Repetition of anything has a boring effect in my childhood family and sharing tales of any kind seemed frightening. As I searched for some old comfortable story to cling to, I remembered the story my mother 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 wide. 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 a very fine confederate tradition. The story begins with the purse and my father taking me to work 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 or four year old could muster would say, “Oh no, my daddy didn’t give me any.” Every time my mother told me this story, I continually got the feeling that she harbored resentment in feelings attached to this story. She was in competition with a four year old and I was winning, at least I thought I was. Perhaps it is looking at all the lost time with my father.
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 hand full of nickels and dimes. Always noticing if they had quarters, I’d watch them carefully pick them out before offering me a reward. 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 Forties, a loaf of bread or enough sliced sandwich meat for several people.
Looking into the large open hands of these men seemed like a wonderful opportunity for fun. My mother’s story continues with my need to always pick the nickels out of their 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. I could see the dime was smaller. My temperament didn’t allow for teaching me otherwise. 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. I still held onto the thought of the nerve of these men. Giving me dimes, how could they. Remembering this 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 their guns, that made such loud noises and put holes in far-off targets. The noise was tolerated for the reward of the money I imagine
Gradually the game between my mother and me became a competition. How many of my dimes and even nickels could she acquire? She liked her position of power. The purse took on this new meaning and I became very possessive of it. 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 and the memory does too.
