I grew up on a short street named Lamoille Street, in a small rural town where there was lots of wilderness nearby. It wasn’t that there were wilderness protection areas surrounding our town, the developers just hadn’t gotten to it yet. They did eventually, but in the meantime, it was a giant unplanned, unspoiled playground for town kids, especially the kids on my street, which abutted the wilderness. The wilderness was huge, at least by kid standards, but we didn’t need a map to find or explore it, not that we could have read a map if one existed. We all just knew the wilderness by heart, and besides, if you ever got lost (I did once, but that’s another story), the old B&L Railroad track, which dissected the playground in its entirety, ran directly past the end of Lamoille Street. Lost? Just find the tracks (never difficult, always up if below and down if above) and follow them home.
Favorite spots in our playground included Red Rock (not really red, named for its appearance when sunsets were reflected in the abundant quartz embedded in the stone). It was a place for exploring and discovering (over and over) ancient trails that led to hidden tree-lined glens with little streams containing an abundance of tiny fish. It was a place for mountain climbing (if 20 feet or so qualifies as mountain climbing) and then basking in the afternoon sun with your shirts off. It was a place to bring your girlfriend, your very first, to be impressed by the solitude and the beauty and the impressive view, and bask in the sun with your shirts off (or not).
The Clay Pit (really full of clay and owned by the Drury Brick Company) was another favorite. Definitely not for girls (unless your were Betty Densmore, who was pretty enough, but really a boy in disguise), the favorite pastime was “running the quicksand.” Not sand at all, but deep clay pockets made really soupy by recent rains, they swallowed you up like the quicksand you saw in the movies. The idea was to get running as fast as you could in the hopes that momentum would carry you through the pocket before you disappeared beneath the surface. It usually worked, and except for Denny Daniels (who was really short), we never lost a single kid. We didn’t actually lose Denny, but thought we had when he momentarily dropped out of sight. He popped back up, however, and we pulled him out, none the worse for wear. He did look more a clay sculpture of a Denny than a real Denny, but the clay eventually dried and fell off, to our great disappointment.
The Sand Pit (really sand and also owned by the Drury Brick Company) was our favorite favorite. Here was where we developed our mountain climbing skills. Shear sand walls soared upwards to heights approaching 30 feet (probably less, but it seemed like 30 feet) and being sand meant you could cut hand-holds and foot-holds into the sheer walls. Of course, the sand seldom held your weight and I don’t recall anyone every making it to the top, but the loose sand piled at the bottom of the wall made for soft landings and minimal injury. Sand is a wonderful substance (I suppose that would explain the popularity of sandboxes) and the endless piles of sand made for all sorts of clean fun. No matter how much sand got into your clothes, you could take them off, shake them out, and be clean again. An added bonus was the joy of running naked through the sand piles. For some reason, we could never get Betty Densmore to share in that joy.
12/29/10
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
The Street Where I Lived
When I was one year old, my parents moved to 24 Lamoille Street in Essex Junction, Vermont. My dad, who had just hired on with the State of Vermont as a Forensic Chemist (it sounds far more interesting that it was), was now earning a whopping $3600 a year. He figured he could finally buy his dream house, a small two-bedroom, one-bath cape on a tiny lot, only slightly larger than the house which sat on it. The house, the model home of the subdivision (actually just 16 houses at the end of a dead end street) cost $6500 and required a down payment of just 5% (that’s $325, in case you didn’t have your calculator handy). Being the model home meant that the pipes in the basement were buried under the concrete rather than just sitting on, and the windows had real shutters. They didn’t really shut but it didn’t matter because the home also featured state-of-the-art “triple track storm windows.”
Twenty-eight kids lived on our end of Lamoille Street: impressive when you factor in that eight of the 16 homes had no kids at all and six more had just 10. The five Farnham kids and13 (yes,13) Ketchum kids made up the remainder. I remember occasionally complaining about sharing one bathroom with two parents and four brothers and sisters. I remember my parents occasionally responding by pointing to the Ketchum house across the street. Remarkably, the Ketchum house was always immaculate, inside and out. I’m not sure, but I believe Mrs. Ketchum, who died early, may have been nominated for sainthood by the local Catholic Church. If she wasn’t she should have been.
