Vivid Memories of Childhood and Beyond

Oh @Gary, your story brings me back.

I was about 7 and it was a rainy Saturday; my bestie and I were hanging around her house. Her mother started hinting that it was time for me to go, but I mostly ignored her. Finally she went into the bathroom and came out with a horrible looking thing with long tubes. She said, "Saturday afternoon is enema time in this house. Unless you want one, I suggest you leave now." I had no idea what an enema was, but was pretty clear I didn't want any part of whatever she was holding so I skedaddled. Probably ran all the way home.

Got home and asked my mother about them and had to press her for an explanation. Mom was a genteel woman who wore white gloves to the grocery store and avoided conversations about distasteful subjects, but there was no prettying up the reality of enemas. How to wrap my mind around what she was saying - the very idea that people would voluntarily do this to their bodies???? Oh my.

I stayed away from the Willis house for the rest of the weekend. Caught my friend at recess on Monday and asked her if it was true about the enemas. She went bright red and slowly said. Yes. Every. Saturday.

I don't have to tell you that on future Saturdays I avoided their house like the plague except for birthday parties, and even then I didn't linger. On other visits here, I'd sometimes see that horrible device hanging from the tub faucet. It gave me shivers like no horror movie could.

I never looked at her mother the same. Truth be told, when they moved to Texas a few years later I was more relieved than sad.
 
Oh @Gary, your story brings me back.

I was about 7 and it was a rainy Saturday; my bestie and I were hanging around her house. Her mother started hinting that it was time for me to go, but I mostly ignored her. Finally she went into the bathroom and came out with a horrible looking thing with long tubes. She said, "Saturday afternoon is enema time in this house. Unless you want one, I suggest you leave now." I had no idea what an enema was, but was pretty clear I didn't want any part of whatever she was holding so I skedaddled. Probably ran all the way home.

Got home and asked my mother about them and had to press her for an explanation. Mom was a genteel woman who wore white gloves to the grocery store and avoided conversations about distasteful subjects, but there was no prettying up the reality of enemas. How to wrap my mind around what she was saying - the very idea that people would voluntarily do this to their bodies???? Oh my.

I stayed away from the Willis house for the rest of the weekend. Caught my friend at recess on Monday and asked her if it was true about the enemas. She went bright red and slowly said. Yes. Every. Saturday.

I don't have to tell you that on future Saturdays I avoided their house like the plague except for birthday parties, and even then I didn't linger. On other visits here, I'd sometimes see that horrible device hanging from the tub faucet. It gave me shivers like no horror movie could.

I never looked at her mother the same. Truth be told, when they moved to Texas a few years later I was more relieved than sad.
Something very wrong in that house.
 
My poor lady has to have a molar pulled
She's in some considerable agony

I know that one

A couple/three decades ago, I had a toothache
Major
Couldn't sleep
When awake, I had to pace

One late night I couldn't stand it anymore
A friend, a poor one, told me about an Asian dentist in a seamy part of Portland, just off Sandy Blvd
Cheap
They stayed open 24/7
Around 11:30 pm I called 'em

Dr Pham

'Forty dolla'

I drove in
Back alley
Poor lighting
The assistant put her ungloved hands in my mouth
The dentist's associate told me 'Forty dolla...NOW!'
The dentist brushed him aside and proceeded
No x-ray, no Novocain, no nothin'

'Done'
I paid the associate (big fella)

Dentist's parting words;

'No suck'

'What?'

'No suck....24 owah'

So, relatively pain free...and.....I didn't suck.....for 24 hours



My lady's cleaning and extraction will be $1300
 
I was thinking about the past today. I had an older brother who was drafted duuring the Korean war. He had just gotten home from his honeymoon. I was 5yrs old a the time He was stationed a few hours from where we lived. Every friday after my Dad got home from work we would drive to the base so my Dad could give my brother money to help him. They eventually turned the Horse Stables into apartments. They only had one bedroom. My brother and his wife would sleep in the bedroom. So my Mom and Dad would sleep on cots in the living room and me and my sister would sleep in sleeping bags on the cold floor.
 
iu
 
Thanks for the bump, Jim


Not sure if I posted this little story or not

But

Here it is (again?)

