12. Training
When Father was in business he was dynamic but when he retired he retired thoroughly. You may remember that I said I got the full force of his leisure. He wanted to fit me out, in anticipation, for any reasonable eventuality. He thought a person should be able to take part, more or less intelligently, in any pastime that might normally present itself. It was now time for me to learn to swim. This was a rather new idea and swimming pools were practically unknown. Father solved the problem by having two splendid rock dams built across a “girning brook” on our farm which was near the edge of town. These dams formed a fairly large lake and a windmill on the bank constantly pumped water in fresh supply. In this bosky dell he then erected a two-gender bathhouse—by the side of which dear little Johnny-jump-ups grew.
Father was a collar, tie and top-hat man. He was a comical sight in a two-piece bathing suit (1910 model). These suits never held the weave well and were inclined to ripple about and sag a bit here and there. When it was warm enough to swim it was warm enough for snakes, so Father went about looking for them around every bush and clump of grass. For the little lake he had bought a small, graceful rowboat which he thought merited the name of Psyche. After finishing the land inspection he and Psyche circled the lake, while he punched the pond’s edges with an oar, looking for water moccasins. He loved the exercise of rowing and it put him in a “gey narky” mood, so out rolled his melodious tones as he sang a lusty river song:
The river is up.
The channel is deep.
The wind blows steady and strong.
The splash of our oars
The measures keep
As we row the old boat along.
Ho! ho! (deep bass)
Ho! ho!
Down the O-hi-o! (tenor)
There’s plenty to eat
There’s plenty to smoke
The laugh and the comical joke.
Ho! ho! (very deep bass)
Ho! Ho!
Down the O-hi-o. (slow bass tone getting deeper and deeper)
And here I need Tipoff to retrieve the forgotten verses.
For swimming I was all traddled up in a bundle of cloth. I wore the usual depressing outfit—long black lisle stockings, (the kind that used to turn slightly green after a few washings) bloomers with a full taffeta overskirt, and a sailor-collared waist that had elbow-length sleeves. This mode was not manageable and I felt as if I had been clapped into irons. I could only sort of shuffle about in the water. The water was cold and things swam against my legs and I couldn’t see what they were. I cringed from contact with the unknown. It was spring and all I wanted to do was to twine wild flowers in my hair or to get out and go and pick the Johnny-jump-ups.
Even though I have only the instincts of a wading bird, I eventually learned to swim, but not with the indolent grace of the porpoise. Instead I was as tense and full of “wires” as birds’ feet. I have never had to curb the desire to swim the Hellespont. I shall always be envious of those appealing, round-eyed, baby-faced seals because of the gentle fun and comfortable ways they have in water.
The first time I laboriously swam the water’s length Father greeted my accomplishment with a full throat of pride, “Ah!” he cried, “You will now never be the victim of a scheming Johnny Sands!” The words “Johnny Sands” should have become a synonym in bridge playing, because both physically and mentally it gives a shockingly acute definition of the word finesse!
Johnny Sands
A man named Johnny Sands
Had married Mary Hague
And though she brought him gold and lands
She proved a terrible plague.
For, oh, she was a scolding wife
Full of caprice and whim.
He said he was tired of life.
And she was tired of him.
Says he, “then I will drown myself;
The river runs below.”
Says she, “Pray do you silly elf,
I wished it long ago.”
Says he, “Upon the brink I’ll stand,
Do you run down the hill
And push me in with all your might.”
“For fear that I should courage lack,
And try to save my life.
Pray tie may hands behind my back.”
“I will,” replied his wife.
She tied them fast as you may think
And when securely done—
“Now stand,” she says, “upon the brink
And I’ll prepare to run.”
All down the hill his loving bride
Now ran with all her force
To push him in, he stepped aside
And she fell in of course.
Now splashing, thrashing like a fish
“Oh, save me Johnny Sands.”
“I can’t, my dear, though much I wish
For you have tied my hands.”
