Antiques, Sidewalks, and Bits of String
Brenda, Jeanmarie, and I spent every waking moment we could together. There was an old dairy behind our property, long abandoned, where we spent hours playing all kinds of make-believe scenarios. We built tree houses (losing I don’t know how many of our fathers' hammers in the process), and huts out of the piles of planks left from torn-down sheds. We played hopscotch, kick the can, and hide and seek. In the hot summers, we tried to swim in the farmers' muddy irrigation ditches infested with leeches, and in the winter, when the snow drifts were 6 feet high, we dug out snow caves, and pretended to be weary travelers, on the verge of starvation and close to freezing. Then we’d trudge home in our rubber galoshes and warm ourselves up by wrapping up in blankets and sitting on top of a heat vent. We were not typical girlie girls. We wanted to be tough, and were embarrassed to show weakness of emotion, especially around our brothers. We had what we considered an ideal childhood.
One of our favorite past-times involved the sidewalks in our new neighborhood. Our old neighborhood had been devoid of such a luxury, and living in this new neighborhood made us feel like royalty, as if the sidewalks were all lined in red carpet, just for us. Our homes were some of the first in our little subdivision, but the sidewalks went all over, long before our neighbor’s homes were built, so there was little competition for their use. As each new home went up, we made sure that the piles of dirt from the foundation didn’t infringe on our personal walkways. If any dared spill over, we would bring whatever tools we could find to remove the offending mess, in order to be able to fully enjoy ourselves again. We rode our bikes on them, skated on them, drew on them with chalk, and played hop-scotch on them.
All of this talk about sidewalks may seem ridiculous, but, at the time, those sidewalks held the key to many hours of amusement. Some of our enjoyment came by way of two little scratched up dune buggies we’d “borrowed” from our little brother’s toy boxes. They were made by Tonka, metal, with rubber wheels and big daisy decals celebrating“flower power” on the hood. There was just enough of a gap in the front of the body to attach a pull-string.
One of our favorite past-times involved the sidewalks in our new neighborhood. Our old neighborhood had been devoid of such a luxury, and living in this new neighborhood made us feel like royalty, as if the sidewalks were all lined in red carpet, just for us. Our homes were some of the first in our little subdivision, but the sidewalks went all over, long before our neighbor’s homes were built, so there was little competition for their use. As each new home went up, we made sure that the piles of dirt from the foundation didn’t infringe on our personal walkways. If any dared spill over, we would bring whatever tools we could find to remove the offending mess, in order to be able to fully enjoy ourselves again. We rode our bikes on them, skated on them, drew on them with chalk, and played hop-scotch on them.
All of this talk about sidewalks may seem ridiculous, but, at the time, those sidewalks held the key to many hours of amusement. Some of our enjoyment came by way of two little scratched up dune buggies we’d “borrowed” from our little brother’s toy boxes. They were made by Tonka, metal, with rubber wheels and big daisy decals celebrating“flower power” on the hood. There was just enough of a gap in the front of the body to attach a pull-string.
We used pieces of discarded sheetrock from the many building projects in the neighborhood to draw a dotted white line down the middle of the sidewalks, as far as they went in either direction from our homes. We drew crosswalks, set up street signs, nd created ramps for jumping. We spent hours pulling our cars around on these smooth, pristine, private highways. Everywhere we went, we took our cars with us, and when our brothers insisted that we return them, we just waited a few days, filling our time with skating or biking, until they lost interest again, and we retrieved them. We must have been about 10 when we finally stopped dragging those dune buggies around.
Because we had been friends for so long, we didn’t feel the need for allowing others to join our tightly knit little clan. We had a lot of other friends at school, but after school, it was usually just the two of us. When I was in 5th grade, and Brenda was in 4th, a new kind of elementary school was built right in our neighborhood; the first one of its kind west of the Mississippi River. It grouped the students into teams (based upon test scores, I suppose) instead of grades. In my last year of grade school, much to our delight, Brenda and I ended up in the same class. Now we could spend every moment of every day together.
Late in January of that last year of grade school, Brenda’s dad came home from work with some news. He was being given the opportunity to take his family to Maryland for a year and a half. It meant a promotion, better pay, a new adventure. He was going to talk it over with Brenda’s mother, and let the kids know what their decision was within a week.
The wait was agonizing; each day a new day of uncertainty, yet getting closer to what could be the worst news of my life. I don’t think Brenda was as upset at the prospect as I was. How could her father even consider such a thing?
A week later we had our answer. The decision was made. Brenda was moving in matter of weeks. The packing began; boxes everywhere, her house was chaos, my life was chaos. I was devastated. Just days before she left, I sat on her bed playing with a piece of gray artist’s kneadable eraser, James Taylor in the background singing “Fire and Rain,” watching Brenda pack things in this box or that.
