When I was two years old, my father would lift me up and stand
me on top of the refrigerator. Of course, refrigerators were smaller in those
days, but, still, my feet were at the level of his chest.
"Jump!" he'd say, holding his hands out to catch me.
I had no fear. I remember the triumphant joy of soaring through the air as if I
were flying, and landing, giggling and safe in his arms.
Daddy loved to joke. Sometimes he would put me high on that
refrigerator, and then fold his arms over his chest. "Jump!" he'd
say. I never hesitated; I knew he wouldn't let me get hurt. I would leap, secure
in my belief that Daddy would catch me, just as he always had, and indeed he
would.
* * *
Daddy and Mummy always said I was a happy baby. I wasn't
demanding, I didn't cry much, and I was good at amusing myself. Easy-going and
even-tempered like Daddy, they said. But
I had my moments.
One day, when I was in a fussy, whining mood, I'm told, Daddy
said in exasperation, "For crying out loud, Kay, cut it out! You're acting
like a two-year-old!" Then he looked down at me. My head was even with the top of the kitchen
table. "You are two years old!" he said, laughing, and he
picked me up and hugged me.
* * *
I loved Rootie Kazootie, a character featured in a children's
television show of the early 50's. I don't know if I ever saw the television
program, but I knew Rootie well from the Golden Books my father read to me.
Daddy would check Woolworth's regularly to see if there were any new Rootie
books, and he bought me every single one that he could find. We both loved
them, which was lucky, because I asked for Daddy to read them to me over and
over and over again. Like Daddy, Rootie was a very good baseball player and
usually wore his baseball cap. But Rootie had the added benefit of owning a
magic kazootie, some special kind of kazoo which could help him out of all
kinds of scrapes. Along with his spotted dog, Gala Poochie Pup, his girl friend, PolkaDottie, who was famous
in her own right for making Polka Dot Pineapple Pies, and a helpful gentleman
named Mr. Deetle Dootle, Rootie could
face any challenge, including those dangers caused by his arch villain, Poison
Zoomac. Sometimes I would call Daddy Rootie, and I would be PolkaDottie. When
we went to the A&P to buy food, I was always very interested in the pineapple
pies they sold, which were not made by PolkaDottie, but instead by a lady named
Ann Page whose picture appeared on every one of their red pie boxes. Once in a
while, we'd buy an Ann Page pineapple pie, but I knew that they were not half
as good as the PolkaDot Pineapple Pies that I made when I was PolkaDottie.
* * *
Our family often sang together, especially in the car, but
there was one song that Daddy sang just for me. We were in our old Plymouth one
time, Daddy much later told me. I was riding in the front seat beside him. As
he drove us home, he was singing to me, "You're Daddy's little girl to
have and to hold...." Suddenly, a
car pulled out in front of him. Daddy hit the brake and threw an arm out to
catch me as we screeched to a stop. "I wasn't quick enough," he said.
"I missed you, and you slid forward off the seat and banged your head on
the dashboard." And as he told me that long-past story, I saw tears in his
eyes.
* * *
Daddy worked in Malden Square at Mrs. Bell's Donut Shop. I
don't know who Mrs. Bell was. The donut shop was owned by Daddy's boss, Al
Bolton. I called him Al, and I liked him a lot. He was a skinny man, balding,
but with wisps of pale red hair and a pale red mustache. Like everyone else at
Mrs. Bell's, Al was always glad to see me when I came in. He'd say, "Well,
look who's here! It's Kay!" I'd
happily inform him that he was wrong, and then I'd let Al know who I was that
day. Sometimes I was Polkadottie, sometimes Princess Summerfallwinterspring. Whenever I came in, he would greet me as
whoever I had been on the last visit, but no matter what Al guessed, poor man,
he was always wrong. In a pinch, sometimes I was even just myself.
When Mummy took me to
the donut shop, I would be escorted around the store to say hello to everyone.
I knew Esther Rose, the scrawny old woman who washed dishes, and Tommy Ray, the
cheerful man who cleaned the store. I knew all the waitresses, but my favorite
was Prissy. She and Mummy were friends, and sometimes Prissy came to birthday
parties at our house.
On one visit to the donut shop, I sat down at the counter, and
a new young waitress asked me what I would like. "I'd like a glass of
milk," I said.
"Cow's milk?" she asked in a teasing voice.
I thought that a very silly idea. Why would I want to take a glass of milk away from some poor cow? "No," I answered, quite seriously.
"I want girl's milk!"
I am told the young waitress blushed, and never again asked me
a silly question.
I loved to watch Daddy make donuts. He stood in a glassed-off
room just to the rear of the restaurant area, so that customers could watch him
as he worked. Although most people had to stay on the restaurant side of the
window, I could walk right back and watch Daddy close up as he mixed the dough
with his hands in a huge silver-colored mixing bowl. When he had mixed it
enough, he would flop it onto the cloth-covered work bench, and would scrape
the dough off his hands with his fingers. I liked the way he sprinkled the
dough with flour before he kneaded it, and then rolled the dough out. I would
watch his hands move quickly with the donut cutter. Sometimes I would watch him
set cooking racks of donuts into the bubbling hot grease of the fryolator. His
hands would fly as he used two long wooden sticks to turn the donuts over in
the hot grease so they would cook on both sides. Daddy even took me with him to
the darker back room, the location of the refrigerator, the storeroom, the sink
and Esther Rose.
I could go everywhere.
I knew everything about making donuts. I knew about the proof
boxes where the raise donuts were placed to rise. I loved the jelly pump for
filling all those jelly donuts. I watched Daddy sugar the donuts, or dip them
into the honey glaze, or, my favorite, the chocolate frosting.
I loved Mrs. Bell's.
I loved the small white tiles of the
floor, the big rounded top mirrors on the wall against every booth, the
L-shaped counter, and the front display cases for the donuts and other delicious
things Daddy made. I could look through the glass of the case at biscuits,
lemon squares, apple squares, and muffins. I could see the trays of donuts in
the tall cases against the wall. I knew my Daddy was a very good baker. In
fact, he made the best donuts in the whole wide world.
Mummy worked part-time at Mrs. Bell's some days after Daddy
came home from work. When she worked at night, it was a special time for
Daddy and me. Daddy would make supper
for us, and afterwards, we would have a special treat of ginger ale as we
watched television together. We would lie on our tummies on the parlor floor in
front of the television, glasses of Cliquot Club ginger ale beside us, and the
bottle close by in case we wanted any more. We would watch all kinds of funny
shows. Sometimes we fell asleep, and when Mummy came home, she would find us in
the flickering light of the television, both asleep on the parlor floor,
Daddy's arm around me.
- Kate Lydon Varley
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