Almost a Cop


When I was about four, five maybe, all I wanted to become was a cop.
Not a Dragnet, Sgt Friday cop, but one that wore the blue, the boots, the service cap, the badge, the…gun…and holster.
OH YEAAAH
Not a doubt in my mind.
Thing is, I was never around cops per se, at least not for a few years.
So all I had for ready reference was the local service station guy. The ‘almost a cop’ guy.
He had a uniform, and if I recall, had some sorta badge.
And he had a service cap. The one with the glossy bill, and high rise front.

service station guy.jpg

Yeah, he was almost a cop.
I always liked stopping there.

‘Fill’er up?
‘Ethyl?’

He’d get the pump going, cranking the numbers to zero, sticking the nozzle in, flipping the lever, filling the back seat with the glorious aroma of gas fumes of which I breathed deep (couldn’t get enough).

‘Check ‘at oil?’

He lifted the hood and did….something, appearing at the driver’s door, showing Dad the dip stick, resting it in display on a really cool red rag, then tucking that rag in his back pocket. Letting half of it stick out……cool.
Sometimes he’d go to the rack of oil, grab wunna the glass bottles with a stainless steel spout, and pour in a bit of oil.
Then he’d spray the windshield with some sorta soapy liquid, wiping all that off with the magic blue towel until the grime and streaks was totally gone. All the while talking about the weather or the ‘goddamm Yankees’, or Joe Louis.
And he had BO…yeah, real big guy aroma…..wow.
Man, I wanted to be him, only I’d strap on a gun, as that was the only thing his was missing.
What a cool job!
Just doin’ that all day long.
‘Check ‘at oil?’
‘Whuddaya think about them goddamm Yankees?’
tuck
wipe
pump
….kids in the back seat, lookin’ at me in awe…wide eyes ogling my holster…and ivory gun handle….and red rag.

One day me and Dad were headin’ down the road.
Just him and me,
and he sez, ‘Whaddya wanna be when you grow up?’

‘A service station guy!’

Things kinda turned south right then.
Dads.
Go figure.
Whud he do for a living? Work in a warehouse?
Prolly jealous.

pout.jpg


After that, I never shared my true thoughts with him….for years….decades maybe.

Heh, turns out folks rather frown on service stations guys….with guns.

But, hey, if that ever happens……..
 
Recollections

this became rather lengthy....

Ever so often, I'd drive up to the ol' place for, well, old time's sake.
I always enjoyed the rush of memories, driving the old lane, and around the corner, up the hill onto the flat where most the kid population was, and where gramma's house, my 2nd home, crowned the hill.
Our place and gramma's place was one property, adjoined by five or so acres of strawberry patch, making the patch a short cut between houses.

Not long ago I hired a new engineer, he was a whip.
Ate up everything I could hand him.
Became our I.T.
Made tedious, complex projects his fun little game.
Interfaced quite well with our clients.
We became friends, even though he was in his late 20's, and I in my mid 50's.
Come to find out, his dad lived at and owned the property out there in the hills of Scappoose.
I had to make the trip one more time.

Our little converted broom factory house was ready for razing. The doors were off, the garage my dad and grandpa built (with a hand saw and hammer) were gone.
We stopped. I boosted myself thru the doorless, and stepless porch entry, the closed in porch was our laundry room.
Wringer washer, clothes line, wicker baskets, sweet smells of Fels-Naptha, my place to take off my day's clothes and grab the tub off the wall.
Rooms, once huge, were now so tiny.

