Here is my story.. In memory of Robert Campbell and Hazel G. Dalton Whom the Great Depression saw, and 2013 said good bye to.. “It was a whack, slide, and a crack! And then He stole ‘em!”. I can hear my sister Hazel shouting to the grocer Mr. Harris who is now running after Seamus O’Donnel, because he knows that boy has my mother’s last two dimes. I have a bloody nose and my shirt has lost most of a sleeve. I am also pretty sure that when I get home, I am either going to be dead or going to get whipped, so I think that being dead should come first, it is better than getting whipped. Whippings are what happen when your mother gives you her last twenty cents to buy a pound of butter to bake a birthday cake with, and you lose it. No matter how it happens lost is lost. Times are hard people say, “making something from nothing” and “scrimping and pinching till the ends meet” is all that people talk about everywhere. Both of my parents work and we have a boarder so life is better for us. My mother feeds a handful of men out of work once a week that used to work with my father before everything went bad. I was too little to remember “the good days of meat and potatoes” before everything fell apart in America. I have one weakness in life, even though I have only been here on this earth ten years; I love baseball more than anything, it is my life. There used to be a factory that made chairs near Third and Stevenson that burnt. The empty lot was best for baseball, and for settling disputes between neighborhood boys when the need arose. I don’t have much time to do extra things, but when I have time and a game is going, I play. My mother doesn’t hate baseball, or my father, but when I am supposed to go someplace for mother, I am not supposed to dawdle, ever. Today mother even sent my little sister Hazel, because she is a world class tattler and kept me honest most days. I needed to come right back so we could have a great birthday dinner complete with cake. Today instead of breakfast with eggs, and two meals of beans and Johnny cake, my mother bought a roast beef and rutabagas, my father’s favorites. All of the money from mending, and the dimes from washing rich folk’s clothes had been squirreled away for over a month; my mother skipped her one treat of going down town on the bus to “window shop” to save her money. We eat okay compared to many folks these days, but my dad milks cows and trades repairs for the local farmers six days a week, and my mother works 60 hours a week in the middle of the city at a laundry house five days a week. Her hands are often red and cracked from the lye soap and hot water. Mr. Harris is our boarder he is also the local grocer, and has no wife or children. They died in a huge house fire three years ago so Mr. Harris lives with us upstairs and gives my parents beans and pork fat to pay for the room, as well as kerosene for the stove. My mother says that Mr. Harris is the “better of the betters, and we had better mind him always”. I love Mr. Harris for the most part. He talks with my father in the evenings about the nation’s politics and all the folks hungry and not working. My father says that Mr. Harris is kind and allows most of his customers to barter for goods. My father also says he keeps big books of charge accounts for factory workers and that he may never get the red off of them, whatever that means it must be bad. Mr. Harris never seems to care about money or things like that unlike everyone else. Mother said he made his money a long time ago working for Standard Oil and prefers to just keep to a simple life now. Some mornings Hazel and I sweep the door way and open the doors with him at the store, then we head to school. After school we stay with Mr. Harris until the five o’clock closing and we walk home together. We always keep an eye on the bins when kids come in. Some have sticky fingers from things other than sugar these days. Mr. Harris was standing over me. “I am so sorry Robert, I didn’t catch him. A big boy of 15 has no shame to pick a spat with a ten year old boy for two dimes.” Mr. Harris said. “He was playin’ ball and his shoe tore wide open, his dimes slid out at third when Robbie slid for a base”. “Hazey, shut up please, I think Mr. Harris knows that”. Mr. Harris shook his head. “You’re a sorry mess, you need to go home before your mother comes looking for you, no need for her dinner to burn too.” “Yes sir”. I walked slowly at first, but realized that in an hour my father would be home. I needed to help mother and tell her before Hazel ran ahead. When I got home there were several people hanging out on the porch, “bums” my father called them. My mother looked flushed, and irritated. “Take three loaves of the course brown home baked bread and tell them that after dinner we will make some soup to spare, that loaf of store bread has been saved for dinner. When you get done with that you can tell me why you look like you have been to war.” I cleared out the “bums” with the promise for soup later, and then went to the kitchen to tell my story. The big Irish boys were playing against some Italians that liked to boss the field. I shamefully stopped to hit one time because they were short one man, and I was on first, and made a run to third after the next boy batted. My shoes had been getting thinner. They actually were my cousin James last pair. My feet were too small for them at first, but father oiled and polished them often and my mother stuffed rags in the toes “to fill them out” she said. When I slid to the base, the thin leather tore and my two dimes tucked safely away flew out. Seamus O’Donell an Irish bully who spoke with a thick brogue, grabbed my mother’s dimes. I told him to give them back. He said he was going to have a Pepsi now that he was rich, and ran. I tackled him, but he outweighed me by fifty pounds, and pound me he did. Hazel threw a rock at him and cracked him a good one on the back of his head, but her shrill screams caught the