. We never got anywhere early. Mother tried to do ten things in the five minutes before we were to leave the house for any place we were supposed to be. "Just a second, just a second," she'd say as Daddy sat tapping his foot, or honking the car horn. People were used to it, so they just expected us to all drag in just as the buzzer sounded.
Marie stood up and waved for me to climb up to where she was sitting on the sixth riser. I picked my way through the people saying "Scuse me, scuse me", and they put out their hands and steadied me or patted me on the back. "Sure honey," they'd say. "Go ahead up there. Marie's waitin' for ya." Mr. McElhenny, a kindly farmer in overalls offered his big, rough hand to me as I made the last step, and I sensed the stability of his grip, forged from years of work that began before the sun woke up and continued after it went to bed. He wouldn't miss a basketball game though, even if the crop had to wait.
The rest of the family sat on the other end of the bleachers. We could see the game well, even though part of the time we were playing with a tiny windup dog that Marie brought. People yelled, jumped up, screamed for their kids, covered their eyes when their kids messed up, ate sandwiches made by some of the mothers and sold in the concession stand, tossed popcorn into their mouths, chewed on candy and drank cokes.
Watching all that made me hungry, so I had to go look up my dad to get some money to buy food. I told him I wanted a tuna sandwich, and he told me I could get a coke and some candy and popcorn too if I wanted.
"One candy bar only," Mother said firmly.
I ran along in front of the bleachers, as close as I could get, keeping a watchful eye on the ball and the players who seemed to charge from the other end as soon as I started out. A player standing near me on the side of the court popped his hand on the ball and that seemed to cause most of the players on the court to start moving. He threw the ball in, and followed it inside the boundary lines. I took that as my cue to tear off to the concession stand.
My food was loaded in a little cardboard carton, one of the mothers selling the food commenting on a little girl eating so much. I didn't want her to know I'd had supper. We always did. All of us. Around that yellow formica table. I had gotten an extra coke for Marie, but I think she was referring to the amount of food, not the drinks.
I started back, walking the entire length of the gym next to the bleachers, balancing the cardboard carton with both hands. The game was safely in the center of the court most of the time. About the time I was starting to step up on the first bleacher, I heard a whistle and turned to see a referee talking to a Purdon player and a player from the Dawson team.
My first step up, someone helped me, but they weren't looking at me and talking nice to me like before. It was like they didn't really see me, but they reached out to help me anyway.
"Hey, ref. You need glasses?" one of them said, as he grabbed my elbow and gave me a little lift.
"What kind of call was that?" another said, while steadying me on the third step up, "Didn't you see him shove him?"
It went on like that for a minute or so, blind hands reaching to help me until I'd reached the sixth bleacher. Marie grabbed her coke, upsetting the balance in the carton, and I almost spilled my coke, popcorn, sandwich, and candybar.
About that time, I caught a glimpse of someone fairly substantial moving quickly out of the bleachers and onto the floor. Marie and I started eating the popcorn at the same time, stuffing our awestruck mouths full. Mrs. Haynes, the mother of the player that was fouled had left the bleachers and started after the referee with her huge purse swinging like a wrecking ball.
The referee was backing up fast, blowing his whistle, trying to avoid her swing and obviously not wanting to get into a fight with the mother of a player.
"You are not going to treat my son like that," she yelled. "You apologize to him. That was not his fault!"
I looked at her son. He appeared stricken. None of the players or the coach seemed to know what to do.
They stood frozen in place all over the court. Elton was standing midcourt, holding a basketball, staring at the action.
She pulled an umbrella out of her purse and began to jab at him. Then they did a little dance. Jab, quickstep, jab, jab, quickstep, jab, jab, jab, quickstep, quickstep, quickstep.
Finally, the referee looked like he'd had enough. His face was red, and sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. After the last quickstep, he planted his feet and refused to back up. Then the dance went in reverse. He moved toward her with a swush, swush, swush step, and she backed up with equally big steps, holding her umbrella out like a sword and her purse like a shield. Unbelievably, he danced her right back to the stands, where the last step caused her to stumble backwards and sit down clumsily on the bleachers, where still startled fans made room for her ample body.
"And stay there lady!" he yelled, blowing his whistle loudly.
Silence took the place of the jumble of noises that had filled the gym seconds before. You could have heard ice crunch in people's mouths, but no one seemed to be crunching. People who were talking seemed to have stopped mid-sentence and those who were eating let the food stick in their throats, too shocked to swallow.
Mrs. Haynes looked stunned. Her loud voice was still. People were staring at her, and at the referee.
Her son was looking down, toeing some unseen thing on the court. The coach took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a perfectly ironed white handkerchief. Elton looked toward his team mate with concern, but when his glance fell on Mrs. Haynes, he pressed his lips together and pulled them inside so he wouldn't laugh. I'd seen him do that many times.
Suddenly, the shrill sound of the whistle startled everyone into action. "Play ball," the same referee said with authority.
I looked at Marie and we both started laughing. Then I looked down toward my parents at the far end of the gym. My dad held his hat in front of his face, but I could see his shoulders shaking. Mother had a strange smile on her face, like she was in a strain of some kind. But she wasn't laughing. She was patting the knee of the robust woman next to her who was trying to stuff her umbrella inside her extra large purse.
Installed
Saturday, January 16, 2010
1950Ss SMALL TOWN LIFE: BUZZARDS INVITED
I always loved playing at Marie's house. For one thing, it was just we two when we played at her house. We didn't have to let anyone else play with us. Well, there was always Ricky, her brother, but we stayed away from him as much as we could.
Some days, if he acted especially pathetic, we would grudgingly allow him to play with us, thinking we could use it to good advantage later, like at school, when we needed someone to push us on the swings. But he tried to take over our playing, and that always annoyed us. Today, it looked like we couldn't get rid of him. His third grade will sometimes overpowered our first grade ones.
"We want to push our dolls outside in the doll carriage," Marie said reasonably that Tuesday in May. We could still find cool spots under the big pecan trees in their side yard.
"I'm not going to play dolls," he pouted. "Y'all never play what I want."
"Ok, we'll play hide and seek or chase, but only for a little while!" Marie told him firmly.
For the next hour, we kept him pacified: running, hiding, chasing, yelling, doing all the things boys thrive on. Then we got tired of it, but he threatened never again to push us on the swings at school. And that is how it happened that we took part in his dumbest scheme ever.
"See those buzzards up there?" he asked.
We looked straight up, craned our necks, shielded our eyes from the sun, and saw three large birds circling lazily, high in the azure sky.
"We see them," Marie said. "So what?"
"So I want to see if we can get them to land, so I can kill them." Ricky said, in a tone like he'd offer someone candy.
"Why do you want to kill them? That's bad," Marie told him.
"They're no good to anyone, and they're dirty."
I didn't say anything because it was a brother/sister fight, and I thought it was getting weird talking about killing an animal, but best for me to keep quiet.
"Well, anyway, Ricky," Marie said reasonably, "your bb gun won't shoot that far."
"I'm going to get them to land down here," he said, looking sincere.
"How?"
"I want y'all to lay down in the yard with your arms spread out. Close your eyes, hold your breath, and they'll think you're dead."
"And if they fly down here, are you gonna shoot them with your bb gun?" she asked, like it was a logical plan. I was beginning to wonder about her thought process, too; an unbidden desire to go home seized me.
"No, silly," he said, sounding like he was talking to someone who couldn't understand. "I'm going to hit them with this baseball bat!" He pulled a wooden bat from behind his back, and made several swings with it like he was hitting a ball-or a bird.
"Ok, lie down," he ordered.
"We don't want to." Marie spoke for both of us.
"Please," his tone had changed. He was begging now.
Marie looked at me. We looked up at the buzzards. They were a long way off. We seemed to reach some unspoken agreement when we made eye contact. Both of us lay down in the warm bermuda grass, out in the open sun in the front yard. Ricky hid in the edge of the garage, bat at the ready. Just as we began to fear the birds would swoop down upon us, Marie's mother pulled into the driveway from a quick trip to the store a block away.
"What are you girls doing?" she exclaimed shrilly as she leaped from the car.
"Where is Ricky? He told me he'd watch you for five minutes while I ran to the store."
We said nothing as we stood up and brushed grass off our shorts and tops, but we pointed simultaneously in the direction of the garage.
Ricky came out, bat hanging loosely at his side.
Marie's mother had question marks all over her face, but we pretended not to notice. We were going to leave it to Ricky to answer all those.
"I was watching them," he said lamely. "They wanted to get a tan for the summer. I'm just practicing my swing for baseball," he lied.
Mrs. Morrison looked skeptical. We sank deeper into our muteness. Ricky looked to us for help, but it would never come.
"Just get in the house, Ricky!" she said, exasperated. "I'll deal with you in a minute. Whatever lamebrained thing you had planned, I'm just glad I was only gone five minutes. I can't trust you for a second. What am I going to do with you?"
Marie and I resumed our preferred play, walking our dolls in their carriages up and down the gravel street. Overhead, the buzzards flew unperturbed in their large lazy circles, the death merchants largely unaware of how close they had come to their own end on this bright and sunny day.
Installed
Some days, if he acted especially pathetic, we would grudgingly allow him to play with us, thinking we could use it to good advantage later, like at school, when we needed someone to push us on the swings. But he tried to take over our playing, and that always annoyed us. Today, it looked like we couldn't get rid of him. His third grade will sometimes overpowered our first grade ones.
"We want to push our dolls outside in the doll carriage," Marie said reasonably that Tuesday in May. We could still find cool spots under the big pecan trees in their side yard.
"I'm not going to play dolls," he pouted. "Y'all never play what I want."
"Ok, we'll play hide and seek or chase, but only for a little while!" Marie told him firmly.
For the next hour, we kept him pacified: running, hiding, chasing, yelling, doing all the things boys thrive on. Then we got tired of it, but he threatened never again to push us on the swings at school. And that is how it happened that we took part in his dumbest scheme ever.
"See those buzzards up there?" he asked.
We looked straight up, craned our necks, shielded our eyes from the sun, and saw three large birds circling lazily, high in the azure sky.
"We see them," Marie said. "So what?"
"So I want to see if we can get them to land, so I can kill them." Ricky said, in a tone like he'd offer someone candy.
"Why do you want to kill them? That's bad," Marie told him.
"They're no good to anyone, and they're dirty."
I didn't say anything because it was a brother/sister fight, and I thought it was getting weird talking about killing an animal, but best for me to keep quiet.
"Well, anyway, Ricky," Marie said reasonably, "your bb gun won't shoot that far."
"I'm going to get them to land down here," he said, looking sincere.
"How?"
"I want y'all to lay down in the yard with your arms spread out. Close your eyes, hold your breath, and they'll think you're dead."
"And if they fly down here, are you gonna shoot them with your bb gun?" she asked, like it was a logical plan. I was beginning to wonder about her thought process, too; an unbidden desire to go home seized me.
"No, silly," he said, sounding like he was talking to someone who couldn't understand. "I'm going to hit them with this baseball bat!" He pulled a wooden bat from behind his back, and made several swings with it like he was hitting a ball-or a bird.
"Ok, lie down," he ordered.
"We don't want to." Marie spoke for both of us.
"Please," his tone had changed. He was begging now.
Marie looked at me. We looked up at the buzzards. They were a long way off. We seemed to reach some unspoken agreement when we made eye contact. Both of us lay down in the warm bermuda grass, out in the open sun in the front yard. Ricky hid in the edge of the garage, bat at the ready. Just as we began to fear the birds would swoop down upon us, Marie's mother pulled into the driveway from a quick trip to the store a block away.
"What are you girls doing?" she exclaimed shrilly as she leaped from the car.
"Where is Ricky? He told me he'd watch you for five minutes while I ran to the store."
We said nothing as we stood up and brushed grass off our shorts and tops, but we pointed simultaneously in the direction of the garage.
Ricky came out, bat hanging loosely at his side.
Marie's mother had question marks all over her face, but we pretended not to notice. We were going to leave it to Ricky to answer all those.
"I was watching them," he said lamely. "They wanted to get a tan for the summer. I'm just practicing my swing for baseball," he lied.
Mrs. Morrison looked skeptical. We sank deeper into our muteness. Ricky looked to us for help, but it would never come.
