Tin cars, or they might have been lead, were our toys of choice. When they were new they were brightly colored, 2 - 3 inches long and perfectly car-shaped.
We made roads in the dirt for them. There were fields, towns, streets, highways. We included farms, with their roads and barns and houses. After all the construction, it was time to start driving.
We played on our knees, pushing our cars around the setting as we went from place to place. Since our map consisted on lines in the dirt, it was too easy to obliterate a road with our feet, while pivoting on our knees to make a sharp turn. We always pledged to be very careful of our brand new subdivision. I was frequently the most destructive of us three.
I got the worst cars, the oldest cars. I got the ones with the chipped paint, bent wheels, and dented sides. I was resentful of that. Since Kay and Jimmy were bigger than me, my subservient position didn’t change.
One summer day, Jimmy and I were playing cars near the outhouse, which was 15 feet from the house. It was a hot summer day. The sun made the fine dirt feel soft and warm. It ground into our knees, elbows and hands. It was worn into our clothing, dungarees* and shirts. The flies buzzed, and a breeze blew. Our dog, Tag, lay in the shade of the outhouse, snoozing quietly in the heat.
Our tableau was built, mind-numbing in its completely senseless traffic patterns. The only sound was the noise of our car engines, made by the blubbing of our lips from the air we blew out. That was interupted by our occasional comment relating to where we were going and what we were doing.
There were favorite excursions, but even if I called one first, Jimmy took it away from me. “No. I’m going to Dairy Queen. You have to stay home. You’re the mom.”
He wasn’t playing fair, and I got madder and madder. Revenge was in my heart, as I contemplated how to get him back.
I had the very ugliest car in my hand, which proved to be a source of inspiration. In addition to its ugliness, it was also the heaviest car. Hmm. I could throw it at him, then run to the house to mom’s protection. I was nearer to the house than him, but he ran faster than me.
I threw it! It hit Jimmy on the top of the head. His 1/2 inch long haircut clearly showed a few drops of blood. Oh no!
I jumped up and ran as hard as I could. I had drawn blood. He was really going to kill me now! I scream for mom every step I took!
A new thought entered my head: It was three steps up to the door of the house, and the steps were at a right angle to the direction we were taking. I had seen Jimmy skip the steps and jump right to the top step. I had never done so. I could hear Jimmy pounding along behind me, so close.
If I tried to jump directly to the top step, I might not make hit. Then I would hit my shins on the step and that would really hurt. Plus, Jimmy would definitely catch me and beat me up.
If I ran to the bottom step and then up the three as fast as possible, Jimmy would still probably catch me and exact his revenge. There were no good choices.
I went to the bottom step, figuring a small chance was better than the certain defeat of trying to jump, failing, smacking my shins, and getting beaten up!
I hit one step, then two, then — there he was. Jimmy, at the top step. He had leaped successfully. He had a nasty grin on his red face and met me with hands out, fingers crooked.
Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! All the time I’m screaming for mommy!
The entire experience was a lose/lose for me. When mom arrived, she noticed the scratch and blood on Jimmy’s head. He told on me. He told what happened. I tried to explain about how he always took the best cars and didn’t play fair.
None of it played fair. I got in trouble - not Jimmy. I had more scratches on my face than Jimmy had on his head. Mom berated me - not Jimmy.
———————
No wonder I’ve never forgotten this episode, even 52 years later. There must be a moral in there somewhere, but I still don’t care to search for it. I was wronged!!!
*In the 1950s bluejeans were called dungarees, and they were not popular clothing. Dungarees were laborer’s clothes, poor people’s clothes, made of coarse and stiff cotton. People with greater means wore slacks made of smoother fabric, though polyester had yet to be invented. Tee shirts were only worn as under garments, and they were universally white. Shirts were always buttoned.
No comments:
Post a Comment