Three of Seven
This picture was taken while I was number 3 of 5. Two brothers were still in the planning stages. The good news is that we have outgrown all of the clothes in the picture.
The Thrift Shop
Three is the theme here; three brothers, three sisters and I was the third of seven. The seven of us are products of life in the “cold war” era of the 50's and 60's, but we are much more products of life in a large family. My older sister learned patience from being the first to have responsibility to help look after the younger ones, but it was not a lesson that she took to any level of enthusiasm. She had to find ways to entertain herself in the midst of being patient.
She was the one who would leave any restaurant where the family stopped for a meal with a spoon or a fork. She was the one who would carefully shred her napkin in quarter inch wide strips to be left in a water glass while waiting for the everyone to finish. She was also the one who taught us all how to take a full glass of water and invert it on the table just before we left. She was also the inventive one who would create little bits of mischief. My mother has lived in the same house for over 50 years and in that time she has had two phone numbers. It is likely that without my sisters impish impulses, that phone number would not have changed the entire time.
This story begins with a typo, a simple missed keystroke in the Department of Defense telephone directory. Life in the Washington, DC area includes a lot of phone numbers for the DoD. Their phone directory used to be as large as many cities and towns, not enough to help a four year old reach the dining room table, but still a substantial volume. The typo listed our home phone number as the number for the Thrift Shop on the base at Fort Myer. If this typo had listed an individual instead of a business, again there would be no story to tell, but judging by the number of calls that started coming to our house, there were a lot of people who wanted to get in touch with the Thrift Shop.
At first, all of us just did the polite, “Sorry, wrong number” and went on our way until the day that my sister got the call from someone who had difficulty accepting no for an answer. I only heard one side of the conversation, but it still explained the situation and set my sister's mind turning.
Hello.
No, this is not the Fort Myer Thrift Shop. Didn't you call a minute ago?
What number are you dialing?
The number listed in the Department of Defense Directory. Well, the directory must be wrong because this is our phone number. Is there someone else you can call?
No, it is not a party line.
Well, maybe the Pentagon did make a mistake. Why don't you call them?
My parents called the phone company for help. Today, aided by touch tone phones and computer generated voices, this would be simple to solve, but we lived in a world of rotary dials and mechanical switching systems. Mother Bell (there was only the phone monopoly then) did not feel that they could be responsible for a mistake made in someone else's directory and offered only to change the phone number. My parents decided that the few wrong numbers until the new DoD directory came out would be worth keeping their phone number of 10 years. That choice led to a number of interesting phone calls as my sister was entering her high school dating years and was always the first to answer the phone in hopes that it was for her.
Hello
Yes, this is the Thrift Shop.
Of course. We are open on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 3:45 until 6:12.
Thank you for calling.
Hello. Yes this is the Thrift Shop.
No we do not have any of those but let me tell you about our weekly specials. Baskets!
Hello, Thrift Shop.
Dresses for little girls? Yes we have several yellow sun dresses.
I never knew where all this stuff came from, but my sister could carry on a perfectly rational conversation with these callers out of the clear blue. I can only imagine the conversations that took place at the store when shoppers told of the helpful young woman they had spoken to on the phone promising something that was just not available.
I have no idea if the Thrift Shop finally called my parents to ask for their help or if the Pentagon decided that they needed some defense against Virginia teenagers, but eventually, we got a new phone number, and touch tone phones! I might have been tempted to say that all I remember of this is that my sister was always an example of applying patience with a sense of humor and creativity, but another of my sisters is now using that old phone number as the password for one of her internet accounts. When I saw that number, this whole story came back, including my sister's wisdom of making patience easier with a smile.
Editorial Assistance
The difficulty of a large family has been freshly demonstrated by this addition to Story Chip. I have received a call from my sister who is sure that the opening text is incorrect. She distinctly remembers that in her family, she grew up with four brothers and only two sisters. She wonders if we are truly related.
