Category Archives: Memory Keeping

Lies and Lessons

25 Tuesday Sep 2012

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Mother didn’t know how to swim. When we went swimming on family night at the Eastside Park swimming pool, she never ventured past the three-foot depth marker, preferring to watch us swim into the deeper water holding onto Daddy’s neck and shoulders, lying against his back. The public pool offered free-swimming lessons beginning in June and Mother wanted to take advantage of the offering. She understood the importance of being able to swim, and she didn’t hesitate to do anything that ensured our safety in and out of a body of water. There was one small problem-a child had to be five years old to take swimming lessons and I am a Leo. My birthday is August 10 and I was only four at the beginning of the summer of 1955. My sister, Georgia, was already six and Mother didn’t want her to miss another summer without swimming lessons.

Today of course, we throw babies in the pool very early, hoping to instill a familiarity with water at an early age; no age requirements in place. Nevertheless, in the fifties, rules were rules and according to the rules, if a child wasn’t five by June, that child couldn’t participate in the free lessons at the public pool.

Mother was apparently determined and I imagine carefully laid out her plan. No birth certificate was required; a verbal statement was sufficient proof of age. Besides, who lies about this sort of thing? Surely not a mother.

The out building stood at the top of the concrete steps marking the entrance into the pool. My sister and I stood on those steps wearing our bathing suits and flip-flops, and holding our towels and bathing caps. We stood anxiously with the rest of the crowd waiting for the dark green shuttered doors to open for business. Mother stood between us holding our hands. As the doors opened, Mother leaned down and whispered in my ear, “When they ask you how old you are, you say five. Your birthday is in April and you are five. Remember, you are five. And, when I tell them how old you are, don’t say anything when I say you are five.”

We patiently waited in line for our turn. As the crowd moved forward, the swimming instructors greeted us as we went entered the building and lined up to register for our free lessons. There were no computer databases to check, no forms to fill out, just a mother’s word; the swearing-in of her births. I vaguely remember all the details of the event, but I clearly remember that when I was asked, “How old are you?” I looked up and said, “I’m five.” I am certain Mother’s heart was racing and a secret smile crossed her face. She directed us forward and left us at that point as we walked toward the locker room to shower before getting into the pool. We showered, walked outside and separated, as we split up into the designated age groups-one for the five years olds and the other for those older.

Mother reappeared outside the chain link fence and pressed her face closely up against the metal fence watching us intently for the next hour until the end of the lesson. I remember the crisscrossed lines that marked her forehead as she proudly and anxiously watched her precious cargo in the water.

This was the only time in my life that Mother asked me to lie. In fact, at all other times, she forbade it. She surely had her reasons that day and whether it was out of necessity or just a need to make her children safe, for my part, I will never know.

I am not a great swimmer, but I love to swim. I love the coolness of the water on my heated body and I love to glide through the water pushing the water away from me as I head toward the end of the pool. My own children began swimming as infants. My daughter was on a summer swimming league for 14 years from the age of four.  I spent many Thursday nights in the summer encouraging her to swim her best and beat her competition in races across a 50-meter pool. I loved to watch her glide effortlessly across the water. She earned a drawer full of ribbons and a box full of trophies to prove that she swam, and swam well. I know that Mother would have liked to watch her swim and would have been very proud of her aquatic feats.

Those green shuttered doors at the Eastside public pool opened for two little girls and a young mother over fifty years ago.  While the three of them waited patiently for the doors to open, I can only imagine that my mother hoped she wasn’t making a mistake in asking her child to lie. Now as I think about that transgression, I can safely say that the little white lie was well worth the risk. I never regretted my part in the deception, and I know that as I propel myself through water, both safely and confidently, had it been me, I would have done the same.

 

Military Time

21 Friday Sep 2012

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I learned the lesson of “Put your best foot forward” very early in life. As a child of a WWII veteran, who served his country bravely and proudly, I understood the importance of literally putting my best foot forward, front and center, polished and shined. No pair of shoes in our house went unpolished for very long.  It didn’t matter if the shoes were old or new, they received a spit and polish on a regular basis. Usually on a Sunday night, Daddy carefully lined up all the shoes on the floor as he set out to do his duty.  At the end of his task, every shoe could have passed the scrutiny of any officer, in any branch of the military. He had his shoeshine kit, which was nothing more than an old shoebox filled with the necessary equipment, stored and ready for use.  The easily recognizable Kiwi shoe polish in its circular tin of dark and bronze colors for both black and brown shoes was the mainstay of his kit. There was also the liquid version of Kiwi white polish for those two small pairs of my sister and my white summer shoes or the baby shoes for the toddler who was taking first steps. Vaseline was on hand for any patent leather shoes, a multitude of old socks, and brushes completed the array. White cotton socks abandoned somehow in the washer, dryer, or one, which sported a hole in the toe or heel often, ended up in Daddy’s shoebox.

He used one of the discarded socks, which he placed over one hand to spread the polish, and then slipped his bare hand into the shoe just like a foot, entering the open space inside. He religiously pressed his sock-covered fingers into the semi-soft polish and worked his magic. After he applied polish of varying colors to all of the shoes, he waited for five or ten minutes so the polish could sink into the leather. Then he started back at the front of the line to begin the shining process.  He used another sock, the polishing sock, to release the dullness of the polish and transform the leather to its new life of luster. His hand moved rapidly back and forth against the top, the sides, the heel and the tips of the shoes, leaving one newly shined area to tackle the next polish-laden part of the shoe. He continued his work until he was satisfied with the product, carefully laying the shoe back in its place, which resided quietly next to its partner. When all of the shoes were polished, he instructed us to come get them to put them away. As we picked up our shoes, he cautioned us to place our hands inside the shoes as we picked them up and not to touch the leather “just yet.”

