Chenille? Under the Bed? Why?

I've always been a watcher. A hider. And a listener. The vantage point for my observations has always been an important consideration. As a child, I liked nothing better (except for making mud pies, or course!) than stealthily creeping under a table or the knee-hole of a desk to curl up and wait, cat-like, for something of interest to happen. If nothing of note occurred, I would often use a piece of ever-at-hand chalk to write or draw something on the wooden undersides of the furniture, leaving my mark, perhaps claiming my territory, warning all sibling interlopers that this spot was taken! I still can see the varied blends of color and the grain of the different woods, smell the slightly musty odor, and remember blinking away the powdery chalk dust that sprinkled my face as I scribbled. Mahogany was my favorite wood, as it was dark, and most closely resembled a real chalkboard.

I would lie there rolled up on the carpet, listening to countless conversations my mother had with the neighbors, my grandparents, her bridge buddies. I'd take in the odors of cigarette smoke, perfume, coffee, or beer, savoring the thrill of adult talk and absorbing the rhythms of 1950's suburban mothers' lives. Whose kids had what playground injuries or childhood illnesses. Whose families kept increasing their flock (always the Catholics!). Whose husbands were way too interested in their sweet young secretaries. Who got much too drunk at the last block party, causing his wife to flee with the children and head for her mother's house. What new recipes were a hit with the families. When was the next grand opening of a new supermarket going to be, and would there be a big carnival to celebrate its arrival in the community. Didn't the new Fuller Brush man seem a bit odd. How were carpools working out for everyone, as most families had only one car, and dad claimed it, in order to go to work. Would the new school be finished in time for the kids to be able to walk to it by September. Summer was coming, let's hope that polio doesn't revisit the neighborhood like it did last year, leaving Steven Beecher limping with crutches and leg braces. Oh! The quarantines! And why couldn't the kids stay out of the mud, the dirt, and the gutters. It was heady stuff!

But most thrilling of all was when I would hear my mother call out, "Great Grampa's coming! Everybody hide!" Every now and then, my great grandfather, Henry P. Jones, would take it into his head to pay us a visit. He tooled around in a long slope-backed black Cadillac, which stood out from all the other cars on our streets. His car pulling into our driveway always caused quite a stir.

Now we didn't ever see much of H.P. Jones, which was probably a good thing. He was legendary in the family for a number of nefarious acts. A very dashing young traveling salesman, he first seduced the lovely Elizabeth (Bess) Noble Richards, daughter of the noble Colonel Melzar C. Richards, well-respected professor of military history at West Point. Then, finding themselves in the family way, H.P. and Elizabeth eloped to New York City. When at last (but much too soon for polite society), the baby arrived, the still-chloroformed Bess was unawares as H.P. slipped the newborn into a shoe box and slithered away. So the story was told, but it must have been either a very large shoe box, or a very small baby! At any rate he left the child on stranger's doorstep. Not a particularly auspicious start for the newlyweds. (A number of years later, Baby Esther was reunited with her parents and three subsequent siblings, but details of that reunion are a missing link in the family saga, at least for me).

Somehow, Bess and Henry stayed together, because that's what you did back then, and she must have loved him. He would disappear for great periods of time, which, I suppose was not all that unusual for a traveling salesman. Bess stayed home and raised Connie, my grandmother, and her sister Betty and brother Bud (also a Melzar, but who'd want to be called that!). Among the less than stellar deeds committed by H.P. on- and off- the- road were the following:

1. He apparently took great delight in swinging cats around in the air by their tails, flinging them with great force and gusto at fences and walls.
2. He once returned home from a sales trip, bringing a beautifully wrapped box of candy to the long-suffering Bess, who, upon opening her gift, found not a single piece of chocolate, but instead, a live and hissing snake.
3. He was reportedly run out of Denver, Colorado for--how do I put this delicately-- trying to date a horse!

Great Grama Bess, H.P., their daughter Betty

And as if all this were not enough to send us children scurrying for cover at the mention of his name, H.P. Jones, tall, gaunt, a mortician-like looking fellow if ever there was one, also had a huge goiter on his neck, that bobbed alarmingly as he spoke. This was a man whose mere presence was to be dreaded!

Back, at last, to the central point of this rambling post: my hiding space. During this particular Great-Grampa alert, I discovered the best and most favorite hiding place of all. One to which I would return many times, for many reasons, and from this hidden listening post I would glean much interesting information. I swiftly and unerringly slid under my twin bed, flattened myself among dust bunnies, dirty socks, and paper doll scraps, and lay there panting, waiting for my great-grandfather's heavy-handed knock on the front door. Needless to say, my mother was never in any hurry to answer the door. Nor was H.P. Jones anxious to leave without paying his visit. Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock. Eventually, the knocking wore my mother down. My brother Jerry was not as accomplished a hider as my sister Bev or I, and he would squeal and run around the house, giving lie to the notion that no one was home.

All the while, I would remain still under the bed, which was covered, as was my sister's bed, with a fringed chenille bedspread that carried the easily recognizable hue of Campbell's Tomato Soup. During the seemingly endless session of Great-Grampa's knocking and Jerry's squealing, there was really not much to do other than just lie there, blowing the dust bunnies around until they would get caught up in the tomato soup fringe of my bedspread, creating a completely fascinating curtain for me to peer through as I'd re-live the grotesquely compelling stories of my great-grandfather's lore.

Finally, my mother would open the door, and the sound of H.P.'s footfall resonated up the hallway. It seemed as if the floor shook beneath me, further scrambling dust bunnies, motes, and fringe before me. Spreading the fringed curtain apart with my fingers, I felt like I was in my own tiny theater, whose stage, my room and hallway, was bathed in a glow of tomato soup red haze. Dust motes floated like minuscule stage lights in rays of bright Southern California sunshine that angled against my floor. I had to strain to see the action that was taking place between my mother and her grandfather in the kitchen. Hindsight tells me now that there is no way that I could have actually seen the kitchen from my under-the-bed-hide-away. In fact, I couldn't really hear all that much either, just two slightly muffled voices down the hall. But I kept listening. I kept watching, scooting around as much as I could to seek a better spying spot while remaining hidden.

We were, after some time, called out of our hiding places, to come out and say hello to Great-Grandpa. After he left, my mother noted with some disgust, "That old fool ate a dozen of my eggs and a whole pound of bacon!" This did, I'm sure, put a large dent in the family larder. Aside from recalling both the repulsion and fascination caused by this old man's goiter, I remember virtually nothing about this cross-generational exchange. But to this day, more than sixty years later, whenever I find myself listening, watching, waiting for something of note to happen, I still see the world around me in the fringed and dusty haze from under my bed. I am Chenille.