— Novels based on Family Stories

Dad – African Campaign and Sicily: The beginning of his service

on 2013-07-17

photo-scanning-austin-texas My Dad was drafted in October, 1942 when he was 20 years old. He reported for duty November 20, 1942 – just days before Thanksgiving and almost a year from the day that Japan dropped the bomb on Pearl Harbor. He was transported to Camp Wheeler, Georgia for his training. This would be his first time away from the farming community in Ohio. He completed 3 months of Motor School to attain his military specialty as an Auto Mechanic, but he also got a commendation for his skills as a sharpshooter. Little did he know that he would miss a total of 4 Thanksgivings with his large family. His youngest brothers were only 10, 7, and 5 when he left. He joined two of his older brothers in the war effort, one enlisted in the Air Force and the other in the Army. His younger brother Jim lied about his age to enlist in the Navy at the age of 16. There would be 4 Mauk boys overseas for this war, 3 in Europe and 1 in the Pacific. There would be three injuries among the four boys – all received by my Dad.

In early April, Dad, as part of the 9^th Infantry Division, left on a ship for Tunisia and arrived on the coast of Africa only 11 days later under the command of General George Patton. His brother Frank was already there. Dad was a B.A.R. man carrying a Browning Automatic Rifle that weighed over 60 pounds. His athleticism was put to use.

The terrain in Tunisia was hilly and the battles were won by taking hill by hill. In northern Tunisia, the tightly packed jungle brush 8 feet in height had been transplanted to the hilltops. 10 days after arrival, Dad was in the Sedjenane Valley and encountered his first battle with the Germans. It was one that won the 2^nd Battalion of the 60^th Infantry a Distinguished Unit citation from General Patton. This battle was over densely wooded mountainous terrain and was won in only 2 days with half the number of men than the Germans had. The overall objective in Africa was taking the city of Bizerte, a coastal town that held the key for who controlled the Mediterranean Sea. By early May, the Germans retreated to Bizerte and the Allies followed to take the town with minimal fighting. For the rest of May, the new duty of the 9^th Infantry was guarding the prisoners.

After a quick victory in Tunisia, the troops went on to Sicily to fight Hitler, who had recently arrested the fascist Mussolini, the dictator of Italy. Initially the Italians surrendered to the Allied Forces, but the Germans were intent on putting up a fight.

On July 1, 1943 Dad wrote a letter to his sister Bert saying that he met Dan Baughan in Palermo, Sicily on a Red Cross Tour. He may have been a movie star at the time. Dad also toured the Catacomb Cathedral with 22K gold ceilings and sent photos to his sister. He reported “Off the record I met a Canadian girl last night and boy was she a knockout. She sings in a show as entertainment for the fellows. It was great to be able to use my English again.”

The battles started in mid-July in Sicily and by August 7^th, Dad was shot in the left thigh while on Mt. Etna, the 10,000 foot volcano in Sicily. (He sustained two different injuries from being shot. We believe the leg injury was the first injury). The terrain was so difficult that there was no way to get the injured off the volcano, most wounded had to fend for themselves or be carried down on a mule. He managed to descend the mountain with his thigh injury. He was transported to England to a hospital and stayed in the hospital for 2 months. His unit followed shortly after – they won in Sicily after only 38 days. His brother Harold visited him while he was in the hospital in England. I imagine that was some comfort to see a familiar face. Dad received a Purple Heart for this injury. I don’t know whether he was more proud of that or the actual shrapnel that was given to him that they took from his leg. When I was a child, he showed us both often.

The 9^th was taken to Winchester, England for training for D-Day, though they didn’t know about D-Day at the time. Dad was in England for a total of 10 months, 2 in recovery and the rest in training. Dad wrote his sister Bert and said that he had heard from his Uncle Ed, who had served in WWI. He related to him “that war was hell.” My Dad remarked that he didn’t need to tell him what war was like, or even remind him. In May, Dad wrote that he had been to London on leave and was less bashful now. He grew up the hard way.

