First will be Dad. He was born in 1906 and was 38 when he met and married Mom. They
met at a camp run by Macy's, where Mom worked. They married on April 11, 1945,
and moved in with Grandma Blake. Dad was 39 when he first became a dad. To
us three sisters he was the best dad ever, taking us on hikes to the woods,
even making me a skating rink because I was afraid of the pond.
We knew my dad by four different
names, but not actually knowing which one was his birth name. To people he
was either Ernie, Ernest, Irvin, or Irving.
Many years later we found out that his name was actually Irvin Eugene
Blake.
I inherited from Dad his love of
animals. In one bedroom was a closet with his clothes in it, and in the
back of the closet there was a brand-new hunting outfit: coat, shirt, pants,
never used. He never once went hunting. He said he couldn't bring himself to
shoot anything.
He did, however, go fishing, often
taking us with him. We would walk over the tracks to the “ressie” [reservoir]
to fish for sunnies. We must have eaten them, but I don't remember.
Dad would also take us for a walk in
the woods. He would stop and pick some berries that tasted just like
wintergreen and a root that smelled like root beer. There was a stream by the
path to the woods, where we would get a drink of cold water, the best-tasting
water ever. Dad would pick a bunch of watercress that grew by the stream and
bring it home. It was very peppery.
Dad the jokester and storyteller would
entertain us. One story he told was about going
through the woods to the swimming hole when he noticed he was being followed by
a ghost. He took off running, and, being tired, he stopped to rest on a log.
The ghost, having caught up, sat down and said to him, "Get a good rest,
because after this we’re going again." Our eyes would be as big as saucers
every time he told the story.
Dad on Sundays gave us our baths. Before we had indoor running water, the bath would be done in a
washtub filled with heated water from the well. In the summer during a
rainstorm, he would wash us under the drain spout. Mommy would curl our hair,
and Dad would polish our shoes and make our lunch. We would buy lunch if they
were selling a favorite.
On Saturdays, Nancy and I would help
Dad do the week’s laundry, hanging it out to dry, and do the housework. He
would then get dressed up and walk uptown for a beer with his friends, always
home in time to start dinner. One Saturday he came over the hill, with his
shirt bloody, glasses broken, scratches on his face, and bruises.
We ran out to him. “What happened? “
we asked.
He answered, “You should see the other
guy!”
Three weeks later we found out that,
being a little tipsy, as he crossed a narrow bridge over the stream, he fell
off into the water.
On one of his Saturday night trips,
when he got home, he decided to make home-made cherry cough medicine from
bark from the wild cherry tree. Dad put his material into Mom’s big pots on
the stove, and they boiled all afternoon; then he put them in jars to cool. All
Nancy and I could think was, oh, boy, can't wait for the first cough!
What a surprise at the first taste: nothing like we thought, just awful.
One Christmas I remember, we were still
very young, and unknown to us, Dad had drilled a hole in the floor next to
his chair and had the old bells from the horse's sleigh attached to a line and
hidden down the hole. We sat in the
big living room, looking out the windows, searching for Santa.
Dad said, "I think I hear
him," and jingled the bells; we knew they came from Santa's sleigh going
over our house, and immediately we went to bed. I don't know when we found out
what he had done.
Daddy used to tell
us of his childhood Christmases: always in the
stocking was an orange and a penny. I don't remember his saying anything about
toys or clothes other than socks and scarves.
Dad also made us sleighs from the
old tin roof, with the tin curled up on the ends. This went like greased
lightning down the hill, almost to the railroad.
After we got a car, Daddy drove it only
twice. The second time, he drove it to take Doreen to a friend’s house, but
someone ran them off the road. He never drove again.
Dad was the only male in the house
of five women. His only solitude was in the outhouse out back, but we girls
would find him even there to ask for candy money or diner money.
Daddy would give us
piggy-back rides up and down the hall. Nancy and I would
slide down the stairs on our backsides and run Slinkies down the stairs.
I remember one year
Mommy wanted wallpaper in the downstairs main hall…and in the living room and
in the two bedrooms. This was the old-fashioned
wallpaper, with glue you put on with a big brush. We set up a long table in the
hall, measured and cut and glued the paper up on the wall. It must have taken
forever to do all that. It was up for years.
Daddy painted the
kitchen every time Mom wanted a new color. Of course, this meant putting floor
covering on the kitchen floor. The kitchen was so big, Daddy covered it in
three pieces, with metal strips in between. Sometimes we would put holes in the
floor with our high heels.
Daddy had a garden every summer out next to the outhouse. When anyone would ask him what he
planted, he would answer, "I've got two rows of tomatoes, two rows of
onions, one row of cukes, one row of green beans, one row of squash, and two
rows of footprints." This was because Nancy and I were always
sneaking things out of the garden to eat, mostly when he would put in
radishes and lettuce. We loved his garden. In the front yard one year, he had a
really big garden, everything from melons to potatoes and much more. I only
think he did this once.
Dad had no power tools. Even the lawnmower had to be pushed, and the blades went around
and around. Doreen was cleaning the blades once, and I pushed it, cutting her
finger.
Dad was an assistant blacksmith on the
railroad. When the head blacksmith retired, Dad got his job.
This meant he had to pick an assistant. Much thought went into this, and after
much discussion with Mom, he made his choice: one of only two black men in
town, James Stevens. Dad took much flak for this, but he stood his ground,
saying James was the best man for the job.
When we would head upstairs to
Grandma's room, Dad knew there would be no school for us that day. He would ask
what was wrong: two bugs and a locus or brown kittens in the Borax? This was
his standard joke.
We could never stay
mad at Dad. Mommy worked Saturday nights
sometimes, and Nancy, Daddy, Grandma, and I would watch television together,
with popcorn and soda. We would argue who would get to sit by Daddy. He, like
us, was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise person, in bed by 8 p.m., up at 6
a.m.; he would mow the grass, do the housework, and be on the porch with his
Ballantine beer and a can of pork and beans or sauerkraut, eaten right from the
can.
When you looked my father in the eye, there was always a
twinkle. He was constantly thinking of jokes to play on us. One of his
favorites was to tell us he had a piece of candy in his jacket pocket. We would
fall for this over and over again: when we searched in his pocket, we found he
had in there one or two baby garter snakes, and we hated snakes. When we went for the candy, the snakes made
us scream, and he would laugh his deep-down-in-his-stomach hardy laugh.
One man who lived a short distance from
us used to call me “Erdie.“ He said I looked just like my dad. I couldn't think
of a nicer thing to say, a great compliment.
One thing about Dad was that he loved a
party, a picnic, or just a get- together, and he loved camping. Dad told many stories of his childhood about going to New Paltz
by horse and buggy to visit relatives. His dad would announce at night,
“Tomorrow, Lizzie is going to The Paltz, so be ready early.”
If you looked in the dictionary under “Dad,” you would
find a photo of our father. He was the best of fathers, and one everyone would
want. People were jealous of us for the father we had. He would do anything
for you and give you the last dollar he had. In return, he didn’t ask for much,
maybe to sit and talk awhile or to go on a walk to the woods with him. One
thing I remember and didn’t understand was how he could get the best sunburn
just sitting under a shade tree, when we would lie out in the sun and, at best,
get a so-so tan. We could not figure this out.
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We are serializing Home is Where the Story Begins: Memoir of a Happy Childhood, by Kathleen Blake Shields. This exceptional memoir is published by Outskirts Press, and is available from OP and from online booksellers including amazon.com and bn.com in paperback format.
I am proud to have served as Kathy's coach and editor. http://WriteYourBookWithMe.com
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