Sometime between the end of my 2nd grade year in Springfield, Oregon and the start of 3rd grade in St. Louis, we moved to Cortez, Colorado, as it turned out only for the Summer. And, while I have no direct knowledge that my mother confronted my dad about the frequent moving from town to town, school to school, and the effects on my sister and me, I believe she did "...put her foot down..." because shortly after arriving in Cortez he emphatically announced, in effect, "This is it! We are staying here in Cortez!"
I had heard that before, multiple times, but this pronouncement seemed more credible because we actually bought new living room furniture…not used, not thrift-store, new. Not only did we buy furniture, but we bought it on credit...time payments... an event I had never witnessed prior, and as it occurred, never would experience again, until my wife and I bought new living room furniture from White Front after we were married. Immediate gratification, as indicated by the use of revolving-credit was up near the top of the sin-list in my family, a list where drinking, tobacco use, dancing, going to a movie, or going to a roller-rink occupied the top spots…of course extra-marital sex was on its own list.
Upon arriving in Cortez, we rented a small house on the southwest outskirts of Cortez where the properties were just becoming farmland, and the paved city street became a gravel county road. Not too far from town, yet not at the center of commerce, our house was situated comfortably back from the road, on what seemed like a lot of property to me at the time. Cortez was, and is, an enterprise at the cross-roads...a nowhere on the way to the Somewhere’s of the Southwest, including Mesa Verde National Monument, where the old cliff dwellings are so numerous. The other highway, north and south, leads up to Moab and The Arches, or down to the Four Corners area where Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico meet in a tidy, 90 degree fashion. In other words, Cortez was a good place to visit...which is what occurred.
I was allowed to range pretty freely in Cortez even at this early age, provided I got permission, stated where I would be, what routes I would take, and when I would be back. I of course received the usual advice to not go with strangers, and don't do anything "wrong"...such as stealing from a store (which I had some history of doing) and not taking someone else's item simply because it was in the street and not in a yard (something I also had prior history with). As an environment, Cortez was probably considered pretty safe by my parents; it was after all a "Western" town (as opposed to Eastern or Midwestern) and so its virtues were more guaranteed. The world, as run by Easterners -- in particular "New Yorkers" -- was highly suspect in my family. Point being, as long as I obeyed the reporting-rules, I pretty much had the run of Cortez.
It should be noted that by the time of our arrival in Cortez I had direct experience and memories of multiple household moves, and numerous cities of residence to my account; St. Louis, Post Falls, Kendrick, Tucson, Lewiston, Thurston, Springfield, and maybe other more temporary and forgotten cities, were all fresh in my "rear-view mirror." I was a "man of the world" not tied to any community by any baggage or durable relationships such as those burdening the town kids. And, it should be further noted that I did not at the time view frequent moving as a problem...it was just the way it was and probably the way it should be.
So with regard to personal freedom, on a particular day, having received permission and endured the usual exchange of facts and promises, I set out for "down town" Cortez, though down town, when applied to Cortez, was a bit optimistic. But, at this particular time, on this particular day there was some sort of festival going on...I forget what...it may have even been "4th of July" week...but the point is the town was, relatively speaking, bustling with activity to use a cliche. As I remember, there was either a carnival or small circus in town, as well as, street vendors, and local Indians...Utes I believe, wearing their best Western cut clothing, turquoise gemstone jewelry, and packed into their new, usually sky blue, pickup trucks, which was impressive to me, probably because my family had never owned a new vehicle.
I spent much of that day just wandering from one noisy pocket of activity to another, staying until I lost interest in whatever had initially appealed to me then moving on. In my family, as I mentioned before, there were activities you just didn't do; that is, they were understood to be unconditionally out of bounds...the "sin-list" or at least the top few mortal sins on that list, loomed large on my mind as I searched out potential places to spend my time. You (meaning I) did not: Go to a movie of any sort in a theater, or to a carnival or circus, or to a dance, or to a roller-skating rink, or play pin-ball because it should be obvious that something which was fun was more than likely sinful. Among my looming fears as a child was to be found doing something on that list when Jesus returned. It was a real fear to me until I was about 11. I spent my time that day avoiding the aforementioned satanic activities, though I may have considered some of the Carnival activities from a distance too close to be considered complete avoidance. And, sometimes one is saved from temptation simply because he doesn’t have a dime.