"Just get in the house, Ricky!" she said, exasperated. "I'll deal with you in a minute. Whatever lamebrained thing you had planned, I'm just glad I was only gone five minutes. I can't trust you for a second. What am I going to do with you?"
Marie and I resumed our preferred play, walking our dolls in their carriages up and down the gravel street. Overhead, the buzzards flew unperturbed in their large lazy circles, the death merchants largely unaware of how close they had come to their own end on this bright and sunny day.
Installed
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: PET, THE ANTI-PET
Pet was a strange name for a horse that acted like this one did. Her friend and pasturemate was more aptly named Lady, and always acted like one.
Jan and I were on our knees, noses against the screened windows on the backporch, a small room leading to the backyard. It wasn't really a porch, at least not now. I guess at one time it had been, so we still called it that, even though the washer and dryer we were wedged against bore mute testimony to the room's true purpose.
A door stood in the center of each of the four walls, effectively taking up most of the space. One door led straight out into the backyard, where the one-man rodeo was taking place. The second door, just opposite the back door, led to our parent's bedroom, where Mother was sorting something in the closet, where she seemed to spend most of her spare time these days.
On the two opposing walls, the kitchen door opened on the west wall and the bathroom door on the east.
Between the bathroom door and the door to our parent's room was the "stairwell". It led up to the den of horrors that was our brothers' room. The phone was up there, about four steps up to the landing, hanging on the wall.
We were allowed to answer the phone without permission, but we were not supposed to enter our brothers' bedroom without it. Sometimes Jan and I would sneak up there and play for a while before Mother missed us.
If we were lucky, we heard her calling, crept cat-like down the stairs, and emerged from some different part of the house as though we had been playing in a closet or outside.
Days that we managed to fool her usually were ruined when Elton or Stephen, our teenage brothers came home from school, went up to their room, and came running down, mad, yelling: "the little girls have been up here today; the dust is moved on the desk."
Mother told me a few minutes before the action started outside not to let Jan run out there for any reason, because she was only three. Since I was in first grade, she knew I had learned how to obey rules, at least part of the time.
We didn't want to miss any of the excitement, and it felt thrilling, but dangerous to watch Daddy and one of the gin hands, Mr. Adams, try to load Pet into the trailer. We were just 20 feet away, but protected by the strong wood frame of our house, we felt invulnerable.
Pet was a beautiful red color, a sorrel, Neila had told me, with a little bit of white marking on her nose and face. She was really prettier than Lady, who was more squatty in build, an unremarkable dark brown color, and not nearly as striking.
Pet didn't look like any horse we had ever had except for having four feet and a long nose and mane. She looked regal, but her personality wasn't pleasing, at least to my dad.
Her long graceful legs constantly moved, and she skittered rather than walked. She was highstrung and nervous, and since no one in our family was like that, she didn't really have an ally who could understand her behavior.
We had only had her a year, and it hadn't worked out too well. Daddy had bought her with the idea that Neila, who was 16 and loved horses, would ride her. She was hard to handle and "too much horse" my mother said, for a teenager. Buying her didn't end up providing us a second horse to ride along with Lady.
The previous owners told us her name, but when pressed didn't seem to know who named her. Having seen her behavior this past year, Daddy told Mother he "figured it was a joke, naming her that. Maybe they didn't want to tell me her real name- Wild Thing," he said a little bitterly.
He thought she'd grow out of some of her anxiety, but she didn't. He had been proud that she was at least part thoroughbred, but I think his pride had leaked out like air from of a damaged balloon, and now all that was left was his flattened ego. That horse was more than a match for him, and she had broken him, not the other way around, I'd heard my mother tell him one night just before he decided to sell her.
He had sold her to someone, but now he was trying to persuade her to get in the trailer so he could deliver her to the next lucky family. I hoped they didn't have any kids, or if they did that the kids were tougher than we were.
Neila tried a few times to ride her, but Pet liked to rear up, so it was just too risky. One day Neila had come in and said Pet reared up while she was trying to bridle her, fell backwards, and "the crazy thing knocked herself out."
Daddy tried to lead her into the red horse trailer. She wanted nothing to do with it. He took one step into the trailer, and tried to persuade her to follow him. She looked like she might, then at the last minute, she ran backwards, the whites of her eyes showing her terror.
He had already tried putting Lady in the trailer and persuading Pet to walk in and stand next to her friend. That had failed, and Lady had to patiently back out of the trailer, Neila holding her reins and speaking softly to her as she walked backwards, stepping down to the ground, feeling for it with her back legs, her large body following.
Daddy gave Pet a few minutes to calm down, then tried again. He moved to the side of the trailer and put the reins through the cracks between the trailer slats and pulled gently. She walked up three or four steps, stopped, then he gave a little jerk. She moved one step forward and he pulled harder on the reins trying to coax her to make the step up into the trailer.
That triggered it! She reared up, hitting her head on the top of the inside of the trailer, making a loud noise against the metal. That seemed to send her into orbit, and she started running backwards with our dad losing the reins as they whipped out of his hands, the leather appearing to burn his palms, judging by the way he let go of them.
As she moved backwards, her motions frantic, her back legs buckled, and she actually fell down on her right side and rolled a little, like a big egg with legs attached.
Then she scrambled up on all fours, Daddy grabbed the reins, trying to control her, but instead caused her to rear up again, high this time, until he had to let go of the reins and move backward to get out of her way.
My hands were squeezed tightly into fists now, and when I looked at Jan, her eyes were big and she was biting her bottom lip. We were utterly silent. Mother would later refer to it as "mesmerized". I thought it seemed more like "terrified".
When she landed again on her front feet, she took off running as fast as she could down the driveway. I had seen the whites in her eyes, and I first thought she was just mean; now I realized she was afraid.
"I wonder if she's afraid of change, like me," I thought. Maybe she had a kindred spirit in our family after all, but I hadn't realized it soon enough.
Lady stood patiently, Neila holding her reins, and watched Pet's antics with detached observation, her calm brown eyes telling us she would never act like that.
My dad's face was red, and he was mad, I could tell. He started walking to the front of the house to see where Pet was.
Jan and I instantly decided to run to the front of the house to see where she went. We tore through our parents' bedroom, past Mother sorting clothes in the closet, then through Neila's bedroom and into the livingroom, where we had a good view of the front yard. We jumped up on the couch, got in position on our knees, and scanned the front, looking for the errant horse.
At first we didn't see her, but we saw Daddy coming around the corner of the house from the east. Then we spotted Pet, standing eating the St. Augustine grass on the west side of the house, under the shade of the huge postoak tree. She looked calm as could be.
Just then Daddy rounded the second corner, and she saw him. She started off again in a trot, running back toward the backyard where she had come from, but moving along the other side of the house, her reins dragging the ground.
Daddy's face was redder than it was a few minutes ago, and he didn't look happy. He called something to Pet, but we couldn't tell what he said. Pet must have heard him though, because she speeded up. He was behind her, but she was putting distance between them.
We stood up, sailed off the couch, and started running toward the back of the house, our route this time taking us on the opposite side of the house, through our bedroom and the kitchen before we arrived back at our original spot on the backporch. We followed the action through the large windows in each room, so we were able to see Pet running, Daddy following her, until our view was blocked by the big metal cistern standing on its platform near the kitchen window.
Even Susan, who was sitting on her bed in our shared bedroom reading her geography book,got interested.
"What's happening?" she asked as we ran past.
"Look out the window!" I shouted. "Daddy's trying to catch Pet!"
"Pet's funny", Jan squealed. "Daddy's mad", she laughed as we streaked by, our eyes focused on the bank of windows on the east wall.
Back at our original seats, we observed Mr. Adams, who worked at the gin, move to try to catch the reins. Pet did a little maneuver and avoided him, then trotted over to Lady and stood right next to her. Neila leaned over and gently took her reins. Pet stood munching grass and laughing at the two men.
Sweat was dripping off Daddy's face, and his shirt looked like it had been run through the washing machine. He came around the cistern beside the house, took one look at Pet and just walked over and slammed the door to the trailer, sliding the bolt over to lock it. He motioned with his head at Mr. Adams.
"Let's go, Harold. No more to do here today." He looked toward Neila, standing quietly with the placid horses. "Let her go in the pasture, honey. We'll decide what to do about her later."
Mr. Adams climbed silently into the pickup. Daddy climbed heavily into the driver's side, turned the key, and pulled out of the driveway, the trailer squeaking along behind him, like a bad reminder.
Neila led the two horses easily toward the pasture gate, swung it open and stepped inside. First, she pulled the bridle over Lady's ears and pulled it off, taking the bits out of her mouth, dropping the harness momentarily to the ground as she turned her attention to Pet.
Pet did not resist as she took off the bridle. As soon as she was free, though, she took off running toward the larger pasture farther south of the house. Then I let Jan run outside, and I followed, to watch Pet running like a posse was chasing her, kicking up her back legs every few yards, and twisting the back half of her powerful body with each joyful kick.
Installed
Jan and I were on our knees, noses against the screened windows on the backporch, a small room leading to the backyard. It wasn't really a porch, at least not now. I guess at one time it had been, so we still called it that, even though the washer and dryer we were wedged against bore mute testimony to the room's true purpose.
A door stood in the center of each of the four walls, effectively taking up most of the space. One door led straight out into the backyard, where the one-man rodeo was taking place. The second door, just opposite the back door, led to our parent's bedroom, where Mother was sorting something in the closet, where she seemed to spend most of her spare time these days.
On the two opposing walls, the kitchen door opened on the west wall and the bathroom door on the east.
Between the bathroom door and the door to our parent's room was the "stairwell". It led up to the den of horrors that was our brothers' room. The phone was up there, about four steps up to the landing, hanging on the wall.
We were allowed to answer the phone without permission, but we were not supposed to enter our brothers' bedroom without it. Sometimes Jan and I would sneak up there and play for a while before Mother missed us.
If we were lucky, we heard her calling, crept cat-like down the stairs, and emerged from some different part of the house as though we had been playing in a closet or outside.
Days that we managed to fool her usually were ruined when Elton or Stephen, our teenage brothers came home from school, went up to their room, and came running down, mad, yelling: "the little girls have been up here today; the dust is moved on the desk."
Mother told me a few minutes before the action started outside not to let Jan run out there for any reason, because she was only three. Since I was in first grade, she knew I had learned how to obey rules, at least part of the time.
We didn't want to miss any of the excitement, and it felt thrilling, but dangerous to watch Daddy and one of the gin hands, Mr. Adams, try to load Pet into the trailer. We were just 20 feet away, but protected by the strong wood frame of our house, we felt invulnerable.
Pet was a beautiful red color, a sorrel, Neila had told me, with a little bit of white marking on her nose and face. She was really prettier than Lady, who was more squatty in build, an unremarkable dark brown color, and not nearly as striking.
Pet didn't look like any horse we had ever had except for having four feet and a long nose and mane. She looked regal, but her personality wasn't pleasing, at least to my dad.
Her long graceful legs constantly moved, and she skittered rather than walked. She was highstrung and nervous, and since no one in our family was like that, she didn't really have an ally who could understand her behavior.
We had only had her a year, and it hadn't worked out too well. Daddy had bought her with the idea that Neila, who was 16 and loved horses, would ride her. She was hard to handle and "too much horse" my mother said, for a teenager. Buying her didn't end up providing us a second horse to ride along with Lady.
The previous owners told us her name, but when pressed didn't seem to know who named her. Having seen her behavior this past year, Daddy told Mother he "figured it was a joke, naming her that. Maybe they didn't want to tell me her real name- Wild Thing," he said a little bitterly.
He thought she'd grow out of some of her anxiety, but she didn't. He had been proud that she was at least part thoroughbred, but I think his pride had leaked out like air from of a damaged balloon, and now all that was left was his flattened ego. That horse was more than a match for him, and she had broken him, not the other way around, I'd heard my mother tell him one night just before he decided to sell her.
He had sold her to someone, but now he was trying to persuade her to get in the trailer so he could deliver her to the next lucky family. I hoped they didn't have any kids, or if they did that the kids were tougher than we were.
