I think about raising my children

T h e   B e s t   A d v e n t u r e   E v e r

When I watch my children, in those moments when they are unaware and being themselves, I am happy. They are not perfect, although at times I have believed they were; each has his own share of flaws and faults, some worthy of notice, others merely the normal variety. I see behaviors in them that will carry them through all the seasons of life; I see also, with the cold clarity of hindsight, where I might have applied a little more, or less, pressure to better affect their development. However, overall, I am content with the way they are turning out and their progress to date on the goals they have set for themselves, as well as the ones I have for them.

I would not readily admit that, to them, for I have not yet finished applying my parental influence; there are elements I feel still in need of work and lessons yet to be learned. I am just as certain my own parents feel the same way about me, even after all these years, and my apparent inability, or admitted unwillingness, to learn. You see, children are that kind of adventure, one that goes on and on, new perils and thrills with each passing phase of their development and, of course, quiet passages when it seems they will always be a certain way. That doesn't last, for no sooner do I get accustomed to one or the other at one stage, than they are off to the next, and once again I am caught up in the excitement. Some of these changes are unsettling, some are disappointing, but, on the main, they are all worthwhile in the effect on them and on me. I learn as much from their education in the ways of the world as they do themselves, from a different perspective, to be sure; watching as they absorb each new lesson, waiting for the evidence of actual learning, dreading serious repercussions or heartbreaks, while presenting a calm, collected demeanor in the face of their trials and tribulations or a proud pat on the back for their triumphs and victories.

I clearly recall looking into their faces as they were born, with the first a sense of wonder, with the second a sense of wonder renewed. Looking into Andrew's face for the first time was like looking into a mirror, so clearly did I see myself imprinted on him. When Matthew was born, two years and nine months later, I was prepared for the shock of recognition, but I saw another side of myself, as clearly as before. Of course, their mother's genes are there, too, and they each represent a certain blend of each of us, within the realm of their own personalities. Watching their identities emerge as they matured and developed from infancy into little boys, and on to adolescence and the teenage years, finally/suddenly approaching adulthood has provided me with insights into my own progress through life. I understand so well now the things my parents tried to tell me, the need for the values they did their best to instill in me and my siblings. I also understand how hard it was, how much harder I made it for them, sometimes unnecessarily so.

We, the triumvirate of Andrew, Matthew and I, travelled far and wide, visiting National Parks and ballparks, cities and forests, historical markers and ghost towns, playgrounds and amusement parks. In the early days, our travels included their mother, but after she left it was just the three of us, camping in the wild, or in hotels, as we made repeated visits to Yosemite, Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Disneyland, San Francisco, Zion, San Diego, and, of course, grandma and grandpas. We camped in the Mojave and visited a cave full of stalagmites and stalactites and other wondrous rock formations. We fired off rockets with the Boy Scouts and watched fireworks; picnicked by rivers and lakes, swimming after in endless summer days. We visited video game arcades everywhere we went, and watched movies in Seattle, San Francisco, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. We rode roller coasters everywhere one was available, the wilder the better!

We talked of many things, historical, technological, personal, musical and everything baseball. They have developed intelligent opinions and learned to express themselves eloquently, sometimes to achieve some new freedom or privilege, sometimes to argue a point successfully. I frequently hear back from the parents of their friends how impressed the parents are by my sons apparent maturity, their politeness, and their ability to speak in complete sentences, with courteous consideration of others. From earlyon I taught them the importance of a good vocabulary, teaching them to spell and use words correctly. Next to good manners, a good vocabulary is an essential skill, often forgotten in today's mad rush of a world.

Lest you think I believe my sons are perfect, please let me disabuse you of that misconception. They make mistakes and fail at various attempts, but they succeed more often than average and, I hope, learn from their mistakes. It has long been an adage with me, one that I impressed on my sons form an early age, that it is no sin to make a mistake, the only sin is in failing to learn from the mistake and repeating it again and again. There have been mistakes that were repeated, not many, but enough to ensure the boys were human after all, as human as anyone. Mostly, though, they have been level-headed and willing to exert the effort needed to do well in school and in extra-curricular activities, and patient with me as I learned to be a parent and role-model. In some ways, we each helped the other to grow and become better people, our bond transcending the difficulties of financial, personal and emotional circumstances.

