Brunswick with my father to call at Uncle Tom’s house. Though Uncle Tom was fourteen years older, my father loved and respected him above all his brothers. Maybe it was because he saw in Tom the blacksmith some shadow of the blacksmith father who died when my father was only ten. Maybe it was because Tom, living in such splendor with his indoor bathroom and his Essex, had escaped Morrisonville and prospered. Maybe it was for Tom’s sweetness of character, which was unusual among Ida Rebecca’s boys.
Uncle Tom was at work that day, but Aunt Goldie gave us a warm welcome. She was a delicate woman, not much bigger than my mother, with hair of ginger red, blue eyes, and a way of looking at you and turning her head suddenly this way and that which reminded me of an alert bird. She was also a notoriously fussy housekeeper, constantly battling railroad grime to preserve herhouse’s reputation for not containing “a speck of dust anywhere in it.” Before admitting us to her spotless kitchen, she had my father and me wipe our shoes on the doormat, then made a fuss about how sweet I smelled and how handsome I looked, then cut me a huge slab of pie.
My great joy in calling on Aunt Goldie was the opportunity afforded to visit the indoor bathroom, so naturally after polishing off the pie I pretended an urgent need to use the toilet. This was on the second floor and required a journey through the famously dust-free dining room and parlor, but Aunt Goldie understood. “Take your shoes off first so you don’t track up the floor,” she said. Which I did. “And don’t touch anything in the parlor.”
With this caution she admitted me to the sanctum of spotlessness. I trod across immaculate rugs and past dining room furniture, armchairs, side tables, a settee, like a soldier walking in a mine field. There would be no dust left behind if I could help it.
At the top of the stairs lay the miracle of plumbing. Shutting the door to be absolutely alone with it, I ran my fingers along the smooth enamel of the bathtub and glistening faucet handles of the sink. The white majesty of the toilet bowl, through which gallons of water could be sent rushing by the slightest touch of a silvery lever, filled me with envy. A roll of delicate paper was placed beside it. Here was luxury almost too rich to be borne by anyone whose idea of fancy toiletry was Uncle Irvey’s two-hole privy and a Montgomery Ward catalog.
After gazing upon it as long as I dared without risking interruption by a search party, I pushed the lever and savored the supreme moment when thundering waters emptied into the bowl and vanished with a mighty gurgle. It was the perfect conclusion to a trip to Brunswick.
C HAPTER F IVE
W HEN my father came home from work that evening he ate hurriedly, bathed in the tin basin, and changed into his blue serge suit, white shirt, necktie, and low shoes. It was a Wednesday in November. We were all going on a trip.
Doris, Audrey, my mother, and I were already dressed in our best clothes and the suitcase was packed when my father arrived. It was the first time the family had ever made a trip together. I had been itching to get away all afternoon, annoying my mother with the same question repeated a hundred times—“Is it almost time to go? Is it almost time to go?”—and she had gone about the preparations singing happily to herself.
When the supper dishes were cleared it was dark and chilly. My father buttoned up the isinglass windows of the Model T and hoisted Doris and me onto the high backseat. My mother climbed into the front with Audrey in her arms, my father spun the crank, the motor caught, he jumped in behind the wheel, and we rolled merrily out of Morrisonville.
We were headed for Taylorstown, five miles away, to spend the night with Uncle Miller. It was the hog-butchering season, atime of communal festivals which ended the long harvest season. Uncle Miller, Ida Rebecca’s fifth son, had invited my father to bring us all
Uncle Tom was at work that day, but Aunt Goldie gave us a warm welcome. She was a delicate woman, not much bigger than my mother, with hair of ginger red, blue eyes, and a way of looking at you and turning her head suddenly this way and that which reminded me of an alert bird. She was also a notoriously fussy housekeeper, constantly battling railroad grime to preserve herhouse’s reputation for not containing “a speck of dust anywhere in it.” Before admitting us to her spotless kitchen, she had my father and me wipe our shoes on the doormat, then made a fuss about how sweet I smelled and how handsome I looked, then cut me a huge slab of pie.
My great joy in calling on Aunt Goldie was the opportunity afforded to visit the indoor bathroom, so naturally after polishing off the pie I pretended an urgent need to use the toilet. This was on the second floor and required a journey through the famously dust-free dining room and parlor, but Aunt Goldie understood. “Take your shoes off first so you don’t track up the floor,” she said. Which I did. “And don’t touch anything in the parlor.”
With this caution she admitted me to the sanctum of spotlessness. I trod across immaculate rugs and past dining room furniture, armchairs, side tables, a settee, like a soldier walking in a mine field. There would be no dust left behind if I could help it.
At the top of the stairs lay the miracle of plumbing. Shutting the door to be absolutely alone with it, I ran my fingers along the smooth enamel of the bathtub and glistening faucet handles of the sink. The white majesty of the toilet bowl, through which gallons of water could be sent rushing by the slightest touch of a silvery lever, filled me with envy. A roll of delicate paper was placed beside it. Here was luxury almost too rich to be borne by anyone whose idea of fancy toiletry was Uncle Irvey’s two-hole privy and a Montgomery Ward catalog.
After gazing upon it as long as I dared without risking interruption by a search party, I pushed the lever and savored the supreme moment when thundering waters emptied into the bowl and vanished with a mighty gurgle. It was the perfect conclusion to a trip to Brunswick.
C HAPTER F IVE
W HEN my father came home from work that evening he ate hurriedly, bathed in the tin basin, and changed into his blue serge suit, white shirt, necktie, and low shoes. It was a Wednesday in November. We were all going on a trip.
Doris, Audrey, my mother, and I were already dressed in our best clothes and the suitcase was packed when my father arrived. It was the first time the family had ever made a trip together. I had been itching to get away all afternoon, annoying my mother with the same question repeated a hundred times—“Is it almost time to go? Is it almost time to go?”—and she had gone about the preparations singing happily to herself.
When the supper dishes were cleared it was dark and chilly. My father buttoned up the isinglass windows of the Model T and hoisted Doris and me onto the high backseat. My mother climbed into the front with Audrey in her arms, my father spun the crank, the motor caught, he jumped in behind the wheel, and we rolled merrily out of Morrisonville.
We were headed for Taylorstown, five miles away, to spend the night with Uncle Miller. It was the hog-butchering season, atime of communal festivals which ended the long harvest season. Uncle Miller, Ida Rebecca’s fifth son, had invited my father to bring us all
Similar Books
