Parents Need Patience

Parents Need Patience

• I was perhaps five years old and riding in the back seat of our 1939 Chevy, Dad at the wheel.
  
  Donnie: "Daddy, why is this called the twentieth century when it's the nineteen hundreds?"
  
  Dad: "Well, from zero to one hundred was the first century. From 101 to 200 was the second century. From 201 to 300 was the third century . . . ."  (At about the tenth century, he began rolling his eyes, groaning, taking exaggeratedly deep breaths, and mugging at me in the rear view mirror.)   " . . . From 1801 to 1900 was the nineteenth century, and from 1901 to 2000 is the twentieth century."
  
  Now these were the tail end of my pre-logic days, and I was half convinced that he had tricked me somehow. Also, I had greatly enjoyed the faces and groans he had used to spice up his little monologue.
  
  Donnie: "Do it again."
  
  Dad: "Jesus wept!"
  
  
• In Portsmouth, New Hampshire, we lived in the third (from left to right) of four apartments in a row house. There was a cellar with coal bin and furnace, ground floor, and second floor. On the second floor there were three bedrooms. My parents had one, my brother and I had one, and the third was used as a playroom.
  
  One night when I was around seven years old, my brother and I were playing with blocks in the playroom. The light bulb burned out. The light fixture was on the wall, too high for me to reach, so I passed the news to my parents and returned to the playroom and my brother.
  
  A moment later my Dad appeared, light bulb in hand. He replaced the bulb and turned to us.
  
  Dad: "Now you've been sitting in the dark and at first this is going to seem very bright to you. If you look directly at it, it will hurt your eyes. Don't look at the light when I turn it on."
  
  My brother and I dutifully lowered our eyes to the floor, but I was skeptical about the "hurting the eyes" bit, and when Dad turned the light on I immediately looked at it.
  
  Wow! Major squint time.
  
  Dad: "Goddamn kid!"

Debbie - Part III

Debbie's arrival, introduction to many friends, and first dinner had all been rousing successes. The next day or two flew by and I no longer recall the exact sequence of events.

I believe I took her to Woodfield Mall, at the time the largest shopping mall in the country. I know we had dinner Saturday night with Jeff and Cassie, another dinner complemented by laughter and fun conversation. But I think the thing she was most hooked on was my PC, a 286 I think - this was 1988. I think she had never been exposed to one and I know that she had never owned one. Separately and together we played a few games on it, and when I awoke the next morning I heard her in the next room, pounding away at the keyboard.

We had a lot of fun, and as her departure time approached we decided that she should stay for several more days. I took a couple of days of vacation from work, and before we knew it we had decided she should stay, period. Now she and various parts of her family lived in Eastern Massachusetts, and some of mine lived there and in southeastern New Hampshire, so we decided that on Christmas we would fly out, visit the various family members together, load up her car, and drive back to Illinois in that.

I can't believe how hazy my memory is about this, but I believe she flew home for a day to get clothing and other items, and to work out various logistical things - paying her rent, tuition for her daughter's school, etc.

It all worked, and it all worked well. The toughest part was scheduling our Christmas visits. She had, I think, four different family households to visit and I had three. On my father's side it was customary to have Christmas dinner at my sister's house, with people arriving food in hand, typically surrounded by children. We agreed that on Christmas day we would do that and also visit whichever of her family members was hosting their Christmas dinner. Other than that, I needed only to visit my mother and my brother Billy, and he would be staying with her.

Debbie and I worked out a rough schedule, and I called Billy. I noted that Debbie was listening intently throughout the conversation. I explained to Billy that Debbie and I planned to be with Dad and that side of the family (Billy would be there too) on Christmas Day, and listed several time slots that we could be at Mom's for a visit so that he could pick the one that would be best for them. He picked Christmas Eve, and it was a done deal. We would also see them on our last day in New England, on the way out the door, so to speak.

When I hung up the phone, Debbie said "So that's how you do it." This was by way of introducing me to the fact that every year for many years she had spent the Christmas season agonizing over how to see everyone, how to fit everyone in with all the scheduling conflicts and with people pulling her this way and that. It had never occurred to her to tell people "This is when I can see you," and the idea appealed to her so much that she put it into practice immediately, scheduling our dates with her family (and one couple, old friends).