Time flies by, though, and eventually all adventures come to an end. Such is the case now, as Matthew finishes his last semester in high school, and prepares to enter the world of adults. I hope I have done a good job with both my sons, teaching them what they need to make their way successfully in the world, and not needlessly burdening them with problems. I think I did a reasonably good job, but only time will tell, and, remember, the job is not finished, so long as I am still drawing breath....and maybe not then! Some lessons take time and the proper circumstances to come to fruition; only then does our training kick in and become useful. I will be watching, commenting, guiding, trying to keep my trap shut when necessary, continuing on with the parenting blueprint given me by my parents, passing it on to my sons with the fervent and heartfelt hope they, too, will improve on it and pass it on to their own children. Our own family form of immortality, a living gift that keeps giving long after we are gone.

alone , but not lonely

A l o n e   A g a i n   O r

I have spent a great deal of time alone over the years, and as a result, have developed many skills for filling the time. I enjoy reading, often spending hours in rapt concentration as the pages whiz by, whether a techno-thriller or a book detailing events in History, new discoveries in Science, a fascinating Biography or any of the marvels of the Physical World. Reading is a gateway to a universe of wonder, of knowledge, of self-understanding and the realms of Man’s stored knowledge. I feel sorry for those who do not enjoy this simple pleasure.

I also draw, filling page after page with doodles and designs, ideas for room arrangements and architectural details. I began drawing when I was a young teenager, adopting a style reminiscent to what I saw in comic books. I took a drafting class in the 8th grade, thinking I did OK, but not as well as some of the teacher’s favorite students. Little did I suspect I would make my living for the better part of my life doing this. Along the way, I expanded my repertoire of drawing skills, exploring the way design interacted with written words and everyday items.

When I was in freshman English, in high school, the teacher required us to write a poem. I tried my had at it and enjoyed it, then wrote several others. One of my first efforts was titled “Where are the flowers, now”, with a repeating refrain that ran, “where are the flowers, now, where have they gone?” Some four or five months later, I heard a song by Peter, Paul & Mary, called “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, written by Pete Seeger, who also influenced a young Bob Dylan. The only similarities in the two were in the repeated question/title, but I was razzed by my friends for “stealing” from a popular song. I had never heard it before, that I know of, and certainly didn’t consciously copy any part of the song, but who knows? We all take in stimuli from a vast variety of sources and then reissue it as refined by our own views, prejudices and perceptions. At any rate, this early success--did I mention the poem in question, and another with obvious homage to Poe, was well-received in class?--lead me to pursue an interest in writing that has remained with me to this day. I did quite well, writing in high school; at one school, the creative writing class published a ?magazine? filled with students? work. The first issue of the semester, I had one story and a poem; by the third issue, I had more entries than all the other students combined.

Had you asked me in those days what I wanted to be, I would have confidently answered a writer! I seriously pursued this goal, although later that same year, at a different school, I encountered a less enthusiastic teacher, who told me I should stick to writing about what I knew, i.e. teenage issues. Her criticism took the wind out of my sails, and, the following school year, after I submitted a story that I had slaved over and felt very positive about, I received a rejection letter--an actual letter, one my friends and teachers at the time said was a good sign, rather than a rejection notice--I began to let that dream slip away from me. I still wrote, to amuse myself, and the friends I corresponded with, until one day I received a letter from a friend who said he was going to start saving my letters, because they were little works of art, so creative; consequently, I stopped writing for others.

I have always kept journals, filling them with sketches and written snippets, recording my passage through this world, for myself, if no one else. I still do, sometimes seeing, in my mind, an entire piece, inspired by something I read or just saw on TV, or as a result of a conversation. I write to soothe that savage beast within that desired to roar, but instead is content to know the talent is still there, the potential still on tap.

