What Happened (Part 13)

While we were pinned down watching the show, Mom would wash the breakfast dishes, clean the bathroom, maybe start a load of clothes in the washing machine, and sweep the house.  By the time the show was over, and a desultory clicking around the four channels to see if there was anything good on, it might be time to accompany her as she went out to hang up the wash on the clothesline. This is a fine opportunity to take a tour of the back yard while she does so.  She unhooks the hanging bag of clothespins from inside the kitchen cabinet and we all troop out the back door.

Now at this long ago time the yard, though well-defined, has no fence, so Mom has to keep a close eye on us.  When Kenny and John were small, they were put in a playpen near the back door, well shaded by one of the two young ash trees that sheltered the house there.  She’d bring out the basket of clothes and head out to the clothes line.  It was a four line affair, strung between two goalpost-like ends (shorter at the time, and later extended to more than twice its length as the family grew up and got larger). As Mom hung up the load, especially if it was sheets or towels, it would become a delightful maze that we’d romp in and out of. We might zip-line the clothes pin bag from one end to the other while Mom had a mouthful of pins to use. When she used those up she’d call for more and we’d bring them over; as the bag grew lighter it was harder to whizz from side to side.

     If the wash held no interest at the time, we might amuse ourselves on the old swing set.  Our first set was a tubular metal model with two swings, a slide, and a teeter-totter, and was a dull red color, with green accents.  As we were very young we had to be pushed on the swings, taking it in turns as we went along. Mike learned how to swing himself first, of course, and then me and John. Eventually we developed an elaborate system of swing fights, basically jousting at each other while facing opposite directions and kicking and grabbing with your legs. You could test your courage climbing up on the slide (which at four feet seemed dangerously high) and sliding down, or if you were more chicken inching yourself down holding the side rails. The rhythmic back and forth of the swings and of the teeter-totter leant themselves to “playings” (the concept of “playings” deserves a more thorough analysis than it will get right now) and storytelling. One particular favorite teeter-totter tale I recall playing again and again was Popeye and Bluto going to Olive Oil’s house, each player alternately yelling as they reached the top of the swing arc, “I’m going to Olive’s house!” “No, I’m going to Olive’s house!” “It’s this way!” “No, it’s that way!”