It turned out that a dead end street made for a great neighborhood, especially for us kids. The only cars that ever drove up our street (our playground) belonged to the people who lived there. They knew to watch out for us and knew that games of stick ball, or dodge ball, or hide-and-seek, or tag, or bike racing always had the right-of-way. In a neighborhood that boasted only one television (everybody gathered at the Robbins twins’ house on Sunday night to watch The Ed Sullivan Show, but that’s another story), there was still always a game on, but a real game being played by real kids. It was a mixed blessing when several years after our subdivision was complete, the city decided to pave Lamoille Street, at the time the only unpaved street in town. Games became less dirty (the mud kind, not the playing house with the Robbins twins kind) but more injury-prone. Bike races were better; sliding into home base, not so much.
Not too long after the street was paved I got my first “two-wheeler.” I learned to ride it by pedaling through all the back yards on our side of the street. Fences were unheard in our neighborhood, landscaping was scarce, and the grass was far softer than the pavement. After just a few days of “sod busting,” I graduated to the street, where I was allowed to ride all the way to the corner store, which was called appropriately enough, The Corner Store. A plethora of tasty treats at two (not one, but two) for a penny filled the candy cabinet. Riding to the corner store is where the trouble began. Not accustomed to cars and drivers that weren’t always looking out for kids, I was “bumped into” several times on my journeys. I was never seriously hurt, and always driven home by the seriously freaked out “bumpers.” Fortunately, or maybe not, I was a handy little guy and always managed to get my bike back into usable, if not usual, condition. My parents may have wondered why my bicycle always looked so beat up, but they didn’t have a clue as to how many times I’d been run over.
12/27/10
Twenty-eight kids lived on our end of Lamoille Street: impressive when you factor in that eight of the 16 homes had no kids at all and six more had just 10. The five Farnham kids and13 (yes,13) Ketchum kids made up the remainder. I remember occasionally complaining about sharing one bathroom with two parents and four brothers and sisters. I remember my parents occasionally responding by pointing to the Ketchum house across the street. Remarkably, the Ketchum house was always immaculate, inside and out. I’m not sure, but I believe Mrs. Ketchum, who died early, may have been nominated for sainthood by the local Catholic Church. If she wasn’t she should have been.
It turned out that a dead end street made for a great neighborhood, especially for us kids. The only cars that ever drove up our street (our playground) belonged to the people who lived there. They knew to watch out for us and knew that games of stick ball, or dodge ball, or hide-and-seek, or tag, or bike racing always had the right-of-way. In a neighborhood that boasted only one television (everybody gathered at the Robbins twins’ house on Sunday night to watch The Ed Sullivan Show, but that’s another story), there was still always a game on, but a real game being played by real kids. It was a mixed blessing when several years after our subdivision was complete, the city decided to pave Lamoille Street, at the time the only unpaved street in town. Games became less dirty (the mud kind, not the playing house with the Robbins twins kind) but more injury-prone. Bike races were better; sliding into home base, not so much.
Not too long after the street was paved I got my first “two-wheeler.” I learned to ride it by pedaling through all the back yards on our side of the street. Fences were unheard in our neighborhood, landscaping was scarce, and the grass was far softer than the pavement. After just a few days of “sod busting,” I graduated to the street, where I was allowed to ride all the way to the corner store, which was called appropriately enough, The Corner Store. A plethora of tasty treats at two (not one, but two) for a penny filled the candy cabinet. Riding to the corner store is where the trouble began. Not accustomed to cars and drivers that weren’t always looking out for kids, I was “bumped into” several times on my journeys. I was never seriously hurt, and always driven home by the seriously freaked out “bumpers.” Fortunately, or maybe not, I was a handy little guy and always managed to get my bike back into usable, if not usual, condition. My parents may have wondered why my bicycle always looked so beat up, but they didn’t have a clue as to how many times I’d been run over.
12/27/10
Straight Dad - Part 3
Dad was basically a good parent, as was mom for that matter. We kids always had, for better or worse, plenty of food to eat and clean, if not necessarily new, clothes to wear. Our parents weren’t on the way to divorce, in fact hardly ever fought, and treated us with respect most of the time. Discipline was always, or at least almost always, exercised; and love was always, or at least almost always, assumed, if seldom expressed. There was that one time they completely forget my birthday, my 16th birthday to be exact. I mean no party, surprise or otherwise, no gift, expensive or otherwise, no card, signed or otherwise, not even a freakin’ “Happy Birthday.” But who keeps track?
