cakes and Jell-O. Sometimes we had chicken on Sunday, a special treat. We had a
chicken coop in the side yard, next to the large vegetable garden Dad planted and
cultivated. I Googled the strike recently, and it lasted from April 7 toMay 20, 1947. It
felt longer, I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles it was months and months. At the
ripe old age of ten, I was allowed to walk to the Rogers Memorial Library, on the corner
ofMain Streetand Job’s Lane, and I would pass the strikers marching in front of the Post
Office. The Bell Telephone Company offices were located on the second floor, along
with the switchboards and the operators. I would see my Dad walking with a placard,
round and round on the sidewalk in front of the Post Office steps, marching with other
strikers. It was the first nationwide strike in telephone history. Finally, the strike was
over, collective bargaining was established, my Dad went back to work, and life became
routine.
But now it’s Christmas eve, and I’m not anticipating anything at all exciting. The
week leading up to Christmas we had all participated in the tree trimming, hanging the
stockings on the (fake) fireplace, and the windows had holly wreaths with red bows that
Mom and Dad had made in the past, the holly was now painted a glossy green, as the
wreaths were saved from year to year. A plate of cookies and a glass of milk were on the
lamp table, near the tree, so that Santa could have a bit of refreshment during his busy
night. I was pretty skeptical about this whole notion, but I kept silent so as not to ruin
things for my younger sister.
Christmas morning Pennie and I were allowed to get up early–six o‘clock, it was still
dark out–and race to the living room. There was the most beautiful, perfect bicycle I had
ever even dreamed of! Shiny silver, absolutely perfect. There was no tag or gift card
designating the recipient, and I imagined it was, by some dreadful irony, for my sister.
But Mom said it was for me!
I loved that bike. I rode it every nice day and some rainy ones, for two years, and in
two years, when I was too tall to ride it comfortably, I got a new full-size blue bicycle for
my birthday, and Pennie inherited my lovely silver bicycle. I hated to give it up. It was a
dream fulfilled.
Many years later, I mentioned to my Mom the magic of that Christmas present. She
now told me something I never, ever, guessed. It was not purchased at a store–
Lilywhite’s on Job’s Lane was the local toy and bicycle shop. Dad got it at “The Dump”
now known more politely as “The Landfill”. The man in the shed at the entrance to the
Dump would keep his eye out for something if you asked him to, and charge a small bit
for his trouble. Dad hid the bicycle in our basement, there was a locked storage room,
and he worked on it after we kids went to sleep. He sanded it, painted it, got new tires, a
new seat, a new wire basket for the handlebars, and repainted the logo on the frame. And
neither I nor any of my friends ever guessed it was anything but brand new–and we were
a critical crowd. My Dad was a perfectionist, he sometimes made us crazy with his quest
for perfection. He had the most perfect garden. Vegetables and flowers. The most
beautiful gladiolas, the reddest, most delicious tomatoes. The most bountiful harvest of
Swiss chard–a taste my sister and I grew to hate. Everything picture perfect. No weeds.
No bugs. Dad was vigilant. He wanted everything “just right”, just perfect. Even us. “Hi,
Dad–guess what? I got 98 on the Math test, the highest mark in the class!” His response:
