Early Memories: A Patchwork Quilt

Early Memories: A Patchwork Quilt*


          A white picket fence encircles a small, white house with lapped, wood siding. A royal rose bush scales the trellis by the front porch, draping the roof with a thorny crown of pink blossoms. Framed by a gully with woods behind, this is the first house I remember -- my favorite.

          Dad working in Alaska and my mom upset, the handle of my sand pail breaks. Without control, I sob at its loss. Mom explodes in anger and hurls the pail into the woods. I wail louder until, sent to bed, I cry myself to sleep.

          A tiny creek flows behind the house. My father and I straddle a log. We toss tiny sticks and wood chips into the bubbling water. “Where do they go, Daddy?” “To the bay first, Son, then to the ocean.” “Will the sticks end up in China?” My dad throws back his head and laughs. "Anything is possible."

          Grabbing a big buck saw handle two-fisted tight, my oldest brother Donald pushes and pulls on the other end. Sawing halfway through a sappy, fir log to make firewood, he yanks me back and forth like a rag doll flopping. I brace my leg, and a saw tooth snags my brand new jeans, ripping a triangle. I see the skin on my thigh, but no blood. The pants will need stitches.

          My sister Carrol walks me to her friend’s house two blocks away. Her name is Doreen. My sister likes to show me off. Doreen’s father sits reading. He only has one arm, and I am scared. Now I know why my mom tells me not to stick my arm out the window when riding in a car.

          Bill, my sister’s boyfriend, brakes his car to a stop in front of our house. Carrol pokes her head out the front door. Trying to impress her, Bill makes a running start to hurdle the fence. His butt catches on the top and snaps off a picket clean. Collecting it from the ground, he puzzles how to fit it back into place. I hope my dad doesn’t find out. I like Bill.

          My mom sits on a chair near the kitchen table, white stuff in a huge bowl, greasy and full in her lap. Popping open a red capsule with her thumbnail, she drips yellow coloring into the container. With strong hands, she kneads and blends the white mass to pale yellow. “What’s that stuff, Mom?” “It’s oleomargarine, Gary.” Looks like magic to me.

          My brother Donald has eaten Sunday dinner with us. He is visiting. He shows our dad his shiny, new bowling ball with red flames. When he leaves, I try to carry it to his ’38 Plymouth. The straps of the heavy ball bag cut into my palms, but I bounce it along the smooth, wooden walkway. My hands stripe with welted pain, and Donald takes pity. He flips the bag two-fingered onto the running board. Mom snaps a photo of Donald, the bag, and the car with her Kodak box camera. Wow, my brother is strong!

          Throughout church, I am filled with distress. My father is returning from work in Alaska for a visit. When we arrive at the house, my mom pushes me through the kitchen door. “Gary, your dad beat us home. He was taking a nap.” I approach him wary. He holds out his arms. “Aren’tcha goin’ to give your dad a hug?” I ask, “You aren’t going to spank me, are you, Daddy?” Dad creases his brow at Mom, and she gives a nervous giggle. “Of course, I’m not goin’ to spank you, Son. I've missed you.” His arms crush me close.

          We don’t own a modern refrigerator, just an old-fashioned ice box. To keep our meat frozen, we rent a meat locker at the butcher shop. Sometimes, glued to my father, I trail him into the freezer with its sawdust-covered floor. Chunking the handle, he pulls the heavy steel and wood door open. My breath freezes into crystals, and the sudden cold starts my teeth to chatter. Picking out two or three meat packages from our locker, Dad clicks the padlock and makes for the door down the wooden aisles between crated rows. He shoves the round, metal door plunger from the inside. It sticks. Sometimes it takes my dad several tries to open it. I wonder how long it would take to freeze.

          Kids play softball in the dirt and gravel turnaround in front of the rosebush house. My brother Harvey, and my sister Carrol are there. Anxious and hoping the big kids will pity me, I wait patient for a turn at bat. Someone hands me the wooden stick while Smoky, the gray cat, wanders by someone’s tattered hat – home plate. "Get out of the way, Smoky!" Although heavy, I hold the bat as a ball strikes it. A hit! Everyone points at the rock called first base, and I run. I’m safe! Smoky wanders into our yard. He eats out of a bowl on our back porch. I love Smoky.

          One day, in the 1941 Chevy, Dad takes the family for a short drive into the country. We stop at a white, shingled house with many outbuildings. One building is surrounded by a tall, wire fence with big, awkward birds walking about behind. Later, I am told they are chickens. I had never seen a live chicken. One, in particular, catches my eye. Head bobbing, it struts about with a red, rubber flap on top of its head and a sharp, pointed beak. When I walk closer, it flies at me wild and catches its claws and spurs in the wire. I scream and cry out in terror. They put dangerous things behind fences.

          A few weeks later, we move from the picket fence, white house of royal pink roses to the other house in the country. This will be our new house, complete with chickens. Several cats already live at the house. We don’t take Smoky. Mom says our old neighbors will feed Smoky. I miss him.


* Snippets recollected at and before the age of four