By Sandi Howland Archer
As I get older I notice that things pop in and out of my memory suddenly and certainly uninvited. More out than in for sure! Like today when I arrived home from work. I opened my car door and heard a distant whistle. A human whistle.
Now it's entirely possible that I hear that same whistle on a regular basis and just don't lumber into the house soon enough to write myself a little “gotta remember this” note. At any rate, I should get to the point before I lose my train of thought and tell you all about how we fry eggs on the sidewalk here in sunny Arizona.
Now about that whistle. When I was five years old, my parents bought a home in East End and moved us there from metro Turkey Hill. Or perhaps it was Olanta. We lived at 1311 Daisy Street. My father drove a Willys. It was green. The license plate read 2LP88. Our phone number was 59180.
There was an alley between our house and the large yellow one shared by the Hugar and Passmore families. And at the end of the alley lived a real swell fella. Robert Henry. The alley was paved with bricks. The red variety.
Now just to give you an idea of how far back my pathology goes, one of my most vivid – dare I say, fondest – childhood memories was watching my mother shovel ashes hot from the furnace on those slippery bricks so she could trek over and have coffee with Mrs. Hugar on a typical wintry day. I felt no pleasure while watching the shoveling. None at all. But just every once in a while, her feet would go out from under her. What joy!
Oh, yes, about that whistle. My sister, Carole, was the first-born. Two years later I joined up and became the oft-forgettable middle child. A short time later brother Clyde arrived. His steadfast pals from early on in school were Louis Mitchell and Jack Mitchell. Cousins I think. And those fellas whistled. I sat on the stairway with the phone and talked in whispered tones to Bea Accordino, Anna Marie Marino, and Forshia Vale. Don’t think Clyde talked on the phone. Maybe once when he made plans to run off to Altoona with Karen Knicely. They hitched a ride on the back of a snowplow. That’s another whole story. None of it good.
Clyde (I think his chums called him Clijo) and Louie and Jackie whistled to each other in various tones, repetitions, and volume. It was a language known only to them. I recall vividly sitting at the dinner table and hearing a whistle from at least 2 or 3 blocks away. Clyde would go outside and reply in code known only to “the gang.” Shortly he’d go off down the street.
Clyde died when he was just 48. Pancreatic cancer. A real beast it was.
Now about that whistle I heard today. Hmmm……….
See ya in ’09!
Sandra (Sandi) Howland Archer
Sandra (Sandi) Howland Archer
