Taking Little Kids to the Cemetery

For some reason I recently remembered when our three sons were small, and we drove from our old home in Ventura County, California, to the San Fernando Mission Cemetery where my dad is buried. (Daddy died at the start of my Junior year in high school.)

That day we brought along little spades and things for the kids, aged about 1, 4, and 8, to help as we pulled weeds and cleaned up around the headstone a bit. Of course we stopped and bought flowers before we arrived, and talked to the boys about where we were going, and why.

Ben, the youngest, was oblivious to anything but playing with the water and dirt. Tighe, as oldest, was fairly familiar with the routine. We didn't get to the cemetery too often, but he had heard stories about the grandpa who was buried there. He had come out with us more often than either of his brothers. He knew we would always leave flowers and a flag. My daddy had been military to his bones.

Jeremy was finally old enough to pay attention on this trip, though, and for the first time he questioned me.

"That's my grandpa under there?"

"Yes, Son."

More weeds were pulled as he thought about the concept. Jeremy was often serious and quiet.

"Is he going to grow again?"

"No, Honey."

He looked at me with one of those befuddled looks only a child can give a really dumb parent.

"Then why did you plant him?"

There are a few questions a parent just can't stop laughing long enough to answer.

Still Squirming

When I think back on some of my childhood camping experiences, I understand why my sister shakes her head and rolls her eyes, wondering why I love those memories. I really enjoyed myself back then, but it's hard to explain it to other people. Most of those stories are outrageous, and I'm often the butt of the joke.

Daddy didn't think anybody needed an air mattress, even if the ground was covered with rocks. That's why God made little kids: to remove the rocks before the tent is pitched. If you miss any, you deserve to roll over on them. 

He had a good trick. Everybody had to scoop out a little hollow in the dirt where their hips would nestle. That way, while you're lying all cosy in your sleeping bag, your head and shoulders would be higher than your hips, making you much more comfortable. I'm not sure this works. I never seemed to get my hollow in the right place, but I tried.

There was one memorable night when we arrived somewhere, late and tired as usual. We picked rocks and dug our hollows, then erected the tent. Dragging our sleeping bags inside, we preserved our modesty by carefully undressing in shifts. We lay down like sardines in our bags, the night sounds all around us. I rolled around, trying to get my hips in the right place. Dad shut off the lantern. It was dark.

Wiggle, wiggle, squirm. Where is that hole? Swish went the zipper when I had to move it down to readjust myself. My flannel PJs had twisted inside the flannel sleeping bag. Zip. Wiggle. Come on, hole. I know you're there. Squirm. Wiggle. Squirm.

"Kathleen Louise! What are you doing over there?"

"Sorry, Daddy. I keep getting my shoulder caught in my rump hole!"

My mother is particularly fond of telling stories like that. The larger the group, the more likely this story is in making the rounds. Beware of marrying into our family. There are hundreds of stories like this, and you might consider avoiding Thanksgiving dinner until people think you've already heard all of the embarrassing tales from each of your new in-laws... 

Never mind. That will never happen. Besides, Ellen & Johnny host Thanksgiving each year. You really wouldn't want to miss that. And our family will never run out of stories, or care if you've already heard them.

By the time I entered the 10th Grade in high school, we had made seven cross country trips in a station wagon with four kids, two parents and all the camping gear a family could stuff in a small space and load on top of the car. My parents were either noble or nuts. I never did figure out which.

Here's a photo of the four of us at the Grand Canyon. My mother loves to remind us that we fought over comic books that entire trip. She swore she'd never again allow us to have comics in the car. Then she found out how much pain a kid could inflict with a hard back book. 

Trips would have been easier if Daddy had been more willing to stop occasionally. Once he put his foot down on the gas, he hated to lift it up again. Heaven help you if you didn't take care of all your business at the gas stop. We still love to tease Kenny, the youngest, about the time he said he didn't have to use the bathroom until about a half hour down the road. Dad pulled over by the side of the road. 