Neila tried a few times to ride her, but Pet liked to rear up, so it was just too risky. One day Neila had come in and said Pet reared up while she was trying to bridle her, fell backwards, and "the crazy thing knocked herself out."
Daddy tried to lead her into the red horse trailer. She wanted nothing to do with it. He took one step into the trailer, and tried to persuade her to follow him. She looked like she might, then at the last minute, she ran backwards, the whites of her eyes showing her terror.
He had already tried putting Lady in the trailer and persuading Pet to walk in and stand next to her friend. That had failed, and Lady had to patiently back out of the trailer, Neila holding her reins and speaking softly to her as she walked backwards, stepping down to the ground, feeling for it with her back legs, her large body following.
Daddy gave Pet a few minutes to calm down, then tried again. He moved to the side of the trailer and put the reins through the cracks between the trailer slats and pulled gently. She walked up three or four steps, stopped, then he gave a little jerk. She moved one step forward and he pulled harder on the reins trying to coax her to make the step up into the trailer.
That triggered it! She reared up, hitting her head on the top of the inside of the trailer, making a loud noise against the metal. That seemed to send her into orbit, and she started running backwards with our dad losing the reins as they whipped out of his hands, the leather appearing to burn his palms, judging by the way he let go of them.
As she moved backwards, her motions frantic, her back legs buckled, and she actually fell down on her right side and rolled a little, like a big egg with legs attached.
Then she scrambled up on all fours, Daddy grabbed the reins, trying to control her, but instead caused her to rear up again, high this time, until he had to let go of the reins and move backward to get out of her way.
My hands were squeezed tightly into fists now, and when I looked at Jan, her eyes were big and she was biting her bottom lip. We were utterly silent. Mother would later refer to it as "mesmerized". I thought it seemed more like "terrified".
When she landed again on her front feet, she took off running as fast as she could down the driveway. I had seen the whites in her eyes, and I first thought she was just mean; now I realized she was afraid.
"I wonder if she's afraid of change, like me," I thought. Maybe she had a kindred spirit in our family after all, but I hadn't realized it soon enough.
Lady stood patiently, Neila holding her reins, and watched Pet's antics with detached observation, her calm brown eyes telling us she would never act like that.
My dad's face was red, and he was mad, I could tell. He started walking to the front of the house to see where Pet was.
Jan and I instantly decided to run to the front of the house to see where she went. We tore through our parents' bedroom, past Mother sorting clothes in the closet, then through Neila's bedroom and into the livingroom, where we had a good view of the front yard. We jumped up on the couch, got in position on our knees, and scanned the front, looking for the errant horse.
At first we didn't see her, but we saw Daddy coming around the corner of the house from the east. Then we spotted Pet, standing eating the St. Augustine grass on the west side of the house, under the shade of the huge postoak tree. She looked calm as could be.
Just then Daddy rounded the second corner, and she saw him. She started off again in a trot, running back toward the backyard where she had come from, but moving along the other side of the house, her reins dragging the ground.
Daddy's face was redder than it was a few minutes ago, and he didn't look happy. He called something to Pet, but we couldn't tell what he said. Pet must have heard him though, because she speeded up. He was behind her, but she was putting distance between them.
We stood up, sailed off the couch, and started running toward the back of the house, our route this time taking us on the opposite side of the house, through our bedroom and the kitchen before we arrived back at our original spot on the backporch. We followed the action through the large windows in each room, so we were able to see Pet running, Daddy following her, until our view was blocked by the big metal cistern standing on its platform near the kitchen window.
Even Susan, who was sitting on her bed in our shared bedroom reading her geography book,got interested.
"What's happening?" she asked as we ran past.
"Look out the window!" I shouted. "Daddy's trying to catch Pet!"
"Pet's funny", Jan squealed. "Daddy's mad", she laughed as we streaked by, our eyes focused on the bank of windows on the east wall.
Back at our original seats, we observed Mr. Adams, who worked at the gin, move to try to catch the reins. Pet did a little maneuver and avoided him, then trotted over to Lady and stood right next to her. Neila leaned over and gently took her reins. Pet stood munching grass and laughing at the two men.
Sweat was dripping off Daddy's face, and his shirt looked like it had been run through the washing machine. He came around the cistern beside the house, took one look at Pet and just walked over and slammed the door to the trailer, sliding the bolt over to lock it. He motioned with his head at Mr. Adams.
"Let's go, Harold. No more to do here today." He looked toward Neila, standing quietly with the placid horses. "Let her go in the pasture, honey. We'll decide what to do about her later."
Mr. Adams climbed silently into the pickup. Daddy climbed heavily into the driver's side, turned the key, and pulled out of the driveway, the trailer squeaking along behind him, like a bad reminder.
Neila led the two horses easily toward the pasture gate, swung it open and stepped inside. First, she pulled the bridle over Lady's ears and pulled it off, taking the bits out of her mouth, dropping the harness momentarily to the ground as she turned her attention to Pet.
Pet did not resist as she took off the bridle. As soon as she was free, though, she took off running toward the larger pasture farther south of the house. Then I let Jan run outside, and I followed, to watch Pet running like a posse was chasing her, kicking up her back legs every few yards, and twisting the back half of her powerful body with each joyful kick.
Installed
Sunday, January 10, 2010
1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: PICTURE DAY
"What should I wear?" I whined, standing near the gas stove where she moved the spoon she held in neat circles around the inside of the skillet, stirring the eggs.
"Wear whatever you want," she said.
"Anything?"
"Yes.....I mean no, not just anything, but one of your new dresses will be fine."
"Ok, can I wear the green one, the one that I tore the waist on?"
"No......I mean, yes. I guess so. I repaired it, and your waist won't show in the picture anyway. So if you want to, it's okay."
"Oh good. All the kids will be surprised that I can wear it again. I wouldn't wear it, you know, because it is kinda dressy, but this being picture day and all, I just wanna wear it one more time to school."
"Well, wait until after breakfast to put it on so you don't get anything on the bodice," she said, taking crisp bacon strips out of the heavy castiron skillet. "The biscuits are just about ready, so get Jan and Susan and I'll call the older kids, and let's eat so everyone can get to school on time. Daddy ate earlier, and he's already gone to work at the gin."
Once we were all seated around the yellow formica table, Mother said a short prayer. Then someone started each of the breakfast foods around in a clockwise pattern until everyone was served.
Some of the biggest arguments we kids ever had started over which way, clockwise or counterclockwise, various foods were supposed to be passed. These arguments usually took place only when there was confusion at the table and more than four items of food.
Someone would start something at one end of the table, and someone else would start something in another direction at the other end, disobeying the rules. When they met in the middle, the commotion started. No one ever wanted to take the blame for starting the food the wrong way.
"Elton, you need to eat more slowly," Mother admonished. "You'll choke!" She laughed after she said this for some reason. Then, as if another, more intrusive thought had crept into her brain,her expression became more somber, and she looked at 13 year-old Stephen. "Stephen, today is picture day. I don't guess you plan to dye your hair green or anything of that sort, do you?"
Stephen picked up his milk, took a drink, and grinned, the milk forming a white rainbow over his upper lip. "No. I didn't like it green anyway. And that was several years ago. I didn't even have my picture taken with it that color."
"I know, but I just want to make sure I have a good picture of the six of you. You know I like to frame them all in one frame, so I can remember how each of you looked in each successive year. And Elton will graduate this year, so it will be the last picture with all five of you in school."
A second of introspection followed, but she wouldn't let it last, so she said brightly, "One in first grade, one a senior."
"Thanks for breakfast, I've gotta get to school," Elton said, standing up quickly. "Ya'll coming with me?" he asked, looking at Neila and Stephen.
"Yeah, just a second. We'll meet you outside," Neila told him, standing up as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
I was just finishing my third biscuit when I heard the old black Plymouth start up and drive a little faster than it should have out of the long driveway. A jolly honk meant they had exited the driveway or seen someone they wanted to acknowledge.
Mother was only halfway through her meal. I hopped up as Susan left the table, and left Jan and Mother sitting there.
I had to put on my green dress. It looked fine, the seams repaired so perfectly it looked as though it had never suffered at my hands. I felt happy; the little buttons and thin organza in the bodice would make a lovely picture.
Susan wanted to wear a white shirt and a plaid skirt Mother had made. Mother started to say something, but thought better of it.
"You look pretty in white," she said from her place at the table. Since our bedroom was a former dining room, it opened directly into the kitchen, so she could monitor our progress in getting ready for school while finishing her breakfast.
Jan hopped down from her chair with a little help. She had to sit on a Mrs. Tucker's lard can in order to sit high enough to reach the table.
"I wanna picture," she said to everyone. "I put on my pretty dress, and I getta picture."
"In a few years, when you start school, you can," Susan said.
"Ok," she said agreeably.
"You're too young," I added, unhelpfully.
"No!", she said loudly, crossing her arms and pouting, her blue eyes spitting sparks.
"I'll take a picture of you today," Mother called from the kitchen where she was washing the dishes.
"Ok," Jan said, running off to find an appropriate dress.
"Bye Mother," we called. She dried her hands and followed us to the front of the house, where we went out the living room door. Holding the screen door open, she leaned to kiss both of us. "Smile your best smile."
"We will," we chimed together.
"How are you going to smile?" I asked Susan as we walked.
"Like this," she said, looking toward me,smiling demurely.
"Ok, how should I smile?"
"Just like I did," she said, a little impatiently.
"Well, I don't know if I can do that. So I'll just smile like this", I said, putting my index fingers in the corners of my mouth and stretching my lips gruesomely.
"Don't you dare! That is awful. Mother is worried enough about what Stephen will do. He always does something on picture day."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three weeks later the pictures were in. My green dress shone, as far as I was concerned. Susan appeared studious, which she was, in her white shirt and black glasses, her large brown eyes serious and mystical looking. Mother took our picture packages from us as soon as we crossed the threshold in the afternoon.
"Oh girls, these are so good." she enthused. "I can't wait to see the others."
Neila came in next, and Mother actually started putting 5x7 pictures of each of us in a special matted frame with six cutouts for pictures. She'd had a studio photo made of Jan to place inside.
Neila had brought Elton's senior pictures, and he had gone to work at the gin after school. They were doing repair and maintenance, getting ready for late summer and fall ginning. Mother seemed to hold his pictures an extra second. She was not given to cheap sentiment, so we hardly noticed.
"Where is Stephen?" she asked. "Did he leave school with you and Elton?" She turned to Neila.
"No, he said he wanted to walk. Isn't he here?"
Just then, we all glanced through the open living room drapes to see Stephen dragging himself into the yard. He walked slowly, his jacket slung haphazardly over his back, and he was intently looking at his picture packet. Once he grinned broadly, then he seemed seized by something that wiped the grin right off his face. The walk up the steps seemed to take forever, and Mother met him at the door.
"Yours is the last picture to go in the frame," she said.
"Oh, ok," he said, holding onto the package of pictures.
"Give them to me, please." It seemed a demand as she extended her hand.
"You're not gonna like them." He seemed so sure.
"Why?" Mother asked even as she took the pictures and slowly opened them.
"Wh...", she started. "Wh...What is this?" she asked, staring intently at his picture. "And where did you get it and" her voice started to rise a little, "why in the world would the man taking the pictures let you wear it?"
Stephen seemed a little proud, but very unsure what her ultimate reaction was going to be, so his demeanor was somewhat muted.
We all clustered around her trying to see the picture, as she sank onto the sofa. Atop Stephen's head sat a tiny, perfect white derby hat with a shiny black band, about six inches in diameter. He had won it at the Halloween carnival at the school gymnasium last October and carefully saved it for five months.
It sat jauntily on the rightfront portion of his head. He explained how he had "deftly" put it there at the last second, just before the camera flashed.
Mother didn't say anything. She just held the picture like it was a dead thing, staring at it. Once I heard a little sniff, but when I looked up, there were no tears. Then she took the picture and resolutely put it in the frame beside the others.
"There will be other years," she said quietly.
"Yeah, and I can't wait!" Stephen enthused.
Installed
Saturday, January 9, 2010
1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: TORNADO TERROR
Few things excite folks in Texas and the rest of the south like tornadoes. That sunny Tuesday April 2,1957, we had walked the 200 or so yards to school, the equivalent of about three blocks, in plenty of time to be in our seats when the bell rang for the start of classes.
