Perfect
It is one of those memories that sticks in one's mind, a snapshot of a brief moment in time, meaningless in its triviality, yet it hangs about like a stranger who looks slightly suspicious, a tiny bit menacing, but who also never does anything to support those fears or allay them. So this morning, in the depths of one of my ‘episodes’, after a night of restless sleeping, it pops into consciousness once again, leaving both an unsecured longing and a spark of joy.
When we were children, under the age where one could leave us safely at home, we always went shopping with Mommy. She did not drive, never drove in my recollection, except that one fateful evening when she propelled the neighbour’s car up our driveway, into my father’s Buick, our garage and any number of framed Kaiser shade window screens, leaning against the walls so their framing’s new coat of paint could dry. Oddly enough, I do not recall taking the bus to town, nor returning home on it; I recall only waiting for it after a day’s shopping.
I recall rituals involved in all things with my mother – the way she cut bananas onto breakfast cereal; her preparation of 24-hour fruit salad, without which no holiday meal was complete; her sitting at the dining room table in the late afternoon to work the evening newspaper crossword puzzle, her diamond engagement ring refracting the setting sun’s light into dozens of rainbows that danced along the walls whilst she carefully printed each answer to each clue; Japanese nurse, O-M-A-H, essential oil or perfume from flowers, A-T-T-A-R, harmful often in a subtle or unexpected way, D-E-L-E-T-E-R-I-O-U-S. There was the ritual of things – the stacked cup, teapot and creamer decorated with ducks in the built-in china cupboard. This kept company with her prized milk glass, the silver salt and pepper shakers that were birds, perched on a silver limb and the clear Fostoria candy dish. So too, did we observe rituals during shopping. Most of our shopping expeditions are a blur, vanished into obscurity. But there was the traditional trip to the local bakery, warmed from the sun streaming through the front windows and the ovens in the back, redolent in the smells of just-baked things, displayed resplendently in cases on three sides of the little shop. “Don’t touch the glass; don’t touch the glass.” There Mommy greeted women who I recognised but could not call by name. Eventually one would come out with a giant sugar cookie for each of us, obtained from somewhere secret in the kitchen, still warm and sweet-smelling, bigger than my hand, half-wrapped in a tidy square of waxed paper. This meant we had been good; this was our reward.
Another regular stop was the Green Mill restaurant. We often visited there with Daddy. But when we went there with him, we had supper – open-faced roast turkey or roast beef sandwiches with gravy and mashed potatoes, simple Midwestern cookery; none of this focaccia or corn-fed free-range critter on whole grain chunks of stuff that is good for you. No, this was thin, even slices of whatever was available locally (which was probably “free-range” anyway) on gooey white bread with old-fashioned gravy and mashed potatoes without a lump to be found. Daddy greeted the waitresses jovially. They knew about his weird eating habits, no vegetables, no bread, no salad but lettuce, two cups of coffee after the supper dishes had been cleared, so there was no discomfort, no need to be embarrassed. They accepted his strange food predilections just as we did. But when we went to the Green Mill with Mommy, I do not know if we even ate. All I remember is hot chocolate in the winter, so hot you could not drink it, so you just watched the miniature marshmallows slowly dissolving into a sugary, foamy layer. In warm weather, we would get the restaurant’s signature fountain drink, a Green River, made with some sort of green syrup mixed with soda water dispensed from a real soda fountain. We would sit in the sparkling clean vinyl booth, taking care not to put our elbows on the equally clean Formica table top while we sipped our Green Rivers through clear plastic straws that came wrapped in thin paper – the kind you could tear off one end of the paper tube holding the straw, blow into the exposed straw and shoot the paper covering at your sister (and get in trouble for). I do not recall what we talked about, if we talked. I do not recall if there was music playing. I recall only sitting in the booth with Mommy and my sister, sipping Green Rivers and being ecstatically happy. Finally, the drink would be gone, but we would draw upon the straw for the liquid’s last drops, hidden amongst the crushed ice, making rude sucking straw noises (and getting in trouble).