We flew into Boston and were picked up by her daughter, the budding RN, who was a perfect bitch kitty during the one hour drive home and for the next several days. She didn't know me, was worried about her mother and this stranger, and probably resented my "taking her away." But she did thaw out toward the end of the trip, and we became friends, as did her boyfriend and I. They later visited us for several days when we lived in Maryland, and it was a lot of fun.

There are going to be more Debbie posts, but I think it's time for a break, and a look at another subject or two. I'll wrap this one up by mentioning that my father began referring to Debbie as "my future daughter-in-law," and I began the practice of telling friends "She won't go home."

Debbie - Part I

I have mentioned that my father moonlighted in the 1960s and 1970s, playing the organ at a steak house and cocktail lounge. One evening in 1969 he called me and suggested I visit him there on a Friday, when there was a certain young woman waitressing in the lounge part time. "You've got to meet this one. She thinks she's a Goddamn queen."

I said I would, and did so the following Friday. I met the waitress, Debbie (see a preceding post, Gluttony in Las Vegas), who was in fact a "Goddamn queen." We were both interested immediately, but she was in the process of getting a divorce and was very cautious about being seen with anyone during that period, so it was a while before we met outside the lounge.

Her father, John, owned the restaurant, and during the course of my Friday visits his paternal radar picked up signals. Now he and I didn't like each other, dating back to well before I met Debbie, but we had been cordial, more for the sake of my father, I guess, than for any other reason.

In any case, a few weeks passed during which Debbie and I talked when we could. When she took a break we would sit together and chat. We exchanged a few books that we recommended to each other. During all this, John kept his eyes open, and whenever we sat together he would come over and sit with us, the lack of an invitation being no barrier to him. He didn't really pay much attention to us, seldom participating in any conversations. Mostly he just kept his eye on the lounge.

One week Debbie told me she was reading The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. I hadn't read it and she promised to bring it in when she was done with it. The following Friday I was sitting alone at a table near the organ, chatting with my father while he played. Debbie came over and sat down and a moment later so did John. After a bit . . .

Donnie: "So when do I get The Turn of the Screw?"

Debbie: "I'm sorry. I've been busy, but I'll finish it and bring it next week."

A good moment later, John started, turned to me, and left Debbie and me in hysterics by asking "What did you say?"

We dated for a few months, then drifted apart.

Twenty Years Later, in Chicago
Dad and I were having one of our fairly regular telephone conversations when he said "Oh. I ran into Debbie at a flea market in New Hampshire. I took her number and promised you'd call her."

Sigh.

I took the number and assured him that I would honor his promise.

That Sunday afternoon I called and caught her at home. We talked for perhaps three hours, and it was a lot of fun. We caught each other up on the preceding twenty years. Her daughter, an infant when I last saw her, was now in the process of becoming a Registered Nurse; I had just bought a house in an attempt to lead a "more normal" life, etc.

We exchanged addresses and agreed to talk again, and as we concluded the conversation I told her "Well, if you ever need to run away from home for a few days, you know where I live."

Two Sundays later, I decided to call her again. Just as I reached for the phone it rang. It was Debbie. (No, no, don't be skeptical. It's true.)

Another couple of hours of fun conversation, concluded by my repeating the offer. She said "Really?" Immediately I thought, "I wonder what flight she's booked on."

The following Friday I picked her up at O'Hare.

Portsmouth Vignettes

(The names in this post are all real names).

• While I was in grammar school (Wentworth Acres, Portsmouth, New Hampshire), my parents were friends with a couple their age, Barb and Glen (Glenn?) Harvey.
  
  They played cards together (mostly kitty whist, the men against the women) and socialized together. The Harveys had three children, all boys, the oldest being my age and named Tommy.
  
  Glen liked to tease. I remember one summer Sunday when the four had agreed to have a card game and my mother was still in bed. Glen grew impatient, went back to his house, and returned with a ladder. He turned our garden hose on, carried it up the ladder with him, raised the second floor bedroom window screen, and turned the hose on my mother.
  
  Her voice still rings in my ear: "Goddamn you, Glen Harvey!"
  
  
• One spring afternoon Glen snuck into our house and left a plastic fishbowl with three goldfish in it. The bowl had an arch that went from side to side, and with a long, flexible straw you could suck the air out of it, filling it with water so the goldfish could swim up and over the bowl.
  