One more letter dated June 2^nd, 1944 asks his sister is she will ever find a hubby. He mentioned a girl who he knew was interested in him and that she was trying to get in good with his sister. He told his sister that he didn’t get many letters and asked about his siblings, and his brothers in war. His letters told a tale of a young man who missed his family and one who still thought of girls in his spare time.

Dad’s Footsteps

on 2013-06-17

Slide-scan-austin-texas-small Dad was always dancing in our house, whether there was music playing or not. But he certainly danced when Lawrence Welk was on TV or the Grand Ole Opry. I learned to dance as a kid standing on my Dad’s feet as he waltzed around the room. It was lesson on how to have a good time and to enjoy life. He took every opportunity to show us how.

Dad died at an early age, when I was 25 years old and he was only 60. I can hardly dance now without thinking about my first dance partner and the experience of standing on his feet while he moved around the room . . . he made the dancing easier for me. I could throw my head back and laugh at it all because he concentrated on the moves and paid attention to the music. I just had to hang on tightly.

This summer I am going to Normandy to retrace Dad’s footsteps in WWII. It is in a sense like those first dance steps I took with him. This time instead of being on top of his feet, I study his footsteps, his sacrifice for his country in ways that I can only start to imagine by actually being there and standing on the ground that he fought on. He was only 22 when he fought in Normandy. He was injured one month into the fighting and fortunately (yes, fortunately) was hospitalized for 2 months. Had he been released earlier – or not injured at all – he would have likely died in Dinant, Belgium at the Muese River where 100% of his company was taken by German fire. He was released from the hospital and returned to the war front in Germany only 2 days after the massacre, to fight for 6 more months in the Huertgen Forest and in the Battle of the Bulge.

I will walk on the hallowed path that my Dad took nearly 69 years ago to better understand the man that was my father. And I will walk on top of his footsteps and appreciate what he did to make it easier for me and others. Again, I will hold on tightly.

My Childhood Easter

on 2012-04-05

For most Christian children, Easter is a day of church, wearing new spring apparel, followed by baskets of chocolates and colored eggs. It is also a day of hunting the eggs and gathering family together for an Easter feast. Our Easter was a little bit different than most. My parents didn’t go to church. When we were older and could attend church by ourselves, they dropped us off at Sunday school, and then returned home to watch the bunny drop our baskets and hide a few eggs. They would pick us up from church and then we all go to pick up Lil, my Mom’s best friend who didn’t drive.

Lil somehow turned an ordinary day into an occasion. She was a frequent visitor to our house – especially on Sundays. But when there was a holiday, it was an unspoken requirement that Lil be present. When my Mom was around her, Mom laughed more than usual and Lil was a willing audience for my Dad’s jokes. For me, my 3 sisters, and my brother, Lil was what I imagine a grandmother to be. She doted on us, not with material things, but with attention and presence. She filled the empty spaces in our home.

I remember one Easter that we gathered the eggs hidden by the Easter bunny, only to hide them – and find them – over and over again. But we still weren’t finished with the game when it started raining. We then took the egg hunt inside. Our house was small and there really weren’t many good hiding places. My brother asked Lil if he could hide an egg in the top pocket of her shirt dress. Lil was rather buxom and the idea of hiding the egg at the bottom of the pocket tickled my mother to no end. We found every egg but one and looked for what seemed like hours for the last remaining egg. My younger sister sat on Lil’s lap, cuddled up, and asked her if she knew where the egg was. It was inches from my sister’s nose, hidden from view by Lil’s full figure. My mom laughed til she cried. My Dad added to the merriment when he made joking comments about Lil’s “medical condition”, noting that she really should get the lump checked out and that she might be “busted” for stealing eggs. We didn’t find out until after dinner that Lil was hiding the remaining egg.

The blessing of Lil was that she loved us continually and constantly while we were growing up. She was, perhaps as my Dad might have said, part of the bosom of our home.

