Early Memories: A Patchwork Quilt

Early Memories: A Patchwork Quilt*

          A picket fence encircles a small, paste-colored house with lapped, wood siding. A royal rose bush scales the trellis by the front porch and drapes the roof with a thorny crown of pink blossoms. Framed by a gully with woods behind, I still picture this first house on Guthrie Street—my favorite.

          Dad at work 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 broken container into the trees. “You’ll get a lickin’ when your father gets home.” I wail louder until, sent to bed, I cry myself to sleep. Later, I wake empty and alone—the room dirt dark.

          Throughout church, I squirm 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 on the couch.” I approach him wary, eyes narrowed and glancing sideways. He holds out his arms. “Aren’tcha goin’ to give your dad a hug?” I ask, “You aren’t going to give me a lickin', are you, Daddy?” Dad creases his brow at Mom, and she gives a nervous giggle, eyes at the floor. “Of course, I’m not goin’ to spank you, Son. I've missed you.” His strong arms crush me long and close.

          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 float all the way to China?” My dad throws back his head and laughs at the sky. "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. Only the pants will need stitches.

          My sister Carrol walks me to Doreen’s house two blocks away. My sister thinks it’s neat to show me off. Doreen’s father sits reading. He only has one arm, so his other sleeve is tucked inside itself and safety-pinned to keep it from hanging loose. I am scared. Now I know why my mom tells me not to stick my arm outside the car window.

          Bill, my sister’s boyfriend, brakes his car to a stop in front of our house. Carrol pokes her smiling face 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 turns it in his hands and 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 greasy stuff in a huge bowl, 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 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!

          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, eyes glued to my father, I trail him into the freezer room with its sawdust-covered floor. Chunking the handle with his palm, he pulls the heavy steel and wood door open. My breath freezes into crystals, and the sudden cold chatters my teeth. Picking out two or three meat packages from our locker, Dad clicks the padlock and makes for the door down the aisles of locked wooden crates. 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 will 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 with the rest of the neighborhood gang. Anxious and hoping the big kids will pity me, I wait with patient hands in pockets for a turn at bat. Someone hands me the wooden stick while Smoky, the gray cat, wanders past someone’s tattered hat – home plate. "Get out of the way, Smoky!" Although it’s 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 saunters into our front yard between the pickets in the fence. He eats out of a bowl on our back porch. I love Smoky.

          One day Dad takes the family for a short drive into the country in our 1941 Chevy. We turn at Goldenrod Road. I’m surprised when I don’t see golden staffs or bars lining the street—just weathered fence posts the color of lead. We stop at a white, shingled house with many outbuildings. One structure is caged by a tall, wire fence with big, clumsy birds strutting about behind. Mom tells me they are chickens. I had never seen a live one. A huge white one with orange feet catches my eye. Neck bobbing, it struts about with a red, rubber flap on its head top and sharp, pointed lips. When I step 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 one in the country. This will be our new home, complete with caged chickens. Several cats already live at the house. We don’t take Smoky. Mom says our old neighbors will feed him. I hope she’s right; I miss him.


Author’s note: these are snippets recollected at and before the age of four