  There were two small gold-colored fish and one larger fish, as much white as gold. Knowing who had done this, my father named the fish Whitey, Goldie, and Hungry Barbara. Incidentally, Glen had also bought goldfish for his children.
  
  By way of retaliation, Dad picked up a couple of baby ducks at the Pic 'n' Pay supermarket. On the way home he parked a block or so away from the Harveys, snuck into the kitchen through the back door, and found Tommy at the kitchen table. He plunked one duckling down on the table and said, "Tommy, here's your Easter duck. Don't let your mother and father give it away."
  
  (Glen tried to escalate this little war by entering my father's name in a raffle for a goat, but nothing came of that.)
  
  Their duck was named Donald and ours was named Daisy. We later determined that ours was no Daisy, but by then it was too late. He would answer to no other name.
  
  After a few weeks Daisy was too big to live in the house, and my brother and I, with the help of some playmates, built a small house and a more or less circular wooden fence in the back yard, enclosing perhaps a hundred square feet in all. Daisy was content, and I don't recall him "escaping," although I'm sure today that he could have half jumped, half flown over that fence. He spent much of his time in his house, but would come to anyone who called. We had a rubber kids' pool on the front lawn, and would pick him up and carry him to it.
  
  Glen used to sit on his back steps and have a beer, and he would put a bowl of it down for Donald. The duck would sip it, shake his head frantically from side to side, and make half-quacking noises of a sort. Enough of it and he would actually get drunk and stagger. He and Glen became best friends.
  
  One day Barb roasted something or other, took it out of the oven, and left the oven door open. Donald managed to fly up onto the door and walk into the oven. He flew right back out, shrieking. Glen and Barb ran into the kitchen and soon figured out what had happened.
  
  Vinnie, a next door neighbor, was a medical intern. Glen pounded on his door and shouted, "Vinnie, grab your bag and come quickly." Vinnie assumed one of the kids had been hurt, grabbed his bag, and ran into the kitchen next door.
  
  The first thing he saw was that the kitchen table was covered with a white sheet. Barb was holding Donald near the center of the "operating table." There wasn't much Vinnie could do for Donald other than to cut away the burned webbing on one foot. I believe Glen got Donald drunk to help with the pain.
  
  The Harveys also had a small rubber pool, and from that time on Donald would swim in a very small circle, pretty much in one place.
  
  Fall came, and the time was approaching when it would be too cold to leave Daisy outside. Alas, he was too big to return to the house. My father took him to Clayton, a man with whom he worked. Clayton also owned a small poultry farm.
  
  In their only miscalculation regarding us that I can recall, my parents told my brother and me that we would get Daisy back in the spring, when it was warm enough. But my dad told Clayton, "Eat this duck as soon as you can." And Clayton did.
  
  Came the spring and my parents were surprised and horrified that my brother and I asked when Daisy would come home. There were profuse apologies and reiterated statements that "We were sure you would forget."
  
  Donald suffered the same fate.
  
  
• Not long ago I was at a yard sale being conducted by three generations of women, with the fourth generation being represented by a girl perhaps eight years old.
  
  As I looked over the offerings I heard the older women asking the youngest what sort of games she played with her friends. Hardly giving her a chance to respond, they began reminiscing about the games they had played when they were her age. When hopscotch was mentioned, I had a flashback.
  
  I don't know about you, but when I was a child boys played hopscotch too, at least up to the age of perhaps seven or eight. It wasn't unusual to see a half dozen or so boys and girls in one game.
  
  It was immediately after the end of one such game that one of childhood's little humiliations occurred - four girls jumped me, and three of them pinned me to the ground while the fourth one kissed me!
  
  Yuck!
  
  Where were we? Oh yes, the yard sale. Being somewhat gregarious by nature, I told the story to the group. The women laughed enthusiastically and the girl looked at me with a smile - I swear - that said that she understood the situation perfectly and empathized with the girls involved.

Grammar School

My first grade class at Wentworth Acres in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, had a recess period of . . . well, I don't really know. Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.

Our teacher was Miss Wilson (real name), and for recess she organized us into two columns, one of boys and one of girls, who would march side by side out the classroom door, down the hall, and outdoors.

Every morning before recess Miss Wilson would give the class a short written quiz on some subject. She would collect our papers and grade them, and there was a reward for the highest score: you got to be first in your recess line, and you got to choose the person who would be first in the other line, your marching partner, so to speak.