Grandmothering

on 2012-03-29

I wonder what kind of grandmother I’ll be known as to my grandchildren. I had 2 grandmothers, but our relationship was not the typical relationship. I hardly knew my grandmothers. One grandmother left her family when my mother was six months old, leaving also three boys under the age of six, and her husband. She took off with another man and joined him in his quest to rob trains. Seriously. After four years in prison, and another marriage and two children, she was estranged from her first family. I only saw her two times in my life. Once when I was in 8th grade, and then one last time when I was pregnant with my second child.

The other grandmother had fifty grandchildren, then fifty great-grandchildren, and finally four great-great-grandchildren by the time she died. I don’t remember sitting on her lap or her visits to our home or really any personal conversation with her. I only remember one time where I was in a room with just her (I was a cheerleader for Pee-Wee Football when I was six and my corduroy pants – part of my uniform – ripped during a game. My grandmother lived across the street from the park and my Dad took me there at half-time and asked her to repair my pants.) I think she was a nice lady, and some of my other cousins had a closer relationship with her. But other than the name Grandma, she was just another adult woman to me.

My son and daughter-in-law just had their first baby in October. I love the Grandmother experience – and Baby Olive is pure joy. And so I start the grandmother journey with little Olive. I have watched my mother and mother-in-law be extraordinary grandmothers. They somehow have managed to make each grandchild feel extra special and deeply loved. So I take what I have observed, though not experienced, and try it on myself with Olive’s help.

I imagine the best way to be a loving grandmother is to let Olive show me how in the most simple experiences. When singing and playing. Or echoing back her simple sounds. I imagine us baking cookies and having picnics UNDER the kitchen table, talking about God, and letting her teach me who God really is. I want to just be there in every day, having all the time in the world for what transpires, taking slow walks, being in wonder at bugs, and colored leaves, and squishy stuff. I see us cuddling up with a book, reading stories, or just making them up. I could teach her to skip or let Olive teach me. It doesn’t matter what we do, just that we do it and I allow myself to be in the moment with her.

And then there are the big picture things. Important things like marveling how wonderful her Mommy and Daddy are. And having special dates and special trips together. I want to show her good values like gratitude, respect, and patience. I want to smother her with praise just because. I especially want to tell her family stories, about her father when he was a boy and his favorite activities. My role is to be continuity between the past, present, and future. That she knows that her family was always waiting for her to be born and to be a part of the family. She is the continuation of that story.

I’ve always said that my children taught me more than I ever taught them. And I’m open for lessons from Olive as well. Levy says “When a child is born, so are grandmothers.”. Olive, let’s make this a wild ride together.

The Best Treasure – Memories

on 2012-02-10

I have a tiny tea cup that I got at a church fair when I was about 5 years old. It’s porcelain and has tiny flowers painted on it. There is gold trim on the handle and on the lip. I remember giving the lady my ticket and putting my fishing pole over the wooden wall of the fishing booth. There was a tug on the other end and I lifted the pole to find the tiniest tea cup attached to the hook. I was mesmerized. It was beautiful, very unique, and it was mine. I left that booth holding the tea cup in both hands and ran to show it to my Mother. I still have it – I’ve moved with it fifteen times and keep it in my nightstand. I take it out occasionally to look at it, but I haven’t told any of my kids or my husband about it. No reason – I just haven’t.

I don’t why it’s so important to me. Maybe because I grew up in a poor household or because I had four other siblings and most things were community property. I don’t have any other mementos from my childhood. I have photos and memories, and I’ve gathered other items that were in my home when I was growing up: quilts that my Mother made, a table that my father made in 8th grade for his woodshop project, my Mom’s Bible and her class ring. But that tiny tea cup always has been mine. Maybe I’ve poured the essence of my childhood into that tiny vessel.

