Orange Mustaches
One of the great blessings of my life was the
opportunity to visit my sister Sandy several days during her final two weeks
before she passed away from cancer. We
had some good conversations. And, she
told me a couple of stories that happened when she was a small child that I had
never heard before, since she was eight years older than I. One, in particular, still gives me pause on
days when I have a chance to let my mind wander. The danger being, of course,
that when I truly let my mind wander, there really is no telling where it is
going to go. Today is one of those days
as we are getting the first significant snow of the winter so far, and I have
the time to watch the snowflakes sifting down and piling up. The story Sandy told me about was one that it
turned out I kind of shared with her, although I didn’t mention that to her. I didn’t say anything because while our
stories were shared, they were indeed quite different for each of us. Here are two stories of orange mustaches.
One afternoon I asked Sandy how she got her nickname
of B-Bomb. The B-Bomb, or buzz bomb was
a destructive weapon as part of Germany’s arsenal during WWII. Sandy thought that it supposedly had to do
with her being, let’s say, a “high-energy child”, and at times a bit of a precocious
trouble-maker. Then she offered her
mustache story. Her story took place
when she was about four years old. I’ve
seen just a few black and white photos of Sandy as a young child. She probably could have given Shirely Temple
a run for her money as she had a head full of curly blond hair, and a sparkle
in her eye.
Sandy didn’t know what pretext my father used, or why
she was with him, but she recalled that they went to a tavern. It was her introduction to sitting on a
barstool with a spinning seat. She
smiled as she recounted spinning around and around. My father ordered a glass of beer for himself
and he ordered a glass of orange soda for Sandy. She apparently had a great time, as she was
the center of attention for the other patrons.
Money was very tight at the time, so the glass of orange soda was a very
special treat. She said that when they got home my mother asked her why her
upper lip was stained orange? Little
Sandy gushed excitedly about her visit to the tavern. I don’t know if my father appreciated her
willingness to spill the beans, so to speak, but it was obvious that my sister
still thought of the adventure as a very happy memory.
Sandy had no way of knowing the impact that her orange
mustache story had on me. And she never
knew that I had one of my own. My story took
place on the morning of the 3rd of July when I was about 9 years
old. I was as surprised as my mother
when my father mentioned that he was going to the paper mill where he worked to
pick up a couple of train flares for the 4th. He didn’t ask, rather he told me to get in the
car.
We drove to the mill, went through the gate and parked
in the back of the building. The inside
of the mill was intimidating to me – dark hallways, up a stairway of expanded metal
steps and grating so you could see through down to the level below. Then we stopped at a door that my father
unlocked with a key. In the corner there
was a box of railroad flares; my father grabbed two without saying anything and
we retraced our steps back out to the car.
As we crossed the river we didn’t continue home. Instead, we turned down Broadway and pulled up
in front of a tavern and parked.
I had been here once before. That time my father told me to wait in the
car. I remember that it seemed like
forever waiting until he finally came back out.
This time he told me to follow him inside.
Outside, it was a bright, sunny day. Inside, it was dark. There were a couple of men seated across the
way that greeted my father. Obviously he
was someone they knew; I hadn’t seen them before. My dad ordered a glass of beer for him and a
glass of orange soda for me. My father
ordered several more beers over the next hour or so, but my soda glass remained
empty after I finished it.
This was the same year that I discovered, quite by
accident, that my father kept several brandy bottles stashed around his
workshop in the basement. It had an
impact on me, knowing that my father was hiding things like that. Also, by then, whenever he came in the back
kitchen door from work, the first thing he did was stop to grab a bottle of
beer out of the fridge, open it, and take a big swallow. Only then did he greet my mother who always
came out from whatever she was doing to greet him. There are times when no one has to tell you
that something just isn’t right. In this
case, I was uneasy the whole time we sat there.
Finally, my dad grabbed his change off the bar and told me that I should
head to the restroom and see if I could wash the orange soda stain off my mouth. I scrubbed hard, but you could still make out
a faint orange mustache.
When we got home I tried to hurry past my mother, but
I saw in her eyes that she knew where my orange mustache had come from. She didn’t ask me anything as I walked
by. I felt like I had done something
bad. I hesitated at the bottom of the
stairs for a moment to hear what my parents might say, but my father didn’t say
anything. Then I heard his heavy steps
on the wooden stairs as he went down to the basement to his workshop. I went upstairs to my room. I remember that I sat quietly, looking out
the window for a long time.
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Photo by Fernando Andrade on Unsplash
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