Since I was 7 years old I hadn't been apart from Brenda for more than a week or two, at most. Who was I going to talk to? Who would try on make-up with me, or laugh themselves sick with me? I helped her pack boxes. It still wasn’t real. This ideal life we had embraced was coming to an abrupt halt, and none of the adults in our lives had the time to help us learn how to deal with this loss, or maybe they didn’t recognize it as such. I think they believed that if they didn’t talk about it with us we dldn’t dwell on it. Our families spent the last weeks before their departure doing as much as possible together.
February 24th, 1971, the night before she was to move, Brenda slept over at my house. We stayed up talking as long as we could, which wasn’t very late, as Brenda could never keep her eyes open past about 11:00pm.
I kept telling her to wake up, and she would say, “I'm not asleep, I'm just resting my eyes.” I guess I thought that we should stay up and talk all night, since there was so little time left. I needed more time, but I wasn’t going to get it. This was really happening, and as a kid, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Brenda’s tired eyes won, and I eventually fell asleep, too.
The next morning, very early, Brenda’s family said their good-byes, climbed into their station wagon, and drove out of our cul-de-sac.
My mom had me go to school that day.I was late, and I spent most of the day crying. The loss hit me like a death when I saw Brenda’s empty chair next to mine at what had been her desk. The weather outside matched my mood. It was dreary, frigid and gray. During recess, two other friends and I huddled up together in a window well and cried. It was a dismal time for me, and I was so grateful to be able to share my grief with others that understood it.
That night I wrote in my diary: Brenda moved. I had a talk about her with my mom and both of us cried. I'll miss her so much.
My feelings had always been faithfully recorded in a diary each and every night for over a year. There was only room for a line or two on each day, but I never missed writing unless I was sick. For the next month or two I kept it up, with a chronicle of events going on around me.
I craved the companionship of a close friend, and looked forward to meeting the family soon to be moving in to Brenda’s house. The parents were from Germany, and I was fascinated by their accents. The new girl was closer to my age than Brenda was, but as different from me as spinach is from chocolate cake. Within a week I knew that our friendship would not be anything like what I was used to. I'm sure I was a bit of a disappointment to her, as well.
About this time, my diary began to be devoid of entries. There didn’t seem to be anything good to write. From April of the year Brenda moved, until June, the following year, there isn’t a month with more than 3 entries. On Christmas day my entry said simply, “Dec 25: Ten months ago Brenda moved. I got a bike for Christmas.”
I treasured the letters I received from her. I saved them in a box under my bed, and wouldn’t share them with anyone, except my mom, if she asked. Sometimes Brenda would address her letter to both my sister and me, and in those cases, I would let my sister read it, but I was always the guardian of it.
When it got a little closer to the day she would return, my diary entries began to say things like, “Apr 25:Brenda moved away 1 year and 2 months ago today.She'll be back in about 2 months.”
The expected day of arrival came closer. The wait was excrutiating! Then, when I thought I had another week and a half to wait my mom told me that they were coming over for dinner that night. I couldn’t believe it! The day had come, and they were early! I watched for the car all day. They finally showed up, but my mom and dad said I had to stay away until they were settled. It was killing me. All that waiting was finally over, she was right next door again, and I had to stay away.
We prepared the meal we would all share together. All the chopping, mixing, mashing, stirring, bubbling – it just went on and on. Finally, the doorbell rang. Six of us raced to be the first to open the door. It was another neighbor, coming to talk to my dad. Disappointed, we went back to our separate waiting spots, and took up our abandoned activities.
My mother must have seen them coming, because she left the kitchen and quietly went down to the door, opened it, and ushered them quietly in. Nine, counting my mother, made their way upstairs to the living room, but my mom steered Brenda into the kitchen, where I was trying to forget about the waiting by setting the table.
“Jayna,” my mom spoke softly, “there’s someone here to see you.”
I turned around, dropped the dishes none too softly on the kitchen table, and ran to that friend who was everything to me. We disappeared into my room, until we were called back to the kitchen for dinner.
Years have passed, with some shared experiences, and some we’ve not wanted to share with anyone, not even each other. We are in our middle years now, and our lives are have taken different roads. We still keep in touch often, and love each other dearly. Brenda lives in Colorado, and at Christmas a few years ago she came to Utah to stay with her folks for a week. While she was here I took a little Christmas present over to her. It was a minature Tonka dune buggy with a big daisy on the hood, found in dusty antique shop. To the front axle was attached a worn piece of string.
Because we had been friends for so long, we didn’t feel the need for allowing others to join our tightly knit little clan. We had a lot of other friends at school, but after school, it was usually just the two of us. When I was in 5th grade, and Brenda was in 4th, a new kind of elementary school was built right in our neighborhood; the first one of its kind west of the Mississippi River. It grouped the students into teams (based upon test scores, I suppose) instead of grades. In my last year of grade school, much to our delight, Brenda and I ended up in the same class. Now we could spend every moment of every day together.
Late in January of that last year of grade school, Brenda’s dad came home from work with some news. He was being given the opportunity to take his family to Maryland for a year and a half. It meant a promotion, better pay, a new adventure. He was going to talk it over with Brenda’s mother, and let the kids know what their decision was within a week.
