A true story about a 12 year old..

Vincent
(An Important Lesson
for All Grownups;
Especially In Today's World)

By D. M. Urquidi

(1973)

School was out for the day but Vincent did not go straight home. He first made his way past the decaying store fronts on east Main Street. He whistled merrily as he walked. People he passed smiled even though the afternoon sky was gray and overcast.

Vincent had not been in the city very long; arriving from a sunny, bright southern city where even the old buildings were more white than gray.  The weather here was different though and all the buildings seemed somber His lightweight jacket did not keep out the chill wind; he pulled it tighter around him and wlaked a little faster.

He stopped monentarily at the river.  Seagulls screeching raucously to each other, The weather here was different though and all the buildings seemed somber, The single lone boy on the ridge did not bother them. Birds sitting on the piles ruffled their feathers against the chill air, calling to their friends in the sky.

Vincent shrugged his shoulders and went on across the bridge. The police station was not that much further.  He crossed Main Street and went lup the hill to CIty Hall. Deep red in color, it had aged into a blackened, sooty color, retaining only a vestige of the red tones of the baked bricks. The door was inpressive and opened easily. The woman at the reception desk looked up briefly. Then returned to the  papers on her desk. A small boy was not an important dignitary, nor a qualified property owner. She was startled to hear his voice at her elbow.

“Wh.wh.wh. . where d.d.d.do I go to get a ;s.s.s.shoeshine license?”The boy was talking directly to her...

Taken back by his speech, she took a long, hard look at the boy in front of her.  He was almost four feet tall, with blond curly hair and blue eyes. Funny, he had a sun tan. Now where would a boy get a sun tan in October?  HIs jacked was emblazoned with many patches but the seam on one side had worn through. And his tee-shirt was quite visible. This is sweater weather, not tee-shirt weather she thought grumpily.

“Over at the police station.”  Her answer was short and to the point; she had a lot of work to do.

. “H.h.how d.d.do I get there?” He sensed that she did not want to be bothered.

“Go down the hill; turn to your right until you get to the red light, then turn to your right again, It’s at the top of the hill. She turned back to her work.

“Thank youl.” She looked up sharply,. “No one from around here ever said “thank you.”  As Vincent left the building, she stared after him musing. He doesn’t even walk like the kids around here. There seemed to be an extra bounce to his step. In spite of his stuttering he seemed to have a confidence and cheerfulness that lit up the room in spite of her short answers.

“Stop being silly.” she scolded herself, “kids are the same all over.”

Out on the street again, Vincent went back down the hill.  Turning to his right, he was surprised to see the red light on the next corner. He expected to,have to walk four or five more blocks. Turning right again, he made his way up the steep hill. At the top was a new modern building that reminded him of the sunny south. Over the front door, it read, “Municipal Police Station.” Yep, that’s the place all right.”

He took a shortcut through the parking lot. He was just about to step up to the door when he noticed behind the buildling on the other side of the street the dingy, red City Hall. He could have just walked across the street,. Why didn’t the woman tell him that?

The glass door opened with ease. Would it be this easy to ask for what he wanted, he wondered. Would they understand him? He still could not talk without stuttering..Bob told him what to ask for but he still did not know what to expect.

“I.i.i;.. . .” Blast this tongue of mine, thought Vincent. Valiantly he struggled on. “W.w.w.want a S.s.shoeshine License.”  There, that was better.

The policeman at the desk did not even blink. He gave Vincent directions as if he would have given them to a grown-up. Thanking him without stuttering, Vincent went in the direction indicated.

A short time later, he walked out of the building with his most prized possession:: a shoeshine box with the number 707 emblazoned on the side. A bright yellow color, it made the gray, dreary streets seem more cheerful.

Hurrying home, he made plans to start working as soon as possile. As soon as he could buy the polishes. Mom woud help, she always did.

Bright and early Saturday morning, he was out on the street. He did not know the first thing about polishing shoes but he was determined to try. At first, he only stopped the men on the street, but he found that he was not getting anywhere. No one seemed to be interested..

