Finding Francie

Grandma’s player piano was set with all the Christmas song rolls ready to load. Grandpa’s basement bar was fully stocked, and all the single and double tumblers, and beer glasses were washed and ready to be filled. Festive paper tablecloths with matching plates, napkins, and cups had been placed on the six-foot folding tables borrowed from the church, and the plasticware was sitting in baskets decorated with pine cones and ribbons. All was in readiness for the arrival of food-contributing family members coming mostly from the Anderson farm. Among the anticipated arrivals would be my cousin, Betty Jean, and I could hardly wait.

Betty Jean was a year older and I looked up to her as one might a big sister. Once the party was well underway, there was plenty of singing, a little dancing, and lots of drinking and eating. The atmosphere was punctuated by the occasional crack of a newly broken rack of pool balls as the uncles and older cousins challenged one another to game after game. Betty Jean put her mouth up against my ear so that only I could hear her ask, “Want to go snoop for Santa presents?”

At nearly nine years old I was right on the cusp of no longer believing. But her question gave me a moment of pause as I considered whether I was actually ready to give up the notion of Santa. I don’t think I was quite ready but I didn’t want Betty Jean to think I was a baby. So we snuck off and up the stairs.

We poked into closets and drawers, ever mindful of the continuing din from downstairs. We certainly didn’t want to get caught. We’d freeze from time to time to listen for grownups that didn’t come. With just one last closet left to explore, we carefully drew the door open and pulled the clothes aside to look deep into the back area. And there she was. Francie. Barbie’s popular cousin and one of the hottest new items on the lists of young girls like me. In her cellophane-covered box, she stared back at me—a vision with blonde hair and checkered swimsuit. Bendable Leg Francie was the label at the top of the box. She was everything I’d hoped for with her rosy cheeks and blue eyes. I started to cry.

“Now you know that Santa’s going to bring you what you wanted!” Betty Jean excitedly said. I was excited but also disappointed because now I knew for sure about Santa.

On Christmas morning, my sister and I went into Mom and Dad’s bedroom to ask if we could go into the living room to see what Santa had brought. Because Susan still believed, I was reconciled to the notion of playing along and continuing the fantasy for her enjoyment. We walked into the living room to our unwrapped Santa presents. I looked for my beautiful new Francie doll.

There, propped up amongst several other items that had been on my list, was the familiar box. But something was different. My mind raced as I looked at her. This was a brown-eyed brunette Francie, not the blonde one I’d discovered in the closet.

Santa was still real!

Copywriter DJ Anderson, 2017

The Good China

The holiday season kicked off last week on Thanksgiving. When Mom was still alive, this was one of the precious few times during the year when she would bring out the good china. Her Noritake pattern, Canton, was manufactured in Japan. My father picked it out while stationed in the South Pacific in the early 1950s. He had it packed in straw in a large wooden crate and shipped to Wisconsin prior to their marriage in 1954. The soft greens and browns of the bamboo-themed pattern, each piece embellished with a thin gold rim, is beautiful. You can not put it in a microwave. I found this out when trying to heat up a piece of pie. Sparks spewed and crackled for just a couple seconds before I was able to hit the Stop button. Luckily my mom wasn’t in the kitchen at the time, or sparks of a very different sort would have been flying because the Noritake china was sacrosanct.

I never had good china until I inherited the Noritake. I really never saw the point of having something that was only brought out a few times a year. In an homage to my mother-in-law who espoused using and enjoying nice things no matter what day of the year, I now use the Noritake when I’m feeling nostalgic, which is on no particular occasion. But because I don’t use it every day, I suppose I still hold it in reverence.

My daughter has my paternal grandmother’s china. Decorated with a dogwood pattern, it is still packed in the box it was stored in at the time it was given to her. She swears that once she and her husband are settled, she will begin to use it. My son and his fiance have just told my sister, Susan, that they are very excited to take our maternal grandmother’s china, which has a light pink rose pattern and a silver rim on each piece. I’ll have to be sure to tell them not to put it in the microwave. Susan is also giving them her own good china, which they will use for everyday, along with some matching glass goblets and pretty fancy flatware. They are thrilled. And I am thrilled that my children didn’t see the need to select their own good china, as keeping these sets in the family makes me very happy.

Heller China

Logue China

Noritake China

Anderson China

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

The Coldest Night

Camping at the end of October in northern Indiana can be a cold undertaking. But our Girl Scout troop needed just one more weekend in the great outdoors to finish both our Outdoor Cook and Troop Camper badges. So even with temperatures predicted in the teens, we packed up our gear to go.

