Author: Richard Kimball

 The announcement was casually made in front of our living room mirror as Mom stroked my two-year-old hair, “We are going to get this cut.” The shock was instant. I was going to be “cut.” Cutting hurt and I had no reason to believe cutting my hair would be any less painful than cutting off fingers or toes.

 My protests, apparently laughable, were ignored, and I was unjustly packed into the family’s Packard and off we went.

 Entering the shop there he stood, as sinister a sight as any little boy had ever seen. He just stood motionless looking down at me. Recognizing my fear, that grim-faced, slick-haired, spectacled little man with the tiny mustache and stiff white shirt grimaced and looked up at my mom. I was doomed.

 My terror was splayed open for all to see as I took in the various fluid-filled jars containing combs and cutting devices, along with assorted objects plugged into electrical sockets behind him. And the chair, OH GOD that chair, what was it?  Huge with various handles and levers and a long leather strap swaying at its side. I lost it!

 Dismissing a child’s fears as simple childishness is so convenient to an adult who has long forgotten the traumas of their own first-time childhood horrors: the time you first got the needle at the doctor’s office, wobbled and crashed that first two-wheeler attempt, the dark that came at night, when you first rode The Hammer at the State Fair, or just the creaking noises in the closet when all were asleep. . . and a hundred other childhood traumas. 

 Most adults could easily revisit those fears by trying a bungee jump or first sky dive, taking a quick dip into a frozen lake or maybe a bit of harmless water boarding – all would likely do the trick and give a taste of what we have forgotten about first-time events. And you will never have so many first-time events as you did as a child.

 Anyway, I stood in front of the barber butcher, and he was going to cut me. For some incomprehensible reason the person I trusted most in life, picked up a box, placed it on the torture device and stuck me to it – then let the butcher have his way with his sharp pointy objects.  My fear was intense and real.  My mother, like all mothers, knew such fears absurd, but mine also had the presence of mind to see an opportunity for posterity and documented the event.

Richard Kimball

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  I was sitting in my highchair looking out the window at my dad’s Packard when she set a bowl of soup in front of me. It had to have been the Campbell’s kind. I could see the bits of drowned vegetables and occasionally flaking cubes of chicken, but what caught my eye was the teensy weensy, perfectly round, shiny bits of oil that floated on the top.    I wanted to know what they were but was not yet far enough along in life to manage an inquiry. I was still having enough trouble managing a capture with my spoon.

  She stood behind me that morning, all round and dressed in white, but black. Her name was Essie, our maid and cook. My mother did not have her help often and I do not remember much about her other than the chicken she fried, great chicken my older brothers later assured me. Chicken that our mother, the German antithesis to fine dining, could never duplicate.

  A year or so later, I visited Essie’s house. She lived in a home very unlike our own.  My mother was bringing her some Christmas gifts, and I happened to be in the back seat. 

 We lived in a big house. I didn’t know it. We lived in the nicest neighborhood.  I did not know it.  As we turned onto Essie’s street the houses became tightly jammed, any half-dozen of which could have easily fit into our front yard.  As best I can recall, there were no driveways, and the yards were all barren dirt with a few broken toys, flat balls and scraps of various objects scattered about. Inside, where doors would be, there were hanging sheets and there was one stuffed tattered chair. The walls were unpainted with one wall having a large chunk of missing plaster which commanded my attention because I could not imagine the purpose of the wooden slats that were now exposed underneath. 

 Above all, I remember that Essie had a family; this was a very big surprise. It never occurred to me that she would be a wife, have children, a home, a life.  Essie was just our maid.

  I did not feel sorry, have any sense of pity, I was not old enough to know such things.  I only recall being confused, wanting to leave and being happy that my parents chose not to live that way.

  I would not see those kinds of living conditions again for 15 years, not until I stood in the dump three of my college buddies and I could afford and used to eat, sleep, drink, and smoke dope.

Richard Kimball

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It was a grand Thanksgiving feast.  I had rented two enormous side by side beach houses able to bed a party of 20 along with my two dogs. My wife and I prepared a fabulous meal with all the standard sides of Potatoe, asparagus, muffins, cranberry’s, some of those God afoul jarred pearl onions and topped by the most scrumdiddleumpcious pumpkin and pecan pies. All centered of course by a turkey.

The turkey was my one and only responsabilty…..well along with the stuffing and giblet gravy I would make from its various entrails.

The bird I found was just magnificent. A 24-pound Butterball, 28 pounds if you count the crumbs, mushrooms, sausages, onions, garlic and seasonings I stuffed up its private quarters.

My meticulous care had me basting it with butter every half hour or so. Five hours later I had achieved golden perfection.

But I was not done.  The succulent, dripping deliciousness of my bird needed to sit for a bit before the devouring commenced.  So, I had a plan: Everyone on the beach for a few spectacular celebratory firework rockets I had planted in the sand.

Everything was perfect, planned for maximum effect and joy.

Then we went to eat.

I am not sure who first noticed it, but I do recall the looks on Madison’s face (my golden retriever) and that on Jefferson’s (my border collie).  They were expressions of the utmost joy and appreciation.

The slimy slick had crossed the kitchen floor a dozen times as they had competed in obvious efforts to both play with and devour my golden perfection.

Since that wonderful Thanksgiving pizza day, I have always given some turkey thanks to my dogs first.

Richard Kimball

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