From a Writing Prompt*

I am wearing a red bathrobe.  I can’t be more than three or four because my sister, Karen, had not yet arrived on the scene.

We lived in a small house on West Ralston in Ontario, California.  I think we were on the wrong side of the tracks, but what did I know?

I decided to go for a walk.  I made it about a block or two before I saw my father coming for me.  

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going shopping.”

Now do I remember this because I heard the story so many times?  Or do I really remember it?

 We had a separate dining room in the house – I think most houses did in those days – and there was a small niche built into the wall, and in that niche was a figurine of a Spanish dancer.

We were Spanish, so that kind of makes sense.  My parents had company often.  These were usually other Spanish people, and some of them hadn’t quite mastered English yet.  They always seemed to be having lots of bilingual fun.  There were simple snacks – usually some kind of nuts or crackers – and red wine and brandy, of course.

They played cards at most of these visits – Had to be a lot of poker because there were chips and a cool chip holder.  It held two decks of cards, too. I was fascinated by this contraption. Talk about your simple pleasures.

I had measles in this house.  My mother covered the lamp in my bedroom with a scarf, and the curtains were always drawn.  Light could be damaging to eyes if you had measles.  My eyes have always given me trouble.  Not sure whether the measles were the cause, but when I alluded to the fact that one eye doc said it might be, my mother became upset.  It was an insult to her caregiving and child-rearing skills.

My father had pneumonia on Ralston.  I honestly recall  hearing Dr. Bosshardt tell my mother that my dad was seriously ill, but he knew that my mother would be so conscientious about his care that it would be better for him to stay home than go to the hospital.  I just made up for the measles comment, didn’t I.

A family lived across the street from us that had six children – the Walkers.  I had a crush on the oldest boy, Bobby, but I usually played games with his siblings, the twins, Judy and Jerry, who were the same age as I.  We all went to the same high school and graduated together, but we never talked about the old days back on Ralston much.

The twins and I compared anatomies behind our garage.  Unbeknownst to us, the neighbor behind us observed and snitched on us.  It’s the only spanking I can recall getting from my mother.  Didn’t she know that could give me some sexual “hang-ups”?  By the way, I have no recall as to what Jerry’s genitals looked like, or for that matter, Judy’s.  However, this is probably why Judy and Jerry didn’t talk to me much in high school.

Most parents then knew not much about our psyches, nor did they care.  Life was simpler when we didn’t dwell on psychological damage; that kind of damage anyway.  I now know that I was lucky in that parental damage was minimal for me, but not for many, many others.

Our upbringing was basic, but don’t think my mother didn’t inflict verbal damage.  

I remember saying to myself “I don’t think you should be saying that to me because it might have lasting effects.”  But maybe it was okay because of that awareness I would not absorb lots of the criticism.  

When I was much older, she continued to say things to me that she probably shouldn’t, but it turned out to be fodder for my stories, and I could laugh at her more.

I recall one time she was lecturing me when I was a teenager, and I suddenly realized how much taller than her I was.  Mid lecture, I grabbed her by the collar and said, “Look shorty, I don’t have to take this anymore.”  We had a great laugh over that.

Our next-door neighbors on West Ralston were from Chicago – The Frosts – Maidie and Tony. 

Their grandsons visited from Chicago once a year in summertime, and I loved it when they were there.  Barney and Chuckie.  They were a little bit like aliens – I mean Chicagoans and Californians?—but we got along great.

Have you met a Barney lately?  His grandfather always brought up the fact that Barney’s ears were so big he once got one of them slammed in the car door.  He would laugh uproariously whenever he told this story. Personally, I never tired of the story.

As a snack for the boys, Maidie used to spread margarine thickly on white bread and then sprinkle sugar on it!  This was a miracle to me because we rarely had sweets, and we never had white bread or margarine, which at that time I preferred — I guess for the very reason we did NOT have it in our house.

She fixed a slice for me and the boys one day, and just as I was getting ready to dig in to this delicacy, I saw my mother coming across the lawn to the Frost’s yard.  

I quickly hid my slice behind my back, and now I don’t even remember if I got to eat it or had to squish it in my hands and then drop it in the grass. These days I’m grateful for my mother’s dietary rules. Most of the dietary damage done to my body has been done by me.

We played in the mud a lot, too.  Chuckie and I would cross the street and make mud pies and scoop the mud up around our butts, so there would be a perfect butt print in the mud, which was for some reason very satisfying to us. ( I just had a shocking revelation — my mother let me get dirty!)

Another specialty of mine were mud tacos.  You just had to wrap a little mud in a leaf.  When I told my friend, Jo, about that she made such fun of me.  “Nobody makes mud tacos.”  Later on, when we were older adults, I found a book entitled, “Mud Tacos,” and bought one for her for Christmas.  

Wish I had capitalized on my mud taco making and written that book.

One day, Chuckie and I were crossing the street after making various mud foods and butt sculptures, when I was hit by a car.  The lady who hit me said she saw Chuckie, but she didn’t see me trailing behind him because he was taller than I was.  That was the last time a boy was taller than I until I got to junior year in high school.

Mr. Frost was the first one to the street and immediately told me I had ruined the lady’s bumper.  What was I thinking?!  Genius, huh?  Took my mind and fear right out of it. I now focused on the damage to the bumper and whether I would be punished for that.

Some people believe I have lasting effects from being hit by that car – mentally, at least.  

My mother believed my nose was broken.  I do remember my face being scraped up, as well as my knees and that they put a lot of tape on me. My memory is that it was transparent tape, but that couldn’t be, could it?

Mom said she knew it was me the minute she heard the brakes screeching.  She was pregnant with my sister, Karen, ran out the door and sat down on the back stoop.  “That’s Gloria Jean, Frank, go get her.”

After Ralston, we moved to the other side of the tracks to “E” Street.  Just a bit of a step up the class ladder, but not much. 

I’ll save “E” Street for another time.

The End.

*Thanks to Amber Starfire