I can say I came by it honestly; my maternal grandmother wrote and, with her sister, performed radio plays in the late teens and early twenties of the previous century, in their home town of Brooklyn. They were quite popular, and my great-aunt maintained a life-long interest in performing, appearing in dinner theatre and community theatre productions well into her 70s. My uncle also took after this side of the family, achieving a modest level of fame in college and in the Los Angeles area for his appearances in community theatre and civic light opera presentations until he decided to forego his theatrical dreams and concentrate on professional pursuits. His is a case of too little ego, because ego is the fuel by which careers are driven; that he has the talent is widely recognized, that he is willing to sit in one office after another and attempt to convince someone who wouldn't know talent if said talent were to bite him/her on the butt, is anther story entirely.

Sadly this is the case with much of the creative arts; the loud, obnoxious and barely-talented rise to the top out of sheer persistence, while those who may well be the better talent wait tables or move on to a more dependable source of income. Who is to say whether it is an equitable arrangement? Not me, I'm too busy writing what I want, or reading to gather new ideas, or drawing the blueprints for a better world. I'll leave that decision to you, gentle reader and wish you luck in your own private spaces.

I once had a roommate who...

F i v e    R o o m s    &    A    V I e w

I have only had three roommates over the years. I shared an apartment with my uncle for a few months after I got out of the Army, but it was his apartment and I was just getting reacquainted with civilian life. I lived on my own for the next five years, in a series of apartments in Los Angeles and then Houston. It never occurred to me to seek out a roommate until I was in college and financial considerations were more important.

In the summer of 1974, I moved into a house with Mark, a friend I had met through one of my buddies from VietNam. Mark was a gregarious, handsome young man a few years younger than I, with an infectiously bright personality. We got along great, for the most part, sharing similar likes and dislikes, so I thought we would do well as roommates. That misconception was due in no small part to my inexperience in living with others. Mark was probably as disenchanted as I was, after our differences began to manifest themselves.

I’ve always been the type to prefer to take care of things at the time of their occurrence, rather than stacking them up, to be dealt with later. Mark wanted to live the life of a slob, with periodic “GI parties” as he would call the occasions when he wanted to clean. Having spent three years in the Army, I had NO desire to EVER again have a “GI party”. I preferred to pick up after myself and clean as I went; Mark, on the other hand, was content to leave dishes, clothes, papers and other detritus laying where they fell or were deposited, until such time as he felt the need for another “party”. One of his favorite tricks was to light a cigarette--another bone of contention between us, as I didn’t smoke--and then leave it standing on the butt, on the coffee table, dining table, counters, wherever he happened to be at the moment. Very much a “man of the moment”, he frequently lit a cigarette, took several puffs from it, then stood it and left it where it was, the result being a piles of ash around standing butts, here, there and, at times, everywhere. It did no good to say anything, he would act contrite and, five minutes later, do it again!

Mark never bought any beer, either. It wasn?t that he didn?t drink it, he did! He just did not buy it. His reasoning was simple: he didn?t drink much. This was true, in it?s way, he would only drink a few sips, then leave the bottle laying where he had sat it down, usually next to one of his cigarettes, and go off to bed. This was due in part to the fact that he was working at the emergency room, he was a nurse, on the swing shift, and would get home late, around 11:00 p.m. He had classes early in the morning, so he wouldn?t stay up very long after arriving home in the evening?just long enough to open a beer, light a cigarette, have a few sips, several puffs and then, off to bed! Leaving behind, of course, a bottle, the cap, the cigarette and it?s ash, a match sometimes, a unique memorial to his having been there those few moments. Then the next morning, after he had slept to the last possible minute, he was out the door in a flash, not to be seen again until that evening, same time, same routine, same detritus. After several days of this, the house was cluttered with these remains; if I wanted to have company, I would have to clear away the debris. Needless to say, this did not promote amicable relations between us.

Matters weren?t helped by Mark?s social life. He was attractive, successful and outgoing, all qualities well-regarded by the opposite sex. Thus, there was a steady stream of young ladies accompanying him home, after work, resulting in TWO bottles of beer opened, but not drunk, and TWO cigarettes left standing to burn away to ash. This in itself was aggravating, leading as it did to double the trash left laying around, although Mark would often get home minutes before his lady friend of the evening, and scurry around, removing the evidence of any other woman, a dubious benefit to me in at least removing some of the mess.

