Family Shopping for Database Creation

When I was little, in the 50's and 60's, as an only child, I went everywhere my parents went.  Often we would shop.  Since we lived and had family in both Philly and the 'burbs, we certainly went to malls, and the Bazaar of all Nations often.  Perhaps we had some of our own haunts as well.

One place that we would go to was Darby.  Darby was similar to all of the other little towns in Delco like Collingdale, Sharon Hill, and Aldan - all about 1 square mile, holding about 10,000 people.  "Darby, gateway to Philadelphia."   It was the only thing between us and town, and it gave us the best way to get there - the end of the number 11 trolley line.  Actually I never appreciated how much of a "transportation hub" Darby was.  You could also catch the number 13 trolley, which took a different route into Center City.  There were several buses that you could catch there, including the number 113 bus that you could take to 69th Street, and the 305 bus that went to the airport!  If you were willing to walk up to 4th Street in the adjacent town of Colwyn, you could catch the R2 train into Philadelphia. 

(Just in case you've never seen a trolley car)

Main Street ran from Downtown Darby into Philadelphia.  It becomes Woodland Avenue when it hits the city limit.  It's an interesting intersection because there used to be a Pep Boys there, a bit of park, an historic house where Washington slept, and the Fels Naptha Soap plant (where my father worked for several years.)  Trolley lines run down Main Street and Woodland Avenue, until they go underground as you get close to the city.  Crossing Main Street was something you did at your own risk because the street was done in Cobblestones - just waiting to help you twist an ankle.  I wanted to clarify something for anyone who remembers the Darby Cobblestones.  They were not Cobblestones.  Cobblestones are rectangular.  These were stone cubes, called Belgian Blocks.  A Belgian Block is essentially half of a Cobblestone, so its not a big deal, I'm just sharing with you what I learned.  When they were digging up all of Main Street I did make several late night trips until I found the road empty and accessible.  I did secure one fine Belgian Block for myself - just to remember.

Downtown Darby, Main Street, used to be filled with nice stores.  I'd even seen it referred to as "the shopping hub" of Delaware County.  I recall a supermarket, department store, drug store, men's clothing store (Bennett's Men and Boys Wear; I think they're still there), jewelry store, a great hardware store, a movie theatre, etc., although most of them are gone now.  Marvil Funeral Home is still there, which was and is a popular choice for our family funerals.  Actually, you could follow Main Street along the trolley tracks for quite a way towards Philadelphia and find other clothing stores, bars and pizza joints.  Usually we'd stay in "center city" Darby. 

The way we would shop as a family was to go down one side of the street and back on the other, from store to store, walking around in each one, and looking.  Sometimes we were on a mission, but usually we just enjoyed seeing what each store had.

Darby did have a history, although you wouldn't think it would be much if you saw it today.  W.C. Fields was born in Darby in 1880, at the Arlington Hotel.  If that doesn't impress you, John Bartram and his son William Bartram, both Early American botanists, were born in Darby.  I believe John Bartram's botanical garden still exists nearby, and is reported to be the oldest botanical garden in the US.  The Bartram house, technically in Collingdale, unfortunately no longer exists.  There are a number of buildings that are still standing dating back to the 1700's.  Darby was known to have connections to the Underground Railroad, providing protection to runaway slaves.  It's not surprising since John Blunston, an early Pennsylvania politician, and a group of Quakers established the Borough of Darby.  There is a story that, on one of President Washington's trips his cook Hercules disappeared "somewhere between Philadelphia and Chester."  Cook is French for Slave.  Apparently he found local help in Darby, and was never recaptured.  What were you thinking, George?

If we wanted to go a little farther, we'd get in our black '51 Chevrolet and drive over to 69th Street (apparently technically "Upper Darby", not Philadelphia).  It was an odd place for stores, since it was a very steep hill, but the streets were always full of shoppers on a Friday or Saturday Night.  I liked to go there at Christmas for lots of reasons.  They had several Santas (no waiting).  The best was at the top of the hill, in his own little glass house.  It was great for a few years but one year he was stinky and had little bits of carrot and potato in his beard (he'd just had a can of Campbell's vegetable beef soup, I'm sure).  I became disinterested in someone who wears his menu on his sleeve.  The other attraction was a perplexing shoe that was/seemed 3 stories tall.  It was somehow vaguely related to "there was an old woman who lived in a shoe . . ." which is apparently somehow vaguely related to Christmas.  I didn't need to know the details.  Kids would climb up to the top, and ride down a very long sliding board inside, and out the toe, where your parents would be waiting for you.  As long as you didn't think about what you were doing, it was great fun.

