Picture Day

I was only four years old when I began attending kindergarten at Blair School in the late 1960s. I don't know if it went against some policy of the St. Louis School District to allow someone so young to attend school, but it could be that some kindly registrar took pity on my poor mother, who was already quite burdened with four children and would be birthing two more by month's end. 

I walked to school by myself each day. It was just a short trip straight across the park from our two-family flat. I'm told that on the first day of school, we were allowed outside to play at recess, and I interpreted this as a sign of dismissal, and so I went home. (I don't remember this at all, and truthfully, I think my parents may be fibbing about it.)

Memory has a funny, selective quality about it, especially when it comes to memories of childhood. I don't remember a single thing about kindergarten. Nothing. Not my classroom, not my classmates, not my teacher. No memories of me painstakingly gripping a fat pencil and writing my name, nor learning the rudimentary skills of reading or arithmetic. No memories of show and tell or coloring pictures or milk and cookies or anything else one might normally associate with those very first days of school during that period of time. Just...nothing.

But I do remember very clearly one fall morning, as breakfast dishes sat on the kitchen table waiting to be cleared, and two noisy infants fussed in their crib nearby, past due for diaper changes, a harried young mother took a moment to neatly tie a yellow ribbon in her little girl's hair so that she would look extra pretty for picture day at school. That little girl never did let her mom know how much she appreciated that.

But I like to think it showed in her smile.

"Quick, where's the camera?"

Okay, I'm not quite sure what inspired Mom to haul out her Kodak and snap this one. Maybe she was trying to use up a roll of film so she could get some pictures developed. Or maybe she was inspired by the one moment in the whole livelong day when those damn kids weren't fighting. By the way, I'm the short-haired girl on the far right.

I swiped this picture from my sister Mary's website, but I'm not sure what meal we're chowing down here. Mary seems to think it's breakfast, but I'm more inclined to think this is a lunch of soup. I'm pretty sure that's a bowl of chips sitting in the middle of the table. And I'm almost positive we never had koolaid for breakfast, but then you never know with our family. Mom probably would have served anything to keep those Haislip kids quiet.

There never were enough chairs in that small kitchen on 21st Street, so usually some of us were standing, and the table was too small for Mom and Dad to join us, so they always ate after we did. Or maybe that was just an excuse they used. It could be that their appetites were affected by the questionable table manners of their sons. I seem to remember Timmy used to turn his eyelids inside out at mealtimes. He was exceptionally talented at this; too bad there were no careers that depended upon such a skill. I'm not sure if he still does it...hopefully not, or he'd likely be thrown out of restaurants.

Once we moved to the house on Commonwealth, Dad fashioned a kitchen table out of an old door, built a couple of benches, and there was plenty of room to eat together as a family, so we were compelled to mind our manners after that. Don't recall if Mom took any meal time pictures of us then, though....

Seeing Signs

Looking back, it was almost a wonder that it took nine years before anyone noticed.

I don't remember specifically what caused my parents to make an appointment for me to see the optometrist. I know it was a notification from school of some sort. Perhaps Mrs. Rell caught me squinting at the blackboard. Perhaps all the fourth graders had been subjected to a routine vision screening in the middle of their annual lice checks.

Whatever it was, I knew my mother was irritated the day of my appointment. I wasn't quite sure where I was going, but I was sure pleased as punch that I was missing school. But as Mom combed the snarls out of my hair that morning, all she did was grumble about the incredibly high cost of eyeglasses, and I started to feel a little guilty, thinking I had done something to make her mad. I quickly scanned my brain for my recent list of misdeeds, wondering what I had done. Coming up with nothing (since I was mostly perfect anyway), I tried to keep quiet, at least until she finished getting out the tangles. Never, ever agitate someone with a comb in your hair. It hurts more.