However, this also lead to messes of another sort, as these young women inevitably learned of each other, with predictable and distressing results. I was put in the awkward position of having to explain to one woman or another, that this was the way Mark was, and I didn?t expect things to change any time soon. Too often I ended up holding someone whose heart was broken, providing a shoulder for tears shed for the wrong person.

I began to dislike Mark, an otherwise likeable guy. He was one of those men who could go to a party and every woman in the room would crowd around, jockeying for position. I had seen him make a date with one woman, while asking another for her phone number, with neither woman evidencing any rancor at this obvious duplicity. In another man, daggers would have been flying, fingernails scratching for eyes, hackles raised and fur flying. There are women who have this same magnetic attraction, but we are far more accustomed to seeing men cluster around a beautiful and sexy woman, than to see women gathered around a man.

The downside to this was the inevitable hurt feelings of those who only passed through his orbit. Being inside the orbit was no picnic either, as I was on the receiving end of much of the anger that should have been directed at Mark. This imbalance came to a head one night, when I consoled a distraught young woman, a pretty redhead whom I had liked and thought maybe would cause Mark to change his ways. He had been seeing her for several weeks, forsaking almost all others. For Mark, that was remarkable in itself! However, he reverted to type, and started avoiding her, leading her to our doorstep one night, in search of closure, if nothing else. After listening to her tale of woe, really the same story I had already heard a dozen times, I told her, ?That?s Mark!? She agreed he was a skunk and declared she would never give him another thought, and left. Mark came home a short while later, with another woman, but I was thoroughly disgusted with him, and had retired to my room with the music turned up loud to better ignore him and his shenanigans. Soon, I fell into unsuspecting sleep.

I woke up, with a heavy weight on top of me, Mark straddling my chest and pummeling my side, yelling at me about betraying him and telling stories about him! He was livid because ?Red? had returned, after the other woman had left, and confronted him, telling him I had told her everything about his evil ways! I admitted I had comforted her, told him how completely sick of having to do that I was, and told him I would be moving out at the end of the month. He went back to bed, with ?Red? as it turned out, and things were never the same between us. I was not interested in having a roommate again, although I reconsidered that idea, a year and a half later. At that moment, though, I was not interested in ?sharing? any more, having gotten more than I bargained for and not enjoying my largess at all.

I was a temporary Boy Scout

B O Y   S C O U T   M E M O R I E S

I so wanted to be a Boy Scout! My best friend Larry, my partner in crime since we were 2 year old terrors living next door to each other and spending all day each day driving our mothers to drink and an early grace, to hear them talk about it, had been going to Cub Scouts at his family’s church. He invited me to go, but since we weren’t Lutherans, I wasn’t sure I would fit in. He kept asking, though, and I finally agreed to go with him.

The den met in the Family Hall at the Lutheran Church, an imposing structure for an 8 year old boy, maybe for an adult as well, at the time, although I don’t know. The only Lutheran’s I knew of were Larry’s parents, neither of whom was large or impressive. Larry was even taller and skinnier than I was at the time, and people often said I needed “to stand twice to make a shadow”!  I was properly intimidated when I walked into the cavernous hall, to join several dozen boys my age in learning the mysteries of scouting. Most of the boys had uniform shirts and hats, ribbons and braid festooning them like military decorations. I wanted my own shirt and hat, too, but that would have to wait, I found out, until I had filled out an application and paid the fees and dues.

The Scout pack was working on knots that night, and I was soon sitting among a group of other boys as perplexed at the complexities of tying knots as I was. We each had a length of rope, a book demonstrating the techniques of knotting and a buddy to work with. I tied every variation of “granny” knot known to man that night, eventually collapsing in gales of laughter at my inability to master the bow hitch and the other knots I had never even known existed. The Scout leader made the rounds, demonstrating the steps to each group and commenting on the efforts displayed as each boy tried to perform the skills necessary to meet the requirements for the badge. Larry and I worked together, egging each other on as we were used to doing in our other daily lives. Neither of us made any measurable gains in knot-tying skills, but we had a great time.