The site we were assigned for the weekend was newly renovated. Since we had already completed the requirement demonstrating our ability to pitch and pack a pup tent, the appearance of brand new platform tents, meaning we could just toss our gear inside with no fussing with ground covers, tarps, or stakes, was a welcome sight.

Dory, Laurie, Debbie, and I were directed to Platform 3, which was beautifully situated among the many pine and oak trees. It was a Goldilocks-distance from the latrine—not too far for an evening visit; not too close to offend the senses.

Soon after our arrival, we each took claim to a generous area within the permanent tent affixed to Platform 3. We rolled out our sleeping bags and nested our clothes and toiletries nearby. Then it was off to the woods to collect firewood for building the evening’s campfire.

Our leaders, Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Connell, clipboards in hand, made sure each girl had been given the chance to meet the requirements of the badges we were trying to earn. Leslie was put in charge of getting the fire started; Cathy fetched the water to boil; and I stood by with the packages of spaghetti noodles awaiting the right moment to drop them in. Before long, our joint efforts resulted in a delicious dinner replete with Ragu sauce, garlic bread, and iceberg lettuce salad. We even had cold milk to drink.

After cleaning up all the pots, pans, bowls, plates, flatware, and mugs, it was time to roast marshmallows for S’mores, sing camp songs, and generally enjoy the still-hot coals of the diminishing fire. We huddled close around the embers as the temperature began to drop. The predicted cold front brought with it a brilliantly star-lit, clear, night sky, which then prompted us to start pointing overhead to identify constellations. And then it was time to head back to our platform tents for bed. The next whole day was to be a busy one of hiking while identifying trees, shrubs, and various plants along the trail. A good night’s sleep was in order.

Snuggled deep inside my sleeping bag, my head pulled in and completely covered, I was well into my first REM cycle dreaming that a child was crying when I awoke to the realization that the crying was real. I peeked out of my cocoon and was assailed first by the bitter cold of the air, and second by a sour and pungent odor. Just a few feet away, Dory was kneeling pathetically next to her bag and belongings, whimpering and hiccuping over a puddle of her half-digested dinner of spaghetti, salad, milk, and S’mores. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. I did not want to get out of my sleeping bag. I wanted to cover my head back up and pretend ignorance. And then she convulsed again. At that, Laurie, too, awoke and groaned, “Oh, God, gross.” Dory continued to cry and shiver at which point I got scared that she’d freeze to death there in that mess.

I reluctantly got out of my bag, put my jacket and shoes on, and stumbled out of the tent into the now 19 degree frosty air. Just across the path to the latrine was Platform 1 where our leaders were fast asleep. I zipped open their canvas closure and saw two humps covered with rubber tarps. “Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Connell,” I hissed. No movement. In my regular voice, I tried again. Mrs. Smith’s head popped up from under the tarp with a suddenly alert expression on her face. “Dory got sick,” I said. “It’s bad. Really bad.” With hardly a moment’s hesitation, both leaders were up. After assessing the situation, Mrs. Connell got in her car to drive to the pay phone up at the entrance to the campground to call Dory’s parents. By the light of a lantern, Laurie, Debbie, and I did as Mrs. Smith directed. We helped get Dory dressed in something cleaner and warmer, wrapped her in a tarp, and walked her to the shelter up near the road to await her parents with both leaders.

Thinking the ordeal was over, Laurie, Debbie, and I headed back to Platform 3 to get back into our sleeping bags as quickly as possible. But the smell inside was overwhelming and we all reeled back hoping not to be sick ourselves. I chanced it and ran in to grab my flashlight. I shone it over the wreckage to see that the mess had splattered quite far afield. This was no harbor.

We headed next door to Platform 2, and woke the girls in there. After a few minutes, we each had a sleeping bag partner. Laurie and I spooned together hoping for warmth to return, but we shivered and chattered the whole rest of the night, only just managing to stay warm enough to see the light of a new day.

I was never so happy for a night to be over. After several hours of hiking, and with the help of hot cocoa and oatmeal, I could again feel the tip of my nose, my hands, and feet. But since that night, I have forever been sensitized to cold and prefer to be in sweltering heat no matter how hot and humid.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

The Way Back

If your family ever owned a station wagon, being in the way back meant you watched the road fade away behind you while the rest of the passengers watched the road ahead. Nostalgia for where you had come from and how far you had already traveled was the wonder of your perspective.

It was this same sense of wonder for the past that took possession of Lisa, Italo, John, and me one evening after all our children were finally in bed. The four of us had become fast friends during our newlywed years. As the children began to arrive, we committed ourselves to staying close, thus ensuring that, to this day, the kids think of themselves as cousins. On this one evening, after a wonderful shared meal, and already several bottles of wine, we tucked the children in and collapsed together on the living room floor with yet another bottle of wine freshly uncorked.