There are stores we visited, although I do not remember Mommy buying anything or trying clothes on. We visited Damon’s, the local department store, and Osco Drug with the forest green marble tiling on the outside of the building. If my sister and I needed shoes, we went to Odd Lot, where Mommy could get school shoes and Sunday shoes for us at a bargain, but about which Daddy would always complain they cost too much. There was also the department store, Yonkers, where Mommy worked after the divorce. And in later years, Bergo’s, which was much too expensive but fun to look through. If we had to go to the dentist, he was housed in the Brick & Tile Building, and we got to take the elevator. There was the time my sister had to have work done at the dentist, and after, Mommy took us to the Green Mill for hot chocolate, but Betty’s mouth was still numb from the novocaine, so hot chocolate drooled down her chin as she drank, messing up her dress.
At the end of a day’s shopping, we went to the bus stop on the corner, just down from the shop where my mother always got her hair fixed. We sat on the stoop of a side entrance to a building that nearly burned down years later. And this is that odd little memory that keeps haunting me. It was a summer’s day – had to be because Mommy was wearing sandals with no hosiery. I was sitting next to her on the step, folded in half the way only children are able, with my upper body lying flat along my thighs, arms hanging down, staring at the ground, at passing ants, or the contours of the concrete, when my gaze went to Mommy’s tiny little feet – size 5AA, she always said – tiny little feet, with carefully manicured and painted toenails, wrapped perfectly in supple, brown leather sandals. In the midst of all this perfection, I saw some stray detritus, some bit of something - that - should - not - be - there on Mommy’s toe, and so I reached down to pull it off. She yelled at me, shattering the moment, the summer’s day, the memory that creeps into my head. “That was a hair!” she complains and stands up in a huff, very angry with me. “That hurt!” I try to explain that I was only trying to help, only trying to keep her perfect in the perfect summer sun at the end of a perfect day of sugar cookies and Green Rivers and Osco Drug’s beautiful green marble façade. But she is angry with me now, and the bus ride home will be very long, indeed.
When we were children, under the age where one could leave us safely at home, we always went shopping with Mommy. She did not drive, never drove in my recollection, except that one fateful evening when she propelled the neighbour’s car up our driveway, into my father’s Buick, our garage and any number of framed Kaiser shade window screens, leaning against the walls so their framing’s new coat of paint could dry. Oddly enough, I do not recall taking the bus to town, nor returning home on it; I recall only waiting for it after a day’s shopping.I recall rituals involved in all things with my mother – the way she cut bananas onto breakfast cereal; her preparation of 24-hour fruit salad, without which no holiday meal was complete; her sitting at the dining room table in the late afternoon to work the evening newspaper crossword puzzle, her diamond engagement ring refracting the setting sun’s light into dozens of rainbows that danced along the walls whilst she carefully printed each answer to each clue; Japanese nurse, O-M-A-H, essential oil or perfume from flowers, A-T-T-A-R, harmful often in a subtle or unexpected way, D-E-L-E-T-E-R-I-O-U-S. There was the ritual of things – the stacked cup, teapot and creamer decorated with ducks in the built-in china cupboard. This kept company with her prized milk glass, the silver salt and pepper shakers that were birds, perched on a silver limb and the clear Fostoria candy dish. So too, did we observe rituals during shopping. Most of our shopping expeditions are a blur, vanished into obscurity. But there was the traditional trip to the local bakery, warmed from the sun streaming through the front windows and the ovens in the back, redolent in the smells of just-baked things, displayed resplendently in cases on three sides of the little shop. “Don’t touch the glass; don’t touch the glass.” There Mommy greeted women who I recognised but could not call by name. Eventually one would come out with a giant sugar cookie for each of us, obtained from somewhere secret in the kitchen, still warm and sweet-smelling, bigger than my hand, half-wrapped in a tidy square of waxed paper. This meant we had been good; this was our reward.