When I got home that evening, I told my dad I didn?t think I was cut out for scouting, because I couldn?t learn the knots. He laughed and told me it wasn?t nearly as hard as I thought, then spent the next hour guiding me through a series of increasingly difficult knots, including the bow hitch, that he had learned when he was in the Navy. I still remember that night, the stories he told me about being in the Navy and the knots, especially that darned hitch, a knot I still use to this day! I only went to a few more Scout pack meetings, and then we moved to another town, and, since I didn?t know anyone, I had no reason go to any more Scout meetings.

I was the Fastest Gun Alive!

W H E N   I   W A S   Y O U N G … A n d   f a s t !

I got a Have Gun, Will Travel holster set when I was 8; the twin holsters and felt hat were Christmas gifts from my Grandfather. I wore them proudly, the only two-gun kid in my neighborhood. We played Cowboys all the time, those days; not so much “Indians”, except as an occasional threat. We had forts and kept an eye out of Injuns on the warpath, but we were more interested in gunfights, mimicking behavior from the many westerns on TV. Every kid I knew had a holster set, usually the Gunsmoke set or the Lone Ranger set, and we terrorized the neighborhood, reliving those thrilling days of yesteryear, holding shoot-outs that put the Gunfight at the OK Corral to shame.

I was a dual threat, capable of drawing and firing off a string of caps with either hand; my friends inevitably fell before the firepower from my matching set of pistols. My friend Larry and I would stride toward each other, hands at the ready, steely eyes intent on the other’s, watching for any sign of reaching to draw. At the slightest movement, my hands would flash to the holsters and draw the pistols, the sound of caps exploding rapidly as I fired, the smell of the cordite filling my nose, the sweet smell of victory. Larry would drop his pistol, grab his chest and stagger back, “You got me,” he’d gasp before falling, a death rattle that went on and on as he rolled on the ground. I would stand over him, saying properly manly things like, “Let that be a lesson to you, Bad Bob, not to mess with Paladin!” He would twitch, a death spasm that brought additional shots from my cap pistol as he jerked and recoiled, until finally I would have to reload. Then< I would offer him a hand up, and we would stroll away, arms over each other’s shoulders, friends for life!

My holster set was eventually torn beyond repair by the repeated jerking of the guns from it, in fast draw “contests” and I moved on to other games. Recently, I saw the same holster set, new in the box, the way it had been that long ago Christmas, and the price was only $350.00. Who knew? I amsure, though, that I got far more value than that the three or four months I was the ?Fastest Gun Alive?, in my neighborhood, that winter and spring of 1958. I don?t think I would have passed up the opportunity to strap on those twin pistols, for the promise of even that much money almost 50 years later.

No children were harmed in the retelling of this story. All characterizations are colored by the effects of time on the memory.

I had a thought about flowers...

F L O W E R S

Flower in the Crannied Wall

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Flower in the crannied wall,

I pluck you out of the crannies,

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,

Little flower--but if I could understand

What you are, root and all, and all in all,

I should know what God and man is.

What flower would I be? That flower in Tennyson’s poem, so full of life and mystery, or the flower a young “hippie” put in the rifle barrel of a National Guard soldier, equally young, when Nixon called out the NG to save the nation at the Kent State demonstrations, in May, 1970. Or perhaps, the flower a young Chinese man offered a tank driver in Tiananmen Square, in 1989, when freedom briefly bloomed in Red China.

Maybe better to be the orchid in Dorothy Lamour’s hair, behind her ear, looking like a dream of a simpler time. Better not to be the poppy flower, the flower of death, blooming in junkies' eyes as their dreams shatter and fade away. Better to be the flower that wilts on the grave, than the one that digs it.

I played baseball full time!

B A S E B A L L , A N Y O N E ?

When I was a kid, everyone I knew had a baseball bat, glove and ball. No vacant lot was safe from the sudden onslaught of a “gang” intent on a pick-up game of baseball. We would no sooner finish one game than start another, on a Saturday or Sunday. School days, a game started immediately after we got home, dropped off notebooks and grabbed out gear, racing out the door to meet at the “field”. It may well have been a future home site, or an unfenced part of a larger property, so long as we could establish “bases” and a “home plate”, it was a baseball field to us. Grown-ups never intruded to run us off, or warn us about breaking something; it was a given that we had every right to use any vacant land in happy pursuit of the National Pastime. So long as we were home by dinner, we were free to “play ball!”