Dr. Marc Sapien was a kind, grandfatherly type (to me, anyway - he was probably in his late 30s then), and he introduced me to his big eye-checking machine - the "monster" - as he affectionately called it. (How this is supposed to comfort little kids is beyond me...maybe Dr. Sapien had a mean streak.) He completed the routine exam (which looks clearer, this or this?), and determined that I was wildly nearsighted at 20/200. (It was obviously only due to my stupendous intelligence that I had done so well in school to this point...thank goodness I'm so humble or I'd go on and on about how smart I am.)

We selected some frames - or my mom selected some for me. (This has always bewildered me - how do you let nearly blind people select frames, anyway? Isn't that some kind of demented joke?) It would be a couple weeks or so before I could pick up my new glasses. (This was back in the olden days before Lenscrafters and family discounts with Jeff.)

But oh, happy day, when I first put on those glasses. Those with perfect vision (like all of my siblings) may never understand a moment like this. We left the office and I paused outside of the optometrist's door and looked up and down the street. I stared in wonder at every car that passed and could clearly see the drivers' faces through the windshields and read every license plate. I could see inside every store window - the mannequin displays down at Newberrys and the shoe racks in Hills Brothers. And the signs - gosh, so many signs, all with words, and I could read every single one of them, never knowing they even existed before. Before eyeglasses, they were nothing to me but white squares with darker blurs smeared across them.

Oh sure, I guess I saw the blackboard in school after that with no problem....I don't remember, to tell the truth. I suppose I did even better in school as a result. Don't remember that either.

But I clearly remember that afternoon on Manchester Avenue. The sun was shining. And I could see it.

Happy Birthday, Sis

It was a hot summer morning back in the old place on North 21st Street in north St. Louis. I know this because Barbara was still a baby, probably about six months old, and we were taking turns pushing her in the stroller on the sidewalk out in front of the duplex we were living in at the time.

I remember we were all sitting on the front steps, probably because it was too hot indoors. I'm sure Mom was fanning herself and holding up a sign that said Kids. Free to Good Home. Desperate. Really, Really Desperate. (You think that's a joke, don't you? But that's how we got rid of Waldo, Mortimer, Joyce, and Billy.)

Anyway, the sidewalk in front of our front porch steps was wide, and slanted downwards toward the curb. As I remember, it was Timmy's turn to push little Barbara in her stroller, and as was my brother's way, he decided to do it the hard way. Instead of going back and forth on the sidewalk, Timmy was pushing the stroller down toward the curb, and then back up toward the steps, up and down, up and down. Perhaps he had some notion in his head that my mom would snap at him that he wasn't doing it right and pass the boring job onto someone else.

As it happened, that's about the time I decided to rid myself of an empty glass soda bottle I had in my possession, and called out, "Who wants this?" (For you young whippersnappers reading this, glass soda bottles would fetch a whole nickel at the store - a great sum indeed for poor kids like us.) I set the bottle to the pavement, and it started rolling toward the curb.

Sadly, Timmy wanted that bottle more than he cared for his little baby sister's safety. As he let the stroller go to grab that empty soda bottle for himself, the stroller continued on its rapid downward journey toward the curb, and all six of us watched in rapt interest as it bumped off the curb and turned over into the street with poor little Barbara still inside. I don't remember a single one of us running after the stroller to stop it, but I'm sure it was a neat thing to see nevertheless.

As far as we know, Barbara survived that ordeal, and I'm not sure if Timmy ever got in trouble for it. But if you ever wonder if Barbara is strange or does weird things sometimes, you now know who to blame. Timmy.

Oh, by the way, Happy Birthday, sis.

"She's got it wrong again, Carole."

I can just imagine the conversation that takes place at my parents' kitchen table the day after one of my posts is published.

"She's got it wrong again, Carole," my dad announces, pointing to something on the page my mom has so kindly printed out for him. (My dad wouldn't sit in front of a computer screen even if there was a parade of naked ladies prancing across it. Okay, maybe he would then, but most of the time he wouldn't.)

Turns out that the naked lady pen was gifted to my father for his 35th birthday, not his 30th. Ooops. My bad. Also turns out that the gifter was none other than my great-grandfather, known affectionately to us kids as Pappaw. Gosh, the things you learn about some people. As for the Playboy puzzle, Dad claims no memory of this gift at all. I think Dad might have been drinking some that day, but I don't remember. He might not remember either, come to think of it.

