Very early
memories scatter and hide within the boundaries of my mind. Most move to a far distant edge and simply
huddle together – each hushing the next.
Some seek out dark closets. Or
better yet, a cellar-black where even the brave dare not look. Doors left ajar harbor those that will be
found first. Parts of the troupe hide in
plain sight hoping to avoid detection by melding with the clutter of the common. A few move with quiet, never lingering, daring
the seeker to not only target but to hold as well. And occasionally one jumps out as if anxious
to end the game.
And so it is with Callow -
the first forays of a little man into the world outside the home. Callow as I came to know it was a string of little
shops along either side of the avenue that connected our neighborhood to
downtown Bremerton
- a precursor to today’s strip mall and drive-thru’s. The biggest building on the block was the grocery
store. My mind refuses to divulge what
was inside but just out the front door was a parking lot dedicated for the
store itself – perhaps ten cars large. Somewhere,
a few buildings down, came a two chair barbershop adorned out front with a
revolving helix of red, white, and blue stripes. Boy, that barber pole really captivated the imagination
as the stripes rose steadily towards the top.
Where did they come from? Where
did they go? The bakery remains the
most vivid. Loaves of bread. Rows of cookies. Pastries of all shapes and sizes. All displayed on metal racks at eye level behind
the display-counter windows. But it was
the jingle of that little bell at the top of the door in partnership with a
wall of aroma that triggered something ancestral. A goodness engulfed the senses that went
beyond smell and hearing – the experience could be felt. And then there was a
drug store that sold most anything leftover.
One day Mom and I were
shopping in the drug store and as we turned the corner of an isle, there was a barrel-sized,
wire bin filled with brilliantly colored balls.
All air filled and nearly as big as a cantaloupe. Red.
Green. Blue. But the bright, nearly fluorescent orange
ball was the one that called my name.
“Oh! Look!” as I grabbed Mom’s
hand and pirouetted her back towards the basket. “The orange one! Can we get it?”
A few seconds pause….. then,
“Ask Dad when he gets home.”
And on we went.
Well, I’m sure Dad was tired by
the time he got home from work that evening but the concept of relaxation
wouldn’t enter my consciousness for years to come. So, with the eagerness that only a four-year-old
can conjure, I told him about that orange ball.
And soon we were at the front door, saying good-bye to Mom - off to the
drug store before it closed. But there
was one condition, “We’ll get it only if it’s less than a dollar.”
When we got to the store, I
went straight to the bin and that beautiful orange ball was right there where I
had left it. And Dad fingered a white sign
with red lettering that was propped-up on the top of the bin.
“How much is it, Dad?”
“99 cents.”
“Is that less than a dollar?”
“Yes.”
I can still feel the smile on
my face. But Dad was already moving
across the aisle and pawing a big kid’s basketball on the opposite shelf.
“How about this one? Would you like this one instead?”
“How much is it?”
“Two fifty.”
“Is that less than a dollar?”
“No. That’s more than a dollar. But we can get this one if you want.”
“No. I want this one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
And with that, Dad fished the
orange ball out of the bin and handed it to me.