These were different times, and I remember that my favorite pastime, when we went to 69th Street "shopping", was to find money.  It seems that people were always dropping change or paper money or even wallets on the floor, often to get kicked under a display counter.  There are advantages to being short - it's easy to spot these things, which I often did.  If it was a wallet, my father would help me track down the person, and give them a call.  Usually I got some kind of "reward", so that was good.

It would be a good evening's work to walk down the hill on one side of 69th Street and up the other side, going through most of the stores.  One of the first was a very nice 5 and 10, and one of the last was a very nice drugstore - both had counters where you could eat, and we'd often stop for a bowl of ice cream at the drugstore to end our productive evening of not buying anything.  I believe they had most of the big stores - Gimble's and Lit Brothers, and a Woolsworth's 5 and 10.

69th Street was loaded with great places.  The Tower Theatre was one of several movie houses there at the time.  The Tower is even more important as a concert venue now.  69th Street had a great transportation hub (The Terminal), much bigger than Darby's, where you could get trains, buses, and take the El into town.  Unlike Darby, the 69th Street Terminal had places where you could eat!  They had a movie theatre, The Terminal Theatre, and there was at least one other movie theatre, the 69th Street Theatre, where I saw many double features on Saturday afternoons - back when special effects were amazing (e.g., Jason and the Argonauts, in claymation!).

Our third shopping haunt was 52nd Street in Philadelphia, which had several blocks of stores, and was for a while "the heart of West Philadelphia, providing at one time the largest retail shopping district in that part of the city."  There were some great clothing and furniture stores that I remember.  One reason why we went to 52nd Street was because Shapiro's Shoes was there.  When I was a little kid, I would have awful leg pains after being out running all day.  A doctor determined that I had flat feet and would need to wear "orthopedic shoes".  Welcome to hell.  Fortunately, there was Shapiro's (215 S. 52nd Street), who used to take care of footwear for teams like the Phillies.  They were really great - they analyzed my flat feet, built arch supports just for me, and would glue them into normal shoes (my preference was Hush Puppies).  We had such a long-standing relationship they even wrote a letter for me, when I was panicking over the possibility of being drafted and going to Viet Nam, explaining how my flat feet meant that I could never serve.  Nobody looked twice at their letter, but it was nice of them to provide it to me. 

The other attraction at Shapiro's was a machine that you would stick your feet into, then you could look through the top and see how your new shoes fit, or you could look at the bones in your feet.  You may have heard of these - they were called a Podoscope or Shoe-Fitting Fluoroscope.  Apparently they made a lot of these "stand alone" X-Ray machines and sold them to shoe stores through the 1950's.  Here are a few pictures of typical ones. 

 You put your feet in the bottom, where there was apparently a 50 kV X-Ray tube, and you'd look at your feet, exposing yourself to X-rays.  It usually ran for 20-30 seconds, but of course, the kids who were in the store got in line over and over and (zap!) over. The X-rays hit a fluorescent screen and you could see the image.  Of course, the whole idea was insane.  Your feet were exposed to very high doses of radiation, as was your "pelvis", and the shielding inside was so poor that even 5 feet away, the radiation was easily measurable.  (Explains a lot, doesn't it?)

One other shopping memory for me that I need to mention is Hess's in Allentown.  I think when I was in college I may have finally gotten to this Department store, but for me it was always a high priority to watch the TV show they would put on every Christmas season.  All of us kids who watched knew exactly what toys were hot that year and the place was really black-and-white beautiful, far as I could tell.  Wee Willie Webber was the moderator for their Christmas TV show (Hess's Holiday Toy Show), making all kids within range of their radio waves drool over all the animated toys that they had to sell in their 4th Floor toy department.  Apparently they were also known for carrying the latest in European fashion apparel.  At Christmas time you could go there to see Pip the Mouse in a puppet show.  They liked to talk about their "world famous" restaurant, The Patio, which I think was in their basement!  Everyone raved about their strawberry pie. 

So, as you understand now, we shopped a lot.  Since I didn't know the word database back then, I couldn't have defined what we were apparently doing; perhaps "cataloging" is a good word.  But we knew who had what!  If my mother hinted that she'd like one of those black cat kitchen clocks with the moving tail for Christmas, my father and I immediately could access our data banks and nod to each other knowingly.  Woolworth's at 69th street had them - along the back of the store.  We were on it!  We knew where to get just about anything we'd need, and could probably access our information faster than your iPhone!  It was an interesting exercise - shopping as surveying - and a great family activity.

