"OLD ROCKIN' CHAIR'S GOT ME....!"

One fine day soon, I will unwrap my new solar calculator and figure out the exact number of days I have been "on board" this globe-shaped "Wonderful World!" from my 1925's cradle to my newly-upholstered rockin' chair. A fair amount by anyone's counting!

The second thought that pops into mind, as I sit in my Office Depot ergonomic computer chair, is.."it's not about the days that are important, it's THOSE UNFORGETTABLE PEOPLE who have crawled into, strode or walked beside (or over! - like in "intimidated"), lovingly cajoled or praised, shared a hearty laugh (yes, this has happened) or a Kleenex at a grave site, who have made indelible impressions upon this Soul my big brother, Dutch, dubbed "Betts" in his censored letters from Germany during World War II at the time of the Battle of the Bulge.

Contrary to the above convoluted statement, it was I who "was conceived, birthed and crawled" into the lives and times of the Cranston Family when Dutch was all of ten years of age. Now, I have heard enough family stories to know that raising three rambunctious boys in those ten years was enough to "feel blessed" to have a baby girl arrive at 210 Birch in 1925. Girls are so much easier to raise, right? Not! Watching three brothers "tangle" (and I have pictures to prove that they did) only served as inspiration to become a "tomboy" of the first order (and I did!). It became a matter of survival at times to keep up with, or out of the way of, the other kids in the neighborhood. But,I digress...this is about Dutch.

Dutch was the brother who first noticed my ineptitude for dancing (this was before our acquaintance with two of the world-famous Seven Spies Sisters) and made it his business that I should learn how to do The Two Step or The Fox Trot on the worn linoleum floor of the family kitchen. My recollection today is that I was "tippy-toed" on Dutch's shoes, being twirled around at a dizzying pace to the Polka tunes of Lawrence Welk and His Orchestra, broadcasting directly from Yankton, South Dakota. Did I become an accomplished dancer because of my brother's endeavors? Noooo! But I did become his "slave" and learned to do a great job in ironing his white shirts on "date" nights! (An early example of my excellent "bartering" skills!)

Dutch was the one who noticed early on that I was a hopeless nail-biter and took action one Christmas morn to gift me with a beauty of a nail-care set from his meager earnings as a teenage wage-earner. His psychology worked!

Dutch was the brother who entered Military Service before Pearl Harbor Day in 1941, and it was he with whom I walked east on Third Street on his way to Fort Des Moines to begin his years of service. We parted company on Main Street when I headed for High School and my Sophomore year, proud and broken-hearted at the same time. Not known then, of course, but Dutch was bound for several battlefronts including the Battle of the Bulge with his Ambulance Maintenance Division, picking up several medals for heroism on his way back to 210 Birch.

In Atlantic during those early years, a loud, almost mournful sound that came from not a bell or a whistle but some other machination located near the center of town, alerted towns-people of the imminent danger of a tornado passing close by or to summon the volunteer firemen and others to fight a house fire or the Court House fire of 1932, for example. It was a sound like no other and, literally, stopped people in their tracks until telephone calls were made to City Hall to find out what was going on.

It was Summertime, 1931, school was out and there was much to do in our small town of 5,000 plus inhabitants. The Grant School was located just across the alley from my home, and we were encouraged to "stay out of trouble" by using all the great playground equipment available to us during Recess when school was in session...swings, teeter-totters, monkey bars, shooting baskets, jump ropes and then, there was the usual fishing and swimming in the murky waters of a nearby pond to the north of our neighborhood. To escape the heat of a humid and unbearable summer day, the boys would head for the pond for a day of playing Tarzan (no Jane's allowed), grabbing an extended branch of a nearby tree and dropping unceremoniously into the waters in the most dare-devilish ways. (I was fully occupied with dressing and undressing my Shirley Temple paper cut-outs and whipping all my little girl friends in serious games of Jax.)

Across the street from our house lived the Clanton Family: Mom and Dad and four (maybe five) young boys. Jimmy was my playmate and classmate in the Kindergarten year we had just finished. Our lives were intertwined from daybreak to dusk and he was often the "target" of my tomboyish ways. His unkempt blond hair, sometimes ragtag shirt and trousers, impish grin brings to mind "urchin" but only in the most adorable sense of the word. Buddies...as only six-year-old kids can be!

It was about 11:30 a.m. on another hot summer day when that most mournful of all sound hushed all household activity. Running up the alley at the edge of our property were three boys screaming loudly that "One of the Cranston boys had drowned!"  Not true, as Dutch, Perle and Kenny were seated at the kitchen table and Ben was due to come home with Dad for the noon meal.

Instead, it was little Jimmy Clanton who had perished. It was unbelievably true...

When I am rockin' away these days and contemplating some of the "whys" of all those yesterdays, the "target" of my childhood affection yet with that same "urchin" appeal, hair that still needs combing, face that is adorned with Grant School playground dirt and an impish grin, visits my thoughts and joins me in a make-believe game of Hide and Seek, Run Sheep Run, messing with fireflies that shouldn't be flying that low and I brush away a tear for my pure and lovely friend...little Jimmy Clanton.