Italo casually began to thumb through our collection of old LPs that had long been gathering dust since the advent of the CD. He selected Van Morrison’s Moondance and began reading the liner notes. John hopped up and opened the credenza that held all our stereo components and, just like that, we were looking out the back window into the music of our past.

We went deep into the cuts, placing the needle ever so delicately into the groove to play our favorites, and then telling one another the stories that gave each of these songs such personal meaning. We laughed and played songs into the wee hours. The shared experience went as deep as the cuts.

In the way back, we saw one another as more than the adults we had become, we saw that, like our children, we were as close as cousins through the nostalgia we had for the same music. And though it’s fun to relive the past, friendship like this actually always stays in the front seat, looking ahead.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

Posting Bail

In this age of binge-worthy series produced by the likes of Amazon and Netflix, recommendations come from friends and algorithms alike. So when both a friend and a bot suggested that I might like “Sneaky Pete,” I decided to give it a try.

The series is rife with complications that keep the viewer guessing about the various motives of each character, but it was the consummate conman Pete’s relationship with a family in the bail bonds business that sparked my memory of the night Maris and I attempted to post bail for her boyfriend, Danny.

In the summer of 1979, I was in my dorm room at Stetson University in DeLand, Florida, studying for my final exam in Spanish when I was interrupted by a knock on my door. “Come in,” I called. I was so happy to see Maris, a native Spanish speaker from Puerto Rico, because I was having trouble with a conjugation. Her arrival was auspicious indeed.

She was out of breath and explained that she had run to my room from the house she and Danny shared about a half mile away. In her heavily-accented English she said, “I need your help. Danny is in jail, and I must go and bail him out.”

I explained to her that I didn’t know anything about bailing someone out of jail, but she was brooking no excuses from me. “You must come,” she pleaded, nearly in tears. “We need one-hundred-forty-six dollars and seventy cents, and we will be able to get Danny out of jail.”

I stared at her. We were in college. No one had $146.70 just hanging around ready to peel off and hand over to someone. She frantically motioned for me to get up from my desk and come with her. I protested one more time. “Maris, I have to study for my Spanish exam.”

“No worries,” she said. “You help me, I will make sure you get a good grade. I will make sure you get an A.” Knowing that I would already pass this exam, maybe even pull off a B without any more studying, I agreed to go with her.

We power-walked back to her rented house while she explained how Danny had gotten arrested. He had been growing pot for several months in a container garden he set up on their enclosed back patio. Danny’s business was extremely small. He produced enough to supply about a half dozen friends, and had a small amount left over for his personal use. He made enough money to pay for the cost of his textbooks and to afford take-out a couple times a week. But in those Reagan-Era days of the War on Drugs with minimum sentencing, for people like Danny, an arrest really could prove disastrous.

Maris explained the plan. We would go to the house and dig through all the drawers, look under furniture and rugs, and rummage through closets and cushions. She was sure we would be able to come up with one-hundred-forty-six dollars and seventy cents and then we would walk to the jail, which was only a few blocks away.

Remarkably, once I kicked in the four dollars and thirty-two cents I had in my purse, we had the amount needed. I didn’t understand why we had to get this particular amount, but she explained, “The policeman said this is the amount to get Danny out of jail.”

At the station, we were directed to a small booth around the corner from the main entrance. I saw an officer sitting there and thought that he must be like a toll collector. I imaged that we would just walk up to him, tell him we were there to post bail for Danny, hand him $146.70, and Danny would walk out, and I’d soon be studying for my Spanish exam again. But, that’s not how it worked.

It’s amazing to me that the officer didn’t start cracking up at our naivete. He gave us a little tutorial on what was involved in posting bail. The conversation went something like this:

O: Does your friend own any property in town? Or anywhere in the state of Florida?

Me: No.

O: The full bond is $1,467. Do you have that much money?

Me and Maris: (horrified looks on our faces) No.

O: Without property, or the full amount, you have to engage the services of a bail bondsman who will guarantee, for the price of ten percent of the bond, that your friend won’t skip out and will appear on his court date.

Maris: But the police officer said if I brought one-hundred-forty-six dollars and seventy cents to the jail, Danny could come home.

O: I’m sorry, girls, that’s just not the way it works.

Me: How do we find a bail bondsman?

O: There’s a list posted right over there. (He pointed to a piece of paper taped to the side of the booth.)