© 2012 John Allison

Stuffing Cigarette Machines

In the Summer of 1971, I was a college student desperate for a summer job, and accepted a full time position with the Automatic Coin Vending Machine Company in Chester, PA, outside of Philadelphia.  The position paid $2.10 and hour.  My main job was to fill cigarette machines.  The company also serviced a few cigar machines for very special clients.  This was a time when smoking was much more common and "acceptable", and one could buy a pack for 40 cents, making them dispensable by a vending machine.  Every day I would go out and fill machines, putting many cartons worth of packs into a single unit.  I was never happy when I attracted attention.  I maintained machines at a few senior citizens facilities (where, for some reason, a pack costs 50 cents).  It always felt like I was in a horror movie when I filled these.  I could hear the rattle and clanks and creaks of their crutches and walkers as they slowly approached me.  Perhaps they were just curious to see a new person, or maybe they just wanted to watch.  I didn't want to find out, so I'd work fast.  Once they circled the wagons around me, who knows what would come next.  I felt guilty knowing they were being charged more; I only hope they didn't understand.

As the new kid, I also was given the task of servicing a few cigarette machines in bars in some of the poorest areas of Chester.  I'd make a point of getting to them between 8 and 9 AM.  It was scary because I had to empty the cash out of the metal can that collected the coins as well as create a dozen stacks of cigarette packs a few feet high, inside the machine.  I would come in the front door with a hand cart, carrying cartons of a variety of cigarettes.  I'd use a special key to pop the front off, and quickly pour the cash noisily out of the can into a canvas bag.  I could normally do this before they reached me.  Yes, even at 8:30 in the morning, the bars were occupied, and most of the customers came to see me.  As I would fill the machine, as fast as I could, hands would reach in, usually taking out two or four packs.  I would gently be robbed.  The first time, I protested, trying to convince them that I would have to pay for what they stole.  They patted me on the back, assured me it would be ok, and returned to their bar stools.  On later visits I understood that they weren't there to rob or hurt me, they were just poor and wanted some cigarettes.  I was later told it was the cost of doing business there. 

I don't know what cigarettes sell for now, but I'm sure that, if there were still vending machines around for them, you'd make your purchase using a credit card.  The disappearance of cigarette machines probably was more due to the need to stop selling to minors then the problems of handling money, although the price has gone up faster than that of gasoline over these years.

Cigarette machines had small panels displaying which brand you were selecting.  Some are displayed here - my own collection from 1971.  New cigarettes were coming out like Virginia Slims (for women!), leaving unfiltered Camels for the rasty old men.  I have a feeling New Leaf cigarettes were supposed to attract a younger crowd that was slow to exhale.  How many of these brands you remember?

Occasionally there were bigger jobs like installing, collecting or replacing a machine, and I would go out in the truck with Charlie, who was perhaps 5 years older than I, and a bit of a city redneck.  He had gotten to know a number of other "distributors", trucks that passed us every week.  I don't know how he discovered this, but Charlie had a thing for hot Herr's potato chips.  In the summer, the truck that distributed Herr's products to local stores got very hot in the Philadelphia sun, so whenever we passed the driver he knew, we'd have to pull over.  He'd trade two packs of Marlboros for a hot bag of chips and dive into them before they could cool down to only 90 degrees.  He was in heaven.  It was a time when cigarettes had a different place in society than they do now, and I certainly had a unique view into the value of a pack.

© 2012 John Allison

note added Aug 19, 2012

I found an actual cigarette machine in a bar in Seaside Heights, NJ this weekend.
Today's price for a pack:  $10

The Bell

If you visit the city of brotherly love today, you can get close to the Liberty Bell, housed in its own building, the Liberty Bell Center.  You can also take a guided tour of the old Pennsylvania State House, now called Independence Hall.  The experience is now a controlled one, with armed guards never far away.  (Terrorists could take away our symbols of freedom at any time.)

My friends and I stood out in the pouring rain one night in 1976 and watched them move The Bell from Independence Hall to a glass pavilion.  It was moved to its current home  more than 20 years later.

But there was a time, in the 1960's when I was in high school, when we would often take a trolley from the 'burbs into town, to roam around.  The tour always included a walk down to 5th Street to see Independence Hall and Congress Hall next door.