Anyway, dad was basically a good parent. He was, however, incredibly straight. And by straight I mean weird. Take, for example, his habit of always parading from the bathroom (after a bath, for instance) to the bedroom completely naked. Not necessarily a problem except that our house was very small and had only one bathroom (for two adults, and five children, and occasional guests, by the way, but that’s another story) and the path from the bathroom to dad’s bedroom passed through the corner of the living room. Not necessarily a problem, except when I, or more likely my brother, was entertaining a friend or friends, especially a girlfriend or girlfriends (yet another story). Now understand that dad was in no way an exhibitionist, or worse. For him the naked parade was no more than the most practical way to get from point “a,” the bathroom, to point “b,” the bedroom. All the clothes being in the bedroom, it was only practical to travel naked.
Speaking of getting from point “a” to point “b,” dad considered all automobiles (he always called them automobiles, never cars) nothing more than a means to that end. Consequently, automobile options (he referred to them as frills) were never justified. Therefore, when a new car (I mean automobile) was purchased, it had to be without any frills. Frills included, but were not limited to, fancy upholstery, fancy wheels, or even hubcaps for that matter, fancy paint scheme, extra trim, or any trim for that matter, automatic transmission, or anything automatic for that matter, or a radio. An optional heater was his one concession to extravagance. We lived in Vermont where winter can get a little brisk. Speaking of winter, winter required the changing of the tires to “snow treads.” New snow treads being potentially quite expensive; our snow treads were always retreads. Of course, you could never get four matching retreads, but that would have been a frill anyway. Fortunately, the lack of hubcaps usually diverted attention away from the mismatched tires.
Dad didn’t travel much. I never understood why, in that he purchased and read, cover to cover, every issue of National Geographic since January of 1937 (yet another story). He and mom did make one trip of note, to an Indian reservation in the mid-west, that their church (the First Congregational Church of Essex Junction, Vermont) had sponsored for many years. Dad documented the trip in photographs (always photographs, never pictures or heaven forbid “pics”). By document I mean that for every motel in which they stayed during the trip, he took four carefully composed photographs: one of the entry door of their motel unit of the day; one looking across the street from the motel; one looking up the street; and, of course, one looking down the street. I don’t remember seeing any photographs of the actual Indian reservation, but I’m not sure if there were none, or if I just dozed off before we got to that part of his comprehensive vacation album.
If not particularly well-traveled, Dad was, nonetheless, well-informed. In addition to the aforementioned National Geographics he read voluminously, his knowledge of all things trivial was impressive. Not only could he name (and spell correctly, by the way) the capitals of all 50 states, but he also knew the names and capitals of most every country on the planet. Speaking of planets, he knew the names of all the planets in the solar system (not very impressive) as well as the names of all their associated moons (very impressive), including our moon (named, in case you didn’t know, The Moon).
Knowledge, however is not necessarily wisdom; and dad was definitely not the wisest wizard in the woodpile (OK, I have no idea what that means). To his credit, if not to his credibility, he believed all people were basically good, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, that his children would never lie, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, that husbands and wives seldom stray, despite abundant evidence to the contrary (although dad and mom never even thought of straying, at least to my knowledge), and that the American economy would never see another depression (which would be nice, but abundant evidence to the contrary makes it very unlikely). And for nearly all his life, being the good parent that he was, dad taught his children that there was a loving God, and that all people who believed in Him, and attended church regularly, and did their best to always do the right thing, would enjoy an eternal, joyful afterlife in heaven.
To his credibility, but very sadly, he questioned those beliefs at the very end.
02/11/12
Anyway, dad was basically a good parent. He was, however, incredibly straight. And by straight I mean weird. Take, for example, his habit of always parading from the bathroom (after a bath, for instance) to the bedroom completely naked. Not necessarily a problem except that our house was very small and had only one bathroom (for two adults, and five children, and occasional guests, by the way, but that’s another story) and the path from the bathroom to dad’s bedroom passed through the corner of the living room. Not necessarily a problem, except when I, or more likely my brother, was entertaining a friend or friends, especially a girlfriend or girlfriends (yet another story). Now understand that dad was in no way an exhibitionist, or worse. For him the naked parade was no more than the most practical way to get from point “a,” the bathroom, to point “b,” the bedroom. All the clothes being in the bedroom, it was only practical to travel naked.