And, then...I heard someone hawking some sort of gadget or household product...I've long forgotten what...in that quick, compelling staccato which leaves the "rube" with no time for consideration and compels the strong belief that life without the product will just be unpleasant existence, not life, before dragging his attention, need, and imagination on to the next reason why he should...NO, why he MUST buy, or at least consider buying. I wandered toward that noise, and the group standing in a semi-circle facing an over sized vehicle with some sort of awning down the side. The high-energy voice was that of a swarthy, compelling young man talking rapidly but earnestly, holding his product up for all to see, and talking eye-to-eye with each individual in his audience as he easily demonstrated the virtues of his product right in front of their eyes...no tricks, no slight-of-hand, just "real time" (as we might say now) operation which any fool, with vision and even one "good" arm could do. On and around the vehicle were kids, kids who belonged there, my age and younger. Looking on but not involved with the crowd, were young women, maybe older sisters or mothers talking with each other and watching the kids, but entirely unconcerned and disconnected from the crowd of "townies." I know now that they were ‘gypsies.’ A label which at the time carried a whole complicated meaning in the adult world. The label was usually accompanied with a “look” which seem to carry additional meaning.
One young boy about my age, part of the hawker’s group, and I engaged in that easy way that kids sometimes have...no introduction, just eye-contact, no awkwardness, and a joining in to whatever activity is going on, followed by seamless inclusion in even the larger activity. In playing with him I found that this was all they did...this was their life...going from town to town during festive weeks, playing while their dads sold product or did other things, which he called "work" but which did not seem like work to me, and moving on when the festival week ended, but moving on to another celebration a short distance away...what could be more ideal? This was how life was supposed to be...wall-to-wall people, adults and kids living and traveling together from one festival or celebration to the next, no school ever, and no church three times a week forcing you to clean up and dress up.
I was hooked...I asked the kid if I could go with them. He, of course, said it was OK with him but he'd have to ask his dad...so we waited around for the product presentation to end, the sales of yet another needless gadget to be completed, and his father to refresh himself...then we asked him the question. He smiled largely, I understood later, perhaps much later, that it was probably just a big joke to him, but he asked me why I wanted to go? I told him I liked traveling, and I liked having other kids to play with. He asked me what I could do to help? Uh-oh! Now we were on thin-ice because truth be told I had no apparent skills by this time, and probably would have had only a few more at any later time...but, I told him I could clean up after meals, and wash and dry dishes. He smiled largely and said of course I could go with them, again with that wide, smile...his white-teeth probably brighter relative to his brown skin.
I wasted no time...but literally ran as fast as I could, the mile or less to my house. My mother was there when I burst through the door...she, concerned that someone might be chasing me. I said, no but I was in a hurry because I had met a family with a lot of kids and they said I could go with them...they were waiting for me to get back before they left!
I was entirely surprised, shocked, disoriented, confused by her reaction...and I'm not sure even now I can describe the expressions fleeting across her face. I'll start by saying she was obviously hurt, saddened, wounded by the casual lack of regard I held for my family ties (understand that this is a conclusion I came to later). Followed immediately by remorse or guilt, as she understood that somehow our family had not hooked my alliances...and that I held strangers in as high of regard as I held them, my family...and, then anger, as she dropped the axe on my idea, voice raised, as close to yelling as I ever heard from her, "YOU ARE NOT LEAVING THIS HOUSE! You don't EVER go anywhere with strangers! You know NOTHING about them!" Then tears...I hated it when I caused my Mom to cry!
