Some years last longer than other years. The years when I was a kid lasted longer than counting can explain.
Future decades of greater consequence went by much faster. For me, the years between five and twelve amounted to an epoch of privileged grace.
Bright sunny days followed bright sunny days. Everything was new and shining. Fun and discovery were everywhere, trouble and toil were unknown. I was blessed.
I’m still blessed, but not quite as gloriously.
I’ve written many essays about my memories
of those times.
Other memories of those times didn’t seem full enough to write about. These memories are incomplete vignettes. Yet I remember them. Maybe they’re a little bit interesting. Let’s see. I’ll try remembering a few - without remembering time or place.
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Christmas always walked ahead of New Year. That may have been because Christmas was the older brother and New Year the younger brother. Those weren’t their real names, but that’s what everybody in town called them.
I don’t know why they walked single-file, they didn’t need to, the street was usually empty.
They inherited a very nice house from their parents. They rented the very nice house and lived in the chicken-house behind the very nice house.
That’s not as crazy as it sounds.
They reworked the chicken-house into a tiny, pleasant cottage and lived on the rental income from the very nice house. I thought it peculiar at the time. The town seemed mystified as well. Now I understand. I’d have probably done the same, myself.
With little effort Christmas and New Year managed to combine financial freedom with a life of leisure. Don’t know what they did with all that leisure. Maybe it had something to do with their daily single-file walks. I wish
I could ask them.
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Fifth-grade recess was a battlefield. The fifteen or so boys in class would line-up in two skirmish lines then run into each other with all the force they could muster. There was no malice in this. It was a game.
Nobody kept score. Which side you were on was arbitrary.
Those still standing after the attack were winners. Those on the ground were not. I was knocked down without fail.
Nonetheless I was accepted as a fellow warrior. Valor was honored as much as prowess.
No one ever got hurt beyond bruise or scrape because we were padded with heavy coats and caps. It was cold most of the year.
It was a simple game that could be played several times each recess. We played it all year long. How this got started I don’t know. Nearly everyone in town was Norwegian. Maybe some nascent Viking gene was resurgent in the blood of my fellow warriors.
I don’t know what the girls did at recess.
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I remember the lady, but not her name. I didn’t know the word elegant then, but she was.
Once a week I mowed her lawn and tended her flower beds. Each weekday morning she dressed smartly
for her office job in the city, walked a mile to the highway bus-stop, from there she traveled on to metropolis.
She had no car.
She didn’t have a husband either.
I imagined her husband had been killed in the war. She was so very young and attractive. What else could it be? I admired her quiet dignity; the way she carried on bravely in spite of her tragic loss. I might have only imagined her husband’s death in the war.
I didn’t imagine her grace and beauty.
My father, as a courtesy, took care of her yard before I did. I seem to recall Mom saying it would be a better job for me.
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Dicky and Gerald were smoking cigarettes on the playground.
Jeremy tattled on them. Dicky and Gerald were suspended. Jeremy had made a big mistake.
Never tattle. It’s the first and most important unwritten rule of the playground.
Dicky and Gerald eventually returned from suspension. We waited like antelopes watching lions on the move to see what would happen.
Jeremy, especially.
Gerald grabbed Jeremy and held his arm between two teeter-totter boards. Dicky jumped on Jeremy’s arm breaking it with a decisive snap.
Jeremy ran screaming to the classroom. He told the teachers he fell and broke his arm. The teachers had a good idea of what really happened but, without Jeremy’s testimony there was nothing they could do.
Every kid on the playground had seen the damage done. None could recall seeing anything.
When Jeremy showed-up a few days later in cast and sling he was shunned by everyone.
I learned from this that the most important laws are the laws that aren’t written-down.
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We’re goin’ out to ol’ man Larson’s pond. You comin’?
I asked Mom. Mom said no, “The pond’s too muddy, the cows slobber in it and Mr. Larson doesn’t like kids swimming in his pond. I thought this unreasonable. The other kids told me ol’ man Larson would be plowing several miles away. He wouldn’t even know we’d been there.
“Ok”, I said, “then I guess I’ll just ride my bike around for a while.
Actually, I rode my bike back to the other boys.
We pedaled out to the pond where we stripped-down to underwear, splashed around like otters, and tried to catch frogs.
I left sooner than the others. I didn’t want any long absence to arouse suspicion.
Next day Mom interrupted her laundry work long enough to gives me a smart slap on the butt with the laundry paddle.
How did she know”? This wasn’t the first time
I wondered this. She often seemed to have supernatural power that allowed her to know what she shouldn’t be able to know.
Years later it occurred to me that the damp underwear and the pond moss caught in the damp underwear might have been a tip-off.
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It was always a special occasion when the Watkins man came ‘round. He came with display cases full of syrups, spices, soaps, household remedies - even curatives for stock and poultry. I remember the vanilla extract best of all, probably because Aunt Arlene always bought an extra bottle for Mom.
The glittering displays fascinated me. It was exotic stuff for a country boy.
The Watkins Co. specialized in items country housewives wanted, needed, and couldn’t easily get. The Watkins man also provided excuse for kitchen-clatter get-togethers.
Aunt Maxine usually joined Aunt Arlene for these times. There was much laughing, joking and gossip.
It was fun to listen to, though I didn’t understand much of what they talked about.
The Watkins man made buying and selling a party instead of a chore. I think a country route for any Watkins Co. salesman must have been a salesman’s dream come true.
I always enjoyed the visits of the Watkins man – and,
I learned a lot.
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A few tales out of hundreds that take only a few paragraphs to tell. None important in any way. They stay in my head, anyway. I think that’s because innocence isn’t truly appreciated until it’s lost. the few years of youth echo with moments that last for the rest of life. At least that’s true for me.
I think it’s true for everyone.
A few years is such a long time.
Mom said she took this picture
after catching me running away.
I’m pretty sure I was just casually
rambling, to see what I could see.
I remember loading my overall
pockets with peanuts for the trip.