When I had the highest score I always chose Nancy and when Nancy had the highest score she always chose me.

Interestingly, I do not remember anything else involving Nancy. I'm sure we didn't play with each other, on or off the school grounds. Although she must have lived in Wentworth Acres, I have no "picture" in my mind of where she might have lived, as I have with many of my other classmates and playmates.

Little else about grammar school stands out in my memory. There were two classes for each of the six grades, and I was one of several grammar school dorks, although that word was not in currency at the time.

In the fifth grade I got my first crush on a girl. A classmate also had a crush on her - she was in our class - and we occasionally commiserated with each other. She didn't seem to know that we existed and we didn't know what to do about that. Years later, when I was in the Army and in Germany, my father sent me a newspaper clipping. She had become "Miss Maine." Googling her name, I now learn that over the several years following that, she had fifteen or twenty supporting roles in various television program episodes, then married and retired from acting.

When I was in the fifth and sixth grades, it would occasionally happen that the Principal's secretary was out and he - Mr. Hooper (another real name) - would have to go somewhere. I would be tapped to go sit at the secretary's desk and answer the phone and take messages while he was gone. I imagine I was chosen because I could afford to miss an hour or two of classroom discussions. Being a prolific reader, I was already familiar with much of what was being taught.

Jumping backwards here, my family moved to Portsmouth when I was in the first grade, and in short order the school contacted my parents and expressed a desire to move me into the second grade. I was not a party to the discussions my parents had on the matter, and I do not have a sure sense today of how I would have felt about it, whether I would have wanted to skip a grade or not. I do have a vague recollection of them telling me that the issue existed and that they had decided against moving me up a grade. Again, I have no memory of my feelings about the decision, whether I was happy or disappointed. Most likely, I think, is that I just shrugged it off as unimportant.

Many years later I asked my father what had been the deciding factor, and I learned that he had skipped a year in grammar school. For him it meant falling a little behind and working hard to catch up. Also, he disliked being the youngest - discernibly the youngest - in his classes all the way through high school.

Earliest Memory

When I was perhaps four years old and my brother Billy was just old enough to sit up unassisted, my maternal grandmother and a great-aunt came to visit us in Red Bank, in Portland, Maine. My mother left Billy and me in a playroom, sitting on the floor playing with wooden blocks. She left the door slightly ajar and made periodic check-up visits from the adults' kaffee klatch.

I tried to teach my brother to stack blocks. Of course he didn't have quite the motor skills for it, but I didn't know that. He often managed to stack two blocks, but never a third. Billy began to get frustrated, but I just knew that if we worked at it he'd be able to do it.

(It might help you to know that I have a stubborn streak. Billy has too, and we both got it from Mom.)

We were facing each other, blocks between us, and to reassure him I moved around to his side of the blocks and put an arm around his shoulders. At that very moment, my mother made one of her visits. Via peripheral vision I saw her take a peek at us and then tiptoe away. Even at four I knew this could only mean one thing: she would return with the other adults to show them this scene.

In a very early example of my built-in contrariness, I promptly returned to the other side of the blocks.

When I was in my forties I told this story to my mother and she said, "You were a little bastard even then."

Lest ye be misled, I must say that by all accounts I was a very well-behaved little boy. Mom's reference was to my fondness for teasing, a trait inherited from and reinforced by Dad, but not much appreciated by Mom.

It was in Portland that I learned to read, although no one seems to know exactly how that came about. It would have been sometime around 1945, so I didn't learn it from television. What I have heard from my family is . . .

I attended Nursery School the year before Kindergarten. The facilities were in a grammar school. One day I "disappeared," and was tracked down by a couple of adults. I was in a lighted closet, looking at a first grade primer. One of the adults asked, "Do you want to learn to read?" and I responded indignantly, "*Eye* know how to read."

Asked to read a page aloud, I did so, astonishing the adults. No one in the family remembers teaching me to read at that early age, so this is just going to remain one of life's little mysteries.

We moved from Portland to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, when I was in the first grade. I remember only one or two other incidents from Portland, and they are not interesting enough to post here, but I do remember feeling "homesick." For months after we moved, I played with my blocks occasionally, using them to create in miniature all the rooms in the house that we had left.