2001-02-24 - 17:08 MST

February 24, 2001

Retreat

The pointless destruction by humans of each other, the murders, mayhems, catastrophic accidents and the injuries and deaths on the highways, then also the byways --where accidents and hit and runs claim the lives of many, the deaths of innocent, inattentive children or old folks -- all become a bit much for me to keep recirculating in my mind.

So I go back in my mind to days past. For me, my memories which come to light at this time are the pleasant ones, there are others of the Depression too but even then some of my greatest memories of pleasure were interwoven into the tapestry of that time.

I am maybe eleven years old on a Friday evening and Dad sends me to the neighborhood Creamery for bread, milk and cake giving me the usual instruction, "Get Indian Head pennies in change if they have any." I make the walk up a few blocks, scoping out anything of interest to this kid, look in a couple of show windows and peer through the glass windows of the beauty shop and cogitate on the mysteries of why in the world women want to submit to the mess and trouble of the Marcel procedure. Thence to the old time 7-11 of our day the Creamery. I have the choice and linger over the bakery goods and pick out what I want for us and ask for the milk and bread as I put the cake on the counter. I pay the lady, ask for Indian Head pennies in change if she has any. Then I am given two sacks, one with the milk, one with the bread and cake -- bread on the bottom not liable to be squished by the light cake.

I make tracks going home, not running but not dallying either. I put the groceries on the table, give Dad his change with a few Indian Heads and go out to bounce a tennis ball off the brick wall of the garage next door. Not too long after that Mom calls me in for dinner, I reluctantly wash and dry my hands (not wrists though) and sit down at the table for a feast of pinto beans, weenies, bread and butter, with a side of the milk and a dessert of the cake I brought home. How strong that memory is, it happened once in a while and was treasured then but not as much as now.

Supper done, table cleared and my job of washing and drying of dishes accomplished, I hear Mom ask Dad if he wants to play 500 Rummy tonight. My ears perk like a dog called to its dish. 500 Rummy is something that I can play on a level with the adults, sometimes being the winner. Few chances for this boy to be on that level.

The evening is passed by playing several Rummy games, having the rest of the cake and a cup of coffee for me. The coffee is warm and almost as white as the milk Mom added to it. After a bit Dad tells me it is time to go to bed, and bedward I slowly head. I take my hoard of change earned by passing out grocery handbills and ponder on what I am going to spend it on tomorrow. And then, to sleep and dream of adventure on the high seas.

Awakening in the morning, I lay awhile making my plans, then getting up and getting dressed, remembering that it wasn't too many years ago that I had to get help tying my shoes. Then breakfast, a few chores and the rest of the daylight hours mine, all gloriously mine.

I head from my house down to Broadway. On one corner is a drug store and I go in to the soda counter and get a Cherry Coke with cows cream. Sounds weird, but was tastefully done. I haven't had one of those since that drugstore closed. It might have been the druggists invention and not passed on. I go from there into the next block north where Jonas Brothers Tannery and Taxidermy establishment is, conquer the really stiff smell and say hello to Earl who is a friend of my folks and he shows me anything new that might interest me. Then moving south on Broadway to the Jewel Theater next door to the clothing store owned by Mr. Shallenbarger and family (his name a bit fuzzy on the spelling) where some of my clothes are bought, when he has a sale.

I go in the enchanted kingdom of boyhood thrills and adventure. I watch and laugh at the cartoons, breathlessly watch the ? Pathe ? newsreel seeing things that happen in recent days. Then I settle in for the Serial Cowboy adventure film number x-thousand, which I don't dare miss an episode. I ride with the white hats of course, fighting indians, cattle rustlers and worse. Each episode ends in a way that my hero is up against it one way or another in an impossible situation, leaving me eager to see next Saturday's show. Then the main feature comes on, I can't remember exactly which one happened about that time, but I do remember watching Captains Courageous there.

Walking home in the character of the Western hero admired by me, riding my invisible horse, neighbors noticing nothing but a happy skipping boy. On up to the corner drug store I go to buy a stick of Smoker's licorice which is hardly sweet at all but glorious with its licorice taste. A smooth black cylinder maybe 1/2 an inch in diameter and maybe 3 1/2 inches long toward the end is a flattened spot rather oval in shape which has its logo on it.

Then I go home, hoping for another night of 500 Rummy, but prepared to read in one of the books I got the last time when at the library. Supper is called and I sit down to a feast of weenies and lima beans with bread and butter with another treat, a cup of more or less hot milked coffee, maybe a tad stronger than before.

This night, in a strange mood, I pick my favorite book of all, Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses." Reading again poems already in my memory once more. The bonus ? The slightly old fashioned pictures which stir my imagination anew, the feel of the pages and the bookish smell, the feel of the hardcover and the old memory of sitting on Mom's lap while she read from that book to me before I could read. So, I read and look up picturing in my mind maybe the Land Of Counterpane, or the one about the little boy who climbs a tree at his house and high up in the branches looks at his neighborhood from that vantage point. Or the short one about the birdy on the window sill saying, "Aren't you ashamed, sleepy head ?"

My birthday is over and Christmas is far in the future, but I sleepily make plans for next weekend and wonder if I can get enough handbills to peddle door to door to finance next Saturday's visit to the Jewel Theater. And so to bed, to dream pleasant dreams again.

It was only in later years that I realized, Mom probably paid more for half soling and buying new shoes for me than I ever earned peddling handbills door to door. Mom was a good teacher.

Back again into the harsh realties from my Retreat . . . . . . .

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