"Just go behind the bushes!" There might be an expletive deleted in there, but you don't need to know that, do you? 

"But I've got to go number two, Daddy." 

"Too bad, kid. Use the bush. We just left the gas station, and you said you didn't have to go. They had clean restrooms. Now you've got a bush."

He used the bush. Then he stepped in it before climbing back in the car.

Ellen, who always got car sick at the least provocation, proceeded to throw up not much further down the road.

Daddy stopped at the next gas station. It was a long stop. The car got cleaned and aired out. At least we weren't fighting over the comic books.

Mama Recited Poetry

Dad didn't always appreciate the poems Mama recited to us kids. The one I remember that made him the most cross was called "When Papa was a Little Boy." Reading it as an adult, I understand exactly why he'd leave the room. I even understand some of what would be happening before she'd start reciting it. It would happen when Daddy would be on one of his perfectionist rampages. That's as good a word as any. I'm positive it was more effective than her yelling at him would have been.

I imagine the poem would fit many a husband and father, but with a little rewording, it would probably fit many women and mothers of today's world as well. Enjoy now a laugh at the expense of our strange family.

When Papa Was A Little Boy

When Papa was a little boy, you really couldn't find
Within the state or anywhere a child so quick to mind.
His mother never called but once and he was always there.
He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair.

He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise;
And never in his life was known to fight with other boys.
He always studied hard at school and got his lessons right;
And chopping wood and milking cows were Papa's chief delight.

He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight,
And never lay abed til noon, and never sat up late.
He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten years old,
And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told.

He never grumbled when he had to do the evening chores,
And ne'er in all his life forgot to shut the stable doors.
He never, never thought of play until his work was done,
And labored hard from break of day until the set of sun.

He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor,
And never answered back his ma, and never banged the door.
"But truly, I could never see," said little Dick Malloy,
"How he could never do these things and really be a boy."

Pancakes and Point

I'm not sure if our family really loved camping, or if it was simply the one thing we could manage to afford to do on vacation. I know I loved camping, but I'm not sure about everyone else. Even camping out would stretch our budget by the time we'd add in the travel costs. By the time Dad retired, we had seen most of the United States and a great deal of Canada as well.

I remember one trip to Banff National Park in Alberta, Canada. That's where Lake Louise is, in the Canadian Rockies, and it's the first place I ever saw a glacier. It was a beautiful spot. With travel time, we had about three weeks available.

This was the location of our mirage fight. Dad had gotten up early to go fishing, and Mom had decided to treat the four of us kids to a breakfast at the campground's little diner. We cleaned up really good, and walked across the campground to join the line at the self-serve counter. We were excited, but we were being very good, and straining to see the big white board at the front of the line that listed the daily breakfast specials.

I'll never forget my shock when my mother suddenly gathered us kids together and started herding us out of there, loudly proclaiming, "If you four can't stop fighting, you can just forget eating in a restaurant." Our reaction was probably as loud and indignant as she needed it to be. When we got back to the campground, she apologized to all of us, and admitted that when she saw the prices, she knew she didn't have enough money for us to all eat there. Then she made us some pancakes with apples in them.

We still had dinner and lunch food, but breakfasts were down to pancakes. We had pancakes with apples until we ran out of apples. Then we had pancakes with corn. We ran out of that, too. We ran out of syrup and jam. Then Daddy called a family meeting one night and said we had enough time left for one more week, but no food left except for pancakes, and almost nothing left to put on them. Mom was silent as we took a vote on whether to stay and eat pancakes, or head home. Of course we kids wanted to stay.

My dad was so pleased with our vote that he personally cleaned out the empty jam jars and syrup bottle and placed them on the picnic table. He introduced us to "pancakes and point." You take a bite of pancake and point to the container of what you would imagine was on your pancake. Close your eyes now. Isn't that delicious? We later learned that potatoes and point works just as well when you burn the gravy. Just clip a photo from a magazine and glue it to a jar or bottle...

