'E' is For Elephant-And I Can Spell Pachyderm

By Donna J. Burr

From the beginning, the DeHaven's first child was a quiet little girl; ordinary, like any other girl.
With the exception of her mother, few people recognized her potential.
Frequently being labelled a liar by her favorite cousin and a mischief- maker aunt, did not help her situation.
In the aftermath of World War II, and encouraged by her mother to read anything and everything, Maddie began reading her parents' encyclopedia—from A to Z.  
Born on a U.S. Army base where her father was stationed during the war, and by now at an advanced age, it was time to explore those memories.
Truthful as ever, even in old age, Maddie DeHaven tells the story of her not-so-ordinary, formative events from her earliest recollections. Promises kept, and promises broken, filled her life—from A to Z.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna J. Burr
• Release date: Dec 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223284406

Book preview

Prologue

Do the memories of a very small child matter?

You ask, What could a small child have to say? One must live first and learn proper words.

I ask, How many encounters must be lived? How many words must be known?

Having my childhood veracity frequently doubted - you must be spinning one big fat lie - my natural candor withered under such disapproval.  

The memories, however survived. Innately reserved and inclined to ruminate, I bottled certain incidents within, left untouched and fermenting for ages.

At long last, the fermentation is complete. The memories bubble for release. Memories, soft and hard, all tangled together, often burst into the light, unbidden and razor-sharp.

What choice remains, but to expose this patchwork of events? COME HELL OR HIGH WATER!

Chapter One

In The Beginning

Their baby’s entry into the tumultuous world should not have been such a shock for the dazed new father. Arthur’s young wife, Maisie, informed him of the pregnancy in the beginning. Indeed, so not to be forgotten in the fog of their fifth relocation in two years, Maisie wrote DUE DATE , obscuring November 25 on her 1943, Victory Gardens wall calendar.

With unexpected precision, my arrival happened on Maisie’s due date; early morning, Thanksgiving Day. Too exhausted to care about the holiday, she slept through the hospital’s offering of a tepid tray of turkey and cup of vanilla pudding.

Arthur enjoyed turkey and all the trimmings, with the other men who trailed in and out of the officer’s mess. Around a mouthful of turkey dressing, Arthur complained to another young officer, What am I supposed to do with a 1-pound chicken, some kind of orange squash thing, and a bunch of string beans in our refrigerator while she’s gone for a week?

The other fellow shook his head and shrugged. Don’t know. I’m not married.

During World War Two, the U.S. Army had seen fit to transfer First Lieutenant Arthur DeHaven to Camp Beauregard, Louisiana, the month before Maisie’s due date. The war, the upcoming holiday, and my impending birth paused for no one.

Perhaps Arthur’s domestic blunders were understandable. The baffled young man had mind-boggling duties at base headquarters, liaising, in some capacity, for the camp commander.

I wish I had a week’s vacation in the hospital with my feet up and getting waited on, Arthur thought, going back for more turkey and dressing, and the cranberry sauce he’d missed on the first pass. Can’t wait for everything to be back to normal.

MAISIE’S vacation ended. She and the baby came home. Normal did not.

After settling her infant in the bassinet, she opened the refrigerator for a glass of orange juice and gagged. Holding her breath for longer than she thought possible, she wrapped old newspaper around the fetid 1-pound chicken, the spongy butternut squash and limp, brownish string beans and hustled the rancid package out to the trash bin. Lord, help me, she must have thought while breathing in the fresh air. The man could have eaten on these for most of the week. Guess I’ll make do for a while. Maisie grew up with a make do family; so she did.

Days later, and on Arthur’s way out the door to HQ, his wife gave him a short list. He grumbled, The PX again? Laundry soap? Spam? Why spend money for Spam, Maisie, when we still have two boxes of Cream of Wheat in the cupboard?

Where is his mind? That’ll be the day he tolerates Cream of Wheat for supper, Maisie thought. She telephoned HQ before Arthur could get to his desk and left a message: Add 2 cans of Spam and 6 potatoes. She would deal with his ire later.

Simultaneous with my beginning, First Lieutenant Arthur DeHaven also received perplexing new orders that would dislodge him from his cushy desk assignment:

Teach the grunts to shoot straight and confront head on whatever maelstrom they meet, come hell or high water!

The all-knowing Army brass overruled the base commander and reassigned the commander’s trusty aide. They did not consider that city boy, Arthur, had never fired a gun. They needed an immediate replacement for the previous instructor, who suddenly went AWOL - hiding in the Louisiana swamps.