When my husband asks me what I’d like as a gift for Christmas or my birthday, I usually suggest a tickets to a great concert or a music festival – or a trip or adventure with family or friends. I choose the experience over material things every time. I get to look forward to and plan the adventure, I get to be in the moment with people that I love, and then I get to reminisce about it later when I look at photographs. I hold the photograph with both hands and run to show it to others.

The lyrics to the Simon and Garfunkel song Bookends are:

“Time it was, and what a time it was,
It was a time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you.”

A Baby Changes Everything

on 2011-10-12

Our first grand-baby Olive, the newest family member, is another momentous knot in the family rope that starts at the beginning of time and ends at the end of time. In our ancestry charts, we now need to add more connecting lines and another deeper level. It adds another layer of complexity to our family tree, but it is not complex. I am a grandmother – my son is a father – and my husband has resorted to making silly baby noises and his chest is bursting with love. This granddaughter is pure simple joy and perfect in every way. Perfect!

It seems to me that the birth of this baby also signifies the rebirth of me. The tape that runs through my head now consists of future experiences of reading Little Bear books at bedtime, picnics under the dining room table, and magical adventures that involve just a little bit of mischievousness that might not get mentioned to Mom and Dad. I think a whole different and new way about my life – and I’m creating a giant place in my heart for this gift of love.

Olive – I imagine that you will teach me more than I could ever teach you. I am excited to get back to the basics, where all that is important is based on love and hugs, silly belly laughs, and making things in this world simpler, not more complicated. I cannot wait for our journey and adventures together. I am open to the lessons you have to teach me.

I am thinking today of my parents, who would be great-grandparents (literally!). My dad would be down on the floor playing with you, not only for your sake, but for his. He loved to laugh and play and taught me to treasure PLAY in my life. If you learn that from me, it will be my Dad’s legacy. My Mom would have told you all the family stories and would try to connect you to that which you came from – this too is something she passed onto me. I will try to honor that gift that she gave me.

I will be glad when you remind me of your Dad when he was a boy. I will love remembering those seemingly uneventful days of his life where he discovered bugs, the treasures of pirates and cowboys, and how to love with all his heart. I will look for expressions of your Mother that I have come to know and love – her love for the White Sox, Purdue football, and the Bears and how to create an occasion out of the ordinary day. You have the cutest curl on your lower lip right before you cry – like your father had as a baby. I won’t tell your Dad that he will find it hard to resist any request that you have – he will learn that for himself.

I cannot wait to see who you will be, to view at close range your thoughts, your identity, the world that becomes part of your life. If I impart anything to you, it is for you to know that you can be anything you want – the president, a teacher, a chef, CEO, an artist, or perhaps the scientist that cures cancer. But whatever it is, it is important to enjoy it and have people in your life to enjoy it with you.

Welcome to the family Olive! I will help you discover your roots and tell you stories about those that came before you. I hope you help me discover some new fantastic adventures. Let’s create some new family stories together.

Meeting my Grandmother

on 2010-10-16

I didn’t really get to know my Grandmother – my mother’s mother – until I was twenty-six. It was my second occasion ever to see her. The whole story is quite complicated.

My Grandmother Ruby left her family when my mother was 6 months old. She abandoned her three sons and husband to run off with another man. She took my mother with her. This man and my grandmother robbed a train together and my grandmother was convicted of being an accomplice in the crime. She was convicted and my mother was sent to an orphanage. My grandfather found my mother six months later, when she was one year old, and brought her home.

My Grandmother

But this story isn’t only about my grandmother and her choices, but instead getting to know this woman after hearing about her during my entire childhood years. The first time I met Ruby she came to visit our house for a week. I was in 8th grade and it was a big deal that she was visiting. I believe it was the first time that my mother saw her since her childhood. Ruby spent much time hugging my Mom and trying to caress her. My Mom was extremely uncomfortable with this show of affection. My uncle urged my Mom to get to know her mother. He had reached out to her and he said he didn’t regret it. It took years for my Mom to forgive her mother and invite her to stay at our home.