There were no guards.  I remember going into the room where the Declaration of Independence was written and signed.  I stood there, in the Assembly Room, looking at a set of tables, all with long green table cloths on them and a few chairs at each one!  You could feel what that full room of people must have felt like - debating, arguing, caring.  This is where the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were written!  It wasn't just a story, it was a real place where people did a great and brave thing.

But the best part (well, second best, next to the gift shop) was walking in the front door and seeing the Liberty Bell.  It was there.  We touched it.  We sat on the wooden base below it.  We would knock on it with a bared knuckle.  It was our symbol of liberty.  We'd practically climb on it taking pictures of each other with it.  We respected it, and wanted to know it.  It was always there for us to touch - just part of a larger story, but one that was very real.  We could not have appreciated the incredible freedom we had during those days when we ran through the halls of Independence Hall.  (I only wished we'd been brave enough to go past the velvet rope, and up the stairs, to explore the second floor!)

© 2012 John Allison

The Garage of the Nobodies

One summer morning, the doorbell rang, and I jumped up from my coloring book to answer it.  I was 8 years old, but it was 1959, back when no one would have thought that something so simple might possibly be dangerous for a child.  Besides, my mother was in the basement doing the wash.  The neighbor man, I think he was a neighbor man, said, "The dog is getting out from under the gate." 

My natural response to the one-sentenced stranger was to let him into my house.  We walked through, out the kitchen door to the back yard, and into the garage, where he looked around, opened boxes, looked under things, looked on shelves, and looked on the floor.  Fifteen minutes later he walked out our front door with parts from three broken rakes and a plan.

We were a typical family of the 1950's.  Mom stayed at home, and Dad worked at Westinghouse, which always seemed to be on strike.  They bought a row house in Southwest Philadelphia when I was born.  We were in heaven - the American Dream!  But we were nobodies.  We never had much money, but we had as much as the families around us, at a time when people could very publicly live within their means. 

We had a garage in the back yard that could be accessed from the back alley.  It was too small for an actual car, so it evolved.  Its first inhabitant was a large wooden ladder, destined to be loaned out every weekend for it's natural life.  A push mower appeared, then a weed whacker, then an older weed whacker.  One of my earliest memories is sitting on the cool cement garage floor watching him take apart the old weed whacker.  "You never know, someone may need a nut or bolt some day," he explained.  Every screw and switch went into an old peanut butter jar.  The silver metal shaft with the plastic handle on top was hung on a nail. The inventory steadily grew.  In the summer when I was little I used to sit on the glider on the front porch, still in my jammies, and watch him when he left for work in the morning.  It was a tough walk to the corner to catch the bus on trash days, and more than once, he'd return with a golf club, broken rake or hubcap that someone had put out in the trash.  He'd often come home from work with things that were going to be thrown away.  One day I watched him dragging a big can down the street with him on the way home from work.  It was a half-full can of grey paint.  You never know, someone might be able to use it some day.

Occasionally my father would think up a use of his own for something in the garage.  We had many conversation pieces, which is what we called things that my Father and I got in trouble for.  I recall one beautiful Fall Saturday when he and I parked the family car under a nice big tree, and spent the day painting it.  He had the easy part - he used the roller, I had to trim around the edges, and I was not yet very handy with a brush.  We hoped that Mom wouldn't comment on the texture, but would have been pleased that you couldn't see the masking tape we put over the rusting fender.  It was an improvement!  And it was now the only gray car on the street.  She'd have to like that!  But we were wrong, so the car became a "conversation piece". 

Now we're not talking Sanford and Sons here, but the garage grew to house a large stock of metal, pieces of lamps, furniture, tools, wood, and of course jars and coffee cans of nuts and bolts and buttons and hooks.  While it was a place for him to go, the attraction was the sharing.  It was important to give what he could to others - it was what made the street a neighborhood - it was what people did for people.  I think he was a happy person because he had neighbors.  He was a nobody, but when he was in the garage looking for some used 2x4's for Mrs. Taylor, he was, for just a second, somebody, and someone good.  He knew what family meant, and for him, everyone was family. 

The reputation of the garage grew.

It had become not just a junk house, but junk church, and a busy one on weekends.  The priest was there to listen to your problems.  You had someone to talk to, someone who wanted to help.  It was what he did, and I was apparently second in command.  (It had to be me; my mother would never set foot in the garage for fear of being captured and disassembled by it - fingers in one jar, toes in another!)

