Left on the Sidewalk

The tradition began with a whim, and a whoops.

Snow had begun falling shortly after I arrived home from work and by 5:00, with the lights from street lamps and porches reflecting off the clouds, the neighborhood on the edge of town was eerily quiet. I stepped outside into the crisp air and let the flakes fall gently on my face. “Let’s walk down to Michael’s for dinner,” I suggested. I wanted to hear the crunch of snow with each step and do something that seemed almost quaint.

So we picked up our one-year-old daughter and bundled her in her blue snowsuit. We tucked her hands into the clipped-on mittens, tied the drawstring of her hood snuggly under her chin, and made sure she was good and trussed up so she wouldn’t get cold. All that was showing was her little round face. To make the adventure particularly sweet, we got the Radio Flyer sled out of the garage, placed her upright on it, and headed down the driveway and on to the sidewalk toward town, just a short half-mile away.

The sled glided easily along the snow’s surface. I checked a couple times to make sure our little tot was happy before easing into a conversation about what had happened during work that day. I thought about how cute we must look pulling our baby along behind us—a delightful sight, I was sure. The sled really was so lightweight. It effortlessly trailed along with virtually no resistance.

As we were about to turn left onto Main, I checked on our girl again and horrors, she was not on the sled. Poor little thing had slid off about 50 feet back and was lying face up on the sidewalk. I yelped, dropped the sled’s rope, and ran back up to get her. She looked up at the sky blinking at the falling snowflakes, not the least bit bothered or upset, trusting that all was well. I scooped her up and held her close before walking back down the sidewalk. By the time we reached Michael’s, we were a bit hysterical as we laughed about what had just happened.

We had a delicious Italian meal that evening. Our daughter was the center of attention for the staff who cooed at her and delighted in her attempts to pick up macaroni with her pincered fingers.

And, except for the part where she got left on the sidewalk, a tradition was born. Eventually we were a family of four that went to Michael’s for dinner every year on the evening of the first snow, enjoying the crunch of boots, the snowfall, and the beauty of reflected light.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2015

The Imaginary Friend

Her name was Who Who. Only I could see her. She was two inches tall.

I don't remember having any friends who were my same size until I started kindergarten. It was just Mom and me at home, and mostly me playing on my own. Just as in “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush,” Mom did the washing on Monday, the ironing on Tuesday, and the floors on Wednesday. In those days she cooked a meal every single day: meatloaf, chicken, spaghetti, various casseroles, and, without fail, beans, peas, and corn were included in predictable rotation, with white bread or rolls on the side. When Mom wasn’t reading the newspapers or her magazines, or sewing, baking, or hauling me around with her from store to store, I think the phrase I heard most was: "I'm busy, go play." 

My playmate was a very tiny little girl with blond plaits, each tied with a blue ribbon at the end. Who Who and I liked playing in small spaces. Closets were perfect. There was the closet at the bottom of the stairs where Mom placed a few old dresses and shoes for me to use to play dress-up and act like a grown-up. Who Who and I would play make-believe together for hours. The bottom of the closet in my bedroom became a Barbie house that I set up with furniture I made out of scraps of wood or paper. I painstakingly created a three-dimensional refrigerator, stove, and dresser for my dolls from sturdy card stock Dad had brought home from work. Scissors, glue, a little tape, and color pencils were my tools. I made a couch out of a piece of a 2x4 and baseboard. With my toy-size hammer and a few brads, the two pieces went together easily. Who Who was there to help me figure it all out.

Who Who and I listened to 45s on my little Victrola with the RCA dog logo on the front. Our favorite was a recording of the story of Sleeping Beauty. We had to switch over to the second side after the twelfth fairy said, “There she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and fall down dead!” It was scary, but Who Who was there.

Who Who was very smart, I thought. She would often advise me and I would tell Mom the things she would say like: “Who Who doesn’t like liver and onions and thinks I should have a hotdog instead.” Mom thought Who Who was smart, too, except she called her a smart aleck, and I still had to eat liver and onions. 

Who Who was a very loyal friend for many years. Even after I started school and started to meet people my own size, Who Who stuck around and was there when I needed her. She was my first best friend.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2015