Queenie for a Day

 

Queenie for a Day

My mother was born in 1918.  I probably would not have shared that fact if she were still living; I even hesitated just now except the timeframe is significant to the story.  She was very private, especially about personal matters.  I recall a class assignment we were given in fourth grade that was kind of like a family tree project.  While my mother gladly, even proudly, shared that her ancestry was mainly Irish, she not only declined to share her age, I was reprimanded for even asking.  “You just don’t ask a woman about her age!”  I turned my family history assignment in to Sister Cirilla with the age blank, well, blank.

She did share some stories about her youth.  Even for me growing up way back in the 1960’s it was difficult to imagine life with the various vendors riding horse-drawn wagons daily through the neighborhoods, such as the ice man, the rag man, the scrap metal man, and the hardware peddlers.  I remember when I came across a government ration book in a box in the attic.  Actually, I still have it.  Asking my mother about it gave me an appreciation for what it was really like growing up during the great depression, and the on the home-front challenges of WWII. 

Some of her stories were about eating.  Actually, most of what she talked about in regard to eating was not about scarcity.  Instead, she talked about the deliciousness of biting into a ripe tomato right in the garden and actually tasing the warmth of the summer sun.  And, she talked about the delight in raking autumn leaves into a huge pile for burning and tossing some freshly-dug potatoes right into the heart of the leaf pile.  When the fire died down they raked the potatoes back out, scraped the black char off of the outside.  She said that what was left wasn’t that much, but the very center was almost creamy tasting.  Those were the best potatoes she ever tasted, even without any butter or sour cream on it.

The only complaint that she shared with me I don’t think was really a complaint.  It came across to me more as objective reporting.  It concerned the elderly lady that lived down the street.  Most of the families in her Kaukauna neighborhood had a number of children.  My mother had three sisters, which probably was one of the smaller families on the block.  When the weather was nice, especially on long summer days, the children tended to gravitate together to play simple games like hide and go seek – games you didn’t need any expensive store-bought equipment for. 

The elderly lady was a widow; her husband having died in his fifties.  The woman had an English bulldog for companionship.  The dog was named ‘Queenie’.  I chuckled when my mother told me that as it seemed to be a funny name for a bulldog.  I doubt if even those who have a special affection for the breed would argue vehemently about their natural good looks.

At the time most families limited baking to bread – a staple at every meal.  Desserts that used hard-to-get sugar and butter were just too extravagant.  But every couple of weeks in the summer, when the weather was fine and all the kids were playing outside, this lady would bring Queenie outside on the big front porch.  [I have to confess that I am one who has contributed to the shift from front porches to backyard patios and decks that has changed our neighborhoods, and likely not for the better.]  The lady would set a water bowl down next to Queenie and then disappear back into the house.  By now, all of the children had paused their play to fix their attention on Queenie because they knew what was coming next.  Soon, the lady backed out of her front screen door because her hands were full.  When she cleared the door and let it slam shut, she turned to reveal a large platter piled high with fresh-baked cream puffs.  I’m sure that all of the children instantly dreamed about what it would taste like to bite into one of those pastries – the sweet white whipped cream filling gushing out all over their faces.  All any of those children ever did was dream, because the platter of pastries was always set down in front of Queenie.  Neither Queenie nor her owner seemed to give any thought to sharing, as the dog chomped down every last bite, licking the platter clean.  I can picture the children all lined up on the sidewalk across the street staring wide-eyed until every last crumb was gone. 

My mother believed strongly in not dictating what I should think about things; she let me just think on it.  I am going to follow her lead. 

His Peace <><

Deacon Dan  

Photo by Sébastien Lavalaye on Unsplash