He could come up with a fix for just about anything, usually a stretch of the imagination, but a noble try.  Someone would have a toilet problem and leave with a weed whacker part.  They could be having a problem snoring - weed whacker part.  Pet problem?  They'd leave with a brick and an idea.  As the neighborhood grew older, questions changed.  "What can I use to make an extra railing for the steps going to the basement?"  One day I saw a set of louvered doors leave - neither of us knew remembered how we had gotten them! 

As he got older, he got to the point where he often didn't recognize the people around him.  Every day he'd go out to the garage.  Maybe he was looking for something - something that he could use to fix himself.   That's what kept him busy every day until the end, patiently looking for a thing and an idea that would make it all better.

If you ever find yourself driving around Philadelphia, and you have a good eye, you might find this street.  Probably the people who live there now can't even tell you why their downspout is held together with copper wire and a golf club, or where the Christmas wreath made from a hubcap in their basement came from, or how long the bird feeder made from a coffee can has been in their back yard.  If you find this street, you'll know.  He took care of them all with the riches he had - all lovingly kept in the garage of the nobodies.

© 2012 John Allison

The Moon is a Watchful Eye

A shaft of moonlight barely smaller than the row house itself

shone through the dusty blinds into the empty narrow back bedroom

Empty save for one large plastic bag

filled with musty furry faces and an occasional intact eye.

I think I got Andy Panda, my first, a stuffed bear, when I was born.

The crowd quickly grew.

My animal friends.

They slept in bed with me

on me, beside me, circling me

until I was in my pimply teens. 

Mother would casually 'put them away' when friends came over-

to "make room"

we both knew I was too big for them.

But I was taught to value family and friends

playmates and advisors

trained listeners.

The moon would shine onto us as I went to sleep.

She'd close the blinds to hide the moon

and I, or Andy, would open them back up

Because the moon is a watchful eye.

Permanent, reliable, constant, so pure

a whiter light does not exist

A friend as well.

            (In Sunday school they would tell us about going to heaven

            and being able to gaze on the countenance of God.

            I only understood a few words of the phrase but thought that

            God must be the moon

            You never grow tired of looking.)

Sun light would come into the window

But not moon light.  We called it the moon.

The moon is coming in the window.

An important distinction.

They both died in their 80's and it took a hot

Philadelphia summer

to empty the house. 

I did what I had to do. 

Empty is harsh as a verb.

So we were down to this.

One bag of 50-year-old animal friends. 

Their faces were familiar.

Was mine?

They hadn't aged well

about as I had

I thought of hiding them all above the ceiling

in the basement

where they'd probably be with the house for another hundred years.

I sat with them in the dark room of the dark house

All the lamps, everything, all gone.

I sat there

alone

envious that they were not.

Tomorrow was junk day.  We all knew. 

The realtor was impatient.

Each friend - Andy, Teddy, Rex, Lambie, and a dozen others

lined up on the wood floor

of that same bedroom

each in the moon.

I left that Sunday night, not being able to return

for a week

to decide.

For now, they can air-out their fur,

wonder (and wander) about the empty house

Consider that things change and you can't usually go back

To decide amongst themselves

about the realities of living forever

And to talk, as they always had

when the moon was full

Happy and safe

because the moon is a watchful eye.

© 2012 John Allison

My Weekly Reader: The Children's Newspaper

In elementary school, I always looked forward to "our newspaper".  This one is dated February 1959.  I was 7 years old.  What could be better for a young coin collector than a front page story on the new pennies!  The new pennies were very cool, don't you think?

© 2012 John Allison

Tough Crowd/Funny Girl/Bye Ma

It was a tough crowd -                                                                

old, teary-eyed, hard-of-hearing, a little wobbly,     

bobbing, weaving, shaking.                                              

(Our bodies animate us when we get old

so passer-bys can tell

we’re still alive.)

The job was a challenge.                                                 

Their memories of her,                                             

dominated by the past few years,                                                           

concerned them -                                                                                             

short phone calls, frustrated visitors -

the end of participation, the brutality of Alzheimers.

She had grown small.

She once filled a neighborhood

     walked, patrolled, was recognized

then just a street

then she only filled a single house.

Awareness shrunk to just one room,

then to dimensions no larger than her.

Then less, inside,

just a little tiny space

somewhere, we hoped, between her head and heart.

It looks to us like a reflective space, a serene place to be,

but it’s not.

It seemed like a good idea at the time

“to celebrate her life”

(a well-worn line used at funerals

that are never anything of the sort.)