John St. Clair
Father rarely accepted an excuse for a late arrival at an appointment, explaining that it was impolite to keep others waiting. To impress us with the importance of punctuality he would give us a charming invitation to a matinee and tell us to meet him at the theater at 2:15 sharp. If we had not come by 2:20 he snapped his big gold watch shut and we saw only his coattails going down the street; and we gained nothing by chasing after him. I now possess an over-acute sense for promptness. I am always ready to go about fifteen minutes ahead of time which is hardly time enough for any worthwhile achievement to fill the interim except a rousing game of solitaire.
Neither did Father allow us to “feel” the weather. He didn’t think heat or cold should have any authority over a person. He, like Samuel Johnson, denied that the temperature of the air had any influence on the human frame. Since Father had lived in two climatic extremes we felt he was informed upon the subject, so we grew up accepting heat and cold almost insensibly.
It annoyed Father that Mr. Pudley did not have the same belief. Father used to play chess with dear old Mr. Pudley, who had phthisis. Many times they had to move the chess table because Mr. Pudley said he felt a draft. One day Father heard the sad news that Mr. Pudley had died. Regretfully Father shook his head. “He has been a man of utmost worth all of his life and he is bound to go to heaven.” Sorrowfully he sighed, “He won’t like it. He will feel a draft. I wish I could do something about it.”
Philosophically he studied the situation and realized he was not designed to handle it. Then with flinty disapproval he continued, “Knowing his dislike for drafts—with this advance information—he should have rejigged his whole life. He could have enjoyed a few indiscreet achievements and landed in hell where he would be much more comfortable.”
Well, I suppose we all carry our inadequacies with us.
So far all I knew about money was that it would buy candy at the corner grocery, which was a “cash only” store. I stood in admiration before the glass cases as I slowly made my selections. There was a pasty confection molded in the image of a small ear of corn. There were beaded chocolates, jaw-breakers, lemon drops, all-day suckers, licorice, and brown hoarhound. There was a marble-sized chocolate, one of parlous interest because it changed color sometimes as many as six times before melting away, layer after layer. It would have been unthinkable to let it lay without removing it from your mouth from time to time to check its changes.
One day Father gave me a lecture which I later realized was the most important talk of my life. The subject was economy and accumulation versus wastefulness. As usual it was presented in the penetrating take-it-with-you-and-think-about-it way he had, and he ended by saying, “You think you have no responsibilities, but you have. You must begin now to take care of a little old lady and that little old lady is you.”
His words made a profound impression on me. I shivered in my warm bed that night as I “saw” a rumpled-face little old lady, in a rat-infested garret, covered only by a flimsy, tattered quilt while glinting icicles a yard long stalactited from the eaves outside of her broken windowpane. No one could have conceived of a worse end for a wastrel. How could I rescue this pitiful creature, as brown and wrinkled as a peach stone?
As children we had no allowances but Father forthwith presented what I believe was an original plan, via our library, for amassing coin of the realm. Every worth-while book, or poem, had a price on it in red pencil. These prices ran from 25c to $5.00, and year after year more books were marked. After we had finished a book or memorized a poem, we went to Father’s study and he, like a garageman sounding an oil tank with a dip stick, would fathom our opinions of characters and literary styles. In this way we got a great deal more from what we read; and discussing books with him was a rewarding experience. He had what is known as “total recall,” which awed me considerably.
At the time my small thoughts were like a bug under a cup. They didn’t branch out very far. I took his purpose to be of a purely pecuniary nature. Years later I realized he was tolling us in just as a farmer tolls a horse with oats, or a pig with corn. It was an indirect way of trying to instill within us an appreciation of good literature. If he could do anything about it, he had no intention of allowing us to willfully harbor a dull mind. A little old soul should have sustenance, both in his purse and in his mind, and in case a long wintry old age is in store for him it is best to have a sizable backlog.
In no time flat, as if I heard the roll of thunder in far-off skies, I was agog over the existence of intellectual joys which all but overwhelmed me, and simultaneously I was simply carrying bags of small change out of Father’s study. Soon I could see “the little old lady” with a mended windowpane, a warmer quilt, and a baited mousetrap.
