I have been attempting to learn to knit in the last few days. It is quite challenging for me. Have you ever seen that old Hunchback of Notre Dame movie where the old ladies are sitting in the front row excitedly watching people being guillotined? Their knitting needles clack furiously until they pause entranced when the blade drops. Then the furious clacking resumes uninterrupted till they pause for the next head to roll.
I definitely haven’t reached the point that my needles clack. I laboriously labor over every stitch. There is no fluidity in my movements yet. So far, my muscles have no memory. I will keep plugging along but I don’t believe I will be gifting handknit socks, scarves, or sweaters by Christmas.
The December after I turned six years old, I hatched a plot. I’d leave a note for Santa asking to accompany him on his rounds. I felt sure if I asked nicely, he’d wake me up and take me along. though Mother assured me it wouldn’t happen. I laboriously wrote this note.
Dear Santa,
I have been good. Can I go with you ? I hate dolls. I want a BB gun and a blue bicycle. I love you.
Linda
About bedtime, Mother said she heard the jingle bells on Santa’s sleigh. I flew to the door to try to catch Santa but didn’t catch him. Mother sent me to bed since he wouldn’t come until I went to sleep. It took me forever to go to sleep. I was disappointed to wake up in the morning and find I’d been left at home.
We knew not to go in to see if Santa had come before waking our parents. Mother dragged out the anticipation by making coffee before we went to see what Santa had brought. When we were finally allowed in, Mother pointed out a note taped to TV screen, “Linda, did you think you could catch me?”
My parents laughed but I was devastated. Not only did Santa ditch me, he thought it was funny.
When I opened my presents, I got a life-sized baby doll that could pee its diaper. I threw it down and stomped my foot, “I hate dolls. I wanted a BB gun.” I got a spat and a warning to behave myself. Mother pointed out the biggest package under the tree with my name on it. I tore into it only to find a tin tea set with a Dutch boy and girl on it. I wanted to throw a fit but knew what that would get me.
Seeing my disappointment, Mother tried to distract me. “Here open this present from Grandma.” It was the twin of the doll that had already gotten me in trouble. My sister got a blue bicycle. I found out later that day my two boy cousins my age got BB guns.
The only thing that saved my Christmas was finding a big red rocking horse behind the tree. I loved it.
The only time I ever played with those accursed dolls was when my cousin Sue and I treated them to a funeral the next summer. My mother was a slow learner. I got a doll the next two Christmases as well.
Ralphy was a quirky kid who lived just down the road from us. When he was eight or nine, he’d call on the phone, asking to speak to Daddy. We were always interested in hearing what he had to say.
“Mr. Bill?”
“Yeah, what’s on your mind today, Ralphy?”
“My mama just bought some of that new White Cloud Bathroom Tissue. You should come try it! Bye.”
Another call:
“Mr. Bill?”
“Yeah, Ralphy. How are you today?”
“Fine. I just got my report card. I had all D’s and F’s.”
“No, Ralphy! Surely not!”
“Yep, and I’ve got the papers to prove it! Bye!”
Next call:
“Mr. Bill?”
“Hey, Ralphy. What’s going on?”
“I wrote a poem in school today. Want to hear it?”
“Why sure!”
“Rabbits love cribbage and cabbage.
Pigs love slibbage and slobbage.”
“That’s good, Ralphy. What did you make on it?”
“An F. It was supposed to be about the Flag. Bye.”
We all hung on those phone calls like a pig in slobbage.
I would love to seethe caves at Cappadocia. The incredible landscape created by volcanic activity and erosion must be a wonder to see. It’s fascinating to think that people could make dwellings in such a place.
Mr. Sanger who taught the combined sixth and seventh-grade classes at our country school back in the 1960s must have been a frustrated preached. He went on and on about morals and the importance of doing the right thing.
One day at recess, a group of us were on the playground and happened upon a robin pulling a worm from the ground.
“Look at the bird pulling on the worm!” One of the kids exclaimed.
Ronnie Oaks shook his head as studied the bird. “Yeah, he ain’t got no morals.”
“Kathleen, I hate to bother you, but Oly is comin’in on the bus Friday. Would you mind takin’ me to pick her up?” I listened in as Miss Laura buttered my biscuit.
“Sure, I’ll be glad to. Is that the one whose husband just died?” Mother asked.
“Yes, he’d been sick in bed a long time,” replied Miss Laura. “I was poorly when he died and couldn’t make it for the funeral, so Oly told me to just wait an’she’d come stay awhile after she got him buried. We never got to visit much. She was just a baby when she married an’ and I only got to see her once in a great while.”
I was fascinated with the idea of a baby marrying and couldn’t wait to see her. Maybe we could play together. As I stood on the step with my biscuit, I was lost in thought. imagining a pig-tailed girl my age steeping off a school bus, the only bus I knew a thing about.
Mother pulled in at Mitchell’s Cafe out on the highway on Friday. We sweltered in the July heat as Billy and I tusseled in the back seat. Mother and Miss Laura Mae fanned themselves as heat monkeys danced on the pavement. Dust fogged in the open car windows as a long gray vehickle with a picture of a skinny dog pulled up.
“Here she comes!” Miss Laura Mae clutched her big black purse and heaved herself out of the car as the bus door opened.
I sat up and watched for a little girl in a wedding dress to emerge, but no one got off but an old lady in a flowered dress. Miss Laura Mae hurried over, catching her in a huge hug smashing their identical pushes between them. Her curly white hair was caught up in a hair net and she wore the same black lace-up old lady oxfords as Miss Laura Mae. The bus driver pulled her bag from a bin on the side of the bus. Mother helped her load it in the trunk.
“Kathleen, this is my sister, Oly.” Sadly, I abandoned my hope of a playmate.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Oly. How are you doing?”
“Oh, I couldn’t be better,” said Miss Oly. “I ain’t baked a biscuit since June 6th, the day my Ol’ man died!”
Miss Laura Mae and Miss Oly laughed out loud as Mother replied, “Oh, that’s nice,” as she cranked the car.
Daddy got another phone call from Ralphie, the kid down the road.
Ralphy was a quirky kid who lived just down the road from us. When he was eight or nine, he’d call on the phone, asking to speak to Daddy. We were always interested in hearing what he had to say.
Nutsrok 