Turning the one corner on our trek, we saw our brown brick school looming straight ahead, viewable dead center of, and close to, the gravel road.
Susan and I usually walked together, and other kids that lived along the way would join us so that by the time we reached school, there were usually five or six of us trudging along, talking and kicking rocks.
A white board fence made of three single rows of 2x4s separated the school from the road. The entrance to the schoolyard was an architectural fancy, surely, for all the folks around Purdon said they had never seen an opening like this, and certainly not at a school.
That entrance, designed for students both entering and leaving, formed two separate and distinct paths, assuming of course, that the students would do the same. It might have worked somewhere else, but they never saw the kids leaving the Purdon school. If someone had tested it there, they would have designed another way for the kids to exit.
The white boards formed a double V-shape. On the right, the three board fence turned into a horizontal triple V, one above the other, ostensibly for those entering. On the left, another triple V, pointed in the opposite direction, for those leaving. If you looked at the opening from the air, which no one in Purdon except birds had, the two shapes would form an X, inserted right in the middle of the fence.
Entering for school wasn't so bad because nobody was in any hurry to get in. But leaving, that was sometimes problematic.
When teachers were present, it worked fine, but when they weren't, it was sheer bedlam: fingers jabbing in backs, pushing, shouting; older and younger kids pushing in and out on the same V, shoving each other; brothers and sisters coming to the aid of their siblings whom they themselves hit at home, but defending them to their last breath on the schoolyard against some "bully" or another family group.
The school had about 125 kids, from grades one through twelve.
Sometimes, a whole wad of kids, their blue jean jackets, tennis shoes, cotton shirts, dresses, and book satchels becoming one, wedged there, and had to be extricated one by one by other kids, or in the worst case, the principal and teachers. The smell of sweat, BrylCreme, and cheap hairspray overpowered some, and they begged to be freed.
If other kids freed them, they would make them wait their turn and usually exact some concession from them before they helped them unloose their arms and legs from the convoluted mass of children. If Mr. Parsons, the superintendent, who also served as school principal, helped them, then they were quiet and obedient, only speaking to wonder aloud how in the world they could have gotten in this mess when they were following the rules so perfectly.
Mr. Parson worked methodically and silently. Pick a foot up here and lift it over the arm of this smaller child. Take the hand of the smaller child and lead him or her under the trunks of the older kids. And he never showed any emotion other than the occasional silent shaking of his head. It was like unraveling a human metal links puzzle.
"Go catch the bus," he said to most of them. "Wait here for your sister," he often told the smaller ones. "Tell your mother that your brother didn't act very well at school today," he instructed others. "Slow down, slow down," he said. "Watch the little ones."
My first grade classroom, with its large ABCs lining the edge of two walls, pleased me. I especially liked the airy lightness brought into the room by the enormous windows that lined the entire outside wall from about three feet from the floor to about two feet from the 12 foot ceiling.
This past winter, Mrs. Hagle helped us with a craft project. Standing over each child, her Apple Blossom perfume offered sweet contrast to the thick air of the classroom. Her thick gray hair was swept softly into a French twist, anchored by a tortoise shell comb studded with pearls.
Each kid tried to move closer to her tailored gray skirt as she assisted them. I knew I wasn't the only one who did this, but sometimes I pretended I was her favorite. All the kids pretended this at times. Because we wanted to be. But she treated each one with the same love and concern. It felt like it would ooze over us like her perfume if we edged close enough.
We decorated paper snowflakes with glitter that winter and placed them in the panes of glass so the sun would reflect from them. Mrs. Hagle told us that every snowflake was unique, "just like you are," she crooned.
When she talked like that, I looked up and smiled, and a warmth crept over me, but not from the wood-burning stove at the front of the classroom. I glanced at the other kids, and all of them sat transfixed, smiling up at her angelic face like first-grade zombies.
But winter seemed distant now, and the grass outside was getting green. It was the perfect time in the big schoolhouse. We could open the windows and smell the new grass and the cedar trees planted next to the school,just outside the windows, and we could feel the cool breezes before it got so hot that we concentrated more on how hot we were than on how to read.
If you flew over the school, the building would form an H. Maybe someone wanted to build a school that incorporated some letters of the alphabet in it, the V at the front, and the school itself an H. A joke; or maybe they were serious.
One leg of the H was grades one through six. My classroom was there, on the east wing. The west wing held the lunchroom, where two or three women stood over steaming pots all morning and cooked food that none of us complained about. A lot of it tasted like home cooking because most of the cooks had kids that went to school there.
Every once in a while, they served something like beets or hominy, neither of which were very popular with kids, but for the most part, we liked the food. Some kids had to bring their lunch because they couldn't afford to eat the lunchroom food. They probably would even have eaten the beets and hominy, but they didn't get the chance.
Also in the west wing was a classroom with a stage where the school pictures were taken, the janitor's closet, and some storage.
The seventh through twelfth grade kids mostly took up the crossbar of the H, and Mr. Parson's office was right in the middle of it, the center of everything. His large expanse of windows looked right out to the front where everyone came and went from the school.
Looking out the windows was a natural pasttime for all the kids, as the school was designed so that every large room in it faced outward with a large bank of windows. Dewey and I were looking out the windows after lunch while Mrs. Hagle read Aesop's Fables to us.
Marie and I were glad she read that instead of our Dick and Jane reader. We got tired of them. Baby Sally irritated me at times, all whiny and needy. She looked a lot like Jan, my baby sister, but I didn't really think that was why things she did got next to me.
And Spot and Puff were the most annoying pets I ever saw. We had a lot of animals though none of them belonged just to me. Still, none of our animals demanded a tenth of the time those two required. Always getting in some mess they had to be gotten out of.
Listening to Mrs. Hagle read while putting our heads down on our crossed arms on top of our desks was calming, and if I wasn't careful, I'd go to sleep. I fought it every day.
Some of the kids were babyish and couldn't stay awake. So she'd let Dewey and I get up and do stuff and after awhile, she'd gently wake the others.
It was about 1:30, just a little after we came in from lunch recess, and Dewey pointed, "Looka there,".
"What?" I asked.
"Looka that cloud there. It's sorta black lookin', looks scary."
About that time, Freddy Higby arrived from Mr. Parson's office, and told Mrs. Hagle in an overly agitated way that school was to be dismissed; everyone needed to go home at once. Then he whispered something to her I couldn't hear, looking at Dewey and me the whole time, like we were too young for the secret.
"Class," Mrs. Hagle said loudly, "school will be dismissed right away, so all of you need to wake up, get your things, and go home just like it was the end of the school day."
The other fifteen kids sluggishly lifted their heads, stumbled to their lockers, and started getting books and jackets.
"Don't take any books, just your jackets, if you brought any," she instructed. "And hurry. If you ride the bus, get on the bus out front, and if you walk home, find your brothers and sisters, and get home as fast as you can."
That last sentence caused a tide of panic to rise up from my stomach. I didn't ride the bus. I had two brothers and two sisters in the school, but how would I find them?
Anything out of the ordinary or requiring rapid thinking set my mind on fire, and the result was burned brain matter incapable of rational thought or action. The flame ignited.
I ran from the room, down the dark halls with their oiled wooden floors, hitting the horizontal silver bar on one of the heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall with both hands, jamming my index fingers.
Exiting the door, which led directly to the front yard of the school, I jumped off the concrete porch, over the two steps leading to the sidewalk, and tore down the sidewalk toward the entrance as fast as I could run. The ominous black clouds loomed low. I felt like I could touch them, but I didn't want to look. A solitary raindrop hit the sidewalk in front of me.
Mother always made a little fun of people who were afraid of storms.
"A raindrop will cause that family to run to the stormcellar," she'd laugh.
We didn't have a stormcellar, so I couldn't run to one if I wanted to. Mother would think it was silly anyway.
A bus sat idling in front of the Vs, and as I threaded my way quickly through the V leading out, and started in front of the bus to run down the gravel road, the bus driver stepped out quickly, and put his hand up, motioning for me to stop.
"Whoa, little lady. Where you goin' so fast?"
"Home," I said, puffing for breath.
"Just wait here a minute," he said. "You're one of them Skinner kids, ain't ya? Live right up there?" He pointed in the general direction of our house.
"Yes, sir," I answered, wanting to run, but knowing that I had to respect someone older.
"Just a minute," he said. "Mr. Parsons will be here in a minute, and we'll ask him what to do."
Mrs. Hagle emerged from the building, looking a little alarmed. She saw me, and her face relaxed. Susan came out with her class about then, too, and she looked at me quizzically. We didn't ride the bus, so why was I engaged in a conversation with the bus driver?
They, along with Mr. Parsons, arrived at the Vs at the same time, and Mr. Parsons told Susan and I to go ahead and ride the bus, it would let us off within 10 yards of the house, as he started lifting up arms and legs to untangle the heap of kids who had just lodged in the Vs.
Our older siblings were coming out of the school about that time and waved happily, signaling that the three of them would ride with Elton, who had brought his old black Plymouth to school. They didn't look scared at all. Several of Neila's friends were trailing along behind them and I saw them pile in the back of the car.
"See you at the house," they yelled.
We climbed aboard the bus, and sat on the front seat as it rumbled over the gravel toward our house.
"Here we are," the driver smiled after less than a minute on the bus. "Be careful now, and go right home."
"Yes, sir, thank you," we said as we jumped off the bus and ran for home.
Mother met us at the door.
"What are you doing home from school?" she asked, surprised.
"There's a tornado coming," Susan said. "And they let school out."
"Well, are the big kids on their way?"
"Yes, they're coming in the car" I said, edging closer to Mother.
"Well, let's pop popcorn and watch the weather. And if it gets bad, we'll go to the Bittner's storm cellar They said we could."
The sky grew pitch black as we melted butter and poured it over the warm white kernels. Some friends had come home with the older kids, and they wanted to play a card game with spoons, which left my oldest brother with scratches when he tried to compete with the four girls grabbing for three spoons.
The tornado didn't materialize in our little town, and we never entered the storm cellar, though I would have liked to, with Mother and everyone else with me, of course. The next day the local paper showed a picture of a mean looking funnel cloud that hit Oak Cliff and West Dallas ,60 miles north of us.
"Will a tornado ever hit our house?" I asked her that night when Susan, Jan, and I were in bed, just before she turned off the light.
"Honey, that is something we will never know. Tornadoes are just something we have to deal with every spring. Life is fraught with danger," she said in a calm voice, patting my leg.
I didn't know what fraught meant, but I hoped the next time a "near tornado" came, I was at home, where I felt safe. And I would probably ask the Bittners if I could use their storm cellar even if I had to stay there by myself.Installed
Turning the one corner on our trek, we saw our brown brick school looming straight ahead, viewable dead center of, and close to, the gravel road.
Susan and I usually walked together, and other kids that lived along the way would join us so that by the time we reached school, there were usually five or six of us trudging along, talking and kicking rocks.
A white board fence made of three single rows of 2x4s separated the school from the road. The entrance to the schoolyard was an architectural fancy, surely, for all the folks around Purdon said they had never seen an opening like this, and certainly not at a school.
That entrance, designed for students both entering and leaving, formed two separate and distinct paths, assuming of course, that the students would do the same. It might have worked somewhere else, but they never saw the kids leaving the Purdon school. If someone had tested it there, they would have designed another way for the kids to exit.
The white boards formed a double V-shape. On the right, the three board fence turned into a horizontal triple V, one above the other, ostensibly for those entering. On the left, another triple V, pointed in the opposite direction, for those leaving. If you looked at the opening from the air, which no one in Purdon except birds had, the two shapes would form an X, inserted right in the middle of the fence.
Entering for school wasn't so bad because nobody was in any hurry to get in. But leaving, that was sometimes problematic.
When teachers were present, it worked fine, but when they weren't, it was sheer bedlam: fingers jabbing in backs, pushing, shouting; older and younger kids pushing in and out on the same V, shoving each other; brothers and sisters coming to the aid of their siblings whom they themselves hit at home, but defending them to their last breath on the schoolyard against some "bully" or another family group.
The school had about 125 kids, from grades one through twelve.