I looked at the list of about 30 names, none of which I knew, and sighed.

Me: I guess we can just call the first name on the list.

O: (shook his head.)

Me: Why are you shaking your head?

O: (shook his head.)

Me: Well...maybe I’ll call the second name on the list.
O: (shook his head.)

Me: Hmm...maybe I’ll call the third name on the list.

O: (stared down at his clipboard.)

Me: May I have a piece of paper and borrow a pen?

O: (slid the requested items under the bullet proof panel separating us.)

Me: Thank you.

O: Good luck to you.

It was 2:00 AM before Maris and I arrived back at my dorm room. We found a bail bondsman for Danny, but nothing could be done before 9:00 in the morning. Danny would just have to spend the whole night in jail. Maris resigned herself to this fact, and was effusive about the five hours I had spent trying to solve the problem with her. We gathered my Spanish notes and textbook together and snuggled up on my bed to start studying.

At 4:00 AM she pronounced me ready to make an A. We fell asleep, exhausted by everything that had happened.

The happy ending was that I made an A, Danny was bailed out and back home by noon, and his court-appointed lawyer filed that the DeLand police had made an illegal search. It was several months later, but Danny was not convicted. He also never grew pot again. At least not in DeLand. As to “Sneaky Pete,” I understand Season 2 is already in production.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

Tobacco Days

During our years in Indiana, it was de rigeur to spend every holiday of the year up in Edgerton, Wisconsin, celebrating with our Heller, Hanson, Anderson, and Stricker relatives. It would be difficult to say for sure whose home I enjoyed being at most because each household came with its own unique set of interesting experiences. If pressed, however, I’d have to settle on the Anderson family farm in Milton.

Life on the farm was so completely different than my own, that, to me, it was filled with magic and wonder. There were cats and kittens, dogs and puppies, chickens and chicks, dairy cows, tractors, all manner of sounds from buzzing flies to bellowed profanity, and adventures that provided all kinds of scope for the imagination.

One of those adventures began over the Memorial Day weekend of 1972. I had just turned 14 years old and was beginning to “fill out” as the euphemism of the day went. I wasn’t quite the scrawny kid I’d been for my entire life and was gaining in height and strength. My Aunt Louise took a look at me and stated that she thought I might be useful on the planter. Dad said he thought so, too, and I was quickly recruited to help plant the tobacco.

The planter was an unsophisticated piece of equipment that I suspect was built by my Uncle Hunk and Uncle Bob using leftover bits of the numerous relics that filled one of the barns. Aunt Florence loaded up the back platform of the planter with the baby tobacco plants that she and the other aunts had been tending for the past several weeks, and off we went. My memory isn’t exactly clear on the whole method, but I vaguely remember that Aunt Florence laid on her stomach with the upper part of her body extended off the back of the planter. The planter must have had a device on the front end that made the holes; she then plopped a plant into the hole; and a copper tube that extended beyond her squirted water on the plant. I’m pretty sure Aunt Bea and Aunt Louise helped, too. My job was to keep feeding those baby plants to Aunt Florence so she always had one in her hand ready for the next hole.

When we were done I was very proud to have helped plant the tobacco crop. When I went back home after the weekend, I told all my friends what it was like to be a farmer.

Knowing that the crop would be ready around the middle of July, I begged my parents to let me go back up to help with the harvest. Phone calls were made, logistics were discussed, and finally plans were made. We would go back up to Wisconsin for the Fourth of July weekend per usual. But, I would be left behind for two full weeks during which it was reckoned that the crop would be ready. Mom, Dad, and Susan would come back to pick me up on the third weekend of July when, to everyone’s delight, Edgerton had plans for a first-ever grand celebration they were calling Tobacco Days.

During my stay at Grandpa and Grandma Anderson’s, I walked up to the pool to swim almost every day, took a lanyard-making class at the park, rode bicycles with some second cousins, and waited patiently for the call from the farm that would summon me to the harvest. It came about halfway through my stay.

I rode out to the farm with Grandpa Anderson where we ate a good breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast, and then went to our assigned places to get started. Grandpa worked side-by-side with his brothers to remove the leaves from the stalks. My job was to help my cousin Betty Jean load the “sled” with the leaves handed to us by the men and drive the tractor back to the barn where the leaves would be hung to cure. The aunts were in the barn where they took the leaves from us and rammed them onto long sticks that were then positioned upon the rafters. Then it was back to the fields where we would get covered in little brown hopper insects. Part of our job was to inspect the cut leaves for tobacco worms, and remove any that we saw. This went on for three days in the hot sun. It was hard, grimy work, but completely satisfying. Showers never felt so good as they did after being in the fields.