The wait was agonizing; each day a new day of uncertainty, yet getting closer to what could be the worst news of my life. I don’t think Brenda was as upset at the prospect as I was. How could her father even consider such a thing?
A week later we had our answer. The decision was made. Brenda was moving in matter of weeks. The packing began; boxes everywhere, her house was chaos, my life was chaos. I was devastated. Just days before she left, I sat on her bed playing with a piece of gray artist’s kneadable eraser, James Taylor in the background singing “Fire and Rain,” watching Brenda pack things in this box or that.
Since I was 7 years old I hadn't been apart from Brenda for more than a week or two, at most. Who was I going to talk to? Who would try on make-up with me, or laugh themselves sick with me? I helped her pack boxes. It still wasn’t real. This ideal life we had embraced was coming to an abrupt halt, and none of the adults in our lives had the time to help us learn how to deal with this loss, or maybe they didn’t recognize it as such. I think they believed that if they didn’t talk about it with us we dldn’t dwell on it. Our families spent the last weeks before their departure doing as much as possible together.
February 24th, 1971, the night before she was to move, Brenda slept over at my house. We stayed up talking as long as we could, which wasn’t very late, as Brenda could never keep her eyes open past about 11:00pm.
I kept telling her to wake up, and she would say, “I'm not asleep, I'm just resting my eyes.” I guess I thought that we should stay up and talk all night, since there was so little time left. I needed more time, but I wasn’t going to get it. This was really happening, and as a kid, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Brenda’s tired eyes won, and I eventually fell asleep, too.
The next morning, very early, Brenda’s family said their good-byes, climbed into their station wagon, and drove out of our cul-de-sac.
My mom had me go to school that day.I was late, and I spent most of the day crying. The loss hit me like a death when I saw Brenda’s empty chair next to mine at what had been her desk. The weather outside matched my mood. It was dreary, frigid and gray. During recess, two other friends and I huddled up together in a window well and cried. It was a dismal time for me, and I was so grateful to be able to share my grief with others that understood it.
That night I wrote in my diary: Brenda moved. I had a talk about her with my mom and both of us cried. I'll miss her so much.
My feelings had always been faithfully recorded in a diary each and every night for over a year. There was only room for a line or two on each day, but I never missed writing unless I was sick. For the next month or two I kept it up, with a chronicle of events going on around me.
I craved the companionship of a close friend, and looked forward to meeting the family soon to be moving in to Brenda’s house. The parents were from Germany, and I was fascinated by their accents. The new girl was closer to my age than Brenda was, but as different from me as spinach is from chocolate cake. Within a week I knew that our friendship would not be anything like what I was used to. I'm sure I was a bit of a disappointment to her, as well.
About this time, my diary began to be devoid of entries. There didn’t seem to be anything good to write. From April of the year Brenda moved, until June, the following year, there isn’t a month with more than 3 entries. On Christmas day my entry said simply, “Dec 25: Ten months ago Brenda moved. I got a bike for Christmas.”
I treasured the letters I received from her. I saved them in a box under my bed, and wouldn’t share them with anyone, except my mom, if she asked. Sometimes Brenda would address her letter to both my sister and me, and in those cases, I would let my sister read it, but I was always the guardian of it.
When it got a little closer to the day she would return, my diary entries began to say things like, “Apr 25:Brenda moved away 1 year and 2 months ago today.She'll be back in about 2 months.”
The expected day of arrival came closer. The wait was excrutiating! Then, when I thought I had another week and a half to wait my mom told me that they were coming over for dinner that night. I couldn’t believe it! The day had come, and they were early! I watched for the car all day. They finally showed up, but my mom and dad said I had to stay away until they were settled. It was killing me. All that waiting was finally over, she was right next door again, and I had to stay away.
We prepared the meal we would all share together. All the chopping, mixing, mashing, stirring, bubbling – it just went on and on. Finally, the doorbell rang. Six of us raced to be the first to open the door. It was another neighbor, coming to talk to my dad. Disappointed, we went back to our separate waiting spots, and took up our abandoned activities.
My mother must have seen them coming, because she left the kitchen and quietly went down to the door, opened it, and ushered them quietly in. Nine, counting my mother, made their way upstairs to the living room, but my mom steered Brenda into the kitchen, where I was trying to forget about the waiting by setting the table.
“Jayna,” my mom spoke softly, “there’s someone here to see you.”
I turned around, dropped the dishes none too softly on the kitchen table, and ran to that friend who was everything to me. We disappeared into my room, until we were called back to the kitchen for dinner.
Years have passed, with some shared experiences, and some we’ve not wanted to share with anyone, not even each other. We are in our middle years now, and our lives are have taken different roads. We still keep in touch often, and love each other dearly. Brenda lives in Colorado, and at Christmas a few years ago she came to Utah to stay with her folks for a week. While she was here I took a little Christmas present over to her. It was a minature Tonka dune buggy with a big daisy on the hood, found in dusty antique shop. To the front axle was attached a worn piece of string.