In the summer of '53 (a Minnesota, Chick Evens story)

In the summer of ‘53
(Ä Chick Evens, and Minnesota Story)



I had left the babysitter, knowing my mother would be at 4:15 p.m., hiking up Mount airy Hill, from the Valley playgrounds, near Jackson Street, she did every weekday after work, Monday through Friday (she worked at the stockyards in the slice bacon department, at Swifts Meats, in South Saint Paul), she’d catch the bus from South St. Paul, to St. Paul, get off at the corner of Jackson and Mount airy, and then up one hill she’d hike, a turn to the left, and up the second hill. We had been living all together, my brother, two years older than I, eight now, my mother and my grandfather. Mike, my brother and I, had been taken off that foster-farm for good: I never wanted to go back there again, I never wanted to see it ever, so I had to make sure she was really coming. Therefore I left our sixteen-year old babysitter, Evelyn, and ran up the block to meet her; I did this quite often, that first summer after we left the farm, back in ’53.
She’d be trekking up that hill, a little tired, a little worn, if not with a cigarette between her fingers, or between her lips, a twig, or piece of grass would be there. Her purse would be on her right shoulder, she had long straps, and big purses, kept everything under the sun in them. I once went with her purse shopping at the Emporium, one of the three biggest stores in St. Paul back then, and she bought the best and biggest purse she could find and carry, it had to be leather, good leather. Other than that, she was frugal. Once I’d see her I’d pick up a twig or piece of grass run down the hill to meet her coming up the hill, and we’d meet somewhere in the middle. I’d grab her hand, hold it tight, sometimes too tight, she’d have to say, “You’re squeezing my hand again,” and I’d stop, let go a tinge, but not much. And she’d hold my hand firmly but softly, and I’d put the stem in my mouth, like her: like to like.
“Mom?” I’d say.
“Yes.”
“You’re home!”
“Not quite yet.”
“Missed yaw!” I’d say, searching for something to talk about, not really caring to talk at all to be honest, something more practical would do, but that is what always came out: I was happy as a butterfly with new wings, almost prancing up the hill now. As if I wanted the world see me and my mother, proud so very proud.
“Where’s your brother?” she asked.
“With the babysitter, he thinks she’s cute; she’s really nice, and plays with us, maybe you can give her a tip on payday!”
“Oh does he now… (she hesitates, and smiles, then continues and says :) she is kind of cute I suppose.”
We continued to walk up the hill together her right hand in my left hand, both with our pieces of stems in our mouths. The sun going down over the edge of the city, but it’s still bright out, just a little on the faded side, slightly faded side of the day, so it got at this time, near the Mississippi. I guess I followed her like a puppy. I felt safe in her hands, that summer, with those sharp warm evenings starting to settle in, in those midsummer days in Minnesota. I felt quite sure, she’d never die.

4-18-2009