By the time my family returned to Wisconsin, it was time to celebrate. Grandma bought me a Tobacco Days t-shirt that I then wore just about every day for the rest of the summer, and on weekends through the next school year. We participated in the carnival-like atmosphere of downtown Edgerton where I reveled in the excitement and joy I found in the town of my birth. I had planted and harvested tobacco—quite the experience for a girl from the suburbs.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

The Last Day

I woke up with a start. It was shortly after 2:00 AM and I must have been dreaming because something had scared me awake.

“John,” I whispered as I nudged my husband. “John, wake up,” I said.

Never being one to even hear the dog barking or the children crying, it was a difficult task, but I finally got him to wake up.

“What is it?” he asked.

“What’s the weather supposed to be like tomorrow?”

“How should I know?” he asked with a note of irritation.

“I want to fly out to the Cape to visit Pat and Dick for the day. I just have to see her,” I pleaded. “I’m afraid she’s going to die soon.”

After Pat and Dick retired to the Cape, Pat began her third round of cancer treatments. My own mother had started her second round, though I kept that a secret from Pat. I was afraid for both of them.

John said, “I’ll check the weather in the morning. Now, go back to sleep.”

In the morning he checked the weather and agreed that he’d be able to fly us out to the Cape for the day. I scrambled around to find someone to take care of the children, and then called Pat to tell her we were coming out. She was delighted as two other friends were going to be there as well. She sounded so vibrant on the phone I began to feel a bit silly over the fuss I was making. Perhaps I was being melodramatic, but never mind, it would be good to see her anyway.

The day dawned crisp and clear with John piloting us to our destination. Dick met us at the Chatham airport and our day began in earnest with a full schedule of Pat’s planned activities. John and Dick did some clamming; and Pat, Sue Eldert, Velma Dean, and I walked along the shore and chatted about how beautiful the Cape was and about what all our children were doing. Pat fixed us all a delicious homemade vegetable soup with fresh baked bread.

I marveled at how Pat looked—as hale and hearty as she had sounded on the phone. All was well. What had I been so worried about? She chatted on comfortably about how she and Dick were leaving on Wednesday to visit his twin brother and wife in Phoenix. She explained that when they returned, she would head up to Brigham and Women’s in Boston to start receiving treatments in a clinical trial of a new drug. “I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again,” she declaimed with optimism. All was promise and sunshine. When John and I flew home—a stunning sunset of pink, red, and purple lighting up the western horizon—I was feeling relieved.

One week later, Sue Eldert called to say that Pat and Dick had arrived in Phoenix as planned on Wednesday, but on Thursday afternoon Pat had said, “Dick, I need to go home right now.” They got back on a plane and flew to Boston where they checked her into Brigham and Women’s. Sue further explained that she, Molly Wooden, and Libby Peard had driven up to Boston on Friday knowing that it would be the last time they’d see Pat. Sue then told me that while they, Pat’s four daughters, and Dick reminisced and sang songs, Pat had died.

In addition to my immediate grief, I felt hurt that Sue hadn’t called me so that I could have gone to Boston, too. But, in retrospect, we had enjoyed a beautiful day on the Cape together. I really would not have been happy having my last image be of Pat in a hospital bed connected to tubes and wires.

We had a perfect last day. And I will always cherish that.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

The Dolls

“Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob’s house almost burned down,” said Dad.

“How?” I asked.

“They say the water heater exploded and within a few minutes the kitchen was on fire. But, they saved most of the dolls.”

Aunt Mary loved dolls. She had hundreds of them that she kept displayed in two large glass cabinets, protected from dust, and the curious hands of little girls like me and my many cousins. No one but Aunt Mary was allowed to touch the dolls. None of them were meant to be played with, only to admire. But knowing how fascinated we were with them, she would occasionally unlock a cabinet and remove one for us to marvel upon. Aunt Mary’s cabinets held so many dolls, it was possible to discover someone new each time you looked into their cramped little world. Shirley Temple, Betsy Wetsy, Chatty Cathy, Baby Crissy, and Barbie were among the many more modern manufactured specimens, but also rare antique bisque and porcelain additions, along with series dolls like the characters from Little Women, Gone With the Wind, and all the fairy tales and storybooks. The Madame Alexander dolls most captured my imagination.

Consequently, when Dad said they’d saved most of the dolls, my first thoughts were to wonder which ones had not made it. And to Aunt Mary, I knew that any loss would be a great one.

