Hi mom and dad:
Since it is Spring Break, I have a bit of extra time to write about some of my most fond and talked about memories of my formative years. These are for your collection should you choose to use them.
Night Drives, and Paranoia:
Often, during the nights when mom was working at the Elks or the Gaslight or wherever it may have been, the assembled children would display their boredom by being rather ornery. When we reached this stage, there was little dad could hope to do to appease our boredom. But he did have one real nice idea - the late night drive.
But we did more than just take a little ride around the block. We followed people. I hope that dad still remembers the days when we would give the directive to “follow that car.”
So there we went, following our chosen victim wherever he or she went. If the car in front of us went left, so too, did we. This little game of following soon became a Dermer favorite. But, I believe, that it left some weary souls more than a little paranoid. Think about it though - to have a veritable boatload of kids and some grown-up following you may imbue a certain fear of God into any of us.
It was funny because, invariably, the car in front would soon begin to make a lot of turns hoping to shed the “tail” that it had gained. We kids thought it was the greatest trick ever created, but I'm quite sure that the poor people in the other car would have begged to disagree. I feel pretty confident that some of those people went home to their wives or husbands or children with a heroic tale of how they avoided the car with so many thugs in it. OK, so the median age of us thugs was probably less than ten years. Heck, they didn't know that.
That's probably a trick that I won't be doing anytime soon.
Sometimes in life there are moments irretrievable. This would fall under that category. It went the way of the drive-in theater: a moment in time in one's life. Still, when I think of those silly little chases, even today, I can't help but crack a big smile.
Randee
Dad's Hash:
A lot of people don't know it, but dad used to be a gourmet chef. Mom used to work at nights, so the task of cooking for all of us fell upon the able hands of one Charles Dermer. Mr. Dermer was not merely another cook in the kitchen, rather he was a gourmand. Whereas many poor children on Avenue I were being raised on grub such as fried chicken, pork chops, and steaks; in our house only the best was served -- corned beef hash, of course. And it came in three flavors -- cold, warm and hot. Nothing like sitting down to a nice portion of hash each night. But hash was not all. Dad was also astute at cooking eggs and bacon; no easy feat I might add.
I really can't remember if he had any other specialties; I'm sure that he did. But I well remember the nights of corned beef hash and eggs. If I sound at all as though I am making fun of dad's cooking acumen, it's because I am. But what ole' dad lacked in the cooking department he made up for in more important ways. Love was served at the Dermer household each and every night. Many of the children on Ave. I who were eating their steaks would have gladly traded for a meal that included love. OK, so dad was a horrible cook, barely able to pull off the boiling of an egg without incident. But the point here is that food is only a small component of what is served at the dinner table. A larger, more important part is the feeling of being loved by your parents.
Both mom and dad always nourished us with this essential nutrient of life.
Randee
The Year I Was a Beetle:
It was one of those hot summer days when mom told me that I was beginning to look like a beetle.
I remember that we were outside; she was hanging laundry, and I was playing with that shaggy old dog Curly. Curly, with her black, ragged coat, was never destined to win any beauty contests, but that's another story altogether. Anyway, I came over to give a “hand.” Right about that time she made a declaration that rather astounded me. In fact, she stated that, “my hair was growing so long that I was beginning to look like a beetle.”
I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that. After all, beetles were small insects that scurried along the ground in random patterns. Did a beetle have hair? I put great thought into this subject, never asking for clarification. Finally it came to me. If you take a real close look at a beetle, you will notice that it has fine lines that run along its body. With my powerful kid logic, I decided that those lines must have been strands of hair slicked back in imitation of the King, Elvis Presley. Yes, that was it, of course; how foolish of me not to realize this earlier. I just wondered exactly where did the typical beetle hide his comb and styling gel. I suppose it was enough just to realize that beetles even had a head of hair.
Still, I never fancied that my hair resembled that of a beetle. Mine was brown and kind of wavy. The beetles all seemed to wear their jet black hair in the same slicked back position; never a strand out of place (what a boorish and conforming crowd they were). Oh well, if mom said I looked like a bug, then maybe she was right. To me, the resemblance was sketchy at best.
I believe that I went near to a full year thinking that mom had compared me to a tiny insect. Then, one day, it occurred to me like an epiphany. The beetle that she had spoke of was really a Beatle.
Randee
Dressing For the Occasion:
I was a small child at the time, perhaps pushing four. Mom and I got into the car in order to pick up Mark at the High School. I remember it as a bright, sunny sky on that day that would soon redefine clothing styles. We pulled in front of the school watching the “almost-grownups” filing out on well-worn paths. School was out for the day and most of the students wore a smile that betrayed their happiness to be free on such a fine spring day. But mom, well...she looked more than a little consternated.
I followed her eyes, eager to glean the source of her stern look. Of course, I assumed that it had to be something to do with my older brother. It was not. Mom, yes the same mom as today, though a bit younger, was watching a young lady who had just exited the school. Even in my youth, I knew that there was something different, something odd, about this girl. I needn't have spent any more time considering what it was because my mother was already stating what was on her mind. So many years later, I doubt that I can repeat, word for word, what was said, but it went something like this: “A girl in jeans! What is this world coming to?”
It was indeed true. Some young lady had found the nerve to wear jeans to school - no small feat in 1964. Probably had something to do with those damn Beatles from across the sea.
Time passed on and so did the day of the dress. In fact, one might go to visit 109 Louise Avenue in the little town of Glenwwod, Iowa. Should one choose to do so and, moreover, knock on the old wooden door that graces the entrance of said home, they may well be greeted by that same lady. In jeans of course.
