Up Against a Wall
The way I remember it, Papa called us three kids into the kitchen. Do you remember how little we were? Johnny must have been six. I was eight. You, Sis, had to be twelve. That was way back before the remodel, before the wall separating the kitchen and the dining room came down. You remember the wall. How Mom insisted on using a thumbtack to hang the calendar next to the doorway. How the wall spit out that thumbtack every time anyone so much as brushed by the calendar. Do you remember that sliver of an ironing cabinet in the wall? How the ironing board jutted out like a spring-loaded tongue - mocking Mom for having to iron in such a cramped space. I knew it was serious, Papa calling us over like that. I’d heard him puttering around in the kitchen. He was tapping on the wall next to his place at the table. The puttering seemed oddly muted. Papa always whistled when he puttered. There wasn’t a whit of a whistle in Papa’s voice when he summoned us. Couldn’t you tell? We stood there, bewildered. Papa pinched a cup hook from his shirt pocket and ceremoniously held it up for us to see. He walked it over to his place at the head of the table. Then, he punctured the wall with the corkscrew end, and twisted it into place. I can recall his clenched jaw, perfectly square and rigid, like a brick set with mortar. When he gave the hook one last turn burrowing it deep into the plaster, I swear I heard a wince. Do you remember Papa’s response to our puzzled looks? How he retreated to his bedroom closet and came back with two belts in hand. Unbuckling his own belt buckle, we watched as the end tunneled it way through the loops of his work pants. “There you go,” he said, laying out all three belts on the kitchen table. “You kids pick!” Papa wasn’t kidding. I recollect how we compared them; the wide, thick work belt, the skinny black dress belt, and an old cracked leather, brown belt. It reminded me of a Twilight Zone episode. The condemned were given the choice of facing a firing squad or hanging. Can you believe we actually debated amongst ourselves? I initially chose the skinny, lighter looking black belt. You, Sis, the seasoned veteran, cautioned that it would deliver a more searing sting. You sold us on the merits of the cracked leather, brown belt. It being softer from age, and more likely to wear out first. What were we thinking? How long did it take us to grasp the gravity of the situation? Papa had declared Martial Law. The belt hanging from the hook on the wall was a proclamation, and it was all your fault!
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Do you remember why? Neither do I. Was it something to do with what happened the night before? Had you hemmed your skirt too short? Did you refuse to wear the ugly brown oxfords Papa bought us? Did you come home late from the “library,” again? You were the defiant one. The one Papa labeled “The Rebel.” It was the 60s, and Dr. Spock’s “discipline with words, not corporal punishment” stuck in his craw like a rancid prosciutto bone. Poor Papa, he had allowed his Old World instincts to drive his determination to rein you in, taking me and Johnny with you. What heinous crimes against God and humanity could a five, eight and twelve year-old commit to warrant the threat of such disciplinary measures? Our spanking triggers were as specialized as we were different. You, my sister, the budding fashion icon, precursor to Twiggy with your Annette Funicello teased hair. Don’t you remember the look on Papa’s face when you pulled those sling-backed pumps out of their box? You had the audacity to model them for the whole family, exposing your shamefully bare heels! You might have gotten away with it. If it wasn’t for your attitude, or as Papa used to say, your bad “altitude.” Then, there was Johnny, schooled in the fine art of manhood by Papa himself. Sure, Johnny was prone to boyhood adventures; lighting non-permitted fires in the backyard, breaking into the neighbor’s camper for an impromptu overnighter. Couldn’t these infractions easily have been dismissed with a “Boys will be boys?” Your fault, Sis, your most grievous fault was to be the oldest, a girl, and an independent thinker in an Italian family. Papa expected you to be obedient, set a good example and remain chaste until your wedding night. Our little brother by virtue of his being born a boy, had already lived up to his expectations. Papa had his son. All that remained was to make a “man” of him. What about me, the middle child? To quote Mom from my baby book, “…the easy going, cheerful, neat one.” Maybe, I was Papa’s favorite. What choice did you leave me? Your independent nature had you embracing every teenage encroachment the 60s had to offer. I chose obedience. I chose to set a good example. When the time came, I hoped two out of three would be good enough. But, was I spared the belt? Hell no! Do you remember why? Because, I wouldn’t eat my minestrone. Sis, you know how much I hated Papa’s minestrone. I remember our father as a patient man, not without reason, logic, or a sense of humor. He also had a deep, abiding respect for cooking, especially when it came to his minestrone. He tolerated no dissension at the dinner table. When minestrone was on the menu, Papa was an equal opportunity punisher. Papa’s child rearing checklist: Keep Sis from getting pregnant; Keep Johnny out of jail; Keep me at the kitchen table until I finish my minestrone.
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Can you recall how the belt disappeared? I think it was Uncle Pete who set Papa straight. He said something about it not being right, how Papa could get into trouble. I remember walking into the kitchen one day. I saw the tiny little hole where the cup hook used to be. I thought maybe the wall had had enough and spit it out. How relieved we all were, Papa most of all. Is that how you remember it, Sis? God, I’m so tired of remembering it that way.
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Pdf Entry Information Exhibitor Name: Sue Barizon WEN: DFBCD4 Division: FA - 355 - Memoir Class: 01 Personal Memoir Title: Up Against A Wall Description: A young girls memory of her fathers strict upbring.
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