All those interested in playing gathered in a circle; captains of the teams were selected, sometimes by natural selection, sometimes by “turn”. Nobody was left out, or left on the bench. Those weaker players might be the last to be picked, and end up playing deep right field, but in true American spirit, everybody played! If there were too many players, two games would be started, with smaller teams; it never mattered if we had the regulation number of players. As long as there were enough to cover the infield positions and a rover for outfield, we could play.

And PLAY we did! With all the boisterous vigor young boys, and the occasional girl, can bring to a game. Sliding was an art form, diving for the ball an honor not to be passed up. We couldn’t throw as hard and fast as professional ballplayers, but we more than made up with it in enthusiasm. Close calls were hotly contested, although never to the point of fisticuffs, but certainly as far as honor demanded. We were our own umpires, and scorekeepers. In between games we would sit around, catching out breath for the next game, discussing the merits and shortcomings of our favorite players: Mantle, Maris, the Duke, Peewee, Dizzy, Stan the Man, and countless other heroes of the diamond. We dreamed of joining their ranks and every pitch was another opportunity to reach for the brass ring, to swing for the outfield. The days passed too quickly, too soon gone with the wind, never to return. Today, the lots are ?private property?, posted for ?no trespassing? and baseball is formalized in ?Little League?, with parents pushing their future Hall-of-Fame tykes. The dirt-lot games are gone, no longer the magnet they once were for every child within walking or biking distance, no longer the way we played away all those golden afternoons.

I got my 1st job

Would   you   like   some   fresh   d o n u t s…..

It was March, 1961, and a friend had told me I could get a job at the Donut Shoppe, selling donuts door to door. I was 11 that spring, tall for my age, and willing to try anything that would get me some spending money. I had picked cotton for a few days with my father when I was 9, but that was piece work and I quickly learned I wasn’t cut out for that kind of stoop labor. I had applied for paper routes, without luck, and pushed a mower the spring before, but dropped that line after I promised to mow a yard for an old woman for 50 cents….that yard had to have been a large part of that ranch in Texas, the XIT, known for “Ten In Texas", because it covered 10 counties. I worked all day with an old push mower for that 50 cents and gave up mowing forever, when I finally finished.

I walked down to the older part of town, near the Colorado River, where the shop was located in a ‘50’s style building that had already seen better days. When I walked in, the bell tinkled above the door and the smell of donuts and grease permeated the atmosphere. I asked to speak to the manager and an older woman, probably in her early 40’s, introduced herself as Marge and took me back to her tiny office for an “interview”. I was so excited by the prospect of earning money, I could hardly sit still as she asked me questions and explained what the job would be. I tried to remember to say “yes, ma’am” and “no, ma’am” as she asked her questions, but I was so thrilled by this glimpse into the working world, I may have missed a few.

Marge asked me how old I was, saying I had to be at least 12 to work for her, and my heart sank, but she mentioned that I looked at least that old, so I brightened up, and said, “Yes, I turned 12 last month,” hoping she wouldn’t query me on a date. She didn’t, and kept on with the particulars of what would be my job. I was to sell donuts bagged in half-dozens, for 35 cents per bag. I would receive 17 ½ cents per dozen I sold, a princely sum, I thought. Marge told me to come back the next afternoon, as soon as I got out of school and she would start me out. I walked home on a cloud, no longer a boy, but a newly-employed man.

I told my mother I had a job and she grilled me about where, when, how and who for, but I answered all questions with patience and grace. After all, I was more mature now, a working man! She told me I would have to be careful, and keep an eye out for dangerous characters, because I would be carrying money. I assured her I would, that my route would be in a nice residential neighborhood, and that I was grown up now, after all. I hardly slept that night, in anticipation of my future riches.

The next afternoon, I raced from school, after the school day had finally dragged to a close, speeding to the Donut Shoppe as only a motivated 11 yr old boy could. I walked in, nonchalantly, gasping for breath from my sprint, but determined to act as if this were an everyday occurrence. Marge smiled and remarked on my promptness, causing me to pull back my shoulders and swell my chest with pride, and then pointed to the basket with 12 bags of donuts in it, 6 dozen for my first excursion. She explained that she didn?t want to give me too many on my first night, and then explained what part of town I was to sell in. Every boy who sold for her had a specific area to canvas, mine was relatively close to where we lived. I was too busy doing the math, multiplying 17 ½ times 6 and thinking of how I would spend the money, once I got it! Marge smiled and sent me on my way with a few cautionary words, and reminded me to return with the receipts when I was sold out.