Randee
Since it is Spring Break, I have a bit of extra time to write about some of my most fond and talked about memories of my formative years. These are for your collection should you choose to use them.
Night Drives, and Paranoia:
Often, during the nights when mom was working at the Elks or the Gaslight or wherever it may have been, the assembled children would display their boredom by being rather ornery. When we reached this stage, there was little dad could hope to do to appease our boredom. But he did have one real nice idea - the late night drive.
But we did more than just take a little ride around the block. We followed people. I hope that dad still remembers the days when we would give the directive to “follow that car.”
So there we went, following our chosen victim wherever he or she went. If the car in front of us went left, so too, did we. This little game of following soon became a Dermer favorite. But, I believe, that it left some weary souls more than a little paranoid. Think about it though - to have a veritable boatload of kids and some grown-up following you may imbue a certain fear of God into any of us.
It was funny because, invariably, the car in front would soon begin to make a lot of turns hoping to shed the “tail” that it had gained. We kids thought it was the greatest trick ever created, but I'm quite sure that the poor people in the other car would have begged to disagree. I feel pretty confident that some of those people went home to their wives or husbands or children with a heroic tale of how they avoided the car with so many thugs in it. OK, so the median age of us thugs was probably less than ten years. Heck, they didn't know that.
That's probably a trick that I won't be doing anytime soon.
Sometimes in life there are moments irretrievable. This would fall under that category. It went the way of the drive-in theater: a moment in time in one's life. Still, when I think of those silly little chases, even today, I can't help but crack a big smile.
Randee
Dad's Hash:
A lot of people don't know it, but dad used to be a gourmet chef. Mom used to work at nights, so the task of cooking for all of us fell upon the able hands of one Charles Dermer. Mr. Dermer was not merely another cook in the kitchen, rather he was a gourmand. Whereas many poor children on Avenue I were being raised on grub such as fried chicken, pork chops, and steaks; in our house only the best was served -- corned beef hash, of course. And it came in three flavors -- cold, warm and hot. Nothing like sitting down to a nice portion of hash each night. But hash was not all. Dad was also astute at cooking eggs and bacon; no easy feat I might add.
I really can't remember if he had any other specialties; I'm sure that he did. But I well remember the nights of corned beef hash and eggs. If I sound at all as though I am making fun of dad's cooking acumen, it's because I am. But what ole' dad lacked in the cooking department he made up for in more important ways. Love was served at the Dermer household each and every night. Many of the children on Ave. I who were eating their steaks would have gladly traded for a meal that included love. OK, so dad was a horrible cook, barely able to pull off the boiling of an egg without incident. But the point here is that food is only a small component of what is served at the dinner table. A larger, more important part is the feeling of being loved by your parents.
Both mom and dad always nourished us with this essential nutrient of life.
Randee
The Year I Was a Beetle:
It was one of those hot summer days when mom told me that I was beginning to look like a beetle.
I remember that we were outside; she was hanging laundry, and I was playing with that shaggy old dog Curly. Curly, with her black, ragged coat, was never destined to win any beauty contests, but that's another story altogether. Anyway, I came over to give a “hand.” Right about that time she made a declaration that rather astounded me. In fact, she stated that, “my hair was growing so long that I was beginning to look like a beetle.”
I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that. After all, beetles were small insects that scurried along the ground in random patterns. Did a beetle have hair? I put great thought into this subject, never asking for clarification. Finally it came to me. If you take a real close look at a beetle, you will notice that it has fine lines that run along its body. With my powerful kid logic, I decided that those lines must have been strands of hair slicked back in imitation of the King, Elvis Presley. Yes, that was it, of course; how foolish of me not to realize this earlier. I just wondered exactly where did the typical beetle hide his comb and styling gel. I suppose it was enough just to realize that beetles even had a head of hair.
Still, I never fancied that my hair resembled that of a beetle. Mine was brown and kind of wavy. The beetles all seemed to wear their jet black hair in the same slicked back position; never a strand out of place (what a boorish and conforming crowd they were). Oh well, if mom said I looked like a bug, then maybe she was right. To me, the resemblance was sketchy at best.
I believe that I went near to a full year thinking that mom had compared me to a tiny insect. Then, one day, it occurred to me like an epiphany. The beetle that she had spoke of was really a Beatle.
Randee
Dressing For the Occasion:
I was a small child at the time, perhaps pushing four. Mom and I got into the car in order to pick up Mark at the High School. I remember it as a bright, sunny sky on that day that would soon redefine clothing styles. We pulled in front of the school watching the “almost-grownups” filing out on well-worn paths. School was out for the day and most of the students wore a smile that betrayed their happiness to be free on such a fine spring day. But mom, well...she looked more than a little consternated.
I followed her eyes, eager to glean the source of her stern look. Of course, I assumed that it had to be something to do with my older brother. It was not. Mom, yes the same mom as today, though a bit younger, was watching a young lady who had just exited the school. Even in my youth, I knew that there was something different, something odd, about this girl. I needn't have spent any more time considering what it was because my mother was already stating what was on her mind. So many years later, I doubt that I can repeat, word for word, what was said, but it went something like this: “A girl in jeans! What is this world coming to?”
It was indeed true. Some young lady had found the nerve to wear jeans to school - no small feat in 1964. Probably had something to do with those damn Beatles from across the sea.
Time passed on and so did the day of the dress. In fact, one might go to visit 109 Louise Avenue in the little town of Glenwwod, Iowa. Should one choose to do so and, moreover, knock on the old wooden door that graces the entrance of said home, they may well be greeted by that same lady. In jeans of course.
Randee