Peanut Butter Joker (audio file)
All families have ways to lighten the load and brighten spirits. Seven small people will find ways to entertain themselves with practical jokes. It is a good thing that my parents had a sense of humor as they were frequently the target of these pranks.
Ben Hur
As the third of seven, I was one of the “big kids”. My younger sister is still in therapy over the fact that as four of seven, she never graduated into being one of he “big kids”, but that can be another discussion. Being one of the big kids meant responsibility for the younger ones, particularly when the whole group was doing something as seven with two.
My father met several Hollywood lobbyists who provided him with tickets for the whole family for the opening of the film Ben Hur in Washington, DC. At the time, the film industry had found a public that was willing to pay premium prices to see films that ran for nearly four hours as long as there was a nice intermission somewhere near the middle of the film. There were a series of these lengthy films that had settings in biblical times and featured swords, spears, chariots, divine presence and Charleton Heston. The whole genre pretty much ended when Elizabeth Taylor had the lead role in Cleopatra and at the beginning of one scene there is a rear view of a nude Ms. Taylor (or a body double) disappearing into her bath tub. The lesson here appears to be that the movie going public will pay extra for inspiration but cheap thrills should be cheap.
My whole family was making preparation to spend an entire Saturday afternoon with the splendor of ancient Rome at the Warner Theater in the heart of DC. When I say the heart of DC, I mean the heart of DC. The Warner was one of those theaters that was built to house movies or live stage shows. There were several balcony levels that required film viewers to watch the entire film looking down on the screen instead of having their neck leaned back to see the top of the screen. It was also within sight of the White House. The Warner was the theater that President Kennedy would go to when he ducked the Secret Service to sneak out to see a movie, or at least that is the legend, and it would have been no problem for him to walk the block to the movie and stroll back still munching his popcorn. This was also one of those art deco theaters that was gilded and blinged. The balcony facades were carved or at least given the appearance of carvings, drapes hung at all the entrances, everything was carpeted. This was a stately theater in an important neighborhood that was reinvented about 20 years ago.
From my point of view at the time, there had to be some kind of mistake. Saturday afternoons were not an appropriate time for putting on a coat and tie and there is just no way that going to a movie requires that kind dressing up. I can only imagine how much detail I added to my list of complaints when the whole plan was explained to me. My parents dressed the littlest of seven, while the big kids supervised the progress of those in between while I grumbled about a wasted Saturday afternoon. Soon enough we were all presentable and loaded into the car (a fire engine red and black Pontiac station wagon!) for the trip into the city and an afternoon at the movies.
What a scene! Washington's elite in their finery! The furs and diamonds were out and prominent. I do not remember seeing many other kids in attendance but that may well be that other things seemed more important. This definitely was not like going to the neighborhood movie house to see a Saturday matinee. There would be no popcorn throwing during this one.
From my point of view, the film dragged a little before intermission, but my favorite films were still westerns, lots of riding and shooting to keep me on the edge of my seat. Some of these characters rode horses, but they had such funny looking rigging it was hard to think that they could rope much of anything, but the Roman's outfits would have been improved if they had added chaps to those little skirts they wore. The highlight was the big battle at sea that ended a life of slavery for Heston before they got back to a bunch of pontificating about being powerful or noble or proud or something that did not seem as exciting as catapulting fire balls at other ships.
The intermission! Time to stretch and check out the sweets. I believe we were in the upstairs lobby and concession area surrounded by the powerful of Washington. I think all of the big kids were pretty much checking out the scene and wishing that there were more kids and fewer minks, when everything seemed to slow down. I am not sure who noticed first, but whoever it was made a rather unusual sound that got all of us looking. My youngest sister was demonstrating her failing interest in the film by showing off her skill at somersaults. In this crowd, she should not have had enough room to finish even one complete roll but each time her head reached the top of the tight ball she formed, more people stepped back to let the spectacle play out. With each roll, her skirt would flop back toward her ears and everyone could see that when she was getting ready for the movie, she had neglected to select underwear for the occasion.