Daddy's Response to Pressure

My dad didn't appreciate being told what he had to do. He was a Master Sergeant, very much accustomed to giving orders. In the chain of command, he was also used to taking orders, but there were some officers who felt like they could take advantage of their rank to have their troops do whatever they wanted.

I believe we were in Idaho when one of Dad's "superior" officers decided that all of the men under his command would submit a poster to the base's Fire Safety Campaign. This was going to be mandatory. Daddy wasn't amused. He simply didn't want to do it. No protests are accepted in the military. Get an order? Obey. And there was a deadline.

There's an old saying: Watch what you wish for. That officer got his posters, but they weren't what he he wanted, at least in my dad's case. What he wanted was to look good in the eyes of the base commander. My father might have had to turn in a poster, but they didn't tell him what it had to say. To make matters worse, the judging was done by the men in the fire house on base. They shared my dad's sense of humor. He was awarded a ribbon of some kind. It might have been honorable mention, or maybe third place. I can't remember exactly, but do remember that the poster hung on our wall at home for awhile.

Daddy's poster showed a nice tent in a clearing, with trees all around. It was dark. In front of the tent was a campfire, blazing merrily. Beneath the picture was this proud caption: Never Smoke In Bed. The Sleeping Bag You Burn May Be Your Wife.

We Could Never Be Sure

Dad would tell us a story, and we wouldn't be able to tell if it was true or not. He had one of those faces that could hold an expression forever. It could be stern or solemn, earnest or forthright. He could make you believe him while telling a whopper, or make you question his sanity when telling the truth. I was thinking back to one of those times when we didn't believe him but should have.

Daddy was talking about some friends back in Michigan, the Berger brothers. He said their names were Ham and Lim. Ham Berger and Lim Berger? Yeah, Dad. That's pretty funny. Sure, we believe you. (Wink, wink.) He insisted it was true.

We simply didn't believe him. It got to be a running joke. Would we name our kids something like that? Whenever we'd meet someone with a name that could be punned around with, we would come home considering our options. Bum Rush comes to mind. Leaky Waters. Some of them were pretty bad. None were as good as Ham Berger and Lim Berger.

Imagine our surprise when we actually met one of the Berger twins on one of our trips to Michigan. With Dad, you could just never be sure.

Encouragement

Having four kids and being a woman who felt it was easier to do all the housework herself rather than teach the kids to help, Mom often got behind on her household chores. Of course we children didn't much care. It never got outrageously bad, but Daddy was a perfectionist, and noticed anything that wasn't the way he wanted it to be. I think he was patient most of the time, or if he got on her about it, he did it in private. I do remember that as an adult I often thought that the way to get the house clean was to go outside and play, and when you came back in, it would be all nice and clean. It never worked for me as an adult. Now I've learned that daily doses are a lot easier than periodic panic cleaning.

We were talking about my Mom, though. I was remembering one night when Dad came home from work and decided to give her a little encouragement to get things picked up and cleaned really quickly. He was a Master Sergeant. We were pretty young at that time, but old enough to help if we had ever been taught what to do. Still, if handed something and told where to put it, we could do that. When Dad walked in, we all got ready to sit down for dinner as usual. While we were eating, Dad casually stated, "Earl and Dee are coming by for a visit."

You would have thought the rest of the meal was served in fast forward. Dishes were cleared and cleaned, the only job we youngsters actually were adept at doing, besides hauling out the trash. Then Mom started running through the house, starting at the front door. She picked up, put away, straightened, dusted, vacuumed... By eight o'clock the house looked pretty good, and Mom was about to head to her room to freshen up when she turned to my dad.

"What time did Earl say he and Dee would be here?"

"Oh, he didn't say. He just thought they should come by for a visit soon. I didn't say tonight. When should we have them over?"