Funny thing about childhood memories. Some are as clear and colorful as if they happened only yesterday, and others are too cloudy to see. But sometimes what can't be seen can be felt. My earliest and most vivid memories are the ones I shared with my brothers and sisters... it is these that well up so brightly within me and flow into the words you read here...the noise, the chaos, all those times we laughed and fought and cried and did those funny, silly things that seemed so perfectly normal to us, but so absolutely weird to the rest of the world.

So, I'll keep writing 'em as I remember 'em, and I'll have Mom and Dad to do the proofreading and the follow-up phone calls, setting me straight on the real facts. That's okay. When they get old and senile, I promise I'll return the favor.

The Playboy Puzzle and the Nekkid Lady Pen

When my dad celebrated his 30th birthday in 1971, he had seven children. I'm not sure if he was embarrassed by or proud of this accomplishment; someday I'll have to ask him. Regardless, my mom certainly had him beat. She had seven children by 28.

Anyway, when his 30th birthday rolled around, it was celebrated in typical Haislip fashion, with a big party in the back yard and loads of food and drink. I don't remember much of that party, but I remember in particular a couple of the gifts he received that day, likely from clueless friends who didn't know that small children were going to be present. Or maybe they did know and thought it would all the funnier. Dad had some weird friends.

One gift was a ballpoint pen that had a lady wearing a black swimsuit - and magically, the swimsuit disappeared when the pen was turned upright, leaving the lady completely nude. This astonishing conundrum of physics was one of the most fascinating things we had ever seen - Tim and Jim especially were puzzled by this enigma and insisted on making that swimsuit disappear so freakin' much I thought the pen was going to break.

The other gift was a 150-piece puzzle of a topless Playboy bunny. Thinking back, it was probably one of the dumbest ideas anyone in the Playboy organization ever came up with. What normal American male wants to take the time to put together a puzzle in order to catch a glimpse of a naked lady? Isn't that what the magazines are for? Anyway, my dad glanced at the box, shrugged, and tossed it to his kids to put together for him.

Long after the guests had gone home, six Haislip kids were bent over that puzzle, happy as clams to have a puzzle that had all the pieces intact, whether there were boobs on it or not. We would have had it put together even quicker if not for the intermittent wrestling matches between Tim and Jim as they fought over the naked lady pen. I don't recall my mom ever protesting that her kids were playing with essentially R-rated adult toys, except that perhaps she thought we were already beyond hope. At least sweet little Barbara was still in diapers, and Mom possibly had some vague notion that the youngest Haislip would end up relatively normal. Who knew what would become of the other six rugrats. It was probably that day that she decided she sure as hell wasn't birthing any more of them....

Jeffy loves Shirley

Okay, for those of you who think that Jeff is a nerd now - wow, you should have seen him in the mid-seventies.

One of the most popular Christmas gifts for Haislip kids around this time was a cassette recorder. Odd, though...I don't think I ever got one. Santa decided that I was more of an artistic type and frequently gifted me with Bic Banana markers  or paint-by-number sets.

Anyway, on Saturdays, channel 11 used to show Shirley Temple movies, and I can still picture Jeff with his tape recorder at the ready, his finger in position on the record button - all ready to go when Shirley broke into song and dance. Frequently the first few bars would be missed, but no matter. We all got to enjoy the songs over and over, long after Mom came in and made us turn off the television. Jeff would rewind and press play, and we'd hear Shirley singing all about animal crackers and lollipops and then we'd hear extended banging and tapping as she performed her dance sequences as the creepy men's or women's chorus sang in the background. It was way cool.

Come to think of it, I guess we were all nerds. Jeff must have been contagious.

Learning Curve

The year I turned eight was an important year for me...a new house, a new school, new friends...a lot for a little kid to take in all at one time, but I stumbled through and managed on my own, as I always did. It was pretty much something I had been doing since my twin brothers Tim and Jim showed up when I was barely ten months old. Just par for the course as the oldest sibling.