My Mom opened our door, but she kept didn’t completely open her heart. I watched my Grandmother with curiosity – she was truly the one that I always heard stories about. Her previous antics were legendary. This woman who spent time in prison was a guest in our home. I also observed my Mom and saw a good sense of dignity and class, and forgiveness. I remember feeling compassion and respect for my Mom. But I had never seen my mother that uncomfortable.

Later, when I was first married, I received word from my uncle that my grandmother was in the hospital in Washington, D.C. Ruby lived in the projects in D.C. and during the night, she had been bitten by a rat. The infection in her leg was severe. It really bothered me that my grandmother was living in an environment that allowed this situation to happen. I didn’t have a relationship with her, but technically she was my grandmother. At my first job after college, I received a bonus check for Christmas. I decided to send this extra money to my grandmother. It seemed that she needed it more than I did.

Letter from Ruby

A few months later I received a letter from my grandmother thanking me for the gift. The letters were telling. She grasped for what to talk about. She knew what not to talk about. She thanked me for the gift and asked about my family. She remarked that I married in a Catholic church and that she grew up Catholic as well (which I didn’t know). She didn’t talk about the past, or the future – she stayed in the here and now. Most conversations between grandmothers and granddaughters are filled with expressions of affection. Ours were filled with expressions of wonder and curiosity.

A year later my husband and I were going to the East Coast to visit my husband’s grandparents. We were driving and decided to detour through D.C. to visit my grandmother. My grandmother awaited our visit and was pleased that family was coming to see her. We parked the car outside her senior-living high-rise apartment and my husband, my baby boy and I nervously crossed the street to get inside. The neighborhood was marked with graffiti and some building had broken windows. We thought we might not see our car when we came back out, but ventured into the apartment building anyhow. We were all nervous, but not sure what caused us the most angst: the visit itself or the neighborhood. We only had 3 hours for the visit because we had booked a hotel out of town for the night.

Getting to know my Grandmother

I hadn’t seen Ruby in fourteen years and she had definitely aged. Remarkably, she exhibited my mother’s mannerisms. She stuttered when she answered the phone and as a nervous habit, she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in a circle – as my mother often did. Her apartment was sparsely furnished and she gave me the grand tour. The tour seemed to fill the space that existed between us. She showed me a china doll that she had kept through the years. It had a broken face and I remembered my mother telling me about a Christmas when she received a doll just like this and her older brother had broken the face. I wanted to ask if this was my mother’s doll.

Just as much as I wanted to ask her questions about her life and my mother, she tried to avoid the conversation. I wasn’t visiting to get a complete story from her, but, in the depth of my soul, I wanted to know why she left or really how she could leave. What was going on in her life to cause her to leave my mother and her family? But the question hung silently in the room unasked.

When it was time to leave, Ruby asked me if I would like to meet someone very special to her. She seemed hesitant to ask, but I could tell it was her intent from start. She called and invited her friend to her apartment to meet us. He was an older black gentleman who clearly had feelings for my grandmother. He treated her very kindly and he was nervous about being accepted. My son Scott helped us all get through the nervousness. He entertained us and helped us laugh together. We left a few minutes later and as I hugged her, I was fairly certain that it would be the last time I would ever see her. I left with the memories of a pleasant visit – what remained were the answers to all the questions.

We sent each other several letters after that. She died two years later on my birthday. My uncle called me to tell me that she was gone. My grandmother left instructions for him to call me after she died.

Life is sometimes an unanswered question. But I know why families are created with all their imperfections. It humanizes us. As it says in 1 Corinthians 13:2, “If I had the gift of prophecy, and if I understood all of God’s secret plans and possessed all knowledge, and if I had such faith that I could move mountains, but didn’t love others, I would be nothing.” In my way, I suppose I loved this grandmother that I never really knew.

