One memorable day in late August of 1950 began the same as all my summer mornings. As soon as my spoon clanked inside the bowl of my mostly eaten cornflakes, I slipped from my kitchen chair and hurried outside. At 6 ½, I was giddy with excitement because that morning I’d been given a new toy — a paddle ball.
I couldn’t wait to show it off. Our neighborhood in those post-war years was crawling with children. My friends would demand a turn, which I would graciously allow, but only when I was ready to share.
We were active, free-range children and everyone’s backyard was our backyard, and everyone’s porch was ours as well. We also shared pets, already-chewed bubble gum and penny candy. We didn’t care if we had sunshine or rain; there was always something fun to do.
That day was hot and humid. We didn’t mind the heat. When we needed to cool off, we crouched under a tree for a bit, then resumed play. At noon, we rushed home for a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich and milk. Once in a while, there were a few Oreo cookies for dessert.
The older children played dodge ball and backyard baseball. We younger kids spent endless hours playing red rover, blind man’s bluff, or hide-and-seek. I loved everything about that summer, but most of all I loved playing — or trying to play — paddle ball.
The paddle ball was a simple and cheaply constructed toy. The paddle, including its handle, was about a foot long. There were three components: the paddle, the long elastic and the small rubber ball. One end of the elastic was attached to the ball. The other end was stapled to the center of the paddle. The object of the game was to hold the paddle by its handle and bounce the ball against the paddle for as many repetitions as you could.
While some girls paddled, I remember it being more popular with boys. Indeed, some older boys could thwack that ball so fast you couldn’t see it hit the paddle; you could only hear its rhythmic tapping. The boys would count each tap aloud, and the boy who could keep the ball going the longest without missing was the winner. That was my goal. However, my hands were tiny compared to the boy competitors.
I cherished that toy. It had been a sweet surprise, since we rarely got a present unless it was Christmas or our birthday. I imitated the boys, but my execution was clumsy and I soon became frustrated. Nonetheless, my sweaty, grimy hands continued to grip the plywood handle as I tried again and again to get the ball to bounce more than once against the paddle. My determination paid off when I finally had two bounces in a row!
Then, trying for a third, tragedy struck — my small rubber ball with its elastic tail flew into the air and landed at my feet. I dropped the paddle and stared at my broken toy in stunned disbelief. Then, tears threatening, I squatted to the ground, picked up the paddle and palmed the ball with its dangling elastic. A few older children noticed and pointed at me.
“Ha, ha,” they jeered. “Knew you’d break it, you baby!”
I ran to my house, face flaming and tears streaming.
Grief overwhelmed me. A few moments ago I’d had a brand new toy. Now, my hopes of being a paddle ball whiz were forever dashed. My parents would not buy me a new one. I’d been told over and over that I had to take care of my belongings. If I didn’t, I had to live with the consequences. But this time, it wasn’t my fault! I had taken good care of it. The injustice of it all added to my misery.
I held out a slim hope that my father could fix it when he got home from work. Still, that wouldn’t be until suppertime. I barged through the screened back door seeking my mother for comfort.
I hurried to the kitchen. She wasn’t there. She must be in the bedroom, I thought. Since the newest baby came, that’s where my mother now spent a lot of time. I was right. She was in her rocking chair, cradling month-old Mary Frances.
My mother held a finger to her lips when she saw me in the doorway. “Sleeping,” she mouthed. She frowned when she noticed my tear-stained, dirt-streaked face and my paddle held limply in one hand.
She smiled. “Come here, Dolly.”
I nestled beside her and she gave me a sideways hug. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
I held out the broken paddle and opened my other hand to show her the ball and elastic.
“It broke, huh?” she said softly.
I nodded. “It just did,” I said, defensively. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“I can fix it,” she said. “Let me put Mary Frances in her bassinet and we’ll go to the kitchen.”
A minute later, I was kneeling on a kitchen chair watching my mother, my magical mother, operate on my paddle ball. I was so close I could smell her hand lotion. She used a butter knife to lift one edge of the small staple. Then, oh so patiently, she wiggled the end of the elastic under the staple. She then banged the staple with the dull end of the knife. She tugged at the elastic and it miraculously stayed put.
“Try it out,” she said, handing it to me.
I grinned and picked up my paddle ball. I missed at first, but then, confidence growing, I lobbed a few balls in succession.
My mother nodded. “Good,” she said. “Just keep practicing.”
“Mommy,” I said with a happy wiggle. “I didn’t know you knew how to fix things. I thought only daddies knew.”
“Oh,” my mother said with a laugh. “Mothers can do lots of things.”
I nearly flew back outside and proudly showed everyone how my mother had fixed the elastic.
“Your mother did that?” someone asked, properly impressed.
“She did,” I said as I bounced a few more balls in a row. “My mother can do anything!”