If I’m not wearing a Tie/Bow Tie o’ the Day, I feel naked. But at least I am wearing The Emperor’s New Clothes.
FYI That’s my brother, Rob, beside me. Mom’s in charge. She really does have a head. I promise.
In Case You Didn’t Know Already
Me? Climb The Water Tower? No Comment.
Red and white Tie o’ the Day dresses up as the Delta Water Tower, with the aid of our water heater. The red “D” reigns, no matter what town I take off my cowboy boots in.
We’ve lived in our Centerville house eight years. It was new when we moved in. Guess what time it is? Time for the house and whatever came with it to need some little tweaks. Last week, the ice maker in the fridge simply stopped making ice. No smoke, no sputtering, no subtle dying creaks. It made ice, then it didn’t. Enter, the refrigerator repairman. He tinkered around in the guts of the freezer door, but he could find nothing wrong. Exit, the repairman and his fee. He must have done something though, because the ice maker is making ice now. It must have just wanted some attention from someone who understood it. Go figure.
And then there’s the plumbing. When the master bath shower is first turned on, there is a growing rumbling o’ the pipes throughout the house. I was outside on the morning of the 4th of July, and I could hear the pipes grumble when Suzanne got in the shower. The outside world should not have to hear our pipes. Also, the water pressure in the shower is almost zero. Lately when I shower, I feel like I’m standing under a rain cloud that drops rain one raindrop at a time. Dribble, dribble.
So I spent most of Wednesday watching the plumber do whatever he needed to do. A bigly bill later, and the pipes haven’t grumbled again. The water pressure in the shower is now restored. Victory! Almost. There are still a couple of water issues Suzanne’s not satisfied with, so I’ll be hosting the plumber again soon. I am a writer by trade. But I know my real job is to keep Suzanne happy—even with the plumbing.
A House Divided. Not.
I spent my childhood living in two houses simultaneously, without ever moving. Mom and Dad lived next door to my dad’s parents, Walter and Zola Walker Wright. In this slide, my grandma is wearing a kinda Bow Tie o’ the Day. ( I can’t tell for sure if the bow is attached to her dress or her apron.) If I wasn’t found in one house, I was likely to be found in the other. Or I was out in what felt to me like one bigly yard. The horse corral and the vegetable garden and the bee warehouse were out back behind the two houses. The whole spread was like my own private amusement park. I wrung the fun out of every inch of the buildings, machinery, and the land. I hated to take the time to sleep. My world, on that tiny portion of a block, seemed endlessly fascinating, and I couldn’t wait to get started exploring and playing every day. I was free, yet safe there. I was making my way through the world on my own. I was learning, hands-on. I would never feel that free, confident, or that safe again in my life.
Looking back, I realize I was very well supervised, though I felt completely independent at the time. I must have sensed somehow that I was safe and looked after. I do recall seeing Mom and Momo having impromptu chat sessions in the driveway between our houses. Many times, I would see them both turn to me as I arrived on the scene, and I would hear a duet of, “There you are!” in my direction. I am positive these little chats were more like a conference on the mound in baseball, where the two checked in with each other about my travels and then strategized about my care and supervision for the rest of the day.
These Boots Are Made For Walkin’
The boot laces are tied, which is all that is necessary to qualify this slide pic o’ me for Tie o’ the Day. I swear I can remember standing in our front yard in the sun while these pix were taken. The date on the slide is April 1967, making me a total of 3. The boots are not small enough to be mine, and not bigly enough to be Dad’s, so they must belong to one of my siblings. Clearly, even in my wee beingness I had already confidently started my amazing career as a bold fashionista rebel. I just hadn’t figured out the bow tie gimmick yet.
I Am Not The Doll You See Here
Mom made a gaggle o’ dolls over the years, but the one in this slide was not one of them. I was not yet born when this photo op came to pass. Since my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless (SWWTRN) is holding the doll, I’m assuming it was hers. Perhaps she was channeling my future earthly birth with me while I was still in the Pre-existence. C’mon—it could have happened. Notice that my sisters have both donned long Bow Ties o’ the Day for what the date on the slide indicates was Christmas of 1958.