And what book made the most lasting impression? There is always at least one book that one remembers, and often it is a book of no consequence. Once I chose a novel that even at an early age I recognized as pure trash, although it had a $1.00 mark in it. The story abounded in characters and a roiling plot which became more complicated with every paragraph. Finally the book’s end was imminent and I, caught in the grip of aroused speculation, couldn’t imagine how the author was going to extricate himself—but he was magnificently equal to the exigency. On the very last page of the book he opened up with a great head of steam, sent all the brawling, disorderly, and unrestrained characters scurrying up the gangplank on a voyage of dastardly intent. He then whipped up a storm and sunk the ship. It seemed rather a happy occurrence and a nice falling together of events that all the individuals of accountability had been left behind merrily waving adieu on the wharf. I could see the author, pale and shaking, as he jounced off his chair after such a ripping good riddance.
I was exhausted too. I went to Father’s study with the book, pointed to the last page, threw up both hands—the gesture the rodeo cowboy makes when he has roped, thrown, and tied the feet of an unruly steer. We both laughed. It was the only book we never discussed.
There was a great hulking, carved chest in the upstairs hall. It had iron bands, iron handles, and a three-pound key. It was built to withstand the centuries but I don’t know what became of it or of its contents.
One day Mother said, “I am going to empty that chest and turn it over to you. You can fill it with things you may need someday if you want a home of your own.” Nicely she avoided the words “hope chest” as sounding vaguely inhospitable.
Any American woman in her sixties can remember (if she tries) the Royal Society Packages. I believe they were the first “do-it-yourself” projects. The idea caught on and now there are pamphlets of numbered diagrams and dotted lines and arrows giving step-by-step instructions for making, or doing almost anything—except self-embalming. In these Royal Society Packages were ready-made nightgowns, corset covers, dresser scarfs, tablecloths, tea napkins, camisoles, “teddy bears,” bell-shaped drawers, and the first tiny guest towels I had ever seen. They were stamped with embroidery patterns usually of floral motif. Most of them were edged in scallops and we finished off the scallops with chunks of gathered lace. There were also boudoir caps. I believe the armed forces of the United States owe a debt of gratitude to these caps because lots of recruits for foreign service must have left home to get away from these frightful things.
A few years after I had started this embroidery spree I had filled the chest. Everything was washed, pressed, and laid away in sachet to wait for the house and probable bride they were to grace.
It was a good many years later when I checked the contents. By then ruffled corset covers and bell-shaped drawers were about as popular as yellow fever. We didn’t want to stick out anywhere. By then we were slinking. I had been born with a straight back and normal stance but I learned now to appear round shouldered with a sunken chest and concave stomach. I walked and stood with hip bones well to the fore. It made Father sick to see me so I only slunk when he wasn’t around.
But the Royal Society Packages served a purpose. They created strong competition among us. With pricked fingers, we embroidered until we were cross-eyed, wry-necked, and rick-backed, in order to outproduce each other. They occupied us at a restless age.
There was really no ne plus ultra hotel in Weatherford and it seemed that any stranger who had any reason to come there knew Mother and Father. Guests flowed through our house like an effluent stream. You took a chance if you came home unannounced and you sometimes wound up on a pallet.
Of course company made extra work. So far my only jobs were to keep the porch and long walks swept, but now Mother said I was old enough for housework and I was to start with bed making. She went the rounds with me at first. There were three sheets to each bed during cold weather. The third sheet was spread over the blankets so when the counterpane was removed at night the bed still looked nice.
I liked this job except that Mother used a feather mattress in winter. It had to be puffed up and perfectly shaped. Mother was exact to excess and had there been alphabet soup in that day I am sure she would not have eaten it because the i’s were not dotted. I would go from side to side a dozen times, patting and smoothing until this bed of down looked as neat as a little dog in a tartan jacket. When I left the room, flushed with gratification, it listened until my footsteps died away; then it would go lopsided again, and Mother would call me back from play.
