I came from a close-knit family, and my mom and dad deserved the credit. Around 5:30 each evening Dad was due home, and of course everything came to a halt as we anxiously watched down the road for the first glimpse of him. Tall and straight, he would come swinging along like a Marine. As soon as he was sighted, the cry “Here he comes!” arose, and that set off the stampede. We were strung out along the road for a quarter of a mile, all making tracks and yelling like crazy. Meta, our dog, usually took the lead and kept it. Then I followed Meta, Sally followed me, Les followed Sally, and Connie brought up the rear. You could set your clock with “stampede time”. It was a regular evening performance.
Dad was a goober gobbler. He loved peanuts or peanut brittle, and there was bound to be something in his pocket for everyone. So eventually all hands were munching, including Meta’s yelping jaws. This was treat time, so everyone was in high spirits.
Dad never knew what the day’s conduct report was going to be until he got home and found out which malefactors he would have to warm up. That old line about “This is going to hurt me more than it will you” was the honest truth with Dad. As far as Dad was concerned, he raised his hand high but it fell easy. Believe me, none of us were ever really hurt and none of us got what we really deserved. It was more in the nature of a gentle warning not to be disobedient.
In the evenings, we would all gather in the front room and we would read a book. The book would pass around, and those who could read or were learning would help read a chapter aloud, and at the end of the chapter questions were asked to see if we understood what we had read. Mom and Dad became as interested in the books as we were. About a book every two weeks was read in this fashion, in addition to our homework.
Dad was Irish and Dutch, and by nature he was genteel, humorous, kind, sensitive, courageous, religious, patient, forgiving, intelligent—well, that’s for openers and I haven’t gotten to the good points yet.
The time came for him to make a decision between filling the barn with a horse or a car. He decided for the car. So Mom and Dad went out shopping and bought one. They decided on a Willy’s Knight—a seven passenger sedan with flower vases, roller curtains on the windows, and a heat register on the floor. It was a self-starting model with a standard gear shift, all topped off in a beautiful rich maroon paint job with gold striping. It was beautiful, huge, and really built, with heavy artillery wooden spoke wheels. I truly believe it could have crushed a present day tank like a grape.
Dad took driving lessons and came home quite elated. Within a short time, he became an accomplished driver. That is to say, he had mastered the confounded gear shift, made proper signals, and had finally worked out a way to keep from jerking his starts. He had a driver’s license, and everything was going along just fine. With the purchase of the car, the barn had to be altered, so another eight or ten feet were added, with two doors that made it easy to drive right through the barn and also made it possible to completely cover the car from the weather.
That car was our pride and joy. Every Sunday we went for a drive. Seats were assigned and we were all expected to stay in them and keep reasonably quiet. Mom and Dad were up front. Sally and I had the jump seats right behind the front seats, and Les and Connie had the rear seat. Cars in that part of the country were still an eye-catcher, and the Willy’s was all of that.
Sometime during the early 1920’s, Dad asked me if I would like to drive downtown with him and get a new suit. I jumped at the chance. When we arrived at the tailor’s shop, I stood there for half an hour or better while he measured, pinned, and fussed. After we left, Dad said, “I’m going to visit someone over in the Rosslyn Hotel. I won’t be long and then we can go home.” We arrived at the hotel and took an elevator to an upper floor and walked down the hall. Dad stopped and knocked on a door. In a few moments the door was opened and a tall, slender man with a moustache greeted Dad, and we went into the room. “Wyatt, I want you to meet my son, Larry. Larry, here is a former police officer, Wyatt Earp.”
At the time I was too young to realize who I had met. After we left, Dad figured I didn’t recognize him, so he told me about him and his brothers. So back home, I headed for the library to get some information on Wyatt Earp. Dad had met him about fifteen years before, when he and his partner had to pick up a man wanted in Chicago. Wyatt Earp was not a police officer at the time, but he had information Dad wanted. I’d have given my eye teeth to have been ten years older when I met him, but that’s life.
Mom was Spanish, 100% pure Castilian, a fourth generation American. She could trace her ancestry back to 750 AD in Spain to King Pelayo, a Spanish Basque who defeated the Moors in Northern Spain and returned that region to the throne.
Mom was generous, perhaps to a fault. She loved her God, her faith, and her family in that order, and don’t try and step in between. With God, I’m sure she had more than just a passing acquaintance. A devout Catholic, she lived into her eighties in the knowledge that her Lord and his Blessed Mother were with her always.
She also had a Spanish temper, and in all her eighty-four years it never lost its edge. It was as sharp as the swords of Toledo. She could snap into flames at a moment’s notice, and in the next instant she would be loving and understanding. Her feelings had a far wider range than Dad’s, but it was a good thing. It kept you on your toes. That was part of her charm. When she would get emotional she might crack up and laugh, but when she got really peeved and her temper was on the rise, halleluiah! Everybody find a hiding place. She could be a walking bomb, but there was no one better than her and we all knew it and loved her very much. When life got rocky, Mom would (as they say in the Navy) “stand by”, and come what may, with the smallest pain or difficulty, she fell in with you. She had great insight and instinctively deduced what was going on or what needed attention. Her greatest happiness was when she was praying or doing anything for you. Her mind was quick and she could have been a teacher, and a good one, had she chosen to. But there was one skill she never mastered…
Dad thought that with woman’s suffrage and all, Mom should learn to drive, so he began to teach her the fundamentals of vehicle operation. Mom had no interest in anything mechanical, only in making the car go. Having led her through the mysteries of clutch, gears, and pedals, Dad ventured out on the street for her first lesson. Mom got the car started and began driving, and everything was going along fine. Then the car started to slowly drift toward the right side of the road. Dad suggested that she correct course, but Mom didn’t move a muscle. So Dad, seeing that she was going to hit a telegraph pole if she didn’t straighten up, reached over and gently turned the wheel to the left to avoid a collision. And quick as a flash, Mom spun the wheel hard to the right. Only Dad’s action prevented an accident. Dad stopped the car, quietly got out, and went around to the driver’s seat. Mom looked at him with her hat askew and gladly moved aside. That ended her driving lessons and she never wished to try again.
But Mom loved travel, and the “higher on the hog” as the saying goes, the better she liked it. She was born into a family where you could get lost in the silver place settings and be gone a week if they didn’t clear the table. Mom had poise, style, and a very aristocratic manner. She would be noticed anywhere and she turned plenty of heads.
Mom had always wanted to go to Lake Louise in Canada. One night when I was an adult, I came home from work and saw she had been reading about the lake again. So I said, “Mom, in one week we are leaving for Canada to see Lake Louise. So get your shots or any legal papers you’re going to need for the trip.”
Well, I didn’t have to say that twice. In no time at all she was ready. Soon we were in Vancouver B.C., with roses hanging on the posts and flowers everywhere. When we finally arrived at Lake Louise, nothing would do but to have dinner at the lodge overlooking the lake. It was something worth seeing – even Indians paddling a canoe in full traditional garb. We came into the dining room dressed to kill, as Mom insisted. We found we were not the only ones. The dining room was magnificent with music and soft lights. The tables glittered with silver and crystal and china. The food and service were exquisite, the wines were a perfect complement to the supper. Mom was in her glory as waiters hovered over her like hummingbirds around a honey pot. In her day, she had dined with the President of Mexico in Chapultepec Palace, and had appeared at quite a few other famous localities. Her family had included state senators, legislators, mayors, sheriffs, and high-ranking Army officers, so the whole thing brought back many pleasant memories. Mom talked about that trip and relived it many times. Her ambition had been to see Lake Louise once, and it was all that she had expected—and then some.