Dad’s a looker, eh? In my mind’s eye, Dad always has his Sean Connery beard—even though this shows me to be wrong. Come to think of it, Mom started making dolls about the same time Dad grew his signature beard—sometime in the 80’s. Perhaps that was how they each dealt with their newly empty nest and their proverbial mid-life crises. I dunno. I just know that in the 80’s, Dad’s beard sprouted its salt-and-pepper glory, and plaster doll parts were perpetually scattered throughout flat surfaces in the house, in their various stages of doll-completion.
FYI Here’s the birth order of my siblings and I, for anyone who might be wondering: Betty (front); SWWTRN (back); Ron (front, middle); Rob (on Dad’s lap); a bigly time-gap (a true pregnant pause); then, yours truly.
If you ever want to rile up Mom, just tell her I said I know I was an accident. She does not abide that “accident” talk about me. I can usually get her calmed down about it by explaining I meant to say I was more of an “afterthought.” At 89, Mom still shines with her comebacks. Not too long ago when I was egging her on about the topic, she said, “An afterthought? I should say not! There was no thought after.” And then I said, “Mom, get your mind out of the gutter, so mine can roll by!” We continued the back-and-forth, and we laughed until I lost my breath and had to take a hit off her oxygen mask. We are soooooo related. We are The Two Helen’s! Vaudeville is our next stop.
BTW Mom doesn’t really have an oxygen tank. It just made the story better to paint a picture of me stealing the old gal’s oxygen. Note to self and others: The key to telling good stories is to never let the truth get in the way—as long as you fess up to it later.
Meanwhile, In Dad’s Rocking Chair…
TIE O’ THE DAY presents a rare sight. Here I am in a diaper, without any kind of tie, AND I am sound asleep. Those three planets haven’t aligned since this slide was snapped.
I’ve always had trouble sleeping, even as a wee sprite. In fact, I think I may not really be bipolar. I think it’s entirely possible my extremely moody brain activity is simply a result of the insomnia I’ve had for the last 50 years. I declare in all honesty that if it would help me sleep at night, or any other time, I would gladly go back to wearing diapers.
But not the cloth kind, as shown in the photo. Nope.
Two Queens, Standing
We, here at TIE O’ THE DAY are pleased to present this forgotten late-60’s slide, starring my hip mom, Helen Sr., and her equally stylish mom, my Oak City grandma, Martha Anderson. Check out their mod footwear. Grandma makes those Keds look sexy as all get-out, don’t you think? And, of course, they’re tied with bows.
The date on this slide is September of 1968. I don’t know what these two precious ladies were up to that day, but it’s a safe bet that yumtastic cooking, canning, and/or expert quilting was involved. (Note: It appears from this picture that Grandma Anderson still had both of her eyes, but that wouldn’t be for much longer.)
If you’ve had the chance to know these two dames, there is nothing further I need to tell you about them. These women always spoke for themselves, and presented themselves as exactly who they were and what they were about. (Mom continues to do so, even on pandemic lockdown at the care center.) What you saw and heard from them was what you got. I would say that Mom is a more sarcastic, liberated version of Grandma, but that is due mostly to the different times into which they were born. If Mom is Grandma-squared, I am Mom-cubed—simply due to historical culture.
If you haven’t had the honor of knowing either/both of them, let me offer this about Mom and Grandma: They mirrored each other in their generosity and willingness to serve others. They differed in approach somewhat. Mom won’t let anybody get away with anything mean or petty, but she’ll make and serve you scrumptious potato salad while she’s nicely putting you in your place. You end up thanking Mom, as you walk away from being shown the error of your ways.
Grandma Anderson is the only person I’ve known who truly loved her enemies—to the point that she couldn’t remember who her enemies were, or even that she had any. I recall a conversation with Grandma during which, for whatever reason, I mentioned to her that “so-and-so” had once caused her some grief. Grandma was still sound of mind at the time of our conversation, but she truly could not recall any such slight from “so-and-so,” or from anybody else. She had no time for enemies, because she was too busy loving everybody. I’m working on honing that eternally handy skill, inch by inch.
Cowboy Boots Forever
When these slides were snapped, I had not yet found the major component of my fashion destiny: TIES. There’s no Neckwear o’ the Day to be seen on this day of my kidhood. However, I had clearly discovered that cowboy boots were integral to my bike-riding style.