Speaking of getting from point “a” to point “b,” dad considered all automobiles (he always called them automobiles, never cars) nothing more than a means to that end. Consequently, automobile options (he referred to them as frills) were never justified. Therefore, when a new car (I mean automobile) was purchased, it had to be without any frills. Frills included, but were not limited to, fancy upholstery, fancy wheels, or even hubcaps for that matter, fancy paint scheme, extra trim, or any trim for that matter, automatic transmission, or anything automatic for that matter, or a radio. An optional heater was his one concession to extravagance. We lived in Vermont where winter can get a little brisk. Speaking of winter, winter required the changing of the tires to “snow treads.” New snow treads being potentially quite expensive; our snow treads were always retreads. Of course, you could never get four matching retreads, but that would have been a frill anyway. Fortunately, the lack of hubcaps usually diverted attention away from the mismatched tires.
Dad didn’t travel much. I never understood why, in that he purchased and read, cover to cover, every issue of National Geographic since January of 1937 (yet another story). He and mom did make one trip of note, to an Indian reservation in the mid-west, that their church (the First Congregational Church of Essex Junction, Vermont) had sponsored for many years. Dad documented the trip in photographs (always photographs, never pictures or heaven forbid “pics”). By document I mean that for every motel in which they stayed during the trip, he took four carefully composed photographs: one of the entry door of their motel unit of the day; one looking across the street from the motel; one looking up the street; and, of course, one looking down the street. I don’t remember seeing any photographs of the actual Indian reservation, but I’m not sure if there were none, or if I just dozed off before we got to that part of his comprehensive vacation album.
If not particularly well-traveled, Dad was, nonetheless, well-informed. In addition to the aforementioned National Geographics he read voluminously, his knowledge of all things trivial was impressive. Not only could he name (and spell correctly, by the way) the capitals of all 50 states, but he also knew the names and capitals of most every country on the planet. Speaking of planets, he knew the names of all the planets in the solar system (not very impressive) as well as the names of all their associated moons (very impressive), including our moon (named, in case you didn’t know, The Moon).
Knowledge, however is not necessarily wisdom; and dad was definitely not the wisest wizard in the woodpile (OK, I have no idea what that means). To his credit, if not to his credibility, he believed all people were basically good, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, that his children would never lie, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, that husbands and wives seldom stray, despite abundant evidence to the contrary (although dad and mom never even thought of straying, at least to my knowledge), and that the American economy would never see another depression (which would be nice, but abundant evidence to the contrary makes it very unlikely). And for nearly all his life, being the good parent that he was, dad taught his children that there was a loving God, and that all people who believed in Him, and attended church regularly, and did their best to always do the right thing, would enjoy an eternal, joyful afterlife in heaven.
To his credibility, but very sadly, he questioned those beliefs at the very end.
02/11/12
Straight Dad - Part 2
To say that my dad was straight is not to say that he was always boring, even though he was much of the time. On occasion, however, his straightness could be somewhat amusing, and in one instance that comes to mind it provided real entertainment.
The boring part, we evidenced on a daily basis. Dad had established, early in his married life, what some might refer to as a routine, except that with dad it was more akin to a religion. I don’t mean the church-going kind, although going to church was definitely a part of it. Dad, and mom to her great distress having been baptized Catholic, were members of and attended religiously (pardon the pun) the First Congregational Church of Essex Junction, Vermont. Not that there was a Second Congregational Church, but there was a Methodist Church, and even a Catholic Church, both of which were politely tolerated, but never attended; except on the third Thursday of each month, when the Masons met at the Methodist Church, but never in the sanctuary, except sometimes when the activity hall was otherwise occupied, but never in a religious context, except when sacred rites were being performed, which were highly religious, but definitely not Methodist religious…probably.