Sometimes, a whole wad of kids, their blue jean jackets, tennis shoes, cotton shirts, dresses, and book satchels becoming one, wedged there, and had to be extricated one by one by other kids, or in the worst case, the principal and teachers. The smell of sweat, BrylCreme, and cheap hairspray overpowered some, and they begged to be freed.
If other kids freed them, they would make them wait their turn and usually exact some concession from them before they helped them unloose their arms and legs from the convoluted mass of children. If Mr. Parsons, the superintendent, who also served as school principal, helped them, then they were quiet and obedient, only speaking to wonder aloud how in the world they could have gotten in this mess when they were following the rules so perfectly.
Mr. Parson worked methodically and silently. Pick a foot up here and lift it over the arm of this smaller child. Take the hand of the smaller child and lead him or her under the trunks of the older kids. And he never showed any emotion other than the occasional silent shaking of his head. It was like unraveling a human metal links puzzle.
"Go catch the bus," he said to most of them. "Wait here for your sister," he often told the smaller ones. "Tell your mother that your brother didn't act very well at school today," he instructed others. "Slow down, slow down," he said. "Watch the little ones."
My first grade classroom, with its large ABCs lining the edge of two walls, pleased me. I especially liked the airy lightness brought into the room by the enormous windows that lined the entire outside wall from about three feet from the floor to about two feet from the 12 foot ceiling.
This past winter, Mrs. Hagle helped us with a craft project. Standing over each child, her Apple Blossom perfume offered sweet contrast to the thick air of the classroom. Her thick gray hair was swept softly into a French twist, anchored by a tortoise shell comb studded with pearls.
Each kid tried to move closer to her tailored gray skirt as she assisted them. I knew I wasn't the only one who did this, but sometimes I pretended I was her favorite. All the kids pretended this at times. Because we wanted to be. But she treated each one with the same love and concern. It felt like it would ooze over us like her perfume if we edged close enough.
We decorated paper snowflakes with glitter that winter and placed them in the panes of glass so the sun would reflect from them. Mrs. Hagle told us that every snowflake was unique, "just like you are," she crooned.
When she talked like that, I looked up and smiled, and a warmth crept over me, but not from the wood-burning stove at the front of the classroom. I glanced at the other kids, and all of them sat transfixed, smiling up at her angelic face like first-grade zombies.
But winter seemed distant now, and the grass outside was getting green. It was the perfect time in the big schoolhouse. We could open the windows and smell the new grass and the cedar trees planted next to the school,just outside the windows, and we could feel the cool breezes before it got so hot that we concentrated more on how hot we were than on how to read.
If you flew over the school, the building would form an H. Maybe someone wanted to build a school that incorporated some letters of the alphabet in it, the V at the front, and the school itself an H. A joke; or maybe they were serious.
One leg of the H was grades one through six. My classroom was there, on the east wing. The west wing held the lunchroom, where two or three women stood over steaming pots all morning and cooked food that none of us complained about. A lot of it tasted like home cooking because most of the cooks had kids that went to school there.
Every once in a while, they served something like beets or hominy, neither of which were very popular with kids, but for the most part, we liked the food. Some kids had to bring their lunch because they couldn't afford to eat the lunchroom food. They probably would even have eaten the beets and hominy, but they didn't get the chance.
Also in the west wing was a classroom with a stage where the school pictures were taken, the janitor's closet, and some storage.
The seventh through twelfth grade kids mostly took up the crossbar of the H, and Mr. Parson's office was right in the middle of it, the center of everything. His large expanse of windows looked right out to the front where everyone came and went from the school.
Looking out the windows was a natural pasttime for all the kids, as the school was designed so that every large room in it faced outward with a large bank of windows. Dewey and I were looking out the windows after lunch while Mrs. Hagle read Aesop's Fables to us.
Marie and I were glad she read that instead of our Dick and Jane reader. We got tired of them. Baby Sally irritated me at times, all whiny and needy. She looked a lot like Jan, my baby sister, but I didn't really think that was why things she did got next to me.
And Spot and Puff were the most annoying pets I ever saw. We had a lot of animals though none of them belonged just to me. Still, none of our animals demanded a tenth of the time those two required. Always getting in some mess they had to be gotten out of.
Listening to Mrs. Hagle read while putting our heads down on our crossed arms on top of our desks was calming, and if I wasn't careful, I'd go to sleep. I fought it every day.
Some of the kids were babyish and couldn't stay awake. So she'd let Dewey and I get up and do stuff and after awhile, she'd gently wake the others.
It was about 1:30, just a little after we came in from lunch recess, and Dewey pointed, "Looka there,".
"What?" I asked.
"Looka that cloud there. It's sorta black lookin', looks scary."
About that time, Freddy Higby arrived from Mr. Parson's office, and told Mrs. Hagle in an overly agitated way that school was to be dismissed; everyone needed to go home at once. Then he whispered something to her I couldn't hear, looking at Dewey and me the whole time, like we were too young for the secret.
"Class," Mrs. Hagle said loudly, "school will be dismissed right away, so all of you need to wake up, get your things, and go home just like it was the end of the school day."
The other fifteen kids sluggishly lifted their heads, stumbled to their lockers, and started getting books and jackets.
"Don't take any books, just your jackets, if you brought any," she instructed. "And hurry. If you ride the bus, get on the bus out front, and if you walk home, find your brothers and sisters, and get home as fast as you can."
That last sentence caused a tide of panic to rise up from my stomach. I didn't ride the bus. I had two brothers and two sisters in the school, but how would I find them?
Anything out of the ordinary or requiring rapid thinking set my mind on fire, and the result was burned brain matter incapable of rational thought or action. The flame ignited.
I ran from the room, down the dark halls with their oiled wooden floors, hitting the horizontal silver bar on one of the heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall with both hands, jamming my index fingers.
Exiting the door, which led directly to the front yard of the school, I jumped off the concrete porch, over the two steps leading to the sidewalk, and tore down the sidewalk toward the entrance as fast as I could run. The ominous black clouds loomed low. I felt like I could touch them, but I didn't want to look. A solitary raindrop hit the sidewalk in front of me.
Mother always made a little fun of people who were afraid of storms.
"A raindrop will cause that family to run to the stormcellar," she'd laugh.
We didn't have a stormcellar, so I couldn't run to one if I wanted to. Mother would think it was silly anyway.
A bus sat idling in front of the Vs, and as I threaded my way quickly through the V leading out, and started in front of the bus to run down the gravel road, the bus driver stepped out quickly, and put his hand up, motioning for me to stop.
"Whoa, little lady. Where you goin' so fast?"
"Home," I said, puffing for breath.
"Just wait here a minute," he said. "You're one of them Skinner kids, ain't ya? Live right up there?" He pointed in the general direction of our house.
"Yes, sir," I answered, wanting to run, but knowing that I had to respect someone older.
"Just a minute," he said. "Mr. Parsons will be here in a minute, and we'll ask him what to do."
Mrs. Hagle emerged from the building, looking a little alarmed. She saw me, and her face relaxed. Susan came out with her class about then, too, and she looked at me quizzically. We didn't ride the bus, so why was I engaged in a conversation with the bus driver?
They, along with Mr. Parsons, arrived at the Vs at the same time, and Mr. Parsons told Susan and I to go ahead and ride the bus, it would let us off within 10 yards of the house, as he started lifting up arms and legs to untangle the heap of kids who had just lodged in the Vs.
Our older siblings were coming out of the school about that time and waved happily, signaling that the three of them would ride with Elton, who had brought his old black Plymouth to school. They didn't look scared at all. Several of Neila's friends were trailing along behind them and I saw them pile in the back of the car.
"See you at the house," they yelled.
We climbed aboard the bus, and sat on the front seat as it rumbled over the gravel toward our house.
"Here we are," the driver smiled after less than a minute on the bus. "Be careful now, and go right home."
"Yes, sir, thank you," we said as we jumped off the bus and ran for home.
Mother met us at the door.
"What are you doing home from school?" she asked, surprised.
"There's a tornado coming," Susan said. "And they let school out."
"Well, are the big kids on their way?"
"Yes, they're coming in the car" I said, edging closer to Mother.
"Well, let's pop popcorn and watch the weather. And if it gets bad, we'll go to the Bittner's storm cellar They said we could."
The sky grew pitch black as we melted butter and poured it over the warm white kernels. Some friends had come home with the older kids, and they wanted to play a card game with spoons, which left my oldest brother with scratches when he tried to compete with the four girls grabbing for three spoons.
The tornado didn't materialize in our little town, and we never entered the storm cellar, though I would have liked to, with Mother and everyone else with me, of course. The next day the local paper showed a picture of a mean looking funnel cloud that hit Oak Cliff and West Dallas ,60 miles north of us.
"Will a tornado ever hit our house?" I asked her that night when Susan, Jan, and I were in bed, just before she turned off the light.
"Honey, that is something we will never know. Tornadoes are just something we have to deal with every spring. Life is fraught with danger," she said in a calm voice, patting my leg.
I didn't know what fraught meant, but I hoped the next time a "near tornado" came, I was at home, where I felt safe. And I would probably ask the Bittners if I could use their storm cellar even if I had to stay there by myself.Installed
Sunday, January 3, 2010
1950S SMALL TOWN LIFE: NEW DRESS
Returning to Purdon that hot August, I could tell some things had changed. Elton was in love, and he was only 17. Neila had made up her mind to go to college. She had always planned to, but there would be no stopping her now. There was nothing for her in Purdon, and she had tasted independence that summer. Stephen had spent so much time at Nettie's in Corsicana that he started making noise about moving in with her and going to school in Corsicana.
Mother seemed to take most of it in stride. She had to do what she had to do. That was always the way she looked at things. Not a lot of foreplanning, just reaction. But she was always the same: calm, level-headed, and basically kind, if outspoken.
Her friends picked up with her where they had left off, and if they were critical, it wasn't evident. They seemed to be in awe of her at times: raising six children, having such a bright outlook, and keeping so many balls in the air.
She had learned to juggle a bit when she was a young girl. She liked to take three balls and keep them in the air, laughing all the while, entertaining her children and their friends. It was all part of the way she really was though, not an act.
David's death forced a lot of people to consider their own mortality. A few people came to church for a while to try to get answers to their questions about death and the hereafter. Some of them stayed, which must have pleased Brother Reames, while others drifted off after a short time, getting their questions answered to their own satisfaction, I guessed.
As soon as we got settled back home, I went over and played with Boy like nothing had happened. That's the way he wanted it, I could tell. The dirt formed the bond between us, and I didn't know anything about dying anyway, so I'd be no help to him. Evelyn, for her part, looked real bad, and she spent even more time watching television than she ever had. I hadn't thought that was possible.
School was starting in a few days, and Boy would be in the same grade with Susan this year. I knew she'd help him, so maybe he wouldn't miss David so much, at least in regard to homework.
I'd be in first grade, my first year in school, and I looked forward to having Mrs. Hagle for my teacher. She had taught all of my siblings in first and second grade, and all of them loved her.
She taught two grades in one room, so if you were a fast learner as a first grader, you could go over and do the second grade work if you finished with the first grade work. She was good that way, to let kids move on ahead.
Then she'd spend more time with the kids who were having a hard time learning to read. I don't think any kid ever left her room without being able to read. Not even Fred Matthews, who could barely spell his name after six weeks in her class. She patiently worked with hhim every day, and eventually he could read, if it was in a halting cadence.
At recess, Marie and I liked to play. There were a few other girls our age, but we probably didn't include them as much as we should have. Mother would be ashamed of me about that if she ever found out.
Lots of us would play chase in the large field beside the school. The entire elementary school, grades 1-6 would be out there at one time. That was less than 50 kids, but it was enough to be fun.
Susan always came out with her class, and she would run a little, precious little, then find a shady place to sit down and talk with her friends or read a book.
I loved the tall metal swingset. They looked like skyscrapers to me, though I had only seen skyscrapers in books. The thick wooden swings hung from heavy rusted metal chains that looked to be as tall as the roof of a house. If one of the big boys pushed, we could go really high.
A few times kids fell out, and once a third grader named Billie broke her arm.
We knew not to run behind the swings, or we learned it pretty fast when the big kids screamed at us.
"Moron, get out of the way! You'll get your stupid head knocked off!"