The Basement

on 2010-09-30

Our basement was an integral part of my childhood. It was the place in our home that I could get away from everyone and experience solitude. It was my time in my childhood to figure out who I was as a person with some genuine thinking and reflection. It was also a place to have some fun with my friends. Our house an old farm house, was only about 1200 square feet and was built by a woman in the 1920s. The rooms were small and crowded – especially with four other siblings. I shared a room with all my sisters. We had a bunk bed with a trundle bed under it. The closet was only three feet wide and two feet deep – hardly enough room for all of our clothing and toys. Our house had one bathroom and it the size of a closet. The living room and kitchen were filled with the busy lives of seven people. And while we had many fun times in our house with my family, at times I needed to be alone. The basement was my refuge.

My house on a hill

The piano that I learned to play was an upright piano, and it was located in our basement. I spent many hours playing the songs of the day. My favorites were songs by Hermit’s Hermits, Paul Simon, Jim Croce, Sebastian Bach, Rachmaninoff, and many Beatles songs. When I went downstairs to play the piano, I was alone and I could escape there for hours. The basement wasn’t heated, in fact it was ice-cold and my fingers weren’t very nimble. But I would warm them up on scales and arpeggios. And I wasn’t always totally alone. The mice and rats would sometimes be awaiting my performance. I went downstairs with the same mantra – which my Mom and Dad would mimic – “Get Mouse! Get Mouse.” The critters would scatter and then come back out after I started playing. It was a trade-off. I could find solitude in that basement, even if I had to share it with the basement creatures.

When my brother was in high school, we turned one of the rooms downstairs into a rec room. My Dad placed paneling on the walls and we painted the floor with a brick-red color. My Dad put a ping-pong table in that room, added an old sofa and we now had a place to entertain our friends. I became quite good at ping-pong since this was the only place in my home to take my friends.

My House on a hill – the Basement Side Exposed

My first kiss was in the basement after a ping-pong match. I won that match with Danny – and when changing ends of the ping-pong table, we met in the middle and kissed. The next time my boyfriend came over to play, I also won the match. But this time we met in the middle, and my boyfriend broke up with me. I had several slumber parties in high school in the basement. We turned the other rooms downstairs into a haunted house, complete with spider webs and hanging ghosts. It was inherently spooky in our basement with several dark rooms, so we didn’t need to do much to create the atmosphere. I imagine that basement is still haunted with shrieks of laughter and fright from teen-age girls.

The basement was not just mine. My Dad used the basement for his many foodie experiments. The heavy crocks downstairs held the ingredients for the homemade sauerkraut made from our garden cabbage or ground home-grown horseradish. It was cool down there and the food from the garden stayed fresh for months. We had a freezer downstairs that held our side of beef that was purchased from the neighbor farmer – as well as my Dad’s stash of cash. My Dad set up a wine-making rig for making dandelion wine. After several months, we tasted – and spit out – the new wine. It was awful!! We had a fruit cellar in the back room of the basement and had rows of canned vegetables in mason jars. We wrapped apples in newspaper and kept them in the fruit cellar for extra months of “fresh” apples. My sisters and I hated being asked to retrieve a canned good from the cellar. It was the darkest room in the basement with only one naked light bulb. We knocked down spider webs and avoided mouse traps to find the appropriate Mason jar there.

When I think of my childhood home and my memories there, I loved the boisterous kitchen and living room, the rooms where I mostly interacted with my family. But I also loved the basement. It’s where I could go to take care of my soul and find whispers of truth. Sometimes it was the space where I felt least alone.

Twinkle In His Eye

on 2010-09-02

I recognize fun. In the transition between a person’s thought and the first inkling that something spontaneous is about to happen, I am on full alert to participate. I’m drawn to it like a magnet. And if anyone else has that predisposition for fun, I can tell it in the first minute of meeting them. It’s an exclusive club and instead of a secret handshake, we greet each other with a twinkle in our eye. It’s one of the gifts that I inherited from my Dad.