So I decided that my job would be

to remind them, that

the body lying behind me,

now stopped at 86,

the woman whose teeth were still in my Jeep,

the shell of a girl with lips superglued together,

had been a funny girl.

Neither Florence nor John finished high school.

Both had smiles that were more than authentic -

something that just couldn’t be held in.

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

Don’t hide your light under a bushel basket.

They had that light, that I learned about in Sunday School.

My parents were an oddly but surely matched set.

In the factory, he worked

and in the John he read.

He read the Philadelphia Inquirer.

He read the Evening Bulletin.

He read the candy bar wrappers -

Snickers, Almond Joys, Hershey Bars,

He read money in his pocket, writing on his pencils,

cereal boxes, scrapple wrappers, toothpaste tubes,

Look magazine, TV Guide,

the lawnmower owner’s manual.

Write it and he’d read it.

Then he’d come home.

His hand, touching the chair at the dinner table, clicked him on

like the transistor radio in his shirt pocket

it’s dial peeking out at me as he ate

and talked.

“Did you know that Chervrolet

is coming out today

with a new color?”

“Robin Roberts hit two homers

against Cleveland!”

He seemed well-informed!

Then it would begin.

“The President was in Brazil.

He met with their President, Juan Valdez.”

My father talked.                                                      

It’s what he did.

A man who never paused mid-sentence                                   

to try and remember a name or place or fact;

they were of little immediate use.

He talked to make you smile.                                                    

He worked to make you laugh

even if it took hours.

My mother and I were in training -

to learn his timing -

to learn his mission.

Opportunities to speak were few

unless you participated,

so, as mother carried in the green beans, she engaged.

“Actually these beans came from Brazil.”

(an interesting coincidence when you’re five).

He agreed, informing me

that they were picked by a good friend of his

Fat Albert Valdez.

(again, an interesting coincidence when you’re five).

And off he’d go,

or off they’d go

in extended conversations that I’ve since to learn

most other families weren’t having.

We were being tutored

a fact not understood by any of us

but when he died, our training was complete

and our mission was clear.

The crowd bubbled with continued concern

But it was an old bubble, not like coke.

More like soup.

I was obligated to report that while she was alone, confused

mostly deaf and old

in her last days,

it was OK;

she was confused but she was OK, because

she was well-trained.

A few weeks before, we were at Antonio’s Pre-Mortem Pizza Shop,

a place where she felt comfortable being at, because she remembered it.

“Why do you eat so fast?” she asked, as she always asked.

“I don’t.  Glue your teeth in before we come

and you could keep up.”

Ten seconds later:  “Are you done already?”

“Yes, you’re slow.” I said.

“You eat fast.”

“Yes, Mom, I think it’s relative.”

“Who’s a relative?  Done already?”

“Yes.  Yes.”

Then, she looked me in the eye

lowered her voice

and leaned across the jagged circle of pie crusts

that we always assembled on the pan as we ate,

to inform me that, when we leave,

in the parking lot,

she intended to beat me up.

It was a funny line.

Perfect timing.

The waitress would have been puzzled.

He would have been proud.

I reported to the tough crowd

of a night not long ago

Lawrence Welk, thankfully, signed off.

An 8-second short term memory make attempts to follow Survivor useless.

The same is true for the rest of us.

Animals make few demands, so when I visited, we’d watch the Animal Channel - monkeys on TV.

“Oooooh - monkeys!” she said.

Her eyes wide with childish excitement-

a well-rehearsed move

“Do you like monkeys?” I asked, in my straight-man mode.

“Oh yes I do!”

each word was given center-stage

“Remind you of anyone?” I asked.

“Uuuummmmm . . .

Well you used to be a little monkey!”

I sat in silence, looking away blankly

from her one ‘good ear’

my best feigned hurt face.

“Oh, I’m just kidding.

You’ll always be my baby.” She said as she put her hand on the back

of my neck.

“Thank you mom.”                   

. . .           

. . .           

. . .           

“You little monkey.”           

It was perfect - the timing of a 20 year old,

the timing of him.                                               

           

So we continued

a family having a conversation.

Small talk,

exceedingly small talk,

with a timing and topic that was part of a conversation

that was decades long,

as long as a family was permitted to remain a family.

It was a conversation not crafted to communicate

but to create in another

a continuous

inner

smile.

Perhaps others would have found it curious.

But then, she was a very funny girl.


© 2012 John Allison