Unbeknownst to the brass, Arthur had slipped through the cracks on the firearm portion of basic training, thanks to four impacted wisdom teeth extractions. Tooth pain and swollen jaw now long forgotten, Arthur realized his good fortune and accepted the assignment with gratitude and grace. No Europe, nor Africa, or South Pacific in his immediate future.

A quick study, young Lieutenant DeHaven read the firearm manual overnight, disassembled and reassembled a rifle one time. Ready enough, the next morning he hurried to the firing range, sweating through his fatigues, though the November heat and humidity measured at all-time lows.

His solitary brush with death came from an accidental round triggered by another clueless city boy like himself. The other grunts were bayou boys who knew the difference between a trigger and a deer tick.

At the providential moment, Arthur ducked to swat a pesky Louisiana buffalo gnat, luckily surviving the errant bullet.

One of the local boys mumbled, Why’d that ole gnat attack Lieutenant? Them are chicken gnats and don’t never tack people. Maybe LT’s Yankee sweat got ‘em mixed up.

Arthur’s duck from death, and what could have been, vexed him. Maybe I should have signed up with the Navy instead and avoided these miserable bugs.

Join the Navy? Absurd! Even the Orders suggestion of high water gave him shudders. Arthur had never dipped a toe in any high water—bathtubs excluded. He could not swim and did not care to. Feet were meant for terra firma. He volunteered for the Army to avoid the Navy. Drowning at sea held no allure for the city boy.

As it happened, Arthur’s prime aptitude was for Gregg Shorthand. He held a civilian award to prove his skill with the fast and mighty pen.

TWO YEARS LATER, AT the wars’ end and newly promoted to Captain, young DeHaven received a new mission; tasks more suited to his desk-jockey skills:

Help organize the reconstruction of Manila, capitol city of the Philippines.

Days before shipping out on an overcrowded troop ship to the Philippines, Arthur assisted Maisie, and toddler me, aboard a northern bound train. Settled into a cozy sleeper compartment, we girls were finally freed from the chance of more nomadic relocations between stateside Army bases.

My mother’s palpable relief, coupled with the rocking train and clicking tracks, had to have soothed my rambunctious toddler nature. Surely Maisie enjoyed the three luxurious days. Play with the baby and relax. We were about to spend the welcome year ahead, living with her sizable clan in Watertown, New York.

ADDING MAISIE AND TODDLER me to the ten already living in the cramped Bauer house on Water Street proved not to be the extreme hardship one might imagine, despite ongoing rationing.

Maisie’s parents, hard-working, newly naturalized citizens, declared to their brood, What is one more? Move over, squeeze in, do not complain. Every adult and child pulled their weight, no job or task beneath their dignity. Bills were paid, and because of their city farming, no one starved.

Mother and I were content; this she conveyed to me years later.

IMMEDIATELY AFTER ARTHUR’S military discharge, he detoured to his hometown, Rochester, before driving up to Watertown. When he arrived at the in-laws’ house, he lifted me for his first fatherly hug in over a year.

To those who witnessed the reunion, my terrified screams shattered eardrums.

I imagine my mother said, Say, Daddy, . . . Daddy, Honeylamb. This is your father. We’re going to a new home now.

Daddy. Father. Unfamiliar new words to me.

Prior to collecting us, Arthur, my Daddy/ Father, had quickly purchased a nondescript, two-family house in Rochester, New York, and then promptly extracted his little family from the loving nest of Maisie’s family.

I soon observed that, from Mommy’s point of view, we might as well have been shuttled off to the moon; not that I knew what shuttled meant at the time—limited vocabulary and all.

Chapter Two

Sunshine and Starry Nights

An immense curiosity and awareness of things other than myself blossomed at age three. In my case, with above average perception for a toddler, it was a massive awakening. The abrupt removal from my grandparent’s house by the stranger known as Daddy may have been the catalyst.

I felt the difference immediately. Perhaps relocating to a family wasteland had something to do with my perception. Despite Watertown and Rochester coexisting in the same lake-effect snow belt, Rochester seemed the more horrible city. We suffered cold for three-quarters of the year, and unsettled weather patterns for the rest. Compared to Rochester, the cold at my grandparent’s home seemed insignificant.

I’ve come to a thoroughly unscientific theory regarding my reaction to cold:  a miraculous gene-mutation happened at my birth. I believe that being born into the tropical warmth of Louisiana firmly implanted my distaste for certain cold weather. Who’s to argue?

The weather aside, and to be fair, not every northern moment caused distress. Tragedy did not lurk around every corner; not at first.

EYES OPENED OR CLOSED, the view of our Champlain Street, Rochester backyard is clear