I was crushed by her tears, and surprised at her sudden, and uncharacteristic irrationality! Not only was I disappointed for me, and that my great adventure was quashed, but I was concerned for that family who I imagined was standing by their vehicle waiting for me, maybe looking repeatedly at their watches and wondering why I hadn't shown up. In any case, as chance would have it, I didn't get to leave with the Gypsies, or at least not those particular "Gypsies" on that particular day...but, redemption was not too far off. I remember that there were awkward silences after that, and there were times when I would turn and catch my Mom silently studying me. Soon after that, at least soon in "kid time" my dad announced that we were leaving Cortez for St. Louis immediately
He had called his family in St. Louis, using long-distance...a sign of very serious adult goings on...and learned that his brother Charles' condition was worse, and the outlook was grim. In vague terms, I knew that Charles had been born with what we now call Type I diabetes. Back then it was just called "sugar diabetes" another one of those adult explanations which made no sense because I ate sugar, and sugary things every chance I got and had not caught any sugar-diabetes, so obviously someone was holding out part of the information. But, in fact we needed to be with the family as they weathered this latest storm. One of my parents called the store where the "ugly blond" furniture had been only recently purchased, and delivered, and told them to pick it up, even though we would lose the down-payment...the house would be open for pickup, and we would be making no payments. I know this because I remember the adults “discussing” the implications of just leaving the furniture in an unlocked house.
In less than 48 hours, we had packed our personal belongings into a vehicle, and perhaps a utility trailer unsold and left-over from the prior move, and we were long gone...headed East across Colorado, followed by the long, straight boring stretches of the plains. In those days, "belongings" were personal items...clothing, pictures, a few "legal" documents (marriage licenses and birth certificates), sentimental keepsakes, my dad's painting tools and his rusty animal traps stored in a jute gunny-sack (which would again be used when we moved to Coos Bay), but little more. No appliances, furniture, yard-furniture or yard tools, or the like because we didn't own that kind of non-essentials. And, even some "personal" but non-essential items had a way of being culled before each departure, and sold (or more often "resold") to a thrift-store, referred to then as "2nd hand stores" in order to make room for the essentials. However, as always, the non-essential, plaster-of-paris plaque, stating uniquivocably "Jesus! The Unseen Guest at Every Meal" made the cut again, as it always would, even though it was clearly less essential than many of the items left behind. I know now that this plaque was my mother’s symbol that she was home. When that plaque slipped onto its nail in the wall above the kitchen table, we had a home.
So I left Cortez soon after with my own clan of “gypsies” as we departed for St. Louis, where my family would briefly prosper during my Mom and Dad’s steady employment, and where Charles, the baby-brother of my dad’s family, would succumb to his disease at Barnes Hospital. When things returned to normal...normal being the unstable state of moving multiple times a year, my mother finally stopped studying me as though trying to figure out how I would hurt her next; apparently my previous disloyalty and betrayal had been forgiven, if not forgotten.
Years later, when I was about 12-years old, selling papers on the merchant ships moored and taking on logs or lumber at the Central Docks in Coos Bay, Oregon, I would have occasion to remember my mother's reaction to my intended trip with the Gypsies in Cortez, when, from the docks I called home, with a nickel borrowed from my paper-sales proceeds,. The call was a courtesy to let her know I would need to be picked up at the Pilot's Dock in Charleston Harbor because I had been invited to ride on the bridge of a Japanese freighter from Central Dock, around the bay through and under the North Bend bridge supporting U.S. 101, and out over the Bar, where I would get off with the Pilot and ride back from the bar to his dock. My statement was, as I remember, met with stunned silence...at first, but then by another emotional tirade.
I must admit that I was again, shocked and disappointed by my mother’s irrational response; clearly she didn’t understand that she was depriving me of a once in a lifetime adventure. I again gave in to her irrational demands in order to have peace between us. I grudgingly found the Pilot and informed him that my mother wouldn’t let me go. It’s been a long time ago now, but I distinctly remember his knowing smile, his entire lack of surprise when I told him I couldn’t go, and I remember thinking this is probably why the gypsy father was smiling, almost laughing.
As I aged, my mother and I became closer friends, even confidantes. She never abandoned her role as a parent, but some sort of understanding passed between us…but, never enough that we discussed my desire to leave with the gypsies…I learned that there are some events, which when known by both parties involved, are just better left to history and silence.
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