Since air conditioning (one of the hot country’s greatest boons) has come to stay, I have been fearful that feather beds might become popular again. If they ever do it will be because a whole generation has died out that knew their perverse and obstinate ways.
You could always count on Mother making an attractive appearance. In their youth, Father said, when he accompanied her, it gave him a gallant, flower-in-lapel feeling of pride. Her best dresses were made in Bowling Green, Kentucky. They were works of art both inside and out and like an English tailored suit they were satisfactory to their death. The dressmaker had a photograph of Mother, a lock of her hair, and her measurements. She sent samples of cloth and trimmings and from these Mother made her selections, giving descriptions of the type of dresses wanted. I once knew a lady writer, who lived in a hotel and she had even a simpler system. When she required a new dress she called a bellboy, gave him $45.00 and told him to bring her one (she looked like it too).
As I grew into my teens I, too, had Bowling Green dresses but they were too ornate for my taste. I lacked the courage Mother had to wear pleated lace, à la Murat, and I wasn’t the least bit grateful or appreciative of these lovely creations. It never occurred to me to say, “thank you.” It was years later that I realized my gracelessness when I remembered Father’s murmured remark, “Blessed are we who expect nothing for we shall not be disappointed.” It is odd how memory holds these remarks and gives them back to us when we have matured enough to understand.
Mother and I had always had differences of opinions over clothes and I sometimes served my notions on a flaming sword, so Father, who had a healing way of dealing with annoyances, said I could have all the dresses I wanted if I would make them myself. At once, in the white heat of enthusiasm, I went underground for days, sewing, ripping, and pressing. Finally I appeared in what was an original all right, that looked as if it had been cut out with a dull scythe and pressed with a hot bucket. Mother never could effervesce when it was not genuine, “You know, dearie, no matter what you do you have to think,” she began. I sped on to Father who had me turn about as he studied what must have looked like a fig sog pudding—“yon shapeless thing in a dish.”
“It is your first effort and a good one,” said Father, “but it does hang down in the back. I wouldn’t speak of it if there was not a remedy. Actually all you have to do is to stick your rear end out a bit and it will hang level.” This was logic with a ripe turn. To make my dresses fit I learned to walk and stand with one hip higher than the other, to keep one shoulder up and to the left a little, or to stoop in a slight semicircle. One dress was rather restricting as it could not be sat in, and once, tense with care, I French-seamed a sleeve into a skirt’s placket.
Father was not pleased with my way of speaking, or my choice of words and he had little patience with slang. When I said I was “crazy” about something he appeared to become alarmed. He insisted that the little word “fix” was generally misused by me and the public at large. There were dozens of other words that he thought my generation was bandying about in a merciless way. He didn’t like to hear me say I was going to “bum” around and the snappy “23 skidoo” and “oh you kid!” left him positively dejected.
To combat my linguistic discrepancies he thought it would be a good idea for me to write a few stories. He hoped writing, with a dictionary within arm’s reach, would help me to choose the right word for the right place. The stories could be true ones or I could use my imagination. He had seen how the great undertow of cash had pulled me into a vortex of reading the books which he had marked the most generously, so he promised to pay me half a cent a word for stories he thought acceptable.
I labored mightily but brought forth only nothingness. Finally I laid a worthy story upon Father’s writing table. Without reading it he looked at it for a moment and said, “What is the meaning of the hieroglyphics?”
“Well, look,” I explained as I bent over the table and pointed. “When I wrote that sentence I shrugged my shoulders, and those two little pointed marks denote lifted shoulders.”
“And this reclining comma cupped downward but elevated?”
“Oh, that means I raised an eyebrow.”