Soon he found himself in a conversation with another shoeshine boy about his own age. After comparing notes, they agreed that neither of them were doing much business on this particular street so they decided to go downtown..It turned out to be a very profitable day

It was late when Vincent realized it was time to go home. Mom would have supper ready and she always fussed so when no one was home to eat it when it was hot. It was silly of her to fuss all the time about that, but then maybe not. . .cold supper didn’t always taste the same as hot food. He turned to his new found friend to say good-by. . . . .

“Giove me the money you got.”

“What?” He did not stutter this time.

“You heard me, give me the money you got.”

“No, it is mine. You have yours.”

“What you got is mine too. Give it to me.”. The menacing attitude of the boy was real. Vincent did not struggle. The other kid was  bigger than he was..

Pockets empty, he stood on the corner stunned. But only for a few minutes. Resolutely he started for the poolice station.  One the way, he saw a police car and stopped it instead. He reported the theft to the office who was kind and understanding.  .  the office had heard the story before and even though knew little could be done, he took down the information.

Vincent, not realizing it was hopeless, he went home with dragging steps. He had done what he could. . . it just wasn’t fair for him to have done all that work and to have someone just walk off with the money he had had earned.

Mom turned out to be sympathetic in an off-handed sort of way. She knew from past experience  the street is a hard place to learn. She knew that Vincent had to learn from experience.even though she could sympathize but there was even less she could do about the situation.. She, like the police officer, did not hold any hope the money would be returned.

* * * * * * * *

A month later, she and the police officer were both surprised. It was the day the birthday party of  Vincent’s sister had been planed. His mother had gone to the bakery to pick up the birthday cake when right on the corner she saw a police car.  Vincent, and several other kids standing around. There, in the car talking to the office, was a slender boy with a gray-green shoe box. Vehemently, he was shaking his head.

‘No, it ain’t true. That kid don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Friends of the boy were watching with interest. No one who had tried the buddy-stunt had been caught before.  “Aw …. he won’t be able to prove anything.” one whispered cautiously.to a friend.:

“Can I help? I’m Vincent’s Mother.” The officer looked up briefly.  Vincent was mistaken. He may have seen the number on the boy’s box today and confused it with the report of a month ago.

VIncent interjected: “I can take care of it  myself.”

“What’s happening?” His mother notice that he stuttered even less this time.

“Oh, I just found the kid who took the $8.00 from me. That’s all.”

The officer, seeing that the questions were being answered. Didn’t bother to embroider the explanation. Her question answered, even though not completely, and finding that she was ignored otherwise, walked away, feeling very strange.

This was her baby. The one that could not fend for himself. Only here on the street corner, he was not a baby any more. He was completely in command of the situation. What will be next?

Vincent’s mother did not say very much. She well aware of his speech difficulty but she was certain that her son was a pretty sharp cookie in spite of it. Thanking the detective, she offered him a piece of the birthday cake. He refused graciously and went his way.

Not long after the phone rang. The detective was no longer apologetic. He had read the earlier report and the number of the box was the same as Vincent gave to the officer today. He also contacted the boy’s mother and she was going to call. Would that be agreeable? Of course, it was.

The birthday was turning into an upsetting afternoon. Those invited were staying away, Tina, stoic as she pretended to be, was quite upset. But new neighborhoods are like that. Only a short time later the boy’s mother called to apologize for her son's behavior.

Vincent’s mother invited her and her family over to share the birthday cake. She did not come. It was such a shame. Children are the same all over the world. Why do parents have to get up tight with each other when the children blow their relationships?

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The incident was forgotten. The money never turned and winter melted into a beautiful springtime, The drab, dreary houses sparkled with fresh flowers in the gardens.  Some houses even got painted.The neighborhood became quite attractive. Summer followed close behind spring. Once again the phone rang. Vincent was at the station downtown. His mother was told not to worry, everything was all right.

“What do you mean everything is all right?” Vincent’s mother had all sorts of horrible visions.

“Well, ma’m, it’s just that he caught the boy who took the money from him and nobody’s leaving here until the money is returned.”