That was pretty direct. A swing seat hit one kid in the head on the backward swing and knocked him unconscious. He was in the hospital and couldn't come back to school for several days. He evidently didn't know that his new name, at least for the first few days of school, was Moron.
The thing I hated about recess was that Mrs. Hagle insisted that we go to the outhouse. That was the bathroom all the girls and women used. It was a tin-sided building with an entrances on the left, a little tin foyer, formed by folding the tin around tall round creosote posts. Two worn wooden steps led up into the main room, which was less than eight feet by four feet. A bench platform built of plywood stood approximately three feet tall, and cut into the top of the bench were four 12 inch holes spaced approximately 18 inches apart. A refuse pit dug into the dirt simmered in the September heat about seven feet below the holes. Fifty yards away, stood an identical building used by the boys, except the entrance was on the right.
We had an indoor bathroom at home, but a lot of the kids didn't. Especially the kids who lived out in the country, or the ones who lived with their grandparents. They had one or two-seater toilets, not as big or as substantial as the ones at school, and they often blew over during windstorms. They were usually of weathered wood, but the thing they had in common with the school's outhouse was the spiders and wasps.
I didn't want to act like I thought I was better than anybody else because we had an indoor bathroom, so even though the outhouse stunk like the worst odor I had ever breathed into my nose, I usually just held my nose, talked like the nasalest of the nasal, and endured the smell.
Marie and I would often go there together, tightly pinching our noses, and singing at the top of our lungs, laughing at the nasal sound we produced. It took our mind off the dreadful smell.
It wasn't easy being seated on the little cutouts because our legs were still very short. We climbed or jumped up onto the solid part of the bench, scooted over, carefully avoiding the plentiful splinters, and situated ourselves atop the cutout, where it felt like we might fall through to the pit, a terrifying thought for first graders.
And we didn't dare to let our eyes contemplate the area below. That could precipitate a gagging spell that could send a person home from school for the day. Someone (a saint in my estimation), put lime down the holes several times a day, which certainly helped with the smell, but my main problem was fear of spiders and other things that might attach themselves to the underside of the hole and try to reattach themselves to little girls when they had the opportunity.
There were little tops made of wood that could be placed over the holes, and that helped with the smell, but a lot of the kids just wouldn't bother to replace them. They'd throw them on the floor. If they got caught, there were penalties, including sweeping out the outhouse. But I guess some of them thought the risk was worth it, just so they could get out of there fast.
The possibility of being made to spend more time in the outhouse was enough incentive for me to place the lids carefully over the holes each time. I didn't want to spend any more time there than was absolutely necessary. Sometimes Marie and I would carefully place all four tops on the holes, while holding our noses, then jump out bypassing the two wooden steps, yelling "last one to school is a rotten egg".
We ran as fast as we could the 40 yards to the school, trying to outrun the putrid smell, hoping the wind would brush it off our shoulders and hair.
To commemorate my entrance into first grade, Mother had gone to The Children's Shop, across the street from the courthouse in Corsicana and bought me six lovely dresses. We usually did most of our shopping at Penneys and Sears, but starting school was a big deal in our family, and I needed the appropriate attire, even if my tomboyish ways would ruin most of them within a short time.
I could hardly believe my good fortune. Mother spread the dresses out on her bed a few nights before school started. There was a lilac one with delicate white flowers on the bodice, a brown and green plaid with a gathered waist, a yellow one with daisies embroidered around the neck, a navy blue with a sailor collar trimmed in white with a red tie, a brown corduroy jumper, and my favorite, a delicate green one overlaid with organza with a sheer area around the neck, a lace collar, and tiny pearl buttons down the front.
Mother tried to talk me out of it, but I insisted that I wear the green one to school the first day. She had hoped to reserve it for church. That day, once fully dressed, I felt very grownup and beautiful. The only flaw to my perfect presentation were the lopsided bangs Mother had managed to frame my face with as she tried to "even them up".
I played with the buttons, felt the slick organza, and looked at the lacy collar in the mirror.
At school, I was careful not to spill glue on it, or drop pieces of crayon or lead from my pencil. By lunch, it was still as pristine as it was when I came to school, and I managed to eat without dropping any food or spilling any milk on it.
Marie and I tore out of the lunchroom, its wonderful smells spilling out into the hall as we jerked the heavy screen door open as soon as Mrs. Hagle gave the signal, and headed for the schoolyard. A group of older kids were already involved in a game of tag, so we didn't try to join. We didn't want to risk the rejection, but more than that, to our surprise, two of the six swings sat vacant.
We sat down next to each other on the swings and began pushing with our feet, slamming hard at the dirt each time we swung downward. Higher and higher we went, but not high enough for us two thrillseekers. Randy, Marie's brother, came by and after securing a concession from us that we'd share our afternoon snacks with him, pushed us higher, until it took our breath away.
Randy ran off to play with some friends, and we spotted Mrs. Hagle, standing on the concrete porch nearest our room, motioning for all the first and second graders to come in.
"We've got to go in," Marie said, bringing her speed down suddenly, jumping nimbly out of the swing and landing on all fours.
I was still swinging a little high and started feeling a little panic. What if they went in without me and I got in trouble? I didn't want to disappoint Mother or Mrs. Hagle. Especially on the first day of school.
The next time forward, I jumped. Even I knew better than to get slammed in the head with a five pound wooden swing. But the organza in my beautiful dress was pinched between the rusted metal chain loop and the tip of the triangular brace of the swing. When I jumped, my dress stayed behind for a few seconds, before the swing released it, causing a foot long tear in the waist.
I limped up to the porch, holding my formerly beautiful dress, fighting back tears. Mrs. Hagle, who had seen what had happened, was already moving toward me in the schoolyard, her stilletto heels making little holes in the dirt, words of consolation flowing from that angelic face.
"I can fix it," she assured me. "Are you hurt?"
"I don't think so," I whimpered. "But my dress," I wailed. "It was my favorite."
For some reason, I looked at that moment at the other girls in first grade. They were lined up. Marie had on a nice dress with a gathered skirt with tiny ruffles above the hemline and additional ruffles on the puffed sleeves.
Besides her, there was Ruby, who had at least five brothers and sisters in various grades. She had on a plain yellow cotton shift, devoid of any decoration whatsoever. Suelyn, who was a little overweight, had on a blue plaid dress with four small white buttons and a belt made of the same plaid material. Very plain. I had seen dresses like that at Sears on the sale rack.
The other two girls in the class had homemade dresses made of a thin gingham. They were cousins, so I assumed their mothers shared the material and perhaps the pattern.
I had nothing against homemade dresses because Mother made a lot of our clothes, but the material was so thin on Ruby's dress that you could see her legs. And the gingham girls' seams had loose threads all the way down the side. Half the hem of Suelyn's dress was hanging down, and I figured since it was the first day of school, it was probably the first time she'd worn it.
All of a sudden, I wished I were wearing the dress Mother made me last year, the gingham one, blue and white, with tiny buttons at the neck and no other decoration. The other kids were staring at me impassively, just waiting to go into the classroom.
"Can I call my Mother and ask her to bring me something else to wear?"
"If that's what you want to do. Go to the office and they'll help you."
I walked slowly toward the principal's office, looking at the torn organza and the pretty green material beneath it. I still liked the dress, but I felt an odd longing--for my old dresses, the ones that looked more like Ruby's and Suelyn's.Installed
Mother seemed to take most of it in stride. She had to do what she had to do. That was always the way she looked at things. Not a lot of foreplanning, just reaction. But she was always the same: calm, level-headed, and basically kind, if outspoken.
Her friends picked up with her where they had left off, and if they were critical, it wasn't evident. They seemed to be in awe of her at times: raising six children, having such a bright outlook, and keeping so many balls in the air.
She had learned to juggle a bit when she was a young girl. She liked to take three balls and keep them in the air, laughing all the while, entertaining her children and their friends. It was all part of the way she really was though, not an act.
David's death forced a lot of people to consider their own mortality. A few people came to church for a while to try to get answers to their questions about death and the hereafter. Some of them stayed, which must have pleased Brother Reames, while others drifted off after a short time, getting their questions answered to their own satisfaction, I guessed.
As soon as we got settled back home, I went over and played with Boy like nothing had happened. That's the way he wanted it, I could tell. The dirt formed the bond between us, and I didn't know anything about dying anyway, so I'd be no help to him. Evelyn, for her part, looked real bad, and she spent even more time watching television than she ever had. I hadn't thought that was possible.
School was starting in a few days, and Boy would be in the same grade with Susan this year. I knew she'd help him, so maybe he wouldn't miss David so much, at least in regard to homework.
I'd be in first grade, my first year in school, and I looked forward to having Mrs. Hagle for my teacher. She had taught all of my siblings in first and second grade, and all of them loved her.
She taught two grades in one room, so if you were a fast learner as a first grader, you could go over and do the second grade work if you finished with the first grade work. She was good that way, to let kids move on ahead.
Then she'd spend more time with the kids who were having a hard time learning to read. I don't think any kid ever left her room without being able to read. Not even Fred Matthews, who could barely spell his name after six weeks in her class. She patiently worked with hhim every day, and eventually he could read, if it was in a halting cadence.
At recess, Marie and I liked to play. There were a few other girls our age, but we probably didn't include them as much as we should have. Mother would be ashamed of me about that if she ever found out.
Lots of us would play chase in the large field beside the school. The entire elementary school, grades 1-6 would be out there at one time. That was less than 50 kids, but it was enough to be fun.
Susan always came out with her class, and she would run a little, precious little, then find a shady place to sit down and talk with her friends or read a book.
I loved the tall metal swingset. They looked like skyscrapers to me, though I had only seen skyscrapers in books. The thick wooden swings hung from heavy rusted metal chains that looked to be as tall as the roof of a house. If one of the big boys pushed, we could go really high.
A few times kids fell out, and once a third grader named Billie broke her arm.
We knew not to run behind the swings, or we learned it pretty fast when the big kids screamed at us.
"Moron, get out of the way! You'll get your stupid head knocked off!"
That was pretty direct. A swing seat hit one kid in the head on the backward swing and knocked him unconscious. He was in the hospital and couldn't come back to school for several days. He evidently didn't know that his new name, at least for the first few days of school, was Moron.
The thing I hated about recess was that Mrs. Hagle insisted that we go to the outhouse. That was the bathroom all the girls and women used. It was a tin-sided building with an entrances on the left, a little tin foyer, formed by folding the tin around tall round creosote posts. Two worn wooden steps led up into the main room, which was less than eight feet by four feet. A bench platform built of plywood stood approximately three feet tall, and cut into the top of the bench were four 12 inch holes spaced approximately 18 inches apart. A refuse pit dug into the dirt simmered in the September heat about seven feet below the holes. Fifty yards away, stood an identical building used by the boys, except the entrance was on the right.
We had an indoor bathroom at home, but a lot of the kids didn't. Especially the kids who lived out in the country, or the ones who lived with their grandparents. They had one or two-seater toilets, not as big or as substantial as the ones at school, and they often blew over during windstorms. They were usually of weathered wood, but the thing they had in common with the school's outhouse was the spiders and wasps.
I didn't want to act like I thought I was better than anybody else because we had an indoor bathroom, so even though the outhouse stunk like the worst odor I had ever breathed into my nose, I usually just held my nose, talked like the nasalest of the nasal, and endured the smell.
Marie and I would often go there together, tightly pinching our noses, and singing at the top of our lungs, laughing at the nasal sound we produced. It took our mind off the dreadful smell.
It wasn't easy being seated on the little cutouts because our legs were still very short. We climbed or jumped up onto the solid part of the bench, scooted over, carefully avoiding the plentiful splinters, and situated ourselves atop the cutout, where it felt like we might fall through to the pit, a terrifying thought for first graders.
And we didn't dare to let our eyes contemplate the area below. That could precipitate a gagging spell that could send a person home from school for the day. Someone (a saint in my estimation), put lime down the holes several times a day, which certainly helped with the smell, but my main problem was fear of spiders and other things that might attach themselves to the underside of the hole and try to reattach themselves to little girls when they had the opportunity.