“I’m heading out to the farm to take a look at the house, would you like to come along?” Dad asked. It worried me about what I might see, but I went with him. We met Uncle Bob outside the house, which looked pretty much the same. It was streaked with black soot, but otherwise looked fine. When we went in the back door to the kitchen, however, the full catastrophe lay before us. The place looked like it had been smashed to pieces with a sledgehammer, and everything was charred and black. There was no color at all besides black and dark shades of grey and brown. The smell was a complex combination of the chemicals used to smother the fire along with the moldering of ashes and burnt formica, linoleum, wood, and metal. The stove looked like it had melted. Uncle Bob pointed to where the water heater had been located. It, too, was a melted pile of metal. “Watch your step,” he said, as we carefully made our way toward the living room.

“The first thing we did after calling the fire department was to open up the doll cabinets,” Uncle Bob explained. He went on to say that right after the explosion, Uncle Hunk and Aunt Cile had run over from next door and helped him and Mary throw the dolls out the front door of the house into the lawn. “We only lost the ones that were on the bottom shelf of the cabinet closest to the kitchen,” he said with pride. “Wish we could have saved them all. We’re just thankful that we have your Grandma Mac to help fix up the ones that got damaged.”

Like a skilled surgeon, Grandma Mac had taken in the dozen or so dolls that had not been damaged beyond repair to meticulously see to their wounds. One needed an eye, another a new arm; a few needed to have their faces repainted and new eyelashes glued into place; and they all needed to have the soot cleaned from their bodies. But the job that Grandma really took seriously was to reproduce their clothing. One by one, she restored them each to their previous splendour.

Within a year, the house, too, had been restored. New cabinets were built, and all the dolls that had lived through the fire were carefully positioned into place by Aunt Mary. And to celebrate, everyone chipped in to buy her a new Madame Alexander to add to her collection.

Copyright by DJ Anderson, 2017 

The Schlepecks

She lived at the end of our street. Mrs. Schlepeck—four children under the age of six, bags under her eyes, skin an ashen tone, hair poking out every which way, wearing an apron over her housedress, slippers on her feet—did not socialize with the other mothers in the neighborhood. Even as a seven-year-old, I knew something was desperately wrong in the Schlepeck household. There were dirty faces, clothes that needed mending, a house that needed paint, and a general pall to the aura of a home that otherwise resided in an affluent neighborhood. Ramshackle is a word that comes to mind.

Time being an elusive substantiator when a child, I have no notion of how much had passed before she became Mrs. Long. But Mrs. Long invited the entire village to her home on the day she married Mr. Long.

I was thunderstruck by the transformation—the boys in short breeches and matching suit jackets with boutineers, the girls in cinched waist dresses replete with crinolines, white gloves, and corsages. The new Mrs. Long wore an ivory dress of satin and lace that showed off her svelte figure. Her matching hat and veil sat pertly upon her head, her bouquet of white roses the perfect complement. But it was her makeup that dazzled me. Red lips, tastefully shadowed eyes with a thin line of eyeliner and thick mascara that brought out the best that her brown eyes had to offer. It was the twinkle in those eyes—the abject joy—that made the biggest impression. Here was a woman who seemed to be an allegory of happiness. I couldn’t get over it. I was truly in awe of what I saw. I thought surely magic had taken place here.

Some time after Mrs. Schlepeck became Mrs. Long, I was traipsing about and beyond the neighborhood taking orders for Girl Scout cookies. A good half-mile from home, I knocked on the door of a tiny little house, which was nestled between two large homes on Lake Shore Drive. I looked about at the gutters coming loose from the eaves, the peeling paint on the clapboards, and the weeds and vines threatening to swallow up the fragile structure. As the seconds ticked by, I very nearly turned to be on my way but paused as I heard the click of the door handle. The pleasant, but sallow, face of Mr. Schlepeck stood before me on the threshold. He wore a no-longer white sleeveless t-shirt and wrinkled khaki slacks—no belt, no shoes, no socks. Beaten by life, by drink, by bad luck, by who knows what, his sad features held no spark. I felt sorry for him. I always thought he was nice. Even in his misery, he was still nice. He looked at my order form, pointed to the Thin Mints, and said he’d take two boxes. As I carefully recorded his request, he reached into his back pocket and counted out $2 worth of quarters, dimes, and nickels. I told him I’d be back in month with his cookies, and he wished me luck.

When I returned with his order, he thanked me, but when I went back a year later to see if Mr. Schlepeck wanted to buy Girl Scout cookies again, no one answered the door.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

Lost in Translation

I have never mastered a second language, though I have studied both Spanish and French. They both came in handy as a foundation during the couple weeks I spent in Italy one summer with a group finishing up their Rhode Island School of Design master’s degrees. One of the students was my husband, John.