Another regular stop was the Green Mill restaurant. We often visited there with Daddy. But when we went there with him, we had supper – open-faced roast turkey or roast beef sandwiches with gravy and mashed potatoes, simple Midwestern cookery; none of this focaccia or corn-fed free-range critter on whole grain chunks of stuff that is good for you. No, this was thin, even slices of whatever was available locally (which was probably “free-range” anyway) on gooey white bread with old-fashioned gravy and mashed potatoes without a lump to be found. Daddy greeted the waitresses jovially. They knew about his weird eating habits, no vegetables, no bread, no salad but lettuce, two cups of coffee after the supper dishes had been cleared, so there was no discomfort, no need to be embarrassed. They accepted his strange food predilections just as we did. But when we went to the Green Mill with Mommy, I do not know if we even ate. All I remember is hot chocolate in the winter, so hot you could not drink it, so you just watched the miniature marshmallows slowly dissolving into a sugary, foamy layer. In warm weather, we would get the restaurant’s signature fountain drink, a Green River, made with some sort of green syrup mixed with soda water dispensed from a real soda fountain. We would sit in the sparkling clean vinyl booth, taking care not to put our elbows on the equally clean Formica table top while we sipped our Green Rivers through clear plastic straws that came wrapped in thin paper – the kind you could tear off one end of the paper tube holding the straw, blow into the exposed straw and shoot the paper covering at your sister (and get in trouble for). I do not recall what we talked about, if we talked. I do not recall if there was music playing. I recall only sitting in the booth with Mommy and my sister, sipping Green Rivers and being ecstatically happy. Finally, the drink would be gone, but we would draw upon the straw for the liquid’s last drops, hidden amongst the crushed ice, making rude sucking straw noises (and getting in trouble).
There are stores we visited, although I do not remember Mommy buying anything or trying clothes on. We visited Damon’s, the local department store, and Osco Drug with the forest green marble tiling on the outside of the building. If my sister and I needed shoes, we went to Odd Lot, where Mommy could get school shoes and Sunday shoes for us at a bargain, but about which Daddy would always complain they cost too much. There was also the department store, Yonkers, where Mommy worked after the divorce. And in later years, Bergo’s, which was much too expensive but fun to look through. If we had to go to the dentist, he was housed in the Brick & Tile Building, and we got to take the elevator. There was the time my sister had to have work done at the dentist, and after, Mommy took us to the Green Mill for hot chocolate, but Betty’s mouth was still numb from the novocaine, so hot chocolate drooled down her chin as she drank, messing up her dress.
At the end of a day’s shopping, we went to the bus stop on the corner, just down from the shop where my mother always got her hair fixed. We sat on the stoop of a side entrance to a building that nearly burned down years later. And this is that odd little memory that keeps haunting me. It was a summer’s day – had to be because Mommy was wearing sandals with no hosiery. I was sitting next to her on the step, folded in half the way only children are able, with my upper body lying flat along my thighs, arms hanging down, staring at the ground, at passing ants, or the contours of the concrete, when my gaze went to Mommy’s tiny little feet – size 5AA, she always said – tiny little feet, with carefully manicured and painted toenails, wrapped perfectly in supple, brown leather sandals. In the midst of all this perfection, I saw some stray detritus, some bit of something - that - should - not - be - there on Mommy’s toe, and so I reached down to pull it off. She yelled at me, shattering the moment, the summer’s day, the memory that creeps into my head. “That was a hair!” she complains and stands up in a huff, very angry with me. “That hurt!” I try to explain that I was only trying to help, only trying to keep her perfect in the perfect summer sun at the end of a perfect day of sugar cookies and Green Rivers and Osco Drug’s beautiful green marble façade. But she is angry with me now, and the bus ride home will be very long, indeed.
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