But something else happened that year that changed my perspective forever.

Any kid who went to Wilkinson School in the early seventies remembers the meanest teacher there, Mrs. K. I won't spell out her name, but she must surely have been in the running for the most terrifying school teacher in the entire district. I think they gave out an award shaped like a little golden witch hat.

Mrs. K wasn't my teacher that year, thank goodness. Apparently a group of defenseless first graders drew the short straw that year.

But Mrs. K was the lunch monitor one unlucky day that I happened to finish eating early and headed innocently out to the schoolyard for recess, along with two other girls. Shortly after that, and unbeknownst to us, a fight broke out in the corridor outside the lunchroom, and students spilled from the lunchroom to watch the spectacle and egg it on. Mrs. K apparently broke up the fight and sent the combatants on to the principal's office, and then had herself a little screaming match in that corridor, roundly berating the remaining students for encouraging such despicable behavior. She also started taking names, and someone piped up that there were some students missing (like me), and so Mrs. K got it into her head that I and the other two girls had managed to escape her wrath by running out into the schoolyard.

We were rounded up within minutes, and marched up to Mrs. K's empty schoolroom, and she commenced with a vicious scolding the likes of which I had never before been subjected to. The three of us stood silently in front of her desk, frightened and bewildered, not sure why we were in trouble. When we attempted to proclaim our innocence, we were labeled as liars. "Admit it!" she screeched. "Just admit that you ran out cause you didn't want to get in trouble!" But even at eight I felt a stubborn need to cling to my integrity, as well as a naive belief that telling the truth was always the best thing to do. My so-called cohorts in crime must have felt the same way; none of us would admit to something we didn't do.

As punishment, Mrs. K forced the three of us to stand several feet apart with our noses to her blackboard, and she waited patiently as her first graders filed back into the classroom. I noticed the younger siblings of several of my friends glance at us curiously as they took their seats, and I was immediately grateful that none of my own siblings was in that grade. I could only imagine my parents' reaction as word of this mortifying experience spread.

Mrs. K paced the floor in front of her classroom, dramatically waving her wooden pointer about as she loudly described to her wide-eyed six-year-old students the fate that awaited liars and troublemakers, as seen by the three examples standing in front of them.

We were eventually returned to our classroom without incident, but to this day it remains one of the most humiliating things I've ever gone through. In the space of an hour, I did a lot of growing up. I learned that trying your best isn't always enough. I learned that being honest doesn't always help. And I learned that grown-ups sometimes let you down.

Oddly, a few years later, Mrs. K became my own teacher, and I never had another single problem with her. Either she had mellowed after a few years, or fate itself decided to give me a break after that nasty little episode. Life has a way of balancing things.

Peanut Butter and Mayonnaise Sandwiches

No, the peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich was not invented by the Haislip clan - as seen by the pictoral image above I pulled off the internet. (What, you think I take photographs of my sandwiches after I take a bite of them? How sick do you think I am?)

In fact, many individuals have bravely indulged in this culinary masterpiece - in fact, several have even accessorized these sandwiches with bacon, lettuce, or even bananas. Even Jeff Smith, the famous Frugal Gourmet was known to snack on peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. (Oh, wait. Didn't he die in prison? Scratch that. Bad example.)

Not that I eat them now. As a kid I didn't have the luxury to contemplate the relative grossness of foods that were available to me. It's precisely the reason I no longer eat ham hocks.

It makes me wonder, however, who in the world put these two condiments together in the first place and decided they would be tasty between two slices of bread. Was there some type of analysis - the creamy, slightly pungent taste of the mayonnaise coupled with the firmer, saltier texture of the peanut butter? Or was it some crazy accident - similar to the famed Reeses incident? Did a mayonnaise lover and peanut butter lover crash into each other while roller skating and then the rest was history? Sadly, I suppose only heaven knows how the creation came to be.

Perhaps another day we'll explore the delicious combination of peanut butter and syrup served up with saltines....now that's a culinary masterpiece....