Hanging up the phone, Vincent’s mother shook her head: “I would never want him to go after me, for any reason.”  There was really nothing she could do. Rush down to the station? For what? Vincent seemed to be doing fine without parental assistance. She puttered around the house aimlessly. It was very defeating to be useless.

Br.r.r.r.ing. The telephone startled her out of her reverie. “What now?” She wondered, as she picked up the phone.

“Mom. .Guess where I am.” It was Vincent sounding very pleased with himself.

“I don’t know. All I do know it that you were at the police station a while ago. Where are you?

“I.i.i.’ m at Barney’s.” Barney’s was a little luncheonette on East Main.

“I’m buying lunch for the boy who stole my money.”

“You got it back?

“Sure, and you know what?”

“No..What?” Mentally she thought, persistence is a great attribute,a very financially sound principle.

“ I told him it wasn’t very nice to steal; Bye”

The phone clicked in her ear. She stood there flabbergasted, What does one do with a boy like that? Who ever heard of a thief being treated to lunch? Why can’t grownups be like that? No grudges, no hard feelings, just plain common sense.nothing more.

Catarractts and Glaucoma

Catarracts

    In Taber’s Cyclopedic Medical Dictionary Catarracts (2001)
are a  disease of the eyes that can be observed even by the patient
themselves. Below is an excellent drawing of an eye that has a Catarract.

The white dot is the catarract.

Eventually it will cover the Iris also

    It is a simple drawing showing a white dot in the middle of the
Cornea (the dark center of the eye). surrounded by the Iris (colored
part of the Eye). In the beginning, it is only a small, insignificant speck
in the Cornea.

   What causes it is not known. But it is reported 90% of those
over 65 get catarracts.  At first it affects night driving….glare from
headlights on cars. Glare from LED lights on automobiles do not
have glare, the light have spikes of light, (thin spikes like arrows)
which is not the hazy glare that the older headlights once produced
against the eyes.

   With catarracts, as pinpoints on the cornea, one can still drive
a car, but usually, driving is limited to daylight driving. If one does
not drive at night, one might think they do not have catarracts.

   

   The definition in Taber’s Medical book tell us 97% of persons
over 65 get catarracts However, since catarracts are a surface
problem, one can check their own eyes in their home mirrors.
To make sure, that no white areas are creeping on top of the
cornea as shown above. If any white specks are found, then
see a reputable eye surgeon for confirmation. This problem
can be removed.

Glaucoma

   Glaucoma, a different disease creates a rainbow around light seen.
This problem, because it is the fluid inside the eye, you should aways
go to an oculist with a companion who can drive you home. The worst
part of glaucoma is that it may be cured by surgery by adding a stint
in back of the eye to relieve the pressure  of the swolen eyeball and
to ease the disturbance on the optic nerve.

   Since it is an internal problem, the symptoms are: “reduced visual
acuity (especially at night). It is not correctable with perscription lenses.
 Acute angle-closure glaucoma (an ophthalmic emergency) causes
excruciating unilateral pain and pressure, blurred vision, decreased
visual acuity, halos around lights, diplophia (two images seen at the same
time), lacrimnation (tears), nausia and vomiting.”

                       .

On the whole, Glaucoma is a much more serious problem. Taber does
say that medication (eye drops) is available but even that is daunting.

   The old wives tale of home prevention is eat carrots and peaches
(fruit and veggies that are yellow) Could that have been why my grandfather
had several peach trees in his back yard?

Climate Change II On Flagler Street

Just got off a Florida page and found many people attempting to correct the Miami image and save both Miami proper , as far north as possible, and Miami Beach from the increasingly frequent flooding.

The complaint is that it is only Climate Change that is doing the damage. That would be nice. It is a much slower process. However, what is happening in Miami and in Miami Beach and other Floridian, soon to be inundated, areas is that the builders who are Northeran Snowbirds are positively sure that bigger and better building in the more popular areas are the things to create.

