_{^{~Groovin' With Soccamom~}}

I hate asking for, alluding to, or talking about money (or the lack thereof.) I like being independant, strong and even invulnerable, if that is even a word. I dont want to use invincible, because thats not the feeling I want to invoke. I don't want to be vulnerable, hence the word.

The street we lived on when I was young was rather small and very out of the way. It was approximately 5 blocks long and on one end led to a cemetary and on the other "The Little Store." Those were the days in which we told our mothers we were "going outside to play" and that meant we could go anywhere in the neighborhood as long as we didn't cross Michigan Street and were home before dark. Those were the days in which I spent many of them as a latch key kid, but no one thought anything about it since there was an abundance of neighbors to watch over me and the rest of the kids around.

I remember being allowed to ride my bike down to the little store to run errands for my mother or with other kids just because we had some change and wanted some candy. Penny candy was still a penny in those days so if you had a dime to spend you were guaranteed a nice little sugar buzz for the afternoon.

When I was 5 my mother was pregnant with my sister. I was as excited as any big sister should be. Everyone in the family was looking for a boy and they went so far as to paint the bedroom baby blue. I could hardly wait. One of my favorite pasttimes was to buy little jars of baby food. Back in those days the jars of baby food were thirteen cents and we were getting quite a collection of jars.

So it happened that one sunny day a bunch of the neighborhood kids were going down to the little store and invited me to come along. They waited by the door while I was asking Mom for some money. We had a long curvy 60 style sectional that was like 3 kidney beans hooked together. Mom had a hand tooled wallet that my Uncle had bought for her in Mexico one spring break. I remember seeing her sitting on that sofa fingering thru the change compartment of that dark leather wallet.
"I give you ten cents," she said to me in her broken English.
"No, I need thirteen cents," I replied.
"Ten cents."
"No, thirteen cents," I stomped my foot.
"Why you need thirteen cents?" She asked.
"I just need it." I couldnt ruin the surprise, and yet I felt that she should have gotten the hint, after all how many jars thirteen cent baby food do you have to have in the house before you catch my drift?

Of course my foot stomping and refusal to tell her the whole story set her off. Not only were my friends sent off without me, but the temper flaired. Before I knew what was next, I was stripped to my underwear and spanked. Mom was screaming and shouting that everything I had I had because she gave it to me. I heard how ungrateful I was and how selfish I was to demand more money than what she was willing to give.

For the next few minutes or half hour or eternity- I have no idea which is closer to the actual time- I laid on that brown kidney shaped sofa in my underwear, face down and hoping no one would walk by the windows. I finally got up and stuck my head around the corner (still covering up my non existant privates) and said, "I'm sorry, Mommy, can I have my clothes back now?"

I'm sure now that that is why I rarely had new crayons at school. I often used a brown paper bag full of the broken bits of crayons from years past and envied those who came to school each year with the brand new box of 64 glorious points of colored wax. If I didnt ask for certain supplies,which I didnt, and she didnt remember to buy them, then I went without or made do.

I guess in the balance of things, it worked out alright. I learned to have an independance and a perseverance that I know my sister lacks even if it is based on my not wanting to face the humilliation of needing, wanting or lacking. I think if I had wanted the money for myself I would not have remembered the incident as vividly but having gone thru it for an act that at the time was selfless is what has always haunted me.

Case in point, I remember another fight the night before my birthday. I don't remember which birthday, but I remember standing over the trash can,with all my brightly colored gifts in side. In my mothers hands was the cake plate holding my birthday cake as she threatened to throw that away too. I dont remember what that fight was about, but I think on that occasion I must have been in the wrong. Way wrong. I don't remember the party, but I do know the presents were retrieved and the cake was never tossed.

Its funny, what we remember and what we forget.
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3/08/2004 08:51:00 PM



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