Lucidly I interpreted a few more. “You see sometimes you know you are going to pop off about something you don’t know anything about, so at the beginning of the sentence you put little sparks to denote the ‘pop.’ Or you write something intentionally ambiguous, but you are afraid your reader may have a one-track mind, so you make little marks that flare out in two or more directions, and that warns him that something is up.” Father was dead serious, so I continued. “But there is one gesture I have not been able to put on paper. How would you make a squiggle to signal you have written something with tongue-in-cheek?” Father sat like a lump. “This is important,” I insisted. “Because some people do not recognize subtlety, but if you have to explain, then you have wrecked the humor you intended.” I apparently had struck no responsive chord. “If there could be these marks to alert readers it would put extra verve and ginger into reading. In Spanish writing you are put on guard that a question is about to be sprung on you. Why can’t we put English readers on to what’s about to come up?”
As usual I wasn’t getting anywhere with my ideas, then quietly Father began to quiver and wipe his eyes, and I was rewarded. He was quick at fabrication and as good a fid as I needed. We soon worked out a page of “New Thoughts for Punctuation,” and I still think the English language suffers from the lack of it.
Father kept a few of those early stories of mine, which he had contracted for, and here are three (reduced to dull, prosaic punctuations). Two of these stories belong to a series called “The Seven Minor Sins” and one is a nursery tale.
Vain Vernon
Once there was a man named Vernon Worthington Suderland Crisspaw. Everyone said they had never seen anyone so handsome as Vernon and even the boys couldn’t gainsay it, but they did say he had knees like bois d’arc apples. Vernon was not only handsome, he was tall, distinguished, grave and had a look of importance. He was also vague and dreamy which made him very absent-minded. He was ribbon clerk in Shaster’s General Store. Sometimes he measured off too much ribbon and sometimes he didn’t measure off enough, so Mr. Shaster didn’t care at all when Vernon resigned because his Grandpa Crisspaw had died and left Vernon a very generous income for life.
There was no dash in Vernon’s mental approach to anything. Thoughts oozed through his brain so slowly that they had a soothing effect on him and he slept a great deal. For years Vernon just didn’t do anything and his income piled up sky high. One day he began to think about NEW YORK. After he got the idea about NEW YORK he thought about the IDEA a long time and finally about five years later just out of a clear sky he went to NEW YORK.
He chose the name of a hotel on Park Avenue because he had always thought that parks were so pretty. For about a week he was afraid to leave his hotel rooms but he just had to have a new suit, and it so happened that he walked into a really good shop. In due time the suit arrived together with socks, braces, scarfs and shirts. The following Sunday morning Vernon dressed very carefully and became deeply impressed with himself, so he sauntered to a busy corner, bought a newspaper and stood conspicuously so the passing crowds could admire him—and they did. By looking at his reflection in a plate glass window he noticed with satisfaction how many heads turned to take note of his perfection.
Later when the church crowds thinned Vernon returned to his rooms and like Narcissus he gazed long at his own image in self appreciation. Monday found him back at the tailors where more suits were ordered. Vernon began to spend hours poring over details of clothes, fabrics and paddings. He read everything he could find about the outstanding men of fashion—Richard (Beau) Nash, George Bryan (Beau) Brummel, Alfred, Count D’Orsay, Benjamin Disraeli and finally E. Berry Wall. These men were famous and the last one, E. Berry Wall was aging. Why shouldn’t he, Vernon Worthington Suderland Crisspaw continue this march of men of fashion?
In studying the many men of fashion he admired George Bryan Brummel most of all and he saw himself as Brummel in front of a long pier glass while “gentlemen of the highest walks of life came to watch, in respectful silence, the ritual of his dressing.” He even ordered a pier glass installed. At last he, Vernon Worthington Suderland Crisspaw had a MISSION. He burned to become classed with these men of fashion and he worked zealously at every trick of grooming.
Soon he knew that the crowds who passed each Sunday morning were beginning to wonder about him. He had captured their interest and now any day he might get a WRITE UP! And the WRITE UP would be the beginning! If someone would only run a large PHOTOGRAPH and a WRITE UP he would at last be on his way. If someone only would!
