I can see some elderly couples sitting in rockers sharing stories of times gone by. Where are those stories that are a part of my past? Repetition of anything has a boring effect in my family and sharing tales of any kind seems frightening. As I searched for some old comfortable place to cling to, I remembered the story my mother often told me about my father and me. My parents were in their forties and there I was toddling into their lives with a force that opened their eyes. I can almost feel how much control I had over them. They had a teenage boy who probably didn’t want much to do with them and there I was. My mom, Opal Jeanne, was a proper southern belle and her little girl was going to be a part of very fine confederate tradition. Patent leather shoes, little anklets, a smock dress with lots of crinolines, and white gloves with a little patent leather purse to match my shoes. The story begins with the purse and my father taking me to his rifle range with him. I was so loved by this man and can still feel the impact.
My little purse became the essence of what connected me to the adult world. “Do you have any money in there?” My father’s customers would ask, pointing at my purse and sometimes even taking it out of my hands without permission. Blonde, curly headed, blue-eyed me with all the feminine charms a three year old could muster would say, “Oh no, my daddy didn’t give me money.” Every time my mother told me this story, I continually got the feeling that she harbored resentment as some negative feelings were attached to the story. She was in competition with a three year old and I was winning, at least I thought I was.
I can remember looking forward to going to my father’s rifle range where men would set down their guns and reach into their pockets, pulling out a handful of nickels and dimes. Always noticing if they had quarters, I’d watch them carefully picking them out of their hands, before offering me my rewards. Quarters to men who lived through the Depression were not to be given away. Giving more than a nickel or dime to a three year old wouldn’t be thought of. After all, a dime could buy a lot in the late 1940s. A candy bar was only a nickel.
Looking into the large open hands of these men seemed like a wonderful opportunity for fun. Sometimes I got a tap on the bottom to hustle me on my way. My mother’s story continues with my need to always pick the nickels out of these hands. I was insulted at the dimes, after all dimes were smaller than nickels. How could these men insist I take a dime and they couldn’t convince me it was worth more. My temperament didn’t allow for teaching me otherwise. It seems laughable now. I pranced around the rifle range in my cute starched dress, guns roaring. I ran from man to man collecting my coins to fill my purse. My mother told me I was thrilled with my treasure but still held on to thoughts of the nerve of these men giving me dimes. Remembering the game that developed between me and my mother and the men, Opal Jeanne would seize the opportunity to keep the dimes to help me out with my disgust. Is this where my sense of money and men developed? This must have been a grand position for me to have men sit down guns that made such loud noises and put holes in far-off targets. The noise must have been tolerated for the reward of money.
Gradually the game between my mother and me became that of competition. How many of my dimes and even nickels could she acquire? She liked her position of power. The purse took on a new meaning and I became very possessive of it. No one could get it away. The men also began to take on new statues of rewarding me with pats on my backside and unwanted kisses. Nickels and dimes were a whole lot more complex than I ever could have imagined.