There were little tops made of wood that could be placed over the holes, and that helped with the smell, but a lot of the kids just wouldn't bother to replace them. They'd throw them on the floor. If they got caught, there were penalties, including sweeping out the outhouse. But I guess some of them thought the risk was worth it, just so they could get out of there fast.
The possibility of being made to spend more time in the outhouse was enough incentive for me to place the lids carefully over the holes each time. I didn't want to spend any more time there than was absolutely necessary. Sometimes Marie and I would carefully place all four tops on the holes, while holding our noses, then jump out bypassing the two wooden steps, yelling "last one to school is a rotten egg".
We ran as fast as we could the 40 yards to the school, trying to outrun the putrid smell, hoping the wind would brush it off our shoulders and hair.
To commemorate my entrance into first grade, Mother had gone to The Children's Shop, across the street from the courthouse in Corsicana and bought me six lovely dresses. We usually did most of our shopping at Penneys and Sears, but starting school was a big deal in our family, and I needed the appropriate attire, even if my tomboyish ways would ruin most of them within a short time.
I could hardly believe my good fortune. Mother spread the dresses out on her bed a few nights before school started. There was a lilac one with delicate white flowers on the bodice, a brown and green plaid with a gathered waist, a yellow one with daisies embroidered around the neck, a navy blue with a sailor collar trimmed in white with a red tie, a brown corduroy jumper, and my favorite, a delicate green one overlaid with organza with a sheer area around the neck, a lace collar, and tiny pearl buttons down the front.
Mother tried to talk me out of it, but I insisted that I wear the green one to school the first day. She had hoped to reserve it for church. That day, once fully dressed, I felt very grownup and beautiful. The only flaw to my perfect presentation were the lopsided bangs Mother had managed to frame my face with as she tried to "even them up".
I played with the buttons, felt the slick organza, and looked at the lacy collar in the mirror.
At school, I was careful not to spill glue on it, or drop pieces of crayon or lead from my pencil. By lunch, it was still as pristine as it was when I came to school, and I managed to eat without dropping any food or spilling any milk on it.
Marie and I tore out of the lunchroom, its wonderful smells spilling out into the hall as we jerked the heavy screen door open as soon as Mrs. Hagle gave the signal, and headed for the schoolyard. A group of older kids were already involved in a game of tag, so we didn't try to join. We didn't want to risk the rejection, but more than that, to our surprise, two of the six swings sat vacant.
We sat down next to each other on the swings and began pushing with our feet, slamming hard at the dirt each time we swung downward. Higher and higher we went, but not high enough for us two thrillseekers. Randy, Marie's brother, came by and after securing a concession from us that we'd share our afternoon snacks with him, pushed us higher, until it took our breath away.
Randy ran off to play with some friends, and we spotted Mrs. Hagle, standing on the concrete porch nearest our room, motioning for all the first and second graders to come in.
"We've got to go in," Marie said, bringing her speed down suddenly, jumping nimbly out of the swing and landing on all fours.
I was still swinging a little high and started feeling a little panic. What if they went in without me and I got in trouble? I didn't want to disappoint Mother or Mrs. Hagle. Especially on the first day of school.
The next time forward, I jumped. Even I knew better than to get slammed in the head with a five pound wooden swing. But the organza in my beautiful dress was pinched between the rusted metal chain loop and the tip of the triangular brace of the swing. When I jumped, my dress stayed behind for a few seconds, before the swing released it, causing a foot long tear in the waist.
I limped up to the porch, holding my formerly beautiful dress, fighting back tears. Mrs. Hagle, who had seen what had happened, was already moving toward me in the schoolyard, her stilletto heels making little holes in the dirt, words of consolation flowing from that angelic face.
"I can fix it," she assured me. "Are you hurt?"
"I don't think so," I whimpered. "But my dress," I wailed. "It was my favorite."
For some reason, I looked at that moment at the other girls in first grade. They were lined up. Marie had on a nice dress with a gathered skirt with tiny ruffles above the hemline and additional ruffles on the puffed sleeves.
Besides her, there was Ruby, who had at least five brothers and sisters in various grades. She had on a plain yellow cotton shift, devoid of any decoration whatsoever. Suelyn, who was a little overweight, had on a blue plaid dress with four small white buttons and a belt made of the same plaid material. Very plain. I had seen dresses like that at Sears on the sale rack.
The other two girls in the class had homemade dresses made of a thin gingham. They were cousins, so I assumed their mothers shared the material and perhaps the pattern.
I had nothing against homemade dresses because Mother made a lot of our clothes, but the material was so thin on Ruby's dress that you could see her legs. And the gingham girls' seams had loose threads all the way down the side. Half the hem of Suelyn's dress was hanging down, and I figured since it was the first day of school, it was probably the first time she'd worn it.
All of a sudden, I wished I were wearing the dress Mother made me last year, the gingham one, blue and white, with tiny buttons at the neck and no other decoration. The other kids were staring at me impassively, just waiting to go into the classroom.
"Can I call my Mother and ask her to bring me something else to wear?"
"If that's what you want to do. Go to the office and they'll help you."
I walked slowly toward the principal's office, looking at the torn organza and the pretty green material beneath it. I still liked the dress, but I felt an odd longing--for my old dresses, the ones that looked more like Ruby's and Suelyn's.Installed
1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: SMUGGLING PEACHES
As usual, Mother wasn't taking my worrying seriously. There she sat at the kitchen table washing peaches. We were leaving this evening, going back to Texas. I was excited because I hadn't seen my older brothers and sister for almost three months, but I hated to leave our summer life too. Even Vance, possibly the meanest boy I had ever known.
Leaving as the sun was setting meant that we would cross the hottest parts of the desert while it was dark and cool. Also, I had heard my parents talk about us girls sleeping through a large part of the trip.
They had bought a little baby bed mattress for Jan to sleep on about six weeks into our stay in Calexico. That was purchased shortly after the night we were visiting the Whites, and Susan and I, asked by Mr. White how we liked living here, went into great detail about Jan sleeping so comfortably in the dresser drawer. My dad developed a coughing fit, and we stopped talking only when all eyes were on him, wondering if he were going to survive without choking to death.
The mattress fit snugly across the back seat and covered the back floorboard, making a large flat space. We could play and sleep on it, according to their plan.
But now I was secretly worried that we wouldn't make it across the border to Arizona. I say secretly because I had told Mother my concern, and after I cajoled, wheedled, begged, and whined for over half an hour, she finally tired of it and told me firmly to stop asking questions and to STOP worrying, that it was not a problem and that it was a grownup matter, and nothing for a six year-old child to worry about.
After that, my worrying took the silent interior route. My lips zipped shut, I would think about it, absentmindedly say "uh, what about...", get a glance from Mother, and immediately settle back into silence, difficult as it was for me to maintain.
My concern? Peaches!! I know I specifically overheard my parents discussing the trip and my father telling her that peaches could not be taken across the border because it was illegal to do so. Something about bugs hitching a ride in the seeds or some notion like that.
I didn't get all the details, but I knew one thing. I didn't want to be in the car with any peaches, not when we crossed the border anyway. The guards there wouldn't know my dad, and I doubted they would wave him across like the guards in Mexicali.
Most of the stuff we had used this summer belonged to Mrs. Bivens and the motel, so we only had to pack our clothes. Mother had started several days before and today had only to finish putting the final items in the bags.
The two suitcases I had seen under their bed were now filled with clothes and lying open on the bedspread. Two more bags were unfolded on the bed in our room. Our clothes were neatly folded and laid inside. Mother didn't want our help in packing. In fact, she had asked Mrs. White if we could visit over there for a few hours this afternoon so she could get most of the packing finished.
There had been almost no rain this summer. One day three drops fell as we were entering the grocery store, and when we got inside and turned to watch the rain out the large plate glass window, it had already stopped. We played with Andy and Vance inside because outside the temperature topped 105 degrees. Their housemotel looked just like ours, but no one had to sleep in a drawer because there were only two kids, not three.
Susan was deeply involved in reading Charlotte's Web, so she sat on the couch in the kids' bedroom reading. It looked like the thickest book she had ever attempted. The rest of us decided to play Go Fish, but I had to help Jan. Vance tried to help her, but I could tell he didn't really want to; he was just trying to make his mother think better of him. It was wasted effort.
His mother looked in on us frequently. Often, when Vance said anything, she rolled her eyes, or turned on her heel. Sometimes she spoke sharply to him. She told us over and over how much she liked our mother and how she hated for her to leave. They would be leaving soon, too, though; they lived in another part of California, up north. They could drive there in about four hours.
We had all hugged goodbye, including Mother and Mrs. White.
"Don't cry now, Elaine," Mother had said soothingly. "We'll write. Maybe someday we'll see one another again." I knew she didn't really think that. She had said she hoped Daddy never had to work so far away again, but she was just trying to make Mrs. White feel better.
"But I have just enjoyed this summer so much because of you," Elaine sniffed. "You actually enjoy playing with the children. And Vance minded you better than he ever does me."
At that, Vance looked up at Mother sort of sheepishly, and she smiled and patted his shoulder.
"Vance knows how to mind," she said, sounding more sure of it than I felt.
"Well, we'll try to keep in touch," Mother laughed. "Got to get back to my older kids. I think they grew up a lot this summer. Like it or not."
The four of us had crunched gravel all the way back to our house,melting like candles in the heat, and rushed into the cavelike interior where Mother went straight to the kitchen and started washing peaches.
When Daddy got home from work, he showered while Mother loaded the bags into the car.
"You girls get in the car," she said as she took the keys to the office where Mrs. Bivens stepped out in the withering heat and hugged her, telling her how much she had enjoyed getting to know her.
"Snake killers together," I thought, remembering the day the "cord" moved, and they had to kill it.
Susan looked over at me, as though reading my mind. "Mrs. Bivens is no sissy," she said, and laughed.
Susan lifted Jan up onto the mattress in the backseat, and we crawled up after her. We made a few bounces to check it out. This could be fun, we decided. Jan liked it the best, and we bounced her around a little until her arm got wedged between the mattress and the front seat.
About that time, Mrs. Bivens walked up to the car and stuck her head in.
"Oh dear," she said, pushing the mattress back and dislodging Jan's arm. "Are you girls going to be okay back here?"
"Yes ma'am," Susan answered. "We just got a little carried away."
"Ok, then. Be good. And write me. I've sure enjoyed having you here this summer."
Daddy had sat down in the driver's seat by then, and Mother opened the other door and glided into the passenger seat. As the car pulled slowly out of the parking lot, the three of us got on our knees,turned toward the back windshield, and waved sadly at Mrs. Bivens, who returned our melancholy expression.
"Let's play Battle," I said.
"Ok," Susan agreed, "But only for ten minutes. I want to read a little before it gets dark."
When we got to the border of Arizona, the sun was just setting, its broad red brushstrokes spread across the sky canvas. A man in a uniform stepped out and motioned for us to stop. I had planned to talk to Daddy, who was a rule obeyer like me, when he got home from work, but things had gotten chaotic, and I hadn't gottten a chance to tell him about the peaches. I thought Mother had put them in the trunk, but I wasn't sure.
I thought I could smell them every now and then. A faint whiff of peach scent wafting on the air. Maybe it was seeping through some hole from the trunk.
Daddy got out and talked to the man. They scuffed their shoes in the dirt and laughed a little. Daddy was gifted that way. He could immediately establish a rapport with people, no matter who they were or what they did. He just seemed to like them, and they seemed to know it.
I had always heard that if you approached a dog in a nonthreatening manner you would be more likely to make friends, but some of our dogs were just mean, so I didn't approach them at all. Still, it seemed like good advice. But now the man was pointing toward the car. Even my dad's winsome personality couldn't stop the inevitable search.
Mother seemed to take that as her cue. She hopped out of the car and stood by the right front fender, her slim frame silhouetted against the red sunset. The man tipped his cap toward her, and then she moved toward the back of the car as the two men approached.
Daddy had a key in his hand. The three of us turned again on our knees and looked out the back windshield, resting our chins on our crossed arms, observing. Jan was between us so we could guard the doors, making sure they were locked to keep anyone from falling out.
Daddy moved his hand below our line of sight to unlock the trunk, and the lid popped up, blocking our view. I had to dig my knees down into the mattress so I could squench down and look through the crack between the trunklid and the rear window.
