What Happened (Part 15)

Once the wash was done we’d be herded back inside. Now might be the time to amuse ourselves with a serious bout of playing, until it’s time for lunch.  Among our amusements might be pretending to fall down the hall, or wear someone like a bearskin coat, or putting your ear to the floor to hear the Hoofer’s footsteps as he walked upside down on the other side of the boards, or sliding on the floor, or being a wizard in Mom’s old rose-patterned bathrobe, or playing one of the wall heaters like a zither.  In fact, when I was very small, everything had to be struck or strummed to see what sound it made, from the springs on the crib to the tubular pipes of the swing set.  Everything had to be felt, from the scratchy fake wood of the sliding closet doors to the smooth surface of the dining room table.  Everything had to be tasted, from the sweet stems of clover to the coppery tang of pennies to the delicious but deadly lead paint of the window sill.

We might hold a meeting of the Black Cat Club behind the closed door of the bathroom, with Mike as President enthroned on the toilet while the rest of us lined up on the edge of the tub. Aside from some jockeying for the position of Vice-President (often ending up with three), I honestly cannot reveal what went on at these gatherings—not because of any vow of secrecy, but because I don’t recall a single substantive discussion or decision we ever made.  But it was our club, our secret club, and no one but the Babel Boys were allowed.