Autobiographical A B C's

This is just something true, I wrote it as an assignment but maybe it can be something more?

 

Kindergarten in Moreno Valley, CA only lasted until noon. That, along with the fact that my Father had a very precocious child, led him to wake on many occasions looking like the cutest little doll you’d ever seen. He would drag himself up from a slouching position on the floor in front of my bedroom door covered in ribbons, bonnets, and bows. While he had the idea that taking his nap in front of my door would alert him when I woke from mine, he never counted on the sneakiness of a six-year-old.

            I remember creeping from my room, teaching myself where to step and even learning that perfume on squeaky hinges stopped their cries. Even with all the precautions taken, when I look back I realize it was probably the sixteen hour graveyard shift he had just finished at the photofinishing plant, more than my craftiness, that allowed me to go unnoticed. While my Mother was away at work all day he did the best he could with little sleep to keep an eye on me and I delighted in seeing what I could get away with. With a sigh, surprise, and definite amusement, my father that everyone else knew as Bob would escape from his girly costume to the sound of my frantic giggling.  Not every day was “dress up” day; sometimes I would leave a trail of cat treats up and over his body to see what would happen when the cat accidentally stepped on his face. At that age I had no idea how much he needed to sleep, only that he was my lone playmate.

            Seeing that I was awake and making trouble he would reluctantly get up and chase me into the kitchen. According to our afternoon ritual we both knew that after my nap it was time for a snack. Dad never had to ask me what I wanted; the steps were always the same.  He would ask me what I did that day and bring out the tea set. I loved my Father’s version of “tea and crumpets” so much that he had finally bought me my own teapot and cup made of beige ceramic. After the water boiled and the bags went in he would start on the toast as I babbled on about art projects and how much I wanted a lizard. Fifteen minutes later, which is an eternity when you’re young, I was presented with hot tea and a plate full of cinnamon toast cut into carefully crafted shapes. That day I had the pleasure of munching on a little girl, two cats, an umbrella and what could have either been a dog or a horse; it didn’t matter which because my Dad had made it.

            He didn’t just play at serving me like a princess: when he brought out the tray he stood up straight and flourished it with an English accent.

“Here is your afternoon tea, Madame.” he said, bowing deeply.

“Thank you Geoffrey!” I would always laugh back at him.

Deliciously the taste and smell of tea and hot cinnamon toast wormed its way deep into my mind as the source of all my happiest memories. My butler was always the best cook and would continue to putter around the kitchen until I was finished. Geoffrey would clean up and help me step down from the high counter chair to await my escort.

“Come on Little Filly, it’s time for cartoons.” A voice much like John Wayne from Bravo greeted me. Tex the cowboy had come to pick me up to watch Bugs Bunny. We would both laugh at the antics on the screen and even when I noticed Tex dozing off and around 3 pm, when the soap operas came on, I’d beg for a pony ride while I shot army men off the furniture with a rubber band gun. Anything I learned about being rough and tumble came from my own personal cowboy as we hiked, played ball, and swept the errant tumbleweeds from the lawn. Around 4:30 pm I’d start to tire out along with my caretaker and we’d retire for stories from Hop Sing.

Hop Sing was from a faraway place called China, which was to me unimaginably far away. Twirling his long, droopy mustache which would remind you a lot of the Bonanza character, he explained away most of my pestering questions with the response, “It ancient Chinese secret!” in an accent I didn’t know was terrible. I could imagine all the distant places he would tell me about as his words made them come alive. Either out of books or more often from his own mind my friend would teach me about the dark continent of Africa where diamonds come from, about archeologists who dig up South America looking for mysterious Mayan ruins, or even about the arid desert of Death Valley that was close enough that I could visit someday. That day I was unusually patient and didn’t even notice as my Mom came home from a long day at the doctor’s office. My head was racing with ideas about treasure and ancient peoples; it was that day that I decided I would be the female Indiana Jones when I grew up. Later that jockeyed for first position with being a Jazz Singer, Veterinarian, Marine Biologist or a Unicorn; but then I had no doubts that I could be all of them at once if I chose.

            Chuckling at the sight of her husband still sporting the mustache and demonstrating the precise technique of brain removal of the ancient Egyptians in disgusting detail, Mom made her way to the kitchen. At the story’s end our ritual would come to a close as the kitchen became busy with the sounds of dinner coming together. When my brother came home from his friend’s house we were all accounted for and filed in for mandatory kitchen duty. At the dinner table my Father made the transformation back into the man he was with everyone else. He said little, but each thought came out slowly with much consideration of the answer and conveyed in every way an ideal of what a man should be that probably died out at the end of the 50’s. I would peer at him over my dinner plate remembering our day together and the man in front of me would seem a gray costume containing the Technicolor man my Father really was.

Author's Note

Suggestions greatly appreciated