The Prompt: Open the first photo album you can find — real or virtual, your call — and stop at the first picture of yourself you see there. Tell us the story of that photo. (Note: Although I’ve posted this picture on my blog before, this was the first photo in my album, and since I’ve never told the story, I’ll do so now.)
Hair Washing Day
The phone was on a party line.
The leg, the robe, the hair was mine.
The chair was from our dining table.
I’d called as soon as I was able
with all the news that had occurred
since last we shared a private word.
Though my friend lived just two houses away,
my mom had had to break our play
so she could wash my dirty hair.
Take 15 minutes (how did she dare)
from “Cops and Robbers” or playing store?
Washing hair was such a bore.
First to take my clothing off,
barrettes and rubber bands to doff,
a chenille robe to cover all
my nakedness, and then the crawl
up on the chair to lie upon
the kitchen counter. My efforts done,
it was my mother’s turn to work—
to wash my hair without a jerk
or pull to create whines and tears,
avoiding water in the ears
and soap in eyes and water squirts
on ceiling, counters, shoes or shirts
of family who might gather there
to watch my mother wash my hair.
Then, trials done, my friend to phone
for all this time I’d been alone.
Without her fine complicity,
life had too much simplicity.
No imaginings or plots.
No hide-and-seek on empty lots.
No bike rides up to Mowell’s drug.
No comics on the bedroom rug.
No love letters to steal and read
from older sisters—that evil deed
we both adored and did most often.
No trumpet vine pods to peel and soften
in the sink to make our boats
for potential rainy season floats
down ditches swollen with summer rains
No paper dolls or paper chains.
I’d been away from my friend Lynn
for fifteen minutes! It was a sin.
So I’d called to say I’d be right over
to search with her for four-leaf-clover.
And tell her all I had to tell
since mother rang the “come home” bell.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
What a busy, lovely childhood you had with your friend!
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She moved there when I was three. I woke up from my nap to find her sitting at my dining room table coloring my favorite picture in my coloring book that I’d been saving for last! Her mom was in the living room talking to my mom.
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And that is what we mean by “mixed blessings.” I always saved the head and shoulders drawing of the young girl, then carefully outlined all the features before I shaded in the colors. Somehow it doesn’t sound as appealing as it did back then. This poem brought back lots of childhood memories. Jim loved it, too.
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Do you remember this scene? Did she wash your hair in the kitchen sink–with you lying on the counter when you were small, then later standing on a chair bent over the sink? I vividly remember this robe. I believe you had a blue one with a different image on it…perhaps a flower.
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This is sweet as it can be, with images clear and nostalgic. I related to it, remembering what a drag it used to be to get clean. My Lord, it took way too much time away from the good stuff: the bike rides, the trumpet vine pods, bike rides and comic books–love letters of older sister’s! I never had the latter pleasure. Your rhyme is natural, too. Your mom comes across as firm but loving.
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I remember party line in the 50’s! I used to sneak and pick up the phone every so often to see if someone else was talking on it and I could eavesdrop! 😉
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I once came home from school and there was no one home but me. Then I started hearing this voice. It was calling, “Judy…Judy!” I got so scared I ran out of the house and down the block to my friend’s house and told her mom I thought there were angels talking to me. She came back to my house with me and went in and then she heard the voice as well. We followed it into the kitchen. I was so scared–and found the phone off the hook and Pat Thune (who was on our party line) calling out, trying to get me to hang up the phone! So much for early childhood mystical experiences.
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