attention of Mr. Harris and a few of the folks milling in the streets. When Seamus turned for her he thought better of it and headed for the jerk shop for sodas. “I don’t know whether to strap you or laugh, taking on a boy that big, for twenty cents, but we will discuss it later, we will live without a cake, your father was only expecting beans with so many coming today anyways.” My father’s sister and husband were coming in from Flint and her kids, plus my mother’s brother Eddie, from Pontiac. I changed my shirt and washed my face. There was nothing I could do about my swollen lip and black eye, so took a seat next to my mother and set to peeling potatoes for the next hour, hoping that my mother would forgive me for losing two precious dimes when so many folks didn’t even have nickels. Hazel was making little paper chains from flour paste and old newspapers. “Don’t drip that on the table Hazey” my mother said. She laid out the best table cloths and even put little buttons she saved from old shirts that were scrapped for rags on tiny stitched napkins rings she made by hand. My mother was a hard worker to say the least, and I often wondered if she ever slept. The radio was playing and the time was 5:45, I head doors slamming as my uncle Pete closed the doors to his Roadster. Uncle Eddie would come by train and be here right at six. “Whoa Robbie, I’d hate to see the other fella” uncle Pete teased. “He tackled that big galloot Seamus for stealin’ our butter dimes” Hazel said… “Haazzzeeyyy!! please don’t, I would like for mother to forget the whole thing happened” “Well, with a black eye and fat lip, I doubt she will forget this week Robbie.” My fate was sealed I was sure. I wasted twenty cents after my mother spent a whopping $17.31 on the best birthday meal my father would have in years. I brought everyone in and began to put coffee in cups while my mother flew around the stove making gravy and mashing the potatoes I peeled. Hazel turned up the radio for Uncle Pete and Aunt Merle while the cousins played marbles in the living room. Just then I saw Uncle Eddie walking up the side walk with my father. They were slapping each other’s arms and shaking hands. Eddie’s presence was a complete surprise. I wish I would be able to really tell you the look on my Father’s face when he came in the door with the aroma of roast beef all through the house. I might have sworn he had tears in his eyes, but he saw my face and I knew that after everyone left I was gonna’ wish for death once again. Hazel ran to him and he picked her up. She was whispering in his ear rather loudly. “Please Daddy, he was a big mean one, don’t whip Robbie”. My father asked me what happened and I told him once again the dreadful story of my stopping to play baseball. My father had a strange look on his face. “Is dinner ready?” “yes sir” was all I could say. We gathered on milk crates from Superior Dairies and all of my mother’s foot stools and chairs were almost full. Mr. Harris walked in, but left his coat on. He motioned for me to come outside and carry, what I thought were the heavy sacks of rental beans. “Be right in everyone” he said, “please say grace and just save our seats.” Normally only death and child labor were the only things that excused people from grace at the table, but my father never ever questioned anything Mr. Harris did. Outside on the porch Mr. Harris told me that he missed his own son. Staying with us made things a little better for him and he wanted to thank me for helping with the shop every day. Hazel and I never stuck our hands in the candy bins or tried to sneak bottles of Pepsi or Coke from the shelves as many children did. He told me to open my hand. In it he placed two dimes. I nearly bawled and howled like a baby, I lost the first ones just being stupid. “Give them to your mother” he said. “Now for the last thing”. Besides the normal bean sacks, a brown box labeled “Hanson’s Bakery” sat next to it. Inside was a lemon chiffon cake complete with expensive meringue. “Take that around the back, and get your mother”. I went into the house hoping I was not putting tears streaks on the card board box, I did not deserve this. “Mother, can you come for one moment please?” She came and took the box from my hands. “Why that Mr. Harris, he is more than just a boarder, he is a blessed saint.” “This too” I said. I put the dimes in her hand. “I won’t whip you today” she said, “not because Mr. Harris paid me back, but because I think you know how important twenty cents is these days, it is bacon, butter, and almost a bag of flour. “Yes mam” I whispered. Mr. Harris was waiting for me at the table. When supper was done mother and Hazel cleared dishes with Aunt Merle. Just before more coffee was served, mother came in with the cake and we sang “Happy Birthday”. My father roared with delight to see such a cake on his table. “Robert” my father said. “Yes sir” I sat frozen in my chair. “I want you to know that while I don’t agree with your dawdling, I also don’t agree with stealing from anyone ever, no matter how hard times are. Today you stood up to a bully who was twice your size and took your licks to try to keep him honest. Most folks just walk around here with their heads hung low and take whatever misery comes to them, because they think that nothing will help that the rich robbed them and set us into misery. You still helped your mother and did as you were told knowing what you faced. Today for my birthday there will be no whippings”. I finally decided to breathe. I could only say “Thank you sir”. The rest of the evening was perfect, spent listening to the president on the radio lying on my back. I stared at the paper chains hanging from the ceiling glad my lip was done smarting. I could not think of anything better than the big roast beef dinner that day, and the cake that came to our home because of the last twenty cents.
Posted on: Sat, 12 Oct 2013 02:23:03 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015