I shouldered the basket, it was heavier than I expected, and set out on my new adventure. I reached the closest boundary of my area quickly and mounted the steps to the first door, running my sales pitch through my head as I knocked on the door. No one answered! I trudged down the walk and moved to the next house, knocking again. This time a woman answered, smiling and asking what she could do for me. I stuttered out my spiel, mangling words and phrases as she waited patiently. Taking pity on me, she said, "I really don't need any donuts, but I suspect this is your first sale, and I'd like to help. Give me a half dozen." She gave me exact change, which as it turned out, was a big help, because Marge had not provided me with any change. I was sure I was on my way to wealth and prosperity!

Two hours later, I wasn't so sure. I had only sold 3 more half-dozens, and my initial optimism was fading fast. I began to get creative, and a little pushy, out of desperation, and sold 3 more half-dozens, but I still had 5 left. I slogged up one block and down the next, reciting my sales pitch, making slight variations, and growing tired and more demoralized with each "NO". Some people were polite and said, "No, thank you," others merely said "No" and closed the door. Some were abrupt and some were rude. It was getting dark, and I knew my mom would be worried and angry with me for staying out so late; I pushed harder at selling, convincing two more houses to contribute to my enrichment and lightening my load by taking half-dozens. Only 3 left, I kept telling myself, as I trudged from house to house. I sold one more to an older man, who gave me a nickel tip, and I continued on down the darkened street, with the finish line in sight.

After several more non-sales, I knocked on a door, and a woman about my mom's age came to the door. She started to say no, half way through my by-now practiced patter; I slowed in my delivery and started to turn away, to save myself the effort of wasting my breath. She said, "Wait. Aren't you out late to be doing this?" I said, "yes, I'm just trying to sell these last two half-dozens so I can call it a night." In truth the bags were looking kind of sad, after being jostled around in my basket all this time. I asked her what time it was, because I didn't have a watch, and when she said it was after 8:00 p.m., my face fell. I knew I was in dutch, because by the time I got back to the Donut Shoppe and then home it would be nearly 9:00 and my mom would be fit to be tied.

The woman looked me up and down and said, "You look about done in, and if you were my son, I wouldn't want you out here wandering the streets at this hour!" She smiled when she said it and I began to hope she would buy at least one half-dozen. She asked me how much they were and I told her "35 cents for one, 70 cents for two." She said she really didn't need one, much less two and my heart sank, thinking I would have to pound on more doors. She went to get her purse, and when she came back, she said, "I only have 65 cents".   I said, "That's all right, a guy up the street gave me a nickel tip, so I can let you have both for 65 cents." Funny how your spirits raise just like that, when someone offers a lifeline to a drowning man. She handed me the money and I offered her the bedraggled bags, then turned away to go. I caught myself, some half-remembered lesson from my mother beating its way to the surface, and turned back, "Thank you. Thank you very much, " I said. She smiled and said, "You're welcome," drawing the door closed as I skipped down her walk to the street.

When I returned to the Donut Shoppe, Marge took right in on me, "Where have you been?" she demanded. I told her it had taken me this long to sell all the bags. She gaped at me and asked, "You sold them all" That's why you've been out this late? You didn't have to sell them all, you could have come in when it got dark." I told her I did not realize that and gave her the money I had taken in. She was visibly impressed by the admittedly small sum and gave me a pat on the back. "You better get on home, your mother is sure to be worried." She closed the shop behind me, as I walked toward home, happy not to have the basket banging against my thighs. My mom was understandably upset when I did get home, but she listened proudly to my story of my trials and triumph. I worked at the Donut Shoppe for almost three months, until we left for the summer, carrying baskets packed with bags of donuts every afternoon and Saturday mornings, becoming one of the better salesmen and almost never bringing back any unsold bags.