Childhood Memories (1)

I remember Mom reading Cinderella and Pinocchio to us, but it was the nursery rhymes—Hickory, Dickory, Dock and Jack Sprat and Peas Porridge—that I memorized and served as my first introduction to poetry.

I remember listening to Jiminy Cricket sing “Whistle While You Work” over the radio.  But, I never could figure out how to whistle.

I remember paraffin panpipes.  We would bite off pieces to chew like gum after we were done playing them.

In the trash in the alley behind my best friend’s house, I remember finding broken pieces of a porcelain figurine of a graceful woman picking flowers. The ceramic made great sidewalk chalk, and Rosalie and I played hopscotch with it until the shards ran out.

I remember being bathed in a washing tub as if I were soiled bedclothes.

I remember eating bread soaked in cod-liver oil.  Mom read an article in Redbook touting the oil’s health benefits.  Yuck!  The taste was terrible.  She tried mixing it with orange juice to make it taste better.  Yuck! Yuck!  I may have been getting my omega-3 fatty acids, but I wouldn’t be able to eat bread or drink orange juice for years.

I remember my mother shaving a bar of face soap into flakes that she could use in the wringer-washing machine—a technique that she had learned when soap was rationed during World War II.

I remember Mom boiling a pot of Argo Starch in which she would dip Dad’s work-shirt collars and cuffs. Then she would spend hours at the ironing board with them. That would end when she started to work nights making rectifiers (semiconductors which convert AC to DC).  She looked after me and my sister while trying to get some sleep during the day. Eventually, my sister and I became what they called latchkey kids.

I remember trying to learn to ride a bicycle in our dimly lit living room.  The room was dark because my sister and I were supposed to be recovering from nasty cases of the measles. Since we were short of space, my sister and I slept in the dining room and the bicycle was stored on the front porch. Alas, it was stolen. I never did get to ride it outside.  It would be three or four years before I got another bike, one with big wheels that I named “George.”

I remember a Christmas tree dressed entirely in blue lights because my Dad wanted them.  I remember the scent of the real pine and trying to take a nap on the sofa while absorbing its magic.

Neighborhood Sidewalk Art
Photo by Jeter Skeet