I made separate travel arrangements because the group was going together on a charter flight out of Boston. I went over the details with John so that we could meet up at Leonardo da Vinci airport where I could then join the group to arrive at the pensione together. Unfortunately, I found only after I was standing in line to board, that my flight would be landing in Ciampino, a good 30 minutes from the planned meeting spot. It was 1985—no internet, no cell phones, no way of communicating. And I didn’t know a whit of Italian. However, I did have the Italian-English Pocket Dictionary with me.

I spent the last hour of the flight memorizing how to ask, “Where is the bus to Rome?” Dov'è l'autobus per Roma? Except I then didn’t memorize what some of the answers might be. Consequently, when I asked my question, to the delight of a porter, he brightly replied something I did not understand. My face fell. He continued speaking to me in Italian, and I then just shook my head. He took pity on me and walked me over to the bus. I got on. Without a ticket. There’s more to this part of the story, but suffice it to say I somehow managed to get myself to the pensione where I finally met back up with the group.

Every morning we had Italian lessons. We learned the basics of greetings, how to order food, how to make change and generally pay for things, how to shop in the market, and a good many very useful phrases, which included understanding a good many responses. My Spanish and French helped me to learn quickly, but I was still not proficient.

During a side trip to Venice, John and I sat in the same train compartment with a very nice older woman. She began speaking to us, and I did my best to answer her in a halting and disconnected jumble of words. I understood better than I could speak so when she gave me a compliment, I said, Grazie. But apparently I said it with a perfect Roman accent, which was more like grah-zee-eh, because she clasped her hands together and chirped back her pleasure in hearing the word pronounced this way.

The group was staying on for a total of six weeks, but I was scheduled to leave after the first two. On the day before my departure, John and I decided to make a fish chowder for the group for dinner to mark my last night in Rome. We went into the Campo de Fiori to buy everything we needed. The fresh tomatoes, green peppers, onions, parsley, butter, and bread were easy to find and purchase, but finding white fish proved challenging. When I asked each vendor where I might find pesca bianca, I was met with puzzled looks and shaking heads. Everyone said, Non lo so. They didn’t know. How strange.

After wandering the market a bit, we found a fish market. I asked the fishmonger, in my best accent, for pesca bianca. He frowned, thought for a moment and said, Non pesca bianca. It was hard to believe that white fish could be so difficult to find. Undaunted, we looked at the selection he had, which included all sorts of dark fish including mackerel and anchovies but, indeed, nothing like what we had hoped to find. John and I conferred in English trying to decide whether to settle for the darker meat fish or keep looking when the fishmonger’s eyes opened wide. He said, Ahhhh. Non pesca bianca. Volete pesce bianca! He walked over to a freezer chest, opened it up, and pulled out a bag full of beautiful halibut fillets. Questo! Or in French: Voila!

I had been asking for pesca (pay-ska) bianca, which means white peaches instead of pesce (pay-shay) bianca, which means white fish. What a difference a single letter can make.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

Taking a Few Spins in a Dryer

Hide and Seek. Is there a better game when you’re a kid? The neighborhood gang that consisted of me, Evy, Gianni, Carter, Doug, Peter, Greg, Danny, Mark, and when they got old enough, Anne, Susan, and Michele, played outside using the telephone pole that separated our property from the Elenze’s as base. “Free!” we’d yell if we were lucky enough to elude the person that was “It” long enough to dare to sneak from our hiding place and run like hell to touch that telephone pole before being tagged. Protecting one’s hiding place—the one that no one knew about—was essential in order to keep from getting caught.

The time I played Hide and Seek at Carol’s house during a slumber party—the one where we baked a frozen pizza along with the cardboard packaging it came with (wow, what a smell)—I was small enough to hide on the top shelf of the linen closet. The girls called and called my name until they started to scare themselves with the notion that I had disappeared. When I revealed myself, they marveled that I could have climbed up so high.

But, playing Hide and Seek alone with Peter was a different experience altogether. I like to think that he cheated because he had the most uncanny ability to find me every single time. Maybe that’s unfair, but I was a really good hider so the notion that I was unable to elude him hurt my pride more than a little bit. He found me in the clothes hamper; and between the bookshelf and drapery; and even under the dollhouse table—all really good spots.