The kitchen, remodeled with the rest of the house, still had the red fire alarm above the sink.
Dad would proudly demonstrate to friends how loud it was, putting a glass of hot water up near it.
The wood cook stove was gone, but the pipe coming outta the ceiling, with the ornate metal ring, bore testament of many a meal.
Meals I learned to prepare, taking a few times to learn how to not break an egg yolk, how to get pancakes to turn out like mom's and gramma's, snacks dad showed how he ate when young, tater slices scorched on the cook top, then lightly salted. Tasted horrible, but really good, cookin' with Dad, good.
The table was gone of course. The curvy steel legged one that replaced the solid wood one, well not so solid, as we lost a meal or two due to the one wobbly leg. But that steel one with the gray Formica (?) top was up town.
There I'd sit, waiting out the meal, spreadin' my peas around to make it look like I ate some.
'If you don't at least take a bite of your peas you won't get any cake!'
Eventually, I'd be sittin' at the table alone, studying the gray swirly pattern of the table top, malnourished head propped up on my arm.
Dad, Mom, and sis would be in the living room watchin' Howdy Doody on the Hoffman, or something just as wonderful.
Eventually, I ate cake...then did the dishes.

One Sunday morning I sat at an empty table, but for a glass of milk and the One-a-Day pill bottle. Dad and Mom were exasperated... 'Your throat is this big, the pill is this big'..minutes-hours passed, shadows on the table shortened...'OK, just drink your milk'
I drained the glass between pursed lips.
The little brown pill remained at the bottom.
Nice try, parents from satan.

We had a lot of beans, navy, pinto, brown.
Beans on bread was quite regular. Got to like'n it..not much choice really.
Had chocolate cake with white icing for dessert. No dessert plates. Cake just plopped on the bean juice.
To this day, I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice.

The house was designed so's I could ride my trike around and around, kitchen, living, bed, bath, bed rooms.
They were my Daytona, straight away was the bed, bath and bed rooms.
We had large windows in the front corners of the house from the remodel, 'so we can look out, for godsake'.
Now we could watch log trucks barrelin' down Pisgah Home Rd, and my sis and I could have a bird's eye vantage from the kitchen when Dad backed the Bel Air outta the garage over three of the four kittens puss had had weeks earlier under the porch.
Took my sis quite awhile to get over that, as she'd just named 'em a few hours earlier. I was just enamored with the scene; romp-play-mew-look up-smat.
Dad didn't know until he got home.
Actually, it saved him an' I a trip, as when he thought we had too many cats around, we'd toss a bunch into a gunny sack and once down the road, hurl 'em out the window of our speeding chevy.
I haven't maintained the sack-o-cats legacy, but there have been times....

The living room still had the oil stove that warmed us...in the living room.
A flash of memory recalled the two end tables and lamps, aerodynamic, tables sharp, cutcha, lamps with flying saucer shapes, one had butterfly like images formed into its material, and when lit, enhanced their appearance.
A sectional couch, we were up town.
Before the sectional, we had one that kinda placed you in the middle, no matter where you started. It was my favorite, as sis and I spent many a day on it when sick.
Mom would lay out the sheets and blankets, administering doses of tea, crackers, and toast, peaches if we felt up to it.
Waste basket stationed at the tail end of that couch, since we were in such a weakened state we could never make it to the bathroom.
Mom loved it, our own personal Mother Teresa.
Yeah, we milked it for days...school work piling up.
Recovery would finally occur once bed sores emerged.
When we were actually sick, Doctor Day would visit. Fascinating, black bag, weird tools, gauzes, pill bottles, the smell of disinfectant and tobacco. Then the shot.
It was all almost worth it.

Asian flu was a bit serious, but chicken pox was horrific for me.
It was Christmas, fever, pox forming.
Presents! Guns! Six shooters!...only there was this pock right on my trigger finger. It was like free ham for a practicing orthodox Jew.


