Wild Things

This has nothing to do with Maurice Sendak or misbehaving.  This is about all the stuff that we ate while walking to and from Ivanhoe Elementary School. Not the stuff we bought at Mike’s little store, but the stuff we culled from the neighborhood.

First, there was the lemon tree.  I now know that it was a Meyer lemon.  We would pick a fruit, peel it and sprinkle the remains of the small Morton’s salt container on it.  Our teeth would lose whatever they lose when you eat pure acid, and our salivary glands would kick into high gear.  The lemons weren’t like the ones my mother bought at Hub Mart. They had a distinctive flavor that was not as sour.

Then there was the wild weed—usually growing in an empty lot that today would be worth at least half a million dollars—that we called the licorice plant.  We’d shake the head and dislodge the seeds and chew them. I now know that it was wild anise.  The last time I tasted it in seed form was at an Indian place that gave a seed mixture as an after dinner palate cleanser.

We also ate the stems of the little purple flowers that grew all over.  They were sour and tart and it is no surprise that my generation grew up with a candy called SWEET TARTS.  Wild sorrel.  I think this may have been a subversive move on the part of dentists who would later advise products to strengthen one’s enamel.

There was also the pomegranate tree that we eyed enviously but waited until Halloween night when it’s owner would bestow us with a fruit or two in lieu of candy.

And lastly, was the magical little drinking fountain on Panorama Drive.  Why it was there, I have no idea.  But I always loved drinking the cold water and wondering about who put it there.

Easter

My grandfather was a minister and a quite prominent one at that.  If you google his name—Cleveland Kleihauer—you’ll see that he is credited with (cough) being a mentor to Ronald Reagan.

So at our house, Easter meant several things.  Both my sister and I expected, and awaited, the arrival of the Easter Bunny and the cellophane wrapped baskets that would be sitting at the ends of our matching twin beds when we awoke on Easter Sunday. Somehow, though, this was nothing like the thrill of Christmas morning. No explanations as to the entire oddity of Jesus dying, bunnies, crucifixion, chocolate and Jesus returning were ever mentioned. But, in return for the Easter Bunny gifts, we were put into the scratchiest, stiff, pastel colored dresses that we’d ever worn.  And, almost worse, were the little hats we had to wear.

At Hollywood Beverly Christian Church we were THE GRANDCHILDREN.

Our church didn’t DO Lent, Ash Wednesday or Shrove Tuesday.  Just Sunday. Women would pinch our cheeks, comment on our dresses and suck up to our mother. My sister and I stood stiffly in white socks and, sometimes white gloves, and smiled. Once home, we were free to explore the chocolate—after my father did the family photographs in the back yard where I could still see the stains from the Fourth of July worms on the bricks.

My mother would switch out of her “church clothes” and begin dinner. Our father would hang up his tie.  My sister and I would eat candy free from the crinoline.

I’m sure this must not have been a good day for my mother. I’ve never liked it, in spite of the candy.  But, I’d rather eat potato chips anyway.

I really don’t like this holiday.