MY FIRST BEST FRIEND

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One of my first memories, I dare say my first memory of all time, takes me back at least 60 years to the early 50’s. (For those of you, my descendants, who may be reading this at some point, multiplied eons into the future, I am referring to the 20^th Century.)

I was 3, perhaps 4 years of age and we were still living in the city where I had been born; Coral Gables, Florida. My parents were from Georgia, (the state, not the country) and were possessed of what has been referred to as a “Southern drawl.” I mention this here since it is a convenient place to do so, as I progressively developed a similar accent; they being my models in so many ways.

Florida is unique among Southern states since there seems to be no regional accent, and I think this is all about the genesis of her population. I’ve often referred to Florida as the only Northern state in the South, as our peoples come from places like Ohio, and Michigan and Canada and various other states in the North, as well as the Southeast. (I happen to be one of the minority of people frequenting Florida who is a true-born native of this great state.)

Well, as they were so often prone to end old-time radio, and perhaps television advertisements… “And now back to our story.”

My parents, Henry and Erma McDonald, were in their early to mid-20’s. At the time Mama was a “domestic goddess,” and my father was a roofer; (an excruciatingly hot and demanding job in an area like South Florida.) They rented what had apparently been a former chicken coup before being remodeled into something remotely similar to an apartment. We were forced to use our landlord’s facilities which required us to walk a few steps out our back door to a duplicate outside door leading into what our British cousins call a “water closet,” (and to be sure, it was closer to being a closet than anything else.)

It is easy to believe that so much of what I relate here are memories I have garnered on my own, but I tend to think the majority of the illusions which fill up such a delicious psyche as mine have been won by the sort of verbal osmosis which results from… the retelling.

I know our landlord’s name was “Mrs. Gunter,” and that her sister, “Mrs. Hisey” lived across the street. I’m sure the duel syllables of each of their surnames were bestowed upon me as a result of oral tradition. However, no one can ever convince me that I don’t retain a vivid remembrance of Mrs. Hisey’s humble dwelling place, and her person. For you see, she was my babysitter, and I loved her, (or perhaps, I mostly loved being left off at her house.)

It was an interesting old place reminiscent in my semi-fictional meanderings of the great old homestead of “Mr. Rochester” of Charlotte Bronte fame, or at least the concoction of a mind Anglicized by a love for the genealogical heritage of my multiplied, (but sadly deceased) ancestors.

The front room was the center piece of everything near and dear to my liking. A large old picture window faced the street, and to be fair I think that Mrs. H. must have “windexed” it often, for if nothing else, it was certainly clean. Heavy maroon curtains hung from small rods on each side of that window, and they were gathered back by similar, but slightly darker material. And here it is where the memory of that small domicile seems not so pleasant, for with the knowledge that may only be gleaned with the passing of years, I think the cloth of those curtains had the texture of… funeral draperies. Far too many gathered ruffles… like the inside of a casket. But we will certainly not dwell here. I hasten to add that across the main part of the vast window hung cream colored lace affairs, almost like crochet in their appearance. 

In my mind’s eye, Mrs. Hisey was a virtual twin of my mother’s mother (or what my maternal grandmother looked like a couple decades hence,) for this old spinster was definitely older at the time, and approaching the last quarter of her life.

Her snow white hair was parted in the middle, and wrapped tightly around each side of her head culminating in a bun, not unlike a caricature of Martha Washington or Dolly Madison. And she wore dark, “old lady dresses” which accentuated nothing, and hung mid-calf, and she preferred the most profoundly ancient of black shoes.

But for all of this,… I loved her.

And I think she loved me as much. For she certainly doted on this little twit of a boy. And nothing was too good for her little man, (though to the casual observer, one might have thought me a member of the other gender.) For my face was dotted with the opaque beginnings of freckles, and “black and white” photos

from that time period portray me with an array of dark, almost auburn locks which would not be cut for the space of another year.

And “center stage,” like the proverbial elephant in the living room, was a baby grand piano, (or at least it seemed so large and imposing at the time.) For all I know now, it might have been one of those old upright style pianos. But nonetheless, this largest of musical instruments was the focus of my attention. For I would not be denied, (and Mrs. Hisey had no intention of denying me access to this tempestuous piece of furniture.)

I think I spent hours banging out the “absence of a tune” on those old “ivories and ebonies.” And my benefactress clapped her hands, and sang along the best she could to a childish melody which existed for a moment, and then vanished like inexpensive perfume in the night air. But there was nothing cheap about the time we shared together. And as I reflect on those magical moments now, a singular emotion overtakes me, and

… my eyes well up with tears.

And one or two course down my cheeks.

I miss my old friend.

She lingers in my consciousness. She beckons from the gloom of an almost Victorian old home which succumbed to the wrecking ball a half century past. But its brick and mortar and glass is once again substantial in my mind, and all the laughter and gladness we shared together has once again been granted substance.

And I am privileged to visit there again

… if only for a little while.

On one occasion, (or so my mother tells me) apparently early on in Mrs. Hisey’s tenure as my childhood sitter, I was dropped off with the dear lady, and my parents proceeded to the neighborhood Ritz to take in a movie.

(Yes, they were making “talkies” by this time. I’m not quite that old.)

It seems daddy and mama had hardly sat down, and the movie had only just begun when my mother began to have second thoughts about the wisdom of this all too infrequent outing.

Movies might have been 35 cents a head at the time, and no doubt my dear sitter earned all of a quarter an hour, but this sort of expense was near and dear to a roofer who earned all of 8 dollars a day. But the anxiety which registered on my mother’s face would not be denied, and almost lit up the dark theater, at least for the familiar figure sitting next to her, and they decided to forfeit the price of their hard won tickets.

(For all I know those other patrons are still sitting there taking in a triple feature. … Well no, probably not.)

Hurrying out the door, and into their (not so) new, nor trustworthy car, my parents rushed back to Mrs H.’s house, knowing that I had either fallen out of my highchair and broken my proboscis, or “merely” swallowed rat poison.

I would like to have been a fly on the wall that day, since I admit an altogether inability to remember the event, but I have been told that my parents barely knocked on the door before rushing into my aged friend’s front parlor.  

They found me prostrate on the piano bench lam-blasting the ivories with one hand, and eating a peanut butter sandwich with the other, while Mrs. Hisey sat in her rocking chair darning a hole in an old comforter.

I think peals of laughter must have echoed off the parlor walls that day.

from "Snapshots of a Life"

by Bill McDonald, PhD