Our house was a two bedroom cottage on Tracy Street in Kansas City, so close to the house next door that we could see what they were having for breakfast from the bedroom window. Then we moved out of town to an old, dilapidated, two story farm house. That was back in early summer of 1945. Our growing family, five of us, we needed more space and they (Mom & Dad) wanted a place where they could grow a garden, have animals, a barn, a place without sidewalks where kids could roam without leaving the yard. I turned six the first week of August. A week later the ‘atomic bomb’ ended World War 2. Three weeks after that I began the 1st Grade in an 8 grade school with 3 teachers and as many classrooms.
Most of what I remember about the house on Tracy Street has been drawn from old snapshots and posed photographs. Still I do recall the icebox on the back porch. The ice man came in a horse drawn wagon every second or third day to deliver a block of ice. The icebox itself had a drain that dripped melt water into a pan beneath it. The living room’s centerpiece (the radio) was warm colored, polished wood with a wide base and an arched top. It sat on a small table that must have been made for that purpose. There was a single, on-off/volume switch and a round tuning-dial for changing stations. It looked like the speedometer in our car. Its knob was the center of the dial, geared so you had to turn it a lot just to make the needle move a little. It was our source of information and entertainment and we sat around it like kids at the feet of a magical storyteller.
At our (old) new house the radio was still the living room’s main feature. From WW2 to the early 1950’s the program we never missed, the one I remember best was Grand Central Station. Its introduction was irresistible with the sound of hissing steam engines and the hollow sounds of many people scurrying through a crowded railroad terminal. The narrater, with his deep voice and resonant echo announced; “Grand Central Station, the crossroads of a million private lives, a gigantic stage on which are played a thousand dramas daily.” Then, one particular person either coming or going, maybe meeting someone, their story unfolded perfectly. Funny, romantic, serious or dramatic their stories kept us glued to the spot. I can imagine now the chuffing locomotives and the baritone voice reverberating: “. . . a thousand dramas daily.”
I remember being a child and that imagery has not dimmed or dulled a bit. The serious side of growing up was necessary, the freedom and the responsibility that came with it might have swept childhood under the rug in some cases but not this one. The five year-old who sipped cold water from the icebox drip pan is still in there and we’ve been best of friends all along. I’ve grown old but he is still sitting cross-legged in front of the radio.
Growing old is not so bad, not considering the alternative. From that end, long life would seem a blessing. Maybe that’s what this little piece should be about, blessings, unmerited gifts. The word is usually cast in religious context but it need not be. I can offer my blessing any time, for any reason. With it comes my approval and at least the pretense of privilege. Nobody with right mind would think me religious but I do like the Bible. I like the sermon on the mount in particular, not only for what he said but also what he didn’t say. He blessed the poor, the meek and the merciful but not the mighty or the greedy. Nowhere can I find, ‘Blessed are the powerful for they shall kick ass.’
I am blessed to find myself both old and healthy in the same breath. My children are well on their way to old age but still, they don’t see it coming. My grandchildren think their electronic device is a portal to the future, and who am I to say it isn’t? In the movie, Grumpy Old Men, 80 year-old Burgess Meredith scolded Jack Lemon, his 50-something son for not pursuing the beautiful widow, Ann Margaret. He told him; “. . . when your time comes, all you get to take with you is your experience. So get busy.” With a movie you can write cool stuff like that into the script. The best actors get the best, most unforgettable lines but my dad was nothing at all like Burgess Meredith and my experience came with melt water, the radio, baseball and bicycles. We never followed a script, improvised everything and that turned out alright.
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