In any case, dad had a routine which he followed religiously most of his adult life. Not to bore you with the details, suffice it to say it included such rituals as the daily rotation of the suits, and shoes, and socks (always white), and fortunately, underwear. Weekends excluded, it included leaving for work at precisely 7:35 am each morning and returning at precisely 5:35 pm each evening. It included reading the paper for precisely 25 minutes, followed by dinner at precisely 6:00 pm. Approximately one hour of relaxation followed dinner which could include television, rarely, Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, occasionally, or National Geographic Magazine, regularly. He subscribed, by the way, in 1937, and maintained his subscription until he passed away in 2002, generously leaving all 780 issues, plus enclosed maps and attached supplements, to me.
On the weekends, however, routines went out the windows, except for the washing thereof. Of course, the lawn always got mowed, the garden tended, the car washed, the shoes shined (but that’s another story), and the trash taken to the dump. But after that, anything went; unless of course there was a sports event on television, or a repeat of a sports event, or the highlights of a sports event, or a televised discussion of a sports event. Otherwise anything went. Anything, it turned out, was usually an endless trip to visit the grandparents. Dad’s folks only lived about 40 miles away, but dad figured out the he could save nearly six-tenths of a mile on the trip if he avoided all paved roads and drove only on back roads and abandoned hiking trails. Fortunately, mom always packed a picnic lunch to be eaten about two hours into the expedition.
Part of dad being straight was that he was also very frugal. With the exception of abundant, if not gourmet, food, we never had a lot of material things, at least not new material things. Hand-me-downs and rummage sale items supplied our everyday needs and often arrived as birthday or Christmas gifts (but that’s another story). Of course the abundant food was never to be wasted or discarded (the starving children in China were mentioned often) and, for better or worse, we never went hungry.
So one day, with this in mind and with the rare opportunity for a little humor at dad’s expense, I didn’t hesitate when the idea hit me to replace the “sweet creamy filling” of an Oreo cookie with a white plastic poker chip (it was exactly the correct diameter) and leave it conspicuously on the table next to dad’s TV chair. Everyone was in on it except dad, and so when he finally noticed the errant cookie, glancing briefly away from a Geographic article featuring, no doubt, bare-breasted women from Borneo, and prepared to bite down, we all could barely contain ourselves. Dad bit, seemed perplexed, bit again, seemed more perplexed, and bit again. Finally it dawned on him that something might not be quite right. Five children and a wife rolling on the floor in stitches might have been a clue. He took it well, but I think he was a little hurt that mom seemed to be enjoying herself so much.
01/28/12
The boring part, we evidenced on a daily basis. Dad had established, early in his married life, what some might refer to as a routine, except that with dad it was more akin to a religion. I don’t mean the church-going kind, although going to church was definitely a part of it. Dad, and mom to her great distress having been baptized Catholic, were members of and attended religiously (pardon the pun) the First Congregational Church of Essex Junction, Vermont. Not that there was a Second Congregational Church, but there was a Methodist Church, and even a Catholic Church, both of which were politely tolerated, but never attended; except on the third Thursday of each month, when the Masons met at the Methodist Church, but never in the sanctuary, except sometimes when the activity hall was otherwise occupied, but never in a religious context, except when sacred rites were being performed, which were highly religious, but definitely not Methodist religious…probably.
In any case, dad had a routine which he followed religiously most of his adult life. Not to bore you with the details, suffice it to say it included such rituals as the daily rotation of the suits, and shoes, and socks (always white), and fortunately, underwear. Weekends excluded, it included leaving for work at precisely 7:35 am each morning and returning at precisely 5:35 pm each evening. It included reading the paper for precisely 25 minutes, followed by dinner at precisely 6:00 pm. Approximately one hour of relaxation followed dinner which could include television, rarely, Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, occasionally, or National Geographic Magazine, regularly. He subscribed, by the way, in 1937, and maintained his subscription until he passed away in 2002, generously leaving all 780 issues, plus enclosed maps and attached supplements, to me.
On the weekends, however, routines went out the windows, except for the washing thereof. Of course, the lawn always got mowed, the garden tended, the car washed, the shoes shined (but that’s another story), and the trash taken to the dump. But after that, anything went; unless of course there was a sports event on television, or a repeat of a sports event, or the highlights of a sports event, or a televised discussion of a sports event. Otherwise anything went. Anything, it turned out, was usually an endless trip to visit the grandparents. Dad’s folks only lived about 40 miles away, but dad figured out the he could save nearly six-tenths of a mile on the trip if he avoided all paved roads and drove only on back roads and abandoned hiking trails. Fortunately, mom always packed a picnic lunch to be eaten about two hours into the expedition.
