| Biographical Non-Fiction posted October 6, 2020 |
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A memory of a visit to Dover with my father
Giant Steps
by Mary Furlong
I remember going to Dover with my Dad the summer that I was six. We were spending two weeks with my maternal grandmother and my aunt, in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It was our last visit before the war with Germany put a stop to such vacations.
The rest of the family were going to the movies, but when I heard the name Dover, I decided to go with Daddy instead. I had a wonderful vision of Dover in my imagination, for my mother used to sing a song about it: "Through the fields of clover, we will ride to Dover on our Golden wedding day." I had no idea what a golden wedding day was. I had never even been to an ordinary wedding day. But a scene of green clover -- fields and fields of it -- enchanted me. Besides, I'd get to be alone with Daddy -- a treat in itself.
The image in my mind had to give way to reality as we drove along. What I saw was not clover, but farm after farm -- ordinary family farms with dilapidated barns that hadn't seen red paint in years. It was late afternoon when we arrived at the cousins' place -- another farm with its own dilapidated barn. But within minutes, it proved to be heaven.
"Let Connie show you around," Dad's cousin said. "Let her show you the tricks she can do on that old swing. She's the smartest girl around, my Connie."
Connie was just about my age, a friendly little girl, who could, indeed, do fancy maneuvers on a rubber tire swing. What amazed me, though, was not Connie's ability, but the proud way her father bragged about her. No one had ever talked about me that way -- not in my hearing anyway. I knew my parents were proud of me, but they would never encourage me to show off that way.
There were other kids besides Connie. I can't remember just how many. I can't even remember what we had for supper -- just that it was a very pleasant time, with people saying nice things to and about each other. And people smiling at me, but not insisting that I talk, not asking me questions about school or what I wanted to be when I grew up.
After supper, the grown-ups sat in the parlor. That's what they called it -- the parlor. Not the living room as we did at home. We kids played in the long center hall that ran from the front of the house to the kitchen in the back. We played "Giant Steps." I had never played that game before, and right away, I took a giant step without saying, "May I?"
"You're out," said one of the young cousins. But someone -- Dad's cousin's wife or her sister -- intervened. "You have to teach her the rules," she said gently. "You have to give her a chance."
And so they did. Although, the game got a bit noisy as time went, no one told us to be quiet. One time, that same lady walked through the hall to the kitchen, but even then, she didn't say anything. Just smiled and went on through.
Once, I looked through the archway into the parlor, where the adults were. Daddy was seated on the edge of his chair, leaning forward in his eagerness to explain something or other. He gestured with his hands and laughed, so he must have been telling them something funny. I wondered if he was talking about our two-day journey from home, or maybe imitating my Grandmother and Aunt's funny New Hampshire way of talking. He was always teasing them about it. "Put the tomahtoes in the bahsket," he'd say. "We cahn't be late for the picnic." Or he'd say, "That's a fine idear," just the way they did.
I wished I could hear what he was saying now. He looked so different here with his cousins (who, come to think about it, talked funny themselves). He looked happy, but that wasn't it. He always seemed happy to me. He was always having fun -- making jokes, teasing people. But now, poised on the edge of that chair, he looked ... young. What an idea! My father was young!
I took more than one giant step that day. I'd been with people who were, not just loving, but content with one another, content with their lives. They offered me an ideal of uncritical acceptance and affection that I've clung to all my life.
But better than that, I learned that my father was not just my Daddy, but a real person, separate from me, with thoughts and dreams of his own.
He was young!
I Remember writing prompt entry
I remember going to Dover with my Dad the summer that I was six. We were spending two weeks with my maternal grandmother and my aunt, in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It was our last visit before the war with Germany put a stop to such vacations.
The rest of the family were going to the movies, but when I heard the name Dover, I decided to go with Daddy instead. I had a wonderful vision of Dover in my imagination, for my mother used to sing a song about it: "Through the fields of clover, we will ride to Dover on our Golden wedding day." I had no idea what a golden wedding day was. I had never even been to an ordinary wedding day. But a scene of green clover -- fields and fields of it -- enchanted me. Besides, I'd get to be alone with Daddy -- a treat in itself.
The image in my mind had to give way to reality as we drove along. What I saw was not clover, but farm after farm -- ordinary family farms with dilapidated barns that hadn't seen red paint in years. It was late afternoon when we arrived at the cousins' place -- another farm with its own dilapidated barn. But within minutes, it proved to be heaven.
"Let Connie show you around," Dad's cousin said. "Let her show you the tricks she can do on that old swing. She's the smartest girl around, my Connie."
Connie was just about my age, a friendly little girl, who could, indeed, do fancy maneuvers on a rubber tire swing. What amazed me, though, was not Connie's ability, but the proud way her father bragged about her. No one had ever talked about me that way -- not in my hearing anyway. I knew my parents were proud of me, but they would never encourage me to show off that way.
There were other kids besides Connie. I can't remember just how many. I can't even remember what we had for supper -- just that it was a very pleasant time, with people saying nice things to and about each other. And people smiling at me, but not insisting that I talk, not asking me questions about school or what I wanted to be when I grew up.
After supper, the grown-ups sat in the parlor. That's what they called it -- the parlor. Not the living room as we did at home. We kids played in the long center hall that ran from the front of the house to the kitchen in the back. We played "Giant Steps." I had never played that game before, and right away, I took a giant step without saying, "May I?"