"Susan! Susan! Do you think the peaches are in there? Do you think the guard will see the peaches? Would they arrest her? Could they take her to jail?" My voice sounded high and frantic, but I kept it soft for fear the guard would hear me.
"Shh," is all I heard in response.
My anxiety was rising by the second. I could barely see the fronts of Daddy's khaki shirt, the man's starched brown uniform, and Mother's white sleeveless cotton blouse. I couldn't see their faces now. A hand was visible every now and then, but it moved so quickly I couldn't tell whose it was or what it was doing. I figured she must have put the large plastic bowl of peaches under the suitcases.
"If that man raises the suitcases, he'll see the peaches," I whispered in a coarse, tight voice. My anxiety caused my throat to feel constricted and rough.
"Shhh," Susan said again, more emphatically this time.
"I want a peach," Jan piped up. I looked furtively toward the back windows which had been hastily rolled down when we stopped. Could he hear her?
"Shhh," Susan said, patting Jan softly on the back. "We'll have a snack later."
"Ok, should I just go tell him about the peaches" I asked, feeling like it was inevitable that the border guard would find them, and thinking it would be better to "fess up"; maybe he would forgive an honest person.
"Shh," Susan said, then, "Are you crazy? Don't say anything. Let Mother and Daddy handle this."
Just as I had my hand on the doorhandle, thinking seriously of getting out and setting everything straight about the little fuzzy orbs, Daddy slammed the trunk, and the three of them looked up at the three of us peering at them and started laughing.
Daddy shook hands with the border patrolman, walked toward his side of the car, and got in, as Mother did on the other side. The car rolled slowly through the border station.
"Lib, you surely didn't bring those peaches, did you?" Daddy asked. "I swear I keep smelling them. I'm not sure what would have happened if we'd had any with us crossing the border. It's strictly illegal to transport them across."
"I knew the kids would need something good to eat tonight," she responded unapologetically. "That's the silliest rule I ever heard," she said lightly, gazing out the window at the unending sand.
Looking up toward the rearview mirror, I saw my Dad's eyes open wide. Then he raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes around quickly. He shook his head slowly side to side several times.
"Lib, lib, lib," he said, with slight amusement; then he started laughing quietly.
"I want a peach," Jan said again.
"Ok, honey, just a few minutes till we get out of sight of the border patrol station. Daddy will have to stop the car so I can get them out from under the mattress on the floorboard in the back."
All of a sudden the smell was overpowering. They were right under us all the time! My mouth watered, and I couldn't wait till we stopped and bit into those juicy peaches.
"Is it illegal to eat peaches in Arizona?" I started, but Mother held up her hand with the palm facing me and made little motions toward me.
We weren't allowed to say "shut up", but I felt like she had just said it to me in the nicest way.
Installed
Leaving as the sun was setting meant that we would cross the hottest parts of the desert while it was dark and cool. Also, I had heard my parents talk about us girls sleeping through a large part of the trip.
They had bought a little baby bed mattress for Jan to sleep on about six weeks into our stay in Calexico. That was purchased shortly after the night we were visiting the Whites, and Susan and I, asked by Mr. White how we liked living here, went into great detail about Jan sleeping so comfortably in the dresser drawer. My dad developed a coughing fit, and we stopped talking only when all eyes were on him, wondering if he were going to survive without choking to death.
The mattress fit snugly across the back seat and covered the back floorboard, making a large flat space. We could play and sleep on it, according to their plan.
But now I was secretly worried that we wouldn't make it across the border to Arizona. I say secretly because I had told Mother my concern, and after I cajoled, wheedled, begged, and whined for over half an hour, she finally tired of it and told me firmly to stop asking questions and to STOP worrying, that it was not a problem and that it was a grownup matter, and nothing for a six year-old child to worry about.
After that, my worrying took the silent interior route. My lips zipped shut, I would think about it, absentmindedly say "uh, what about...", get a glance from Mother, and immediately settle back into silence, difficult as it was for me to maintain.
My concern? Peaches!! I know I specifically overheard my parents discussing the trip and my father telling her that peaches could not be taken across the border because it was illegal to do so. Something about bugs hitching a ride in the seeds or some notion like that.
I didn't get all the details, but I knew one thing. I didn't want to be in the car with any peaches, not when we crossed the border anyway. The guards there wouldn't know my dad, and I doubted they would wave him across like the guards in Mexicali.
Most of the stuff we had used this summer belonged to Mrs. Bivens and the motel, so we only had to pack our clothes. Mother had started several days before and today had only to finish putting the final items in the bags.
The two suitcases I had seen under their bed were now filled with clothes and lying open on the bedspread. Two more bags were unfolded on the bed in our room. Our clothes were neatly folded and laid inside. Mother didn't want our help in packing. In fact, she had asked Mrs. White if we could visit over there for a few hours this afternoon so she could get most of the packing finished.
There had been almost no rain this summer. One day three drops fell as we were entering the grocery store, and when we got inside and turned to watch the rain out the large plate glass window, it had already stopped. We played with Andy and Vance inside because outside the temperature topped 105 degrees. Their housemotel looked just like ours, but no one had to sleep in a drawer because there were only two kids, not three.
Susan was deeply involved in reading Charlotte's Web, so she sat on the couch in the kids' bedroom reading. It looked like the thickest book she had ever attempted. The rest of us decided to play Go Fish, but I had to help Jan. Vance tried to help her, but I could tell he didn't really want to; he was just trying to make his mother think better of him. It was wasted effort.
His mother looked in on us frequently. Often, when Vance said anything, she rolled her eyes, or turned on her heel. Sometimes she spoke sharply to him. She told us over and over how much she liked our mother and how she hated for her to leave. They would be leaving soon, too, though; they lived in another part of California, up north. They could drive there in about four hours.
We had all hugged goodbye, including Mother and Mrs. White.
"Don't cry now, Elaine," Mother had said soothingly. "We'll write. Maybe someday we'll see one another again." I knew she didn't really think that. She had said she hoped Daddy never had to work so far away again, but she was just trying to make Mrs. White feel better.
"But I have just enjoyed this summer so much because of you," Elaine sniffed. "You actually enjoy playing with the children. And Vance minded you better than he ever does me."
At that, Vance looked up at Mother sort of sheepishly, and she smiled and patted his shoulder.
"Vance knows how to mind," she said, sounding more sure of it than I felt.
"Well, we'll try to keep in touch," Mother laughed. "Got to get back to my older kids. I think they grew up a lot this summer. Like it or not."
The four of us had crunched gravel all the way back to our house,melting like candles in the heat, and rushed into the cavelike interior where Mother went straight to the kitchen and started washing peaches.
When Daddy got home from work, he showered while Mother loaded the bags into the car.
"You girls get in the car," she said as she took the keys to the office where Mrs. Bivens stepped out in the withering heat and hugged her, telling her how much she had enjoyed getting to know her.
"Snake killers together," I thought, remembering the day the "cord" moved, and they had to kill it.
Susan looked over at me, as though reading my mind. "Mrs. Bivens is no sissy," she said, and laughed.
Susan lifted Jan up onto the mattress in the backseat, and we crawled up after her. We made a few bounces to check it out. This could be fun, we decided. Jan liked it the best, and we bounced her around a little until her arm got wedged between the mattress and the front seat.
About that time, Mrs. Bivens walked up to the car and stuck her head in.
"Oh dear," she said, pushing the mattress back and dislodging Jan's arm. "Are you girls going to be okay back here?"
"Yes ma'am," Susan answered. "We just got a little carried away."
"Ok, then. Be good. And write me. I've sure enjoyed having you here this summer."
Daddy had sat down in the driver's seat by then, and Mother opened the other door and glided into the passenger seat. As the car pulled slowly out of the parking lot, the three of us got on our knees,turned toward the back windshield, and waved sadly at Mrs. Bivens, who returned our melancholy expression.
"Let's play Battle," I said.
"Ok," Susan agreed, "But only for ten minutes. I want to read a little before it gets dark."
When we got to the border of Arizona, the sun was just setting, its broad red brushstrokes spread across the sky canvas. A man in a uniform stepped out and motioned for us to stop. I had planned to talk to Daddy, who was a rule obeyer like me, when he got home from work, but things had gotten chaotic, and I hadn't gottten a chance to tell him about the peaches. I thought Mother had put them in the trunk, but I wasn't sure.
I thought I could smell them every now and then. A faint whiff of peach scent wafting on the air. Maybe it was seeping through some hole from the trunk.
Daddy got out and talked to the man. They scuffed their shoes in the dirt and laughed a little. Daddy was gifted that way. He could immediately establish a rapport with people, no matter who they were or what they did. He just seemed to like them, and they seemed to know it.
I had always heard that if you approached a dog in a nonthreatening manner you would be more likely to make friends, but some of our dogs were just mean, so I didn't approach them at all. Still, it seemed like good advice. But now the man was pointing toward the car. Even my dad's winsome personality couldn't stop the inevitable search.
Mother seemed to take that as her cue. She hopped out of the car and stood by the right front fender, her slim frame silhouetted against the red sunset. The man tipped his cap toward her, and then she moved toward the back of the car as the two men approached.
Daddy had a key in his hand. The three of us turned again on our knees and looked out the back windshield, resting our chins on our crossed arms, observing. Jan was between us so we could guard the doors, making sure they were locked to keep anyone from falling out.
Daddy moved his hand below our line of sight to unlock the trunk, and the lid popped up, blocking our view. I had to dig my knees down into the mattress so I could squench down and look through the crack between the trunklid and the rear window.
"Susan! Susan! Do you think the peaches are in there? Do you think the guard will see the peaches? Would they arrest her? Could they take her to jail?" My voice sounded high and frantic, but I kept it soft for fear the guard would hear me.
"Shh," is all I heard in response.
My anxiety was rising by the second. I could barely see the fronts of Daddy's khaki shirt, the man's starched brown uniform, and Mother's white sleeveless cotton blouse. I couldn't see their faces now. A hand was visible every now and then, but it moved so quickly I couldn't tell whose it was or what it was doing. I figured she must have put the large plastic bowl of peaches under the suitcases.
"If that man raises the suitcases, he'll see the peaches," I whispered in a coarse, tight voice. My anxiety caused my throat to feel constricted and rough.
"Shhh," Susan said again, more emphatically this time.
"I want a peach," Jan piped up. I looked furtively toward the back windows which had been hastily rolled down when we stopped. Could he hear her?
"Shhh," Susan said, patting Jan softly on the back. "We'll have a snack later."
"Ok, should I just go tell him about the peaches" I asked, feeling like it was inevitable that the border guard would find them, and thinking it would be better to "fess up"; maybe he would forgive an honest person.
"Shh," Susan said, then, "Are you crazy? Don't say anything. Let Mother and Daddy handle this."
Just as I had my hand on the doorhandle, thinking seriously of getting out and setting everything straight about the little fuzzy orbs, Daddy slammed the trunk, and the three of them looked up at the three of us peering at them and started laughing.
Daddy shook hands with the border patrolman, walked toward his side of the car, and got in, as Mother did on the other side. The car rolled slowly through the border station.
"Lib, you surely didn't bring those peaches, did you?" Daddy asked. "I swear I keep smelling them. I'm not sure what would have happened if we'd had any with us crossing the border. It's strictly illegal to transport them across."
"I knew the kids would need something good to eat tonight," she responded unapologetically. "That's the silliest rule I ever heard," she said lightly, gazing out the window at the unending sand.
Looking up toward the rearview mirror, I saw my Dad's eyes open wide. Then he raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes around quickly. He shook his head slowly side to side several times.
"Lib, lib, lib," he said, with slight amusement; then he started laughing quietly.
"I want a peach," Jan said again.
"Ok, honey, just a few minutes till we get out of sight of the border patrol station. Daddy will have to stop the car so I can get them out from under the mattress on the floorboard in the back."
All of a sudden the smell was overpowering. They were right under us all the time! My mouth watered, and I couldn't wait till we stopped and bit into those juicy peaches.
"Is it illegal to eat peaches in Arizona?" I started, but Mother held up her hand with the palm facing me and made little motions toward me.
We weren't allowed to say "shut up", but I felt like she had just said it to me in the nicest way.
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