Make the areas look like New York City; or Austin, Texas; or cities in Los Angeles/Hollywood areas of mansions and pools. [H.m.m.m California seems to be sliding into the Pacific, just about the same way that Florida is sliding into the Atlantic.]

The difference between the two coast lines is that California has mountains and cliffs that are eroding due to massive, expensive showcase homes built on eroding cliff sides.  On the other coast, Florida has become the New York City of the south.

What architect in his right mind would build tall very expensive hotels and condominiums in a swamp? If even one of them, would go back and read about the Barefoot Mailman, who made the trek along the coast of  Florida in the early years of Mr. Flagler and his railroad; he, or even a she, would find that the poor main carrier was constantly facing swamps and gators;  lots of slimy soil. and difficult to walk on sand.

In the beginning, the houses on the coast were small homes, one story with pro per hurricane shutters.
Now, the builders for the small homes are touting sealed windows, electricity and air conditioning so that owners could weather out a hurricane while watching their television with chips and dips; at least until the roofs would be whipped away by the hurricane winds.

Architects of the area schools dreamed of patios made with lots of screens against mosquitoes and hurricane shutters that let in the air without letting in the rains and the wind.  and only small indoor spaces, for privacy with lots more open areas for the cool semi-tropical breezes.

Now, the shutters are gone, the screens get ripped away, and plywood is used to cover all windows: Tightly against the storms. Once an elderly person called the Hurricane Center in Coral Gables and asked why they did not tell homeowners to open a window or a door on the calm side of the house and shut the door on the wind side of the house.  

They also had to remember to tell the home owners to reverse the procedure when the hurricane turned the winds and calm around in opposite directions. That person was told that it was only an Old Wive's tale and useless in the hurricane areas of Miami. The buildings got to be tall apartment buildings, and finally taller condos. The soil could be corrected it was believed.

 And now, both Flager Street in Miami and the Fountainbleu Hotel and others in Miami Beach are flooded during such  hurricanes. But no one knows why.  Think!  The answers are there in Florida just as they are on the Pacific coast.

an Art Gallery with comments

woven back with felting needles for picture of bottles. etc.

Photo: Five of my seven children before we biked Europe in 1972. An interesting trip to say the least.

Going Home
No telling what I will end up with
when I start a paint.

was

The picture is of 5 of my children
 In 1972 when I prepared to take them with oldest two on a bicycle trip through Europe

A different picture
Oops, I printed it upside down! My son's girlfriend spotted it at the top of the picture and



informed him that I had bought it ready-made and faked it by putting my old signature seal on it.

But that was a long time ago. Last year when I turned 82, a neighbor gave me two blank (new) canvases, and somewhere, I had also acquired a third. I do not like unpainted canvases, so I decided I wanted to do another horse. A year or so earlier, I had painted a picture of two clay bowls, and I felt I might just succeed with a horse. I almost did it right but destroyed it by over-painting. Disgusted I let it sit for a few months. I tried again with the same canvas.  No use wasting a decent sunset; but this time it turned out to be a hobby horse, straight off a carnival carousel.

Since the hobby horse was painted over again, I do not consider it more than a practice effort, so my third success is the one below.  A bit different, but a horse.

My Favorte 1961 Watercolor

Ramtod-tailed Hors

In a Bamboo Grove

Portrait attempt.  Not good enough yet.

Rose's without rain drops

A Seascape on Cardboard

A pleasant  Accident

July 22 Spaulding

Chinese Brush. Not free enou

More Flowers

Piper under a blanket

July 22 2017 

The small picture under the horse

is Pup, my Brittany Spaniel taking a nap in my hammock.

Who Am I Kidding?

Who am I kidding? No one but myself!

I can no more grow old gracefully than a palm tree can become an oak tree.
I have tried to do here a bio but I was having a problem with self.

I am no more a youngster, nor am I very old. I cannot even think I am going to be old, even when my neck looks like a Thanksgiving turkey.  and my hair is a beautiful shade of white, the color of snow on a cold clear day in winter,
Bah! Whoever invented old age, should be put in a the stocks at the center of town.