My mother turned quite red and moved with the speed that only a mother that shade of red can accomplish to gather up my sister and keep her head high and skirt low. My father did his best to look stern and hide the snicker that was bubbling inside. My other siblings immediately began explaining that it was obviously my fault that proper dress had not been observed because I was placed in charge of that chore. I guess it did not help that I was the one that thought the whole thing was a little bit funny.
Over the years, this story has become a way for my family to show that I was the least reliable of the big kids. I always get the blame for the show that was the highlight of intermission at the Washington opening of Ben Hur. In my defense, I have always insisted that I was raised to believe that a gentleman never asks a lady what she has on under her skirt and would certainly not consider lifting her skirt to check. This usually falls on deaf ears. The real problem is that I think most of us are just a bit jealous because she is the only one who has had the opportunity to moon the elite and powerful of DC.
Burial at Snow (audio file)
My sisters were animal lovers, kittens, guinea pigs, ducks, chickens or anything else they could find but there was one morning we all wished they were just a little less caring.
Donuts
Donuts. Beignets. Sopapilla. Bread dough, deep fried and coated with sugary sweetness. There must be something universal in our tastes that has led to a treat that crosses cultures with its allure, and like everything that good, a downside. Grease, sugar and simple carbs are a path to weight and health issues that everyone with a cup of coffee looking for a partner for dunking must consider. An unsolvable conundrum? Moderation? Special occasions? It is hard to imagine a way for humanity to ignore its nature, to forego the opportunity to savor those moments of doughy delight.
My father loved donuts. Some mornings he would show up with a large box of donuts and what he always called "sticky buns", his term for dough rolled in cinnamon, brown sugar and nuts or raisins. While the older kids started doing the math on how many glazed circles we would each be allotted, my dad would sit down with the newspaper, coffee and his selection from his box of goodies. Then once the calculations were complete we could start into the serious business of overindulging.
My father hated excess pounds. He tolerated most of our growing pains and youthful experimentation, but never let him think you might have put on a pound or two around the middle. Margarine and skim milk were the family staples. The only fried foods we ever ate at home were donuts. If my mother ever sauteed anything, she did it hiding in a closet. Anyone suspected of padding out a their middles would have to live with a thumb and forefinger probing at the belt line with the his famous "Pinch an inch" or "working on your love handles". I am not sure that any of us ever felt self conscious about our weight, but I can tell you that every one of us wanted to avoid that pinch.
Imagine the glee that all of us felt when we had the chance to attack a box of donuts. Not only could we eat bakery delicacies, but we got to see my dad get out the butter so that he could add butter to the caloric splurge. Plus, we had the chance to come up behind him and return the pinch an inch. This was his weakness, and we made sure that we could return many of his words as a side dish to the donuts.
My father also loved the beach. We knew that each summer we would spend a week or two in the sand and surf. When we were younger, that meant that we would be coated with olive oil before spending a day in the sun. I am sure that I would never have tolerated smelling like an Italian deli if it had not been for the bakeries that seem to spring like mushrooms in resort towns. Piling into the car to head for the bakery to hand pick from the wonderful gooey doughs that were coming from the ovens and friers along the board walk was about as good as it got during those beach vacations. Donuts and the beach are right up there with fried dough and sugar.
As we got older, beach transportation became bicycles. At first, we had to wait for out parents to wake up and supervise the expedition. We knew we had received the keys to the city when we could go into their bedroom to get enough cash for a run to the bakery. The real trick was to get going early enough to make sure that you limited the number of people who wanted to go along. Choosing from the shapes and flavors of the donuts and buns was not a chore that we wanted to share with an unreliable sibling.
There is just something comforting about pedaling along the coast with a basket of donuts still warm from the bakery. For all of the sibling rivalry that these trips caused, knowing that when our father got up he would see the bakery bounty and his famous twinkling eyes would get just a touch brighter just made those donuts taste better. I know that over the years we put a lot of miles on those two wheelers making runs to the bakery. I also know that a donut was the only free pass we ever got on his inch pinching obsession.
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