Dad, always the entrepreneur, would use the living room as the media center, inviting salesmen with projectors and actual reel to reel set ups, showing us how to become a thousandaire overnight.
Nutri-bio was one, to take the place of one-a-days I guess.
The Chinchilla movie was fascinating, and we even took a trip to a guy's garage to see how they were raised. Turns out they need an even controlled temp to get a good coat, and actually keep 'em alive.
The Geiger counter became something to show company, and become an antique.
Dad and Mom's bedroom held few memories for me except for the time Mom found a nest of baby mice in the bottom dresser drawer...and a hammer.
There was that other brief time, but seems we were all pretty shocked.
My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either.
Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff.

The yard was not spectacular, but when sequestered from the woods, was plenty for me. I'd play in the dirt. Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, would be cleaning the house, wiping something on the windows that would become a swirly fog, then wiping that off. Cleaning the floor was sweep, mop, wax. Linoleum was the rage.
Lunch would be a great, but simple sandwich, with lettuce, and soup.

The icebox held short stemmed dessert glasses of homemade chocolate pudding, each centered with a half maraschino cherry. For the longest time I thought cherries came that way straight from the tree.
Cross over the Bridge, or Sunny Side of the Street played on the radio. Then it was a Paul Harvey segment.



Nobody close died, there were no wars I was aware of, and folks were generally at ease during that eight year era of fond memories, just fragrant recollections.


This aging cynic, years of crust giving way to a soft spot, down deep, had a hard moment of holding back visual emotion, as we drove away from the last tangible vision ever to be seen of the house of a sweet early life.
What an enjoyable read, Gary💕
 
Thanks for the bump, Jim


Not sure if I posted this little story or not

But

Here it is (again?)

Almost a Cop


When I was about four, five maybe, all I wanted to become was a cop.
Not a Dragnet, Sgt Friday cop, but one that wore the blue, the boots, the service cap, the badge, the…gun…and holster.
OH YEAAAH
Not a doubt in my mind.
Thing is, I was never around cops per se, at least not for a few years.
So all I had for ready reference was the local service station guy. The ‘almost a cop’ guy.
He had a uniform, and if I recall, had some sorta badge.
And he had a service cap. The one with the glossy bill, and high rise front.

View attachment 150451

Yeah, he was almost a cop.
I always liked stopping there.

‘Fill’er up?
‘Ethyl?’

He’d get the pump going, cranking the numbers to zero, sticking the nozzle in, flipping the lever, filling the back seat with the glorious aroma of gas fumes of which I breathed deep (couldn’t get enough).

‘Check ‘at oil?’

He lifted the hood and did….something, appearing at the driver’s door, showing Dad the dip stick, resting it in display on a really cool red rag, then tucking that rag in his back pocket. Letting half of it stick out……cool.
Sometimes he’d go to the rack of oil, grab wunna the glass bottles with a stainless steel spout, and pour in a bit of oil.
Then he’d spray the windshield with some sorta soapy liquid, wiping all that off with the magic blue towel until the grime and streaks was totally gone. All the while talking about the weather or the ‘goddamm Yankees’, or Joe Louis.
And he had BO…yeah, real big guy aroma…..wow.
Man, I wanted to be him, only I’d strap on a gun, as that was the only thing his was missing.
What a cool job!
Just doin’ that all day long.
‘Check ‘at oil?’
‘Whuddaya think about them goddamm Yankees?’
tuck
wipe
pump
….kids in the back seat, lookin’ at me in awe…wide eyes ogling my holster…and ivory gun handle….and red rag.

One day me and Dad were headin’ down the road.
Just him and me,
and he sez, ‘Whaddya wanna be when you grow up?’

‘A service station guy!’

Things kinda turned south right then.
Dads.
Go figure.
Whud he do for a living? Work in a warehouse?
Prolly jealous.

View attachment 150452


After that, I never shared my true thoughts with him….for years….decades maybe.

Heh, turns out folks rather frown on service stations guys….with guns.