Nothing like memories to keep one young.
These are five of mime when it was June of 1972. My two older ones were 17 and 18 and got their own passport picture.
We took a bicycle trip for four months camping in Europe.
It was a learning experience for all of us

Second and Third Grade

Second Grade was not very interesting. The teacher found that I was scratching my head too often and discovered that I had head lice. I thought it was from our laundry tub where we got a bath every Saturday. My mother got coal oil, whatever that was, and my head got soaked every night and washed every morning, and finally they disappeared. I had my hair combed with a fine tooth comb every day just to make sure.

The rest of the year was not that interesting. We walked through a long double meadow, split in the middle by a copse of tall trees. Once I got threatened by a heavy set boy, but I ran and he did not follow me.

Snow om the winter was no fun. It was knee deep in the meadow which made walking to school difficult, but not impossible. Summer made up for it all. The buttercups and for-get me-nots would bloom one after the other. I would pick some for my mother. One day I did find a dime, so when I got home I went next door to the country store, owned by Mr. Disascio (never knew how to spell his name) and his wife and son, Tony.
[Mrs. Disascio made the most delicious spaghetti, and waffle cookies filled with some sort of cream. His father ran the store and used produce from his own garden to sell during the fall. Those days were idylic.]

At the store, I bought some candy and a cone of ice cream and took the candy to my mother. She was pleased with the 'gift.'

Third Grade was not what I liked, but only after my teacher punished me by sending me to my twin brothers's first grade class.  I had found a small sparkly disk on a chain and had given it to the classmate who did wonderful elocution poems for us in class. Dorothy was her name. She knew Hiawatha and The Face on the Barroom Floor; all of both long poems.  Well, I told my mother about it, but she misconstrued what I told her and insisted that I get the bauble back. I did try . . . even visiting the girl at her house. But she refused to return it to me. My mother asked about it often, but I could not say I had gotten it back so she was unhappy about it.  I made one last effort. Dorothy was sitting behind me in class and I turned around and asked her one more time. When she again refused, I got out of my seat and fought with her.

The natural result was I had to be punished and the teacher knew exactly what would hurt the most. My mother found out about my visit to First Grade at lunch time, and later when Dad came home from work, I received a spanking for fighting in the school room.

From that time on, I never made another 100 in spelling and never got another 100 in any class I attended.
No one had asked me why I did it, but I never forgot. I guess even my penmanship went downhill a bit, even though I like to draw the slanted up and down bars and the round over and around tubes of lines meant to teach us the correct method for writing legibly.

I almost forgot . . . my twin brothers, being in first grade . . . got to have their First Communion that year and I happened to be a pink Angel to guide them on their way down to the altar.  The picture that was taken for that even portrayed me as a very grouchy angel. The ceremony must have occurred after my spanking, because I was not a very happy angel.

One thing about the school I was in that year (3rd grade): I learned in religion class that the church made a big effort to convert a lot of people during the Middle Ages. I don''t know why the subject came up but I do remember that it seemed to be a bad time for the church. [Later in college when I found out how they had done the conversions, I was so shocked that I could not talk about it for over two years.]

That summer, I was playing in the peach tree in our yard with the angel robe on and the robe caught on a branch. I fell out of the tree [not very far down thank heavens, so I broke no bones] but it did take my breath away for a moment.  It was also the last time I ever went into the tub outside with only panties on. I figured that I was too grown up to be bare chested any more, so wore T-shirts from that time on, when my bothers and I went for a summer dip into the old tub. I did not learn to swim until years later.

It was also around this time that I went to Chester Creek with my cousins and my aunt. We were having a lot of fun, but one of the more cheerful ones, turned over the inner tube float that I was using. I thought I was going to drown, but my other cousin pulled me up out of the water right away. It was not as frightening since my cousin was so quick to get me out of the deeper water. She turned to be my favorite cousin, Sophie.


A short note about my penmanship. When I grew up and someone invited me to a Calligraphy class, I cheated by printing a calligraphic script phrase on thin paper. So that I could just write over what I could see under my good page.  It always made a good impression then with the teacher. But that was after seven children and a lot of grief from the marriage I thought was a good one.  Oh well.