Vernon was now on fire. One fine spring morning he wakened and dashed to his window. It was Sunday and the temperature was just right to wear his new grey suit which so subtly complimented his grey eyes. Or was it a trifle too early in the season? It was such an important decision to make that it got his thinking a little off balance but he decided at last to wear it because it might make him more noticeable than ever. He began to dress with care, but withal more than a trifle absent-mindedly.
When he was quite satisfied with his appearance he walked in elegance to his accustomed corner. There he bought the usual newspaper and soon was caught in the gripping details of a new murder case. It was so ghastly, so absorbing, that Vernon Worthington Suderland Crisspaw forgot even himself. The wind freshened and tugged but he did not notice its persistence. As he finished the very last word of the grisly murder he became immediately aware of a huge crowd around him and at the same time he felt a dread chill in his legs. Quickly he glanced down and saw his beautiful trousers lying in pale grey rings around each foot.
“My braces—I forgot my braces!” he cried.
“Ostrich legs,” yelled the crowd, “Ostrich legs!”
The onlookers roared with laughter and cameras clicked!
Fastidious Frank
There is a soupçon of inelegance here but it must be so in order to tell you about what happened to Frank.
Frank loved MONEY. He planned his life carefully on to the end of his days. He would buy nothing he could do without, he would save, he would deny himself every pleasure, he would use his wits constantly to always out smart the other fellow. Then when MONEY began to roll in he would use it for power to make more MONEY.
Then lo! One fine day he met the banker’s pretty daughter and he began to speculate. If he could win her it would hasten the whole process he had in mind of more power and more MONEY. And so with the same driving determination he began his courtship and soon he knew he was doing all right. The outcome was a cinch. He carefully selected a pretty spot where he intended to propose and it was near a cedar grove in the curve of a lovely country road. The day he chose, you might say because of the weather, turned out to be extremely cold and everything was blanketed in snow. But he threw caution and two dollars to the wind and hired a sleigh from the livery stable at a dollar an hour.
As soon as he had made his plea and been accepted he intended to take her into his arms, and so as he drove nearer and nearer to the cedars his excitement rose higher and higher. When the chosen spot was reached he reined in the high spirited horses and turned to look at her, but instead of seeing her beautiful face he only saw a crystal clear drop at the end of her nose. It was such a cold day this could have happened to anyone but Frank was fastidious, and his sensibilities were jarred. The tender moment fled like a tumble weed in a high wind, and he began talking about other things. Habit is a bull strong thing and unconsciously Frank pulled out his watch. The thought had occurred to him that if he could get the team back promptly he might be able to get a rebate from the livery stable, so he whipped up the horses and drove lickety split back to town.
So nothing whatever happened except that a few weeks later she married another man whom Frank did not like—and on their wedding day the post brought news that an aunt had died way off somewhere and left her TWO MILLION DOLLARS.
The Bird with a Dirty Mind
This is a nursery tale but for grown-ups too. It seems that once the buzzard was a remarkably beautiful bird with bright plumage and a gay topknot, but he had a gloomy mind and became sordid in his thinking and more and more interested in the foul and degraded side of life. One morning he noticed he had lost his lovely topknot but he thought nothing of it as he was busy studying a dead rabbit. One by one his bright feathers disappeared and were replaced by rusty black ones. He did not realize he was now a hideous bird because he was so fully preoccupied with his love for carrion. But every living thing, supposedly, must have some redeeming feature and so grace in flying was not taken from the buzzard although distance alone lends enchantment to this one remaining link with his past magnificence.
The humming bird was originally a drab wee creature but he approached life as if it was a glorious privilege. He had been granted the supreme joy given to those who love beauty. Happily he flew from flower to flower to admire their delicate blossoms and to sip their nectar. One sunny day he noticed a golden, iridescent sheen upon his feathers which had changed from taupe to a shimmering green. Little by little the tiny humming bird became one of God’s most beautiful living beings.
Now, my big and little ones, in this world you can find what you are looking for, and the mark will be upon you. Do you want to be a humming bird and add beauty to this lovely world, or do you want to lose your gay topknot and be a smelly old buzzard? Remember it is a known fact that whatever can’t be done can be done.