At least the house looked really nice. And whatever Mom was thinking, she didn't say it out loud.

Growing Pains

Seventh Grade. Daddy gave permission for my sister, my younger brother and me to each invite a friend and pitch tents in the back yard in Virginia, which is where we were living at the time. There was the girl's tent and the boy's tent. There was just one rule. We were not allowed to leave the tents after dark.

I was in seventh grade, Ken was in sixth grade, and Ellen was a ninth grader. My friend was Vivien, and her brother Marvin was Kenny's friend. I don't remember who Ellen's friend was. Although there were the same number of months between her and me as there was between Ken and me, she always seemed way beyond my sphere. (She danced with boys; I played the accordion.)

Our house backed up to the woods on the Army base, Ft. Belvoir, and we enjoyed the normal early 60's routine of running behind the DDT truck in the early summer twilight. (OK, maybe it's not surprising that I ended up a little strange.) We ended up back in the tents by the time the night had gotten completely dark, and laughed and talked until all was quiet and the lights went off in the houses around us. Then, of course, we quietly slipped out of the tents and snuck off into the woods.

Walking along through the woods, we were able to avoid the street, but still make our way to the biggest playground any kid could ask for in this or any other lifetime. There was a parade ground right next to a golf course, and they were both within walking distance, bordered by beautiful climbing trees. There was lots of space for running, trees for climbing, and spots for hide and seek. We were a lot more innocent than today's pre-teens were, and we had a lot of good clean fun out there that night. Once in awhile the MP (Military Police) jeeps would come by, and we'd have to hide, but since we weren't caught, it wasn't a problem. I think they knew that kids routinely played out there at night anyway. Their patrols just kept a lid on things.

Finally, probably around midnight, we came straggling back through the woods to the tents, tired and dirty. I'll never forget crawling through the flap of our tent to see Daddy sitting cross-legged in the middle of our sleeping bags, waiting for us, with his belt in his lap. We were in deep, deep trouble. It probably would have hurt less if the MPs had gotten us first. Daddy had a temper. I remember he walked our friends home before the spankings started, but that just gave us time to think about it.

The funny thing is, I wouldn't have traded that night for anything. Even if I had known we'd get caught and punished like we did, I think I'd still have gone and had that last innocent night of fun, being a carefree child one more time. I think this was the last time I ever really ran free like that. After that night I pretty much started concentrating on my classwork and my music, and I know I thought about consequences more.

I know I still ran behind the DDT truck on occasion, and I sure didn't immediately throw out the stash of mercury we kids kept in a bottle. I think we often broke thermometers on purpose just to add to our collection. Gosh, that stuff was fun to play with! Still, it was the beginning of the end of an era. The era of childhood.

Did He Really Believe That?

Elementary school kids can be a lot of fun. One on one time is special, and when you have three kids, it's often hard to come by. One night Jeremy and I were able to sit together and watch a movie on our VCR player. It was Driving Miss Daisy. Since that was released in 1989, Jeremy would have to have been at least twelve by the time we rented it. I knew there was a book out, but had never read it or heard anything about it or the movie. I knew the rating was PG, and it had won a bunch of Oscars. Because of that, it had been released fairly quickly.

I didn't know it was about the Civil Rights movement era. Having done a turn in the deep South during the 50's, that's a really touchy subject for me. At any rate, at one point in the movie, Miss Daisy is being driven down town, and you can tell by the music that something is about to go wrong. I started getting really uncomfortable, and Jeremy stopped the movie with the remote control and asked me what was wrong with me. I very honestly told him that I was uncomfortable with what I thought we might be getting ready to see.

What was that, he wanted to know. "Well," I said, not wanting to ruin the picture for him, "I lived through three assassinations in my teen years, and maybe we're about to see one of them."

I'll never forget the look on his face. "I know! It was John Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Abraham Lincoln!"

Thou shalt not kill.