Memoir

Baching-it with Dad

For several years, my little sister had ballet on Saturdays, and while she was dancing, Mom went fabric shopping. They’d be gone all day, eating out at a restaurant together. These were the best Saturdays of my youth, not because they were gone, but because Dad and I would be “baching-it.” 

Baching-it meant we’d be behaving, essentially, like bachelors.  

Dad would hold up a finger, “What’s the one rule? First work, then play.” We’d typically start with something in the garage or the back yard, anything that required heavy-lifting. Any physical work the other family members weren’t strong enough to do was on our list. 

It was rough work, involving lots of sweating, and panting and when injury struck, definitely swearing. Loudly, and it was only all right because the gentler ones of us weren’t there to hear it. “We won’t tell Mom,” was the agreement.

If we still had energy, we’d shoot hoops. Dad loved basketball and so did I, up until they changed the rules about dribbling. It was a better, more challenging sport, back then. 

Dad would call me his partner, like we were cowboys. Never mind that I was a girl. That wasn’t yet relevant. 

As reward for our work, Dad would prepare heaping plates of very special food, the kind we could only eat while baching-it. We each had two hot dogs smothered in chili beans, topped with a mountain of grated sharp cheddar. I do believe it was the entire block, divided in half. We’d chug malt sodas and watch Perry Mason, first black and white episodes, then color. 

We’d shower and get into clean clothes after food, before the girls returned from shopping and ballet. I’d go to bed with spent muscles and the satisfaction of having used them well. 

In the backyard with Gramma

The giant yellow flowers in Gramma’s garden are taller than I, with rough faces, dark brown, wrinkled. Their fuzzy stems stand thicker than my thumb and I‘m not allowed to touch, do not touch, do NOT touch, do not, stand here next to Gramma, right here; it’s a little scary.

The tallest flower’s proud, chin tilted to the bright, glaring sun, wide leaves pressing the other flowers away: step back. I need to squint against the sun to look at it, and duck away. A friendlier flower stands closer, to my side. It’s looking down at me, but sideways, shy. A bumblebee tickles its face, and the flower winks it away with the flutter of a petal. The largest of its leaves curve towards me; it wants to pat my shoulder, my head, smooth my hair. I can tell, and it smiles because I can tell. 

I like that flower. It’s nice.

Gramma asks me if I know what kind of flowers these are. 

I’m not sure about the big one, but this one seems nice, I point.

Gramma throws her hands over her head, howling laughter, then slaps her knees. Both hands, I am so funny, but I don‘t know why. It confuses me.

Well, I think you’re right about that, but that isn’t what I mean. Do you know their names?

I shrug. Mary?

She‘s very surprised at my answer, she’s smiling very big with her eyes wide open and glossy. Don’t you know what these flowers are called? 

I really don’t know what she wants from me. I already answered this question. My bottom feels itchy, uncomfortable. The sun shines in my eyes whenever I look up at Gramma. It‘s right behind her curly auburn head. My eyes are tearing a little, my nose tickles and I rub at it. 

Her brow furrows. Don’t you know that different flowers have different names? Like a rose. A rose is a type of flower. What type is this? You don’t know? Well, take a guess. 

I feel like maybe I‘m in trouble, I‘m doing something wrong. Lion flowers?

Gramma smiles but shakes her head, pretty good guess. They’re sunflowers, she says, but I don’t think they look like the sun. I think we should call them lion flowers, but she says no one will understand if we call them that. It’s too close to dandelions. I realize she’s right, but I’m not certain it’s a good reason. I tuck myself under the leaves of Mary Flower, shielded from the sun, but the bumblebee doesn‘t want to share and buzzes in my ear. I squeal, and Gramma says settle down, let‘s have tea in the shade.

Playground Rejection

The boy looked like Chris Pine, and his name was Derik; he liked another girl. He’d chase her around our school’s grassless playground, she’d scream. It looked fun, so I joined. Another boy started to chase both of us girls until Derik told him to stop. 

There was a hard, sandy hill, pebbly, on that desert playground. Slippery. Sporty Derik bounded up like a goat; I wasn’t so sure. From behind me, a teacher goaded, don’t give up now, you can do it. 

I ran, slipped and fell, skidding down the craggily hill. I ripped my shin, hands. Mom was angry; my new jeans were ruined.

Next day, we played again. That same hill was before me, my teacher encouraged: don’t give up, try again, you can do it. I went up, and fell badly. Same knee.

Mom did her best to clean the wound, but a few pebbles were stuck. I pried them out with my fingers, crying.

Third day.

I stood at the foothills. Derik loomed at the zenith, his shadow long. Tumbleweeds rolled with the wind, a hawk screamed. 

He squinted, told me to just give up. This wasn’t playtime. It was the hard work of doing my duty, to complete an unfulfilled task. The teacher’s voice came like an Olympics announcer, “Will she do it?” I grit my teeth: Go Hard.  

I fall hard. My last pair of jeans destroyed, my knee throbbing hot pain, hands shredded. I’m gasping for air between jagged sobs, my entire leg wails. 

“Stop chasing me,” he said. “I don’t like you.”

Blazing fury erupted from deep down in my gut. Panting and seething, “I’m bleeding! In pain! Is that all you can say? You’d treat a dog better!” His apathy was loathsome, I couldn’t stand his face. “Well guess what? I don’t like you either.” I meant it, too.

Mom couldn’t work on my knee anymore, she got queasy, faint. 

Dad tried. Then Mom, and Dad again. Neither could do it for my terrible screams and bleeding. It was up to me.

I needed tweezers to remove pebbles from my knee. So many of them, embedded. Dad gave me an old leather watchband: bite on that, it’s what cowboys do. Pain made it hard to see through tears, and the blackness that would encroach, then fade to sight again. I dug them out, growling around the leather, tears and sweat flying off my face, nearly blacking out but coming back to get the next one. 

Next day, no running. No chasing. Derik apologized. I think he meant it. 

Mom‘s little dough dolls

Mom’s in the pantry, shaping dough, thick and caramel-brown, into doll figures. They’re like gingerbread men but fancier, because they’re girls. All the shapes are round and smooth, sturdy. Two cookie sheets, side by side, are atop the washing machine and dryer. Mom works, making the pans teeter metallic, loud. I ask why she’s here, not in the kitchen. She needs more space; the countertop is too shallow. This reminds her of my great grandma, and how she’d prepare Matterhorns on the washer and dryer. I remember too, and ask if she’ll make frosting like Great Grandma used to make. That was yummy. No, she’s going to paint faces on these, and clothes, too. No frosting. Paint.

She rolls up a ball of dough and stuffs it into a garlic press. The dough comes out looking like dollhouse pasta. Carefully, she cuts it into swaths of hair for the dolls, thick ponytails and wavy bangs. Mom smells like salt, dough, sunshine, and Oil of Olay.

Can I snack on some cookie dough, and I’m desperate but she says no, the dough would make me sick. It’s one of those. Grandma explained about dough with eggs in it. Okay, I’ll wait until after they’re done, but Mom says no, these cookies aren’t for eating. They’re for decorating the Christmas tree. Seems like a terrible waste. 

She needs toothpicks for shaping the mouth, and heads to the kitchen: don’t eat the dough. Okay, but I take a tiny bit, just a smidgeon. 

Nearly vomit. I spit the wad, smaller than a pea, into my hand. I wipe my eyes dry, rub my sleeve across my nose, and Mom comes back. Did you try some? No. Good, because I don’t know what it might do to you. (I know.)