A Battered Blanket Happened
My name is Helen, and I’m a thumbsuck-aholic. ‘Tis true. I didn’t defeat my personal thumb-diction demon until sometime after 1st Grade. When I was in Kindergarten, I knew I had to stop, but I couldn’t. I did not want to take my baby habit with me to elementary school, but I did—at least to 1st grade. I distinctly remember “accidentally on purpose” dropping my pencil underneath my desk a dozen times a day at least, so while I retrieved my pencil, I could suck a quick puff o’ thumb with my desk as my cover. I never got caught committing my baby habit, but I knew my luck with getting away with such an embarrassing habit would likely not hold out much longer.
Besides, my 1st Grade teacher thought something wasn’t quite right with my behavior anyway. I’m sure the near-constant droppin’ o my pencil was one of the reasons she told my Mom she was sorry, but she thought I was probably retarded, and Mom and Dad should just face it. Mostly, my teacher thought something was wrong with me because I barely spoke. My teacher did not speak in low decibels: She was a yeller, and I had not yet hobnobbed with any adult yellers up to that point in my life. I handled her yelling by trying to be invisible and silent. I tried to blend in with the furniture and hoped to go entirely unnoticed for my first year in elementary school. Looking back, I can see I truly needed my thumb-sucking habit to help me reduce the stress of my 1st Grade experience. It makes perfect sense to me now why I couldn’t stop thumb-sucking before I got away from all the shouting.
Over the summer, I focused all of my superpowers on quitting my bad habit. I begged Mom to cut off my offending thumb (the right). I reasoned that if I didn’t have my thumb, I wouldn’t need to suck it. She would not do it. One of my brothers had his pocketknife at the ready, to lop it off if I gave him a dollar (which I did), but Mom didn’t let him cut it off for me either. Neither did he return the dollar I had already given him for his services.
I soaked my childish thumb in rubbing alcohol, so I wouldn’t be tempted to suck it anymore. But that didn’t work either. I held my nose and sucked my thumb. I was desperate. And as every pro-level thumbsucker knows, thumb-sucking isn’t merely about sucking a thumb. For me, it was about sucking my thumb while mousing my fingers in the fabric of MY quilt. See my raggedy blanket there on our clothesline, barely hanging together. See how tattered it is from my thumb-sucking, fidgety-fingered use and from all the dragging it around with me. See how I couldn’t be separated from it at home for the length of time it took for it to dry on the clothesline. See how I stood at the clothesline, clutching my quilt all day in the hot sun. #yesthatisthebattingyoucansee
Standing there with my blanket was for many years my idea of Heaven. But I needed to stop. So I begged Mom to burn my blanket, reasoning that if I had no blanket, I would have less desire to suck my thumb. Mom would not burn my quilt, and I don’t have any idea how I finally stopped the whole thumby experience. All I know is that my infantile thumb habit did not go with me to 2nd Grade, where my teacher was not a yeller. In fact, at the end of 2nd Grade, my teacher thought I should skip a grade.
BTW This washed-out slide is one of my faves. I haven’t been sure if I really did this or have just been “remembering” I did it because I heard the story from so many family members for so long. This slide proves it was not just a family myth. My quilt, my right thumb, and I were united. And I’m sure there’s a Bow o’ the Day tied somewhere on my dress.
Have Cork Gun, Will Travel
When I discovered the long-hidden slides of baby-me yesterday, I knew two things were bound to happen: I will be making Suzanne watch slideshows of me and my family every evening until we have seen them all many times, AND y’all will be seeing pix I take of the slides projected onto my wall. I’ll eventually get the slides scanned and turned into photos, but I can’t wait that long to show y’all.
With this slide, I am utilizing my bow-tied hoodie string around my face as our Bow Tie o’ The Day. Here, I am just amblin’ through the neighborhood, down our front sidewalk in my natural habitat with my natural prop: a gun, of course. I am a Wright, therefore, I shoot things. It would not surprise me if Dad put this gun in my arms as we left the hospital after I was born. I do remember the gun shot corks. A double-barrel cork gun! And please note that I am already carrying the gun barrel-down, which means Dad had already taught me to hold a gun safely. Heck, Dad had probably made sure I passed my Hunter Safety classes before he ever brought me home from the hospital in the first place.
For those of you Deltites over 50, you might remember the building in the far background of this slide. If my kid memory is correct, it is the old train depot. Yup, Delta used to be a regular stop for passenger trains. As a kid, I spent a lot of time hanging around the tracks and the depot. I did a lot of investigating stopped train cars, especially cabooses—with and without permission. I will always miss the sound of trains during the night. Trains were part of my natural habitat too.