That simple ritual of my childhood remains with me today. I have my own shoeshine kit, with the proverbial Kiwi polish of black, brown, navy and red. Vaseline and unmatched, abandoned socks are part of that kit, as those occupants await their duty, in their designated spot in my closet. Boots, high heels, flats and loafers. I hate to admit how many pairs of shoes I own, knowing that the number is greater than my mother or father ever owned in their lives. But, what I can tell you is that those shoes and boots are neatly stacked, in their boxes, on the shelves, inside my closet. Not one pair is scuffed or dull. In this and in many other ways, I learned to put my best foot forward, always. And, my shoes and I know that a man of honor, courage and duty is responsible for that gift.

Sissy and Me

10 Monday Sep 2012

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Sissy and Me

In the beginning, there were only the two of us-my sister and me. Although if I really were keeping track I would have to say, there were the three of us-Mother, my sister and me. Very few mothers worked outside the home in the fifties and certainly not in our family. My sister and I were only 19 months apart in age, and we were more than likely inseparable by the mere fact that Mother had to keep us nearby in order to make certain we were safe and secure. There were no pre-school programs or Mothers’ Morning Out programs so whatever we did; we did together as the two little Strange girls.

Mother always said that when she took the two of us anywhere, everyone always remarked about my sister’s hair. It was red, curly and different. For me, I only had boring, straight brown hair on my head. Today it’s not quite the same brown, thanks to L’Oreal and other hair products, but it’s still straight and boring.

The red head received all the attention, or at least that is how I remember it and how Mother told it. She told me once that she was convinced that I was more of an extrovert than my sister, because I was constantly trying to get my fair share of the attention. As friends, neighbors and strangers immediately cued in on the red hair, I would in my own way be waving my arms trying to divert the attention with “Me, me, look at me!”

I don’t know whether I believe this or not, but I am a Leo and I do love to shine and I love to take the stage and I love to stand in front of a crowd and……okay, okay, so I am an extrovert. I wouldn’t say that my sister is an introvert as I have seen her engage in her fair share of productions in her life, but perhaps it was more difficult for her than it was for me.

For my part, she is the one person who has known me my entire life and her presence is tightly embedded in all of my memories. Of course, we don’t always agree on what we remember about a particular event. At times, our recollections are very different; we disagree on the details, the tone, and the outcome or even the time of year, something took place.

Today when we talk on the phone, we analyze our childhood, and wonder if it really was that strange growing up. She will say, “Do you remember…?” And when I say “No”, she tells me I have forgotten everything.  I just laugh and tell her that I only remember the very best moments of my childhood. The reminiscing continues and when we agree, not to agree, we tell each other “I love you,” and say goodbye.

And, if I somehow in my tales, I paint a more perfect picture than was actually the case, I do not apologize for that slight embellishment. I loved my family and I loved my childhood, and I love you too, Sissy.

Growing Up Strange-Midwest Life in the 50’s

09 Sunday Sep 2012

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Sweet Tea Conversations

We had no air conditioning in our house, central or otherwise, and we relied on the square window fan placed in the bottom half of the window to cool us from the heat and humidity of the Indiana summer along the Ohio River. The head of our bed pushed up against the opposite wall under the second of the two windows in the bedroom. Through the metal screen the breeze, artificially manufactured by the Sears Roebuck window fan, cooled us ever so slightly.  It was not unusual to find our pillows positioned side by side on the interior windowsill lying head to head so both of us equally shared the small relief from the heat by the simulated breeze.  Head to head, we chattered quietly, recapping that day’s activities and calamities. Hushed giggling mingled in-between the child like conversations as our voices traveled from that bed, out through the window and across the lawn to where two silhouetted figures engaged in their nightly ritual of conversation, cigarettes and iced tea. The humidity hung languidly across the Ohio River and our parents escaped the heat of the small house to enjoy each other’s company absent their daughters. With their backs to us, they struck an interesting pose on the expanse of the lawn bordered by maple trees, rose bushes and a solitary weeping willow sitting squarely in the middle of the back yard.

My sister and I unsuccessfully attempted to participate in the outdoor conversation, but were always reminded that we were not welcome. “You two.”  Mother said with impatient emphasis. “Go to sleep.”

Our parents ignored our continued attempts to connect and refused to answer the frequent questions we shot at them through the window screen.  Under the moonlight, we saw smoke curling upward in the lighted darkness and occasionally heard pieces of their conversation, often catching the sound of our very own names among the exchange. We eventually drifted off to sleep listening to the hushed tones of our parents’ voices, in synchrony with the tinkling of the ice cubes against their tea glasses.  Our heads and bodies, damp and clammy from the humidity and close proximity, turned away from each other as we took up residence on our individual pillows. The humming of the white noise of the window fan eventually became the only sound within the house.

We quietly and innocently ended the day only to begin the next, growing up Strange, in the Midwest, in the fifties.