My Daddy was a play-on-the-floor kind of Dad. He was my pony ride, my chariot, or super sports car – or whatever I chose for the day. They say if you put two gifted kids together, the result of their work or play is greater than the sum of the parts. My Dad and I could create worlds of fun that didn’t make sense to most people, but to us it did. I might ask for a pony ride, but by the end of our time of play, we traveled to Oz, fooled the trolls by the side of the road, and shot predators along our way. All we had to do was open ourselves up to whatever situation presented itself.

My Dad and I

Music seemed to provide the platform for most of our antics. My Dad and I couldn’t stand it if Lawrence Welk was on TV, and we weren’t moving to the music. I learned to dance standing on his toes. He was the zoot-suit-wearing jitterbug king and I was his flying-through-the-air partner. On the morning of my wedding, he played the song “Going to the Chapel” and we line-danced to the lyrics. He walked me down the aisle that day in the traditional way, but we both knew that at any moment, it could end up being a very impromptu dance to the front of the church instead. We smiled at the mere image of it.

My Dad playing guitar

My teen-age cousin visited from Indiana once and my Dad pulled out an electric guitar he was learning to play, grabbed my cousin’s long black Cher-like wig from her head, placed it on his head, and played his newest boogie. We were his back-up and the best doo-op singers ever. What fun we had. I had two choices: I could shake my head at the ridiculous-ness of it all or join in. I did both, but joining in was the better choice.

My Dad died twenty-eight years ago. He made an impact on me that transcends our short time together on this earth. He made sure that I would recognize this ability to have fun in other people. E.E. Cummings said, “Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.” My Dad is my star. I live my life twinkle by twinkle.

The Great Neighborhood Water Fight

on 2010-08-25

They say Ohio is a great place to raise corn, pigs, and children. I absolutely loved the way that I grew up. The neighborhood was our playground, and the plethora of neighbor kids – who ALL owned bicycles – were our playmates. We didn’t take family vacations during our summer breaks, but every summer day was filled with adventure. We didn’t need money to have a good time, just a little ingenuity.

The Battle Field

One year, when I was twelve, my girlfriend Deb and I – with my sisters – summoned all the neighborhood kids to my house to announce that were having a neighborhood water fight. The teams were chosen and the battle date set. We had twenty-four hours to plan our major attacks on the enemy. After a bit of scheming, we figured that two coolers filled with water balloons, the largest squirt guns we could find (Super Soakers hadn’t been invented yet), and water hoses would be our arsenal. We really wanted to beat the other team, because my sister AND Eddie Fisher were on it and Eddie always gave us trouble. My sister and I fought most of the time, so it seemed natural that she be on the opposing team.

The secret weapon to winning the water fight, was the placement and strategy of our water hoses. You see, all war is based on deception. We had one hose bib that didn’t work and a hose that have several holes in it. We connected the impaired hose to the malfunctioning water hose bib and make THAT water hose very visible to the enemy. Then we connected several good hoses to the hose bib that was around the corner of the house and hid the hoses behind the bushes. We figured we had two hundred feet of distance with that piece of hose and the nozzle on it worked quite well to send quantities of water in the direction of our enemies.

It took all night to fill the water balloons and carefully place them in the coolers for safe keeping. Our team met late into the night to plan our first, second and third lines of attack. The war was going to be won with the element of surprise. After launching all of our water balloons and getting the other team to think that we were on the verge of defeat, my friend Deb was to run to the hidden hose bib and turn it on. I was to man the connected nozzle and drench the enemy.

We could hardly sleep the night before. It was going to be much fun to win the bragging rights of being the neighborhood champs. We could just see the defeated look on my sister’s and Eddie Fisher’s faces. It was going to be great. I also had gathered intelligence that the other team hadn’t planned anything at all. They were only coming armed with squirt guns.

