childhood memories.”
“I was born in Dover, Delaware, in 1893.”
“Jesus,” Lydia said again as she hit the Record button.
5
I was born in Dover, Delaware, in 1893, the only begotten son of Jan and Portia Pedersen. My father was of the second generation out of Uppsala, Sweden, and my mama was of so many generations out of Bath, England, the family had lost track or wouldn’t say. Suffice it that since well before the American Revolution, the Wiggins people had crouched flush up against the Atlantic Ocean, as far east as they could be and still not leave Delaware. They owned a company that made iron beds and tin chamber pots.
Granddad Wiggins viewed anyone who come to Delaware after his first ancestor as riffraff. And my father was the worst sort of riffraff, that is, the kind who marries Granddad Wiggins’ daughter. I don’t recall Mr. Wiggins except for his mutton-chop sideburns and irate eyebrows. Facial hair. I don’t recall the man. Dad called him the Slop Bucket King.
Dad was a barber by trade, and a good one. After Mom and Dad had already been married some years, enough that I had come along, Mr. Wiggins formed a plan of arrogance and malice. He took it to mind to drive my father out of barbering and into the family business, never dreaming for a minute that my father might choose to leave Dover, and my mother might choose to go with him. No Wiggins in history had left Delaware, except to graduate from Dartmouth, which was fine, so long as they scampered home afterward. What the family forgot to reckon with was Jan and Portia were in romance love.
Mr. Wiggins convinced all those of his social set to take their tonsorial business elsewhere. His buds at the bank cut off Dad’s credit, then called in his shop loan.
Therefore, on the century turning, Dad moved us to San Francisco. I do not know why he chose San Francisco. Maybe he read an article or maybe some ship’s captain came back from California and told him of a barber shortage. Mama cried because she had to leave her piano, but myself, I was tickled pink. Young ones in Delaware wore knickers then, and I’d seen enough picture books to know cowboy youth did not wear no knickers. The general belief at the time being that folks west of Chicago had to be either cowboy or heathen. It didn’t strike me to consider the Pacific Ocean had sailors, same as the Atlantic, and I knew nothing of miners or Chinamen.
We like to didn’t make it West on account of old Mr. Wiggins told the state police my father had stolen bonds from his desk and a pair of gold cuff links. The police yanked us off the train in York, Pennsylvania. They put Dad through a hard time until they come to realize the throwdown—it was only a Delaware millionaire trying to impose his will. That disgusted the Pennsylvania police to the point where they apologized to Mama and gave me a sack of horehound drops and put us and our belongings on the next train to San Francisco.
***
We lived in a yellow house south of the slot there. We had a parlor with a three-piece furniture set upholstered in green plush. I used to love pushing my face into the plush. Dad rented a corner of the Oddfellow Building, where he barbered, only the Oddfellows called for a dime apiece off their haircuts, which was normal thirty-five cents. Shaves was fifteen cents. Dad got the idea to shave Chinamen’s heads around the pigtail, which they referred to as a queue. He wanted to charge twenty-five cents, only the Oddfellows wouldn’t let him. Oddfellows didn’t like Chinese. When an Oddfellow rode his carriage down the street, if a Chinaman stepped in front, the Oddfellow would just as leave pretend not to see him and run him down. I saw it happen more than once. The Oddfellows didn’t see me too good neither.
I liked the Chinamen ’cause they wore shiny pajamas outdoors and their talk was like birds. One time, my dad took me to a Chinese funeral parade. The deceased had been a general or somebody important
“I was born in Dover, Delaware, in 1893.”
“Jesus,” Lydia said again as she hit the Record button.
5
I was born in Dover, Delaware, in 1893, the only begotten son of Jan and Portia Pedersen. My father was of the second generation out of Uppsala, Sweden, and my mama was of so many generations out of Bath, England, the family had lost track or wouldn’t say. Suffice it that since well before the American Revolution, the Wiggins people had crouched flush up against the Atlantic Ocean, as far east as they could be and still not leave Delaware. They owned a company that made iron beds and tin chamber pots.
Granddad Wiggins viewed anyone who come to Delaware after his first ancestor as riffraff. And my father was the worst sort of riffraff, that is, the kind who marries Granddad Wiggins’ daughter. I don’t recall Mr. Wiggins except for his mutton-chop sideburns and irate eyebrows. Facial hair. I don’t recall the man. Dad called him the Slop Bucket King.
Dad was a barber by trade, and a good one. After Mom and Dad had already been married some years, enough that I had come along, Mr. Wiggins formed a plan of arrogance and malice. He took it to mind to drive my father out of barbering and into the family business, never dreaming for a minute that my father might choose to leave Dover, and my mother might choose to go with him. No Wiggins in history had left Delaware, except to graduate from Dartmouth, which was fine, so long as they scampered home afterward. What the family forgot to reckon with was Jan and Portia were in romance love.
Mr. Wiggins convinced all those of his social set to take their tonsorial business elsewhere. His buds at the bank cut off Dad’s credit, then called in his shop loan.
Therefore, on the century turning, Dad moved us to San Francisco. I do not know why he chose San Francisco. Maybe he read an article or maybe some ship’s captain came back from California and told him of a barber shortage. Mama cried because she had to leave her piano, but myself, I was tickled pink. Young ones in Delaware wore knickers then, and I’d seen enough picture books to know cowboy youth did not wear no knickers. The general belief at the time being that folks west of Chicago had to be either cowboy or heathen. It didn’t strike me to consider the Pacific Ocean had sailors, same as the Atlantic, and I knew nothing of miners or Chinamen.
We like to didn’t make it West on account of old Mr. Wiggins told the state police my father had stolen bonds from his desk and a pair of gold cuff links. The police yanked us off the train in York, Pennsylvania. They put Dad through a hard time until they come to realize the throwdown—it was only a Delaware millionaire trying to impose his will. That disgusted the Pennsylvania police to the point where they apologized to Mama and gave me a sack of horehound drops and put us and our belongings on the next train to San Francisco.
***
We lived in a yellow house south of the slot there. We had a parlor with a three-piece furniture set upholstered in green plush. I used to love pushing my face into the plush. Dad rented a corner of the Oddfellow Building, where he barbered, only the Oddfellows called for a dime apiece off their haircuts, which was normal thirty-five cents. Shaves was fifteen cents. Dad got the idea to shave Chinamen’s heads around the pigtail, which they referred to as a queue. He wanted to charge twenty-five cents, only the Oddfellows wouldn’t let him. Oddfellows didn’t like Chinese. When an Oddfellow rode his carriage down the street, if a Chinaman stepped in front, the Oddfellow would just as leave pretend not to see him and run him down. I saw it happen more than once. The Oddfellows didn’t see me too good neither.
I liked the Chinamen ’cause they wore shiny pajamas outdoors and their talk was like birds. One time, my dad took me to a Chinese funeral parade. The deceased had been a general or somebody important
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