Skipping to First Grade

First grade was something that was a bit of a memory lost for me. Previous to going to school, I was put into a dance class (to make sure I could perform like Shirley Temple, I surmise) and at  home, my father read me the comics every night, thank heavens.

I say, thank heavens, because by October, I got sick. I had measles, mumps and whooping cough, one right after the other.  During that time, I was able to read a lot of my children's books, including the Night Before Christmas, my favorite.

My first day out of bed was Christmas morning. I got up and got dressed in a neat dark blue sailor dress with a red bow tie in front.  I had asked for a bicycle for Christmas and I got one. OMG.  It was there leaving against the banister of the newest apartment we had, that over a shoemaker shop. My heart dropped. It was the wrong bicycle.  Was Santa a fault or . . . ?

The bicycle was a light green boy's bicycle with fat balloon tires. I had wanted a bicycle, but, . . . I was a girl, not a boy. The poor bicycle never got ridden the whole time I had it and even after we moved across from my father's work, I never even considered it mine

First grade after I returned to school, I remember being on stage at school in a cute red satin Russian outfit. It had short skirt with a white feather hemline trim, and red vest with a white blouse, and a tiara of red satin like the skirt, trimmed in silvery ribbons and a lot of long colored ribbons hanging down from each side.

A doll visited our first grade. She had all sorts of clothes to wear, even pajamas. She had a toothbrush and a hair brush and her own soap and washcloth. She was beautiful. Her owner said that she herself, never used soap on her face, but she neglected to tell us that she used creams and ointments. It took me a long time before I figured out that the creams and ointments had more to to with the face of the doll's owner than the doll that used soap and water.

Regardless when spring time rolled around, and the whole school was having a morning recess in the school yard, there were several wagons outside the school yard.  One in particular was a Bread wagon, all green and gold with big wheels with yellow spokes and a red or brown rim.

For some reason, the horse pulling the wagon spooked from something on the road, and it frightened him so that he ran right over the curb, breaking one wheel on the wagon, and headed straight into the school yard.  I was way in the back leaning on the small metal bannister because I had just recently returned to school and was still not able to play with the children. I was taking it "easy."

All the children started screaming at once, and running to get away from the horse and wagon.  A man, from a different wagon ran into the yard from the street, grabbed the horse's harness and stopped him in his run towards the children. I could not understand why everyone was screaming and crying. I saw who the man was and he was perfectly capable of stopping the horse. It was my father in his milk  run, or he was checking up on whether I was doing well in school.

I never told anyone who the man was, nor did anyone ever ask me about him. I did think it was neat, but no one, not even my father at home, said a word about catching the horse.

Back in the school room, probably one another day, I was reading my reader.  I said, "Oh, Nuts!" A common cuss word for children. My seat mate was aghast. "You said a bad word."  My response was, "No, I did not. It is here in our book."  And I showed her the page next to the picture of a nut tree right next to the text. That was that. She never said another word.

In the class, we had only one black boy learning his ABC's. but most of the time he fell asleep. When my sister went to that school 16 years later, she was the only white girl in the class. The neighborhood had changed that drastically.  In the early years, though I had to walk home and the shortest route was through the black neighborhood. I only could do that one time, because the children there ganged up on me and I guess they threatened me, so I never went through the area again.

By summer time, we had moved across the street from Miller and Flounder's Dairy, where my father worked. It was a white house with two floors. My father put in an oil heater in the fireplace and a plywood, high step-over door in the archway to the porch.  He then rented the upstairs to an older couple who, although I would go upstairs and read the Sunday comics where my father stored them in an extra room on the second floor, I never met them.

Not even when we got the chicken coup from the neighbor behind us who was moving to the city. Mom would make the attic into a nursery for the new chicks and I would visit them all the time.
We would have Sunday dinner, a chicken that she would prepare in the morning, starting with cutting off its head, and we would eat him in the afternoon. We also had eggs every morning for breakfast.