The next morning around 10am, the neighborhood kids arrived on their bicycles, bathing-suited up, for the Great Neighborhood Water Fight. It didn’t take long for the trash talk to start. Our team was smug, confident, and prepared for battle. The rules for the battle were simple. We stretched a piece of rope across the side yard to separate the starting territories for each team. After the water fight started, there was no safe territory at all. When one team wanted to surrender, they would run to the center of the yard, grab the white flag and wave it to the other team. At the blow of the whistle for the start of the war, we all kicked our sandals off, and warfare ensued.

Well – the Great Neighborhood Water Fight didn’t turn out as we planned. First off, our water balloons didn’t break when we threw them. They merely landed at our enemies’ feet. The balloons were supposed to explode on contact and soak the enemy. Instead, we supplied the water balloons to our enemy, much like the time-delayed hand grenade. They were using our weapons against us! We eventually learned to throw them at their feet and they would break on ground impact to soak the enemy. Then to make matters worse, the other team stole our coolers filled with the remaining water balloons. We lost round one.

They ran to get the water hose that was visible from the battle field. But as we planned, they couldn’t get it to work. When they were trying to figure it out, it was time for us to pull out the big guns. On our prepared signal, Deb ran to the hose bib and turned the knob to open the flow of water. Ha! We had them. There was no escaping the torrential pelting from the hidden hose. Then my sister – from the other team – grabbed the hose and kinked it to stop the flow of water. They continued to pelt us with their only prepared weapon – their squirt guns. Even though we had carefully prepared, it appeared that it wasn’t enough to win. We ran to the white flag and slowly waved it in the air. It was difficult for us to do, but we conceded defeat.

They say it doesn’t matter whether you win or lose, it’s how to play the game. Losing the Great Neighborhood Water Fight was heartbreaking – we were razzed about it for the rest of the summer. But losing our sense of play would have been the greater tragedy. As I think back now about how we played hide and seek, had our summertime sleep-overs in the tent, arranged kickball tournaments, slurped on Kool-aid popsicles, and chased fireflies at night, we gained much more than we lost. When I was a child, play was the celebration, sometimes planned but mostly spontaneous.

Like a Kid in a Candy Store

on 2010-08-09

My mother – age 8

My mother grew up in the Cumberland area of Tennessee during the Depression. They had no electricity or running water – unless you counted the mountain spring that ran beside her house. My mother was the only female in her house and therefore was in charge of most of the household chores. She cleaned, did the laundry, and cooked for her older brothers and father. According to my mother’s story, all the boys had to do was to provide the wood for heating and cooking. They were free to play all day long.

Her father was a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse and also owned a store that was adjacent to their home. His wife – my grandmother – ran off with another man when my Mom was six months old and proceeded to rob a train. My grandmother served four years in prison. My grandfather wasn’t home much due to his jobs, but managed to be a rather good single-parent to his three sons and young daughter – my Mom. It was a hard life for them all.

Birthdays were very special days for my mother. It was the one day that stood out among the difficult days in her life. It was the one day when she was given the day off from her chores. It was also special to her because her father gave her a dollar bill and told her that she could spend it on anything she wanted in the store.

My Grandfather’s store & house

What my mother wanted was candy. It was a precious commodity in the hills of Tennessee, but for my mother’s birthday, my grandfather would stock up on the sweet stuff in his store. My mom was a smart young girl and her father’s favorite. She cleverly asked her father to keep the dollar bill for her for safekeeping. She spent a little bit at a time. For one whole year, all she had to do was to approach her father and ask him for a little bit of her birthday money.

It was the best birthday present – mostly because it lasted an entire year. My mother told the story that she is sure that spent $10 per year on candy – a sizable sum in the 1920s. That birthday dollar bill was perpetual. Her Dad would play along with the charade and hand her some coins each time she asked for “her birthday money.”

This birthday gift might explain some of the dental problems that my Mom had later in life. But it also explains how her father made her life just a little bit better for my mother when she was growing up. And it only cost him a dollar a year.

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