I thought I had finally hit upon the perfect no-one-not-even-Peter-can-figure-this-out hiding place when I so, so carefully and quietly eased open the door to the dryer in the basement of his house. I climbed inside and ever so, so carefully and quietly pulled the door until only a tiny crack was left open. As I sat inside curled in a fetal position, I could still hear Peter counting to 30 and decided that because he was so clever, he might notice that the door was not entirely shut. As an extra precaution against being found, I pulled the latch until, click, I heard it shut. I breathed a sigh of relief absolutely positive that he would never find me.

Ba bump, ba bump, went my heart. Were those Peter’s steps I could hear just outside the closed door? I held my breath lest I give myself away. I then heard a definitive turn of a knob somewhere above my head, and, woosh, air entered through the little holes that surrounded me, and thrumb, the drum in which I was sitting tilted forward until I was now upside down, and, clunk, my shoes hit the sides of the interior. I had spun twice around before I started screaming. I’m sure he would have let me continue spinning around in there but I suppose he was afraid his mother would hear me and he’d be punished. He pushed the stop button and opened the door.  I don’t think he was a bit concerned about me; he only laughed at me for being so stupid as to hide in the dryer.

Maybe I was stupid. Maybe he was a cheat. In any case, it’s an experience I will never forget.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017

WMDs

According to Dad’s brief written account of his involvement in the top secret mission known as Operation Castle: On March 1, 1954, the first test of an operational thermonuclear bomb was dropped from a U.S. Air Force bomber and detonated in the atmosphere above Bikini Atoll in the South Pacific Ocean. This device, known as a hydrogen bomb, was so powerful that it made the world leaders realize that they must work together to make sure that this bomb would never be used against mankind.

Working as a clerk for the U.S. Army during the Korean Conflict, Dad was stationed in the Marshall Islands on Eniwetok Atoll, a veritable paradise of native flowering plants, palm trees, beautiful beaches, and coral reefs flush with exotic sea flora and fauna that thrived in the tropical biosphere, about 180 miles away from where the military was performing its testing.

On the cover of the welcome brochure that Dad received upon his arrival to Eniwetok, someone has stamped with red ink the words: RESTRICTED SECURITY INFORMATION. The Section I Greeting reads: “The armed forces are here for one purpose only - to assist the United States Atomic Energy Commission in developing atomic weapons.” It goes on to warn: “Security is of the utmost importance here. When you write home mention nothing regarding our operations. Your life and the security of your country may depend on what you write.” On Page 13 it further states:  “As this atoll is the site of the Pacific Testing Area of the United States Atomic Energy Commission, all operational activities here are classified.” The rest of the brochure breezily relates the history of the WWII Battle of Eniwetok, outlines the religious activities available there for the men, gives an account of the recreational facilities, the hobby shop, and athletics, and provides the hours of operation for the post office, main store, barber shop, mess hall, officers club, and both Duffy’s and Swimmer’s Taverns.

Dad’s written account goes on to explain the difference between the two atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan, during the summer of 1945, and the hydrogen bomb being tested during his service: Each atomic bomb had an explosive force equivalent to 20,000 tons of TNT. The hydrogen bomb had an explosive force of 15 megatons or 15 million tons of TNT, which is 750 times more powerful than the atomic bomb that leveled the Japanese cities. When recounting the story to me over the years, Dad explained that an atomic bomb was used to detonate the hydrogen bomb. He went on to write: The hydrogen bomb dropped by air over Bikini Atoll weighed 23,500 pounds. It was three times more powerful than the scientists had calculated. The rain of radioactive ash covered 7,000 square miles. Radiation fallout covered a Japanese fishing boat 85 miles from the blast site resulting in radiation sickness to the crew causing an international incident. The blast created a fireball that was as bright as the sun lasting about 35 seconds before dimming. It sent a shockwave across the South Pacific waters to Eniwetok Atoll, 180 miles away. The shockwave sounded like a loud gong when it hit the metal buildings where I was stationed. It passed right through us. The test I witnessed on March 1, 1954, was the most powerful thermonuclear explosion that has ever been detonated. In other words, a WMD witnessed by a handful of men, most of whom are no longer alive to give testimony as to the hydrogen bomb’s truly apocalyptic capability.

The folder of information Dad left behind includes photos of him and his fellow servicemen in both formal and informal settings, certificates of participation in the operation, various news clippings about the mission that appeared over the years in newspapers, and the by-laws and minutes from a few Coral Island Club reunions, which he attended in an effort to keep connected to the men with whom he shared this common and extraordinary experience.

The incident continues to crop up in the news today. As I am writing this post, the January 27, 2017, issue of the New York Times, has just run an article about the troops that arrived in the 1970s to clean up the still radioactive islands. It’s an interesting albeit sad read.

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/28/us/troops-radioactive-islands-medical-care.html?_r=0

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017