But, hey, if that ever happens……..
Cute! 😂. You are quite the storyteller. Hope you are keeping these for future generations💕
 
I was thinking about the past today. I had an older brother who was drafted duuring the Korean war. He had just gotten home from his honeymoon. I was 5yrs old a the time He was stationed a few hours from where we lived. Every friday after my Dad got home from work we would drive to the base so my Dad could give my brother money to help him. They eventually turned the Horse Stables into apartments. They only had one bedroom. My brother and his wife would sleep in the bedroom. So my Mom and Dad would sleep on cots in the living room and me and my sister would sleep in sleeping bags on the cold floor.
Ah, but he served his country so he deserved it🥰. Hope he survived. When my older brother went off to boot camp, my mother cried for weeks. We baked continually and weekly sent this big military type trunk (probably Dad’s from WWII) full of chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and everything else he enjoyed. He survived, as did the trunk, and when my older sister went off to college, we again mourned, baked, and sent weekly to her college dorm. She graduated and the trunk came home. Finally it was my turn to leave. The green trunk never made an appearance and there were no tears as I stepped onto the train. I did get a lot of hugs and a nice goodbye wave 👋 however😂😂😂
 
There was a recent thread I commented in
Can't find it now

Anyway, I'd commented how much I love Irish Spring bar soap
(the original scent)

I've known it was a scent from childhood

Just now recalled where

It was Grampa!

Doubt there was 'Irish Spring' soap back then
But he used something that had that scent

May even be why I like it



It reminds me of him

Grampa

He was a quiet man.
Work was his vocation and recreation.
I spent a lot of time at their place in my early years, his latter years.
Seems Grampa always had chores that filled his waking hours.
I was his shadow.
He wore coveralls most days, and always sported an old grey fedora.
His high cut oxfords made a shuffling sound as he walked. Parkinson’s was having it’s way with his system.
We’d dine on a bowl of hominy together in the country kitchen.
As the midday sun danced on the table through the window from between the limbs of the giant firs, I’d watch his massive hand struggle to keep his corn on the shaking spoon.

In between chores, and my naps, he’d sit in the old padded rocker and thumb through a photo album while I stood at his side.
‘The dapple was Molly and the grey was Dixie’, pointing to the work horse team he knew so well.
Seemed Grampa had a couple soft balls tucked in his upper shirt sleeves. He was a compact man at five nine, but stout, bull neck, thick arms.

I knew him in his lesser years, keeping his meaning to life by doing small jobs.
Things like sharpening the hoes with rasps, feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, or lubing the tractor.
He cut down a hoe to my size, and all three of us hoed acres of strawberries.

I saw him laugh once.

He was a proud man, brought down and humbled by an untreatable disease, but keeping his misery within.
Dad says he was hard boiled in his younger years, and short on patience. Proud.
I knew him as a much different man.

One time I peered through a cracked door to his study. He was on his hands and knees, talking to his Lord, no longer able to just kneel.
His bible was quite worn.
Dad gave to it me a few years ago.
I leant it to him at Christmas.
I’ll get it back pretty soon.
I think of times then and times now.
What a difference in pace, in conviction, in the shear enjoyment of endurance in simple living.
I see my grandkids give me an occasional glance of admiration, but nothing like the revered awe I had of him.

He died when I was ten.
 
Gary said:
In between chores, and my naps, he’d sit in the old padded rocker and thumb through a photo album while I stood at his side.

‘The dapple was Molly and the grey was Dixie’, pointing to the work horse team he knew so well.





Thank you Gary for your wonderful story.

My grandpap died when I was 4. Following recent stomach surgery, he just dropped over on the street. He was 59. Most of what I know of him, I learned later from stories and photos. His name was John. He was born on Ground hog Day 1888, which was the second official celebration of Groundhog Day! He was a Teamster, and drove wagons pulled by horses. He loved horses! I had his wallet, and it had a dues book, where stamps were added, when dues were paid. The cover had a picture of two horses, whose names were Thunder and Lightning! I have passed his wallet along to a grandson.

iu
iu
 


Back
Top