Part of dad being straight was that he was also very frugal. With the exception of abundant, if not gourmet, food, we never had a lot of material things, at least not new material things. Hand-me-downs and rummage sale items supplied our everyday needs and often arrived as birthday or Christmas gifts (but that’s another story). Of course the abundant food was never to be wasted or discarded (the starving children in China were mentioned often) and, for better or worse, we never went hungry.
So one day, with this in mind and with the rare opportunity for a little humor at dad’s expense, I didn’t hesitate when the idea hit me to replace the “sweet creamy filling” of an Oreo cookie with a white plastic poker chip (it was exactly the correct diameter) and leave it conspicuously on the table next to dad’s TV chair. Everyone was in on it except dad, and so when he finally noticed the errant cookie, glancing briefly away from a Geographic article featuring, no doubt, bare-breasted women from Borneo, and prepared to bite down, we all could barely contain ourselves. Dad bit, seemed perplexed, bit again, seemed more perplexed, and bit again. Finally it dawned on him that something might not be quite right. Five children and a wife rolling on the floor in stitches might have been a clue. He took it well, but I think he was a little hurt that mom seemed to be enjoying herself so much.
01/28/12
Straight Dad
To say my father was straight would be accurate but fail to convey the degree to which he was. On a scale of 1/10, one being totally out of control, and ten being totally in, he was a 200. Keep in mind that by straight, I don’t mean that he was a heterosexual, although he was, but not so much by choice or physiology as by the belief that homosexuality was either a social disease or just people “acting up.” I mean straight-laced, ultra-conservative, totally devoid of “thinking outside the box,” totally unaware, in fact, that there even was a box.
My brother and sisters and I would often joke that dad was 16 years old when he was born. The point of course being that we couldn’t picture him as a child, doing childlike and/or foolish things. Based on his stories of when he was a teenager, I suspect he was more like 35 when he was born. My brother was born when Dad was 23, so the math gets a little confusing, unless you factor in the square root of negative 1 (“i,” to the mathematicians out there), which doesn’t help at all. My point is, I suspect my father was always very straight, even before fatherhood might have made it seem advisable to him.
Being very straight, my father never did anything less straight people, by which I mean normal people, did. I did hear him use the word “bastard” once, which really caught my attention given his reluctance to cuss, much less swear. It turned out he was referring to a certain type of coarse grain carpenter’s file, properly referred to as a “bastard file,” the possession of which he did not have. The injuries he experienced from the lack might have caused a lesser man to use a cuss word or two, but dad summed up the situation by commenting only on how unfortunate it was.
Because dad never swore it was expected, at least by dad, that his children would do (or perhaps more accurately, not do) likewise. I remember vividly being particularly exasperated one day after failing to perform some task or other, the specificity of which escapes me, and proclaiming loudly, “I don’t give a ……………darn.” Now “darn” was not a cuss word, even in dad’s vernacular, but my initial intent did not escape him, and I was reprimanded appropriately. That is to say I received a stern lecture on the proper use of the English language, with emphasis on what and wasn’t acceptable phraseology, and, more important, what words were, in fact, not words at all, could not be found in the dictionary, and thus had no relevance in any case. Of course, he did not actually use any of those “irrelevant” words to make his point, so to this day I’m not entirely sure to which words he was referring, but I can guess.
You might ask what led me to conclude that my dad was so straight, and honestly I came to that conclusion only later in life. When I was very young, I didn’t really have much of a base for comparison, so I assumed all dads were pretty much the same. Dads of the day were always the breadwinners in the family, always worked long hours, always played golf on the weekends, and were never around a whole lot to be observed for comparison purposes. Dads occasionally would take the family on an outing, or offer some instruction on whatever sport was in season, but mostly kids were left to their own resources, and what great resources we had, but that’s another story.
That said, however, I’m pretty sure no other dad in the world followed the Saturday night ritual of my father. Immediately after supper (in those days people had supper; dinner was a term reserved for holiday feasts and special occasions), and after the TV trays were wiped down and put away, dad would get out his shoes for polishing. That is to say dad would get out all his shoes for polishing. His collection grew exponentially over the years. He never threw any shoes away, or any other article of clothing for that matter, no matter how worn, or ill-fitting, or inappropriate to the style of the day. Thus when I was old enough to leave home, his collection ran to about 30 pairs of shoes, dating back at least as many years, all of which got polished on every Saturday night. Now you might ask, as I did, why every shoe got polished every week, in so much as few pairs, and usually just one pair, had been worn since the last polishing. You would learn, as I did, that the polish would dry out over time (time being one week, I assumed), so that the old polish would need to be replaced with new polish. You might be concerned, as I was, that the polish might then accumulate to an unhealthy, or least unsightly, degree. Not to worry: each shoe was meticulously cleaned of old polish with a mixture of “Old English Saddle Soap” and water before the new polish was applied.
Dad passed away a few years back. I am convinced he left behind several dozen pairs of shoes, none new, none in style, some that didn’t fit, but every last one with a coat of fresh shoe polish.
01/15/12
My brother and sisters and I would often joke that dad was 16 years old when he was born. The point of course being that we couldn’t picture him as a child, doing childlike and/or foolish things. Based on his stories of when he was a teenager, I suspect he was more like 35 when he was born. My brother was born when Dad was 23, so the math gets a little confusing, unless you factor in the square root of negative 1 (“i,” to the mathematicians out there), which doesn’t help at all. My point is, I suspect my father was always very straight, even before fatherhood might have made it seem advisable to him.
Being very straight, my father never did anything less straight people, by which I mean normal people, did. I did hear him use the word “bastard” once, which really caught my attention given his reluctance to cuss, much less swear. It turned out he was referring to a certain type of coarse grain carpenter’s file, properly referred to as a “bastard file,” the possession of which he did not have. The injuries he experienced from the lack might have caused a lesser man to use a cuss word or two, but dad summed up the situation by commenting only on how unfortunate it was.
Because dad never swore it was expected, at least by dad, that his children would do (or perhaps more accurately, not do) likewise. I remember vividly being particularly exasperated one day after failing to perform some task or other, the specificity of which escapes me, and proclaiming loudly, “I don’t give a ……………darn.” Now “darn” was not a cuss word, even in dad’s vernacular, but my initial intent did not escape him, and I was reprimanded appropriately. That is to say I received a stern lecture on the proper use of the English language, with emphasis on what and wasn’t acceptable phraseology, and, more important, what words were, in fact, not words at all, could not be found in the dictionary, and thus had no relevance in any case. Of course, he did not actually use any of those “irrelevant” words to make his point, so to this day I’m not entirely sure to which words he was referring, but I can guess.
You might ask what led me to conclude that my dad was so straight, and honestly I came to that conclusion only later in life. When I was very young, I didn’t really have much of a base for comparison, so I assumed all dads were pretty much the same. Dads of the day were always the breadwinners in the family, always worked long hours, always played golf on the weekends, and were never around a whole lot to be observed for comparison purposes. Dads occasionally would take the family on an outing, or offer some instruction on whatever sport was in season, but mostly kids were left to their own resources, and what great resources we had, but that’s another story.
That said, however, I’m pretty sure no other dad in the world followed the Saturday night ritual of my father. Immediately after supper (in those days people had supper; dinner was a term reserved for holiday feasts and special occasions), and after the TV trays were wiped down and put away, dad would get out his shoes for polishing. That is to say dad would get out all his shoes for polishing. His collection grew exponentially over the years. He never threw any shoes away, or any other article of clothing for that matter, no matter how worn, or ill-fitting, or inappropriate to the style of the day. Thus when I was old enough to leave home, his collection ran to about 30 pairs of shoes, dating back at least as many years, all of which got polished on every Saturday night. Now you might ask, as I did, why every shoe got polished every week, in so much as few pairs, and usually just one pair, had been worn since the last polishing. You would learn, as I did, that the polish would dry out over time (time being one week, I assumed), so that the old polish would need to be replaced with new polish. You might be concerned, as I was, that the polish might then accumulate to an unhealthy, or least unsightly, degree. Not to worry: each shoe was meticulously cleaned of old polish with a mixture of “Old English Saddle Soap” and water before the new polish was applied.
Dad passed away a few years back. I am convinced he left behind several dozen pairs of shoes, none new, none in style, some that didn’t fit, but every last one with a coat of fresh shoe polish.
01/15/12
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