AUGUST 4, 2022 – (Cont.) If the police had been summoned to Matheny’s, it wouldn’t have been Jenny’s first run-in with cops. When Jenny was four, Mother had enrolled her in Mrs. Ward’s tap-dance academy in an old mansion a block south of the post office in downtown Anoka. The main thing Jenny learned in dance class, however, had nothing to do with . . . well, dance*. It was that unlike the other moms, our mom didn’t sit and watch the class or even arrive back in time for pick-up. On one occasion, Mother was especially late. Long after all the other moms had whisked their daughters away, Jenny remained at the exit, looking for Mother’s DeSoto. With the sun sliding toward the horizon, Jenny decided to take matters into her own hands—or rather, feet—and struck out for home nearly a mile away and on the other side of the Rum River.
After a few blocks (not necessarily in the right direction, but at least in a direction), a police car on patrol pulled up. The innocent-appearing kid was treated to an unusual ride home.
But I’ve digressed in time and place. Back to the Hershey bar shoplifted from Matheny’s . . .
. . . When Jenny arrived home with the stolen goodie, Mother asked how, without money, Jenny had acquired a nickel candy bar. If Jenny was a thief, at least she wasn’t yet a liar. Instead of freaking out about her six-year old daughter’s indiscretion, Mother calmly remarked that Jenny had wronged the kind Mr. Matheny, and that she, Jenny, would have to fess up to the nice man. Without further ado, Mother loaded Jenny into the car and drove to the corner store. Mother parked outside and waited while Jenny went in to apologize. Seeing Bill Matheny at the counter (Beryl, apparently, was stocking shelves), Jenny slapped down the candy bar and said matter-of-factly, “I took this without paying for it.”
The kindly proprietor took the confession in stride and returned the candy bar to the rack.
But as it turned out, Jenny was just testing the waters . . .
. . . A year or so passed when the Fenwick’s moved in two doors down. Father Fenwick was our new Episcopal rector, and he and his wife had three kids—Bob, who was a year ahead of my oldest sister and a star high school scholar and athlete; and two younger kids, John, who was Jenny’s age, and Elizabeth, a year or two younger. Elizabeth was a likable and well-adjusted kid, but John? Let’s say he, like Jenny, had a nose for “non-conformity.”
One hot, lazy, summer day John and Jenny—seven-year-olds—strolled down our quiet, leafy street. To counter boredom, they decided to pick stones off the pavement and take pot shots at the street lamps.
Taking a half-step further back in time . . . These were no ordinary street lamps. They were special, decorative lights with especially large, glass globes—the edifying result of a neighborhood beautification campaign led by Fred Moore, our neighbor across the street. He was a pillar of the community; a successful businessman and dedicated member of the school board. Fred and his wife were socially well-connected and respected by everyone. He enjoyed frequent curbside conversations with our dad and especially on hot, summer evenings, Moore’s would invite our parents, Jenny, and me (our older sisters stayed behind, feverishly practicing their violins) over for pie and ice cream inside their spacious, well-appointed—and most impressive—centrally air-conditioned home. Fred was always funny and friendly toward Jenny and me, and included us young kids in easy talk that mimicked the lazy waters of the Mississippi flowing by Moore’s expansive, downward sloping backyard . . . (Cont.).
*One thing she thought she learned was the standard move, “shift-ball-change,” except, she later told me, she heard it as, “shift-ball-chain.”
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