"You're out," said one of the young cousins. But someone -- Dad's cousin's wife or her sister -- intervened. "You have to teach her the rules," she said gently. "You have to give her a chance."
And so they did. Although, the game got a bit noisy as time went, no one told us to be quiet. One time, that same lady walked through the hall to the kitchen, but even then, she didn't say anything. Just smiled and went on through.
Once, I looked through the archway into the parlor, where the adults were. Daddy was seated on the edge of his chair, leaning forward in his eagerness to explain something or other. He gestured with his hands and laughed, so he must have been telling them something funny. I wondered if he was talking about our two-day journey from home, or maybe imitating my Grandmother and Aunt's funny New Hampshire way of talking. He was always teasing them about it. "Put the tomahtoes in the bahsket," he'd say. "We cahn't be late for the picnic." Or he'd say, "That's a fine idear," just the way they did.
I wished I could hear what he was saying now. He looked so different here with his cousins (who, come to think about it, talked funny themselves). He looked happy, but that wasn't it. He always seemed happy to me. He was always having fun -- making jokes, teasing people. But now, poised on the edge of that chair, he looked ... young. What an idea! My father was young!
I took more than one giant step that day. I'd been with people who were, not just loving, but content with one another, content with their lives. They offered me an ideal of uncritical acceptance and affection that I've clung to all my life.
But better than that, I learned that my father was not just my Daddy, but a real person, separate from me, with thoughts and dreams of his own.
He was young!
The rest of the family were going to the movies, but when I heard the name Dover, I decided to go with Daddy instead. I had a wonderful vision of Dover in my imagination, for my mother used to sing a song about it: "Through the fields of clover, we will ride to Dover on our Golden wedding day." I had no idea what a golden wedding day was. I had never even been to an ordinary wedding day. But a scene of green clover -- fields and fields of it -- enchanted me. Besides, I'd get to be alone with Daddy -- a treat in itself.
The image in my mind had to give way to reality as we drove along. What I saw was not clover, but farm after farm -- ordinary family farms with dilapidated barns that hadn't seen red paint in years. It was late afternoon when we arrived at the cousins' place -- another farm with its own dilapidated barn. But within minutes, it proved to be heaven.
"Let Connie show you around," Dad's cousin said. "Let her show you the tricks she can do on that old swing. She's the smartest girl around, my Connie."
Connie was just about my age, a friendly little girl, who could, indeed, do fancy maneuvers on a rubber tire swing. What amazed me, though, was not Connie's ability, but the proud way her father bragged about her. No one had ever talked about me that way -- not in my hearing anyway. I knew my parents were proud of me, but they would never encourage me to show off that way.
There were other kids besides Connie. I can't remember just how many. I can't even remember what we had for supper -- just that it was a very pleasant time, with people saying nice things to and about each other. And people smiling at me, but not insisting that I talk, not asking me questions about school or what I wanted to be when I grew up.
After supper, the grown-ups sat in the parlor. That's what they called it -- the parlor. Not the living room as we did at home. We kids played in the long center hall that ran from the front of the house to the kitchen in the back. We played "Giant Steps." I had never played that game before, and right away, I took a giant step without saying, "May I?"
"You're out," said one of the young cousins. But someone -- Dad's cousin's wife or her sister -- intervened. "You have to teach her the rules," she said gently. "You have to give her a chance."
And so they did. Although, the game got a bit noisy as time went, no one told us to be quiet. One time, that same lady walked through the hall to the kitchen, but even then, she didn't say anything. Just smiled and went on through.
Once, I looked through the archway into the parlor, where the adults were. Daddy was seated on the edge of his chair, leaning forward in his eagerness to explain something or other. He gestured with his hands and laughed, so he must have been telling them something funny. I wondered if he was talking about our two-day journey from home, or maybe imitating my Grandmother and Aunt's funny New Hampshire way of talking. He was always teasing them about it. "Put the tomahtoes in the bahsket," he'd say. "We cahn't be late for the picnic." Or he'd say, "That's a fine idear," just the way they did.
I wished I could hear what he was saying now. He looked so different here with his cousins (who, come to think about it, talked funny themselves). He looked happy, but that wasn't it. He always seemed happy to me. He was always having fun -- making jokes, teasing people. But now, poised on the edge of that chair, he looked ... young. What an idea! My father was young!
I took more than one giant step that day. I'd been with people who were, not just loving, but content with one another, content with their lives. They offered me an ideal of uncritical acceptance and affection that I've clung to all my life.
But better than that, I learned that my father was not just my Daddy, but a real person, separate from me, with thoughts and dreams of his own.
He was young!
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Writing Prompt Begin your non-fiction autobiographical story or poem with the words 'I remember...' Complete the sentence conveying a moment, an object, a feeling, etc. This does not have to be a profound memory, but should allow readers insight into your feelings, observations and/or thoughts. Use at least 100, but not more than 1,000 words. The count should be stated in your author notes. |
My mother grew up in New Hampshire, in a duplex whose other half was the home of my father's aunt and uncle. My dad was from Ohio. They met when he visited his relatives next door. I was always confused as to whose relatives were whose. The memory I describe here is at the home of one of his cousins, who was also good friends with my mother. word count: 780
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