We are all a victim or beneficiary of the environment that we grew up in. The habits that make you who you are, mostly began during your childhood. They define your personality and set you apart from others around you. A lot of these practices came from our parents. We acquired them over a period of years and they became deeply ingrained.
My Dad dipped his eggs. Breakfast eggs only came one way at our house, fried and sunny-side up. They were served with toast or biscuits which was buttered and used as an instrument to dip the yolk out of the egg. Dipping, becomes a work of art. It is done is such a fashion so that the yolk disappears before the white is eaten. At our house the egg came to you salted, peppered and with the yolk starring right at you. If you are a dipper, it’s how the meal begins. Once armed with your choice of bread, as a dipper, it is your responsibility to destroy the yolk with the bread by sopping it up while eating. Many were the days, I would get to my desk at school only to notice egg yolk on my finger nails.
The art of dipping one’s fried eggs falls into the category of participatory dining. Once the bread is picked up, all bets are off in the etiquette department. It comes very close to eating a meal without utensils. If you happen to be in the company of someone who has never seen a fried egg consumed in this manner, it is amusing to watch their reaction. Some people handle the situation by ignoring the act. Others watch in amazement, while others feel it necessary to comment. The comments most generally are of the nature of an inquiry of the habit. Things like “that is interesting, where did you learn to do that?”
Being a dipper since I met my first egg, I was not aware there was another way to eat breakfast. I don’t think I had the opportunity to exhibit my egg eating skills in public, until my first year at Church Camp. While standing in line, we were presented with the choice of eggs prepared in different ways. Naturally , sunny-side up was my selection. Once seated at the park bench like tables, I began my meal consumption by dipping. Seated directly across the table from me was a young lady from another Church in our district. It became readily apparent that dipping was not in fashion at her house. As matter of fact, I don’t think dipping was a practice in her whole town. After my second pass at my egg yolks, I noticed that she appeared to quit breathing and was turning red. Concerned for her safety, I inquired as to her well being. She grunted something alluding to my crude behavior, grabbed her breakfast tray, and disappeared to the other side of the dining room. Barely aware that dipping my eggs was a spectacle to her, I resumed breakfast. Only later did I realize her flashpoint was when my buddy exclaimed “I ain’t never seen anybody eat an egg like that, it was cool”. I was not sure if I should be proud or embarrassed. Every one in my family ate their eggs like that. This did not cause a problem with the young lady and I any longer, because she kept her distance from me for the rest of the week.
On the long bus ride home I had time to ponder my breakfast performance. I was twelve years old and starting to get out in the world. I had always been particular about my appearance and my public presentation. This interaction with members of the opposite sex was not going to be easy. If I was going to have to worry how I ate my breakfast in public, it was going to be a harder process than I thought. It occurred to me that I was going to have to decide if some inherent traits were going to have to be discarded. After several weeks of inner reflection and the pull of years of practice, I decided to remain a dipper. And after having the responsibility of raising my own children, I am proud to report, they are dippers too.
Autumn on my street in the early sixties was a time that has forever lingered in my mind. The smell of burning leaves, Friday night football games and coal being delivered to heat our home are some of the most prominent memories.
After the leaves on the trees had changed colors and fallen to ground it was my job to rake them up for disposal. In our neighborhood we raked everything that had fallen, into the street and lit them on fire. During the months of October and November piles of burning leaves emitted a pungent aroma all over the city. Once the smell becomes committed to your memory, it never seems to leave. Just one whiff and your mind races back to those days of simplicity. The burning piles were to be attended by the owner until they turned to ash. We were often on guard with a garden hose and shovel in the event a sudden wind delivered a little mischief to the yard next door.
The ritual of leaf disposal often took place on the weekends, sometimes with the neighbors offering each other a beverage like hot coffee or cocoa with which to pass the time. Conversation was casual as the embers glowed and the younger kids played. Sometimes before we lighted the fires ,we raked the leaves into large piles and played in them. Running and jumping into a large pile of leaves and burying yourself underneath was a wonderfully simplistic experience. This process was repeated many times during the collection process. Once the fires had burned out and the leaves were gone , we soon returned to the warmth of our homes hoping that there would be more leaves falling next week. These simple experiences that the whole family enjoyed together have been lost to civic regulations and favorite television shows and have become a reason to remain inside during those long cool evenings.
If you were fifteen and it was Friday night, your destination was generally the High School Football game. Being too young to drive, meeting your girlfriend at the game was the accepted practice. It took me an hour to get ready for this date every week. Looking just right was important and the dresser mirror was not always your friend. No self respecting 15 year old male was going on a date without his hair being perfect. This trick was accomplished with a product called Vitalis. It was hair oil for men. With the right amount of this invention a guy could be outside all night without ever having a hair out of place. Once satisfied that the perfect look was achieved, it was time to get to the game. It was preferable to hook a ride with someone your age that had a diver’s license. That was cool. What was not cool was to have your Mom drop you off. If this became your last resort for transportation, she was instructed to drop you off a few blocks away so no one would see you. Once connected with your date at the prearranged meeting spot, the rest of the evening was a mix of pop corn, hand-holding, walking around to be seen and very little conversation. The only thing that was less observed than meaningful conversation, was the football game. The game was the reason to get together, not the entertainment. The satisfaction for the evening was being in the company of a pretty girl. The were no rules but, there were high hopes. Chiefly among these, being the opportunity to walk the young lady home. If that wish was granted, then the next step in the hope department was to get to hold her hand. This was generally accomplished at about the halfway point of the trip. If it happened, this is where conversation seemed to lag. Hand holding and heart palpitations seemed to coincide. If general conversation were attempted it often would come out of the throat in a sound that was akin to a frog talking. So it was best to enjoy the intimacy and minimize communication.
Once arriving at her house, the ritual of saying goodbye commenced. The goal was to solicit a good night kiss but many things could foil this attempt. First she had to signal that it was ok. This was accomplished by a smile and a turn in your direction. This sounds simple enough, but all kinds of things generally went wrong. If you didn’t step on her toes, or knock her off the porch, there was always the inconvenient timing of her Dad turning on the porch light. However, once in a while the stars lined up and lips would touch for just a quick moment. After that it was time to go, because it was entirely possible that the palpitations could turn into a full blown heart attack. I challenge anyone who has ever been the recipient of their first front porch kiss, to recall a time when they were ever more excited. It didn’t take long to get home, no matter how far away it was.
It is now the Autumn of my life and my thoughts often return to that season of the year that leaves fall from the trees. Front porches and football games are indelibly etched on the windows of my mind. I will be forever grateful to my parents for the opportunity to grow up in a small town in Indiana in 1960’s. And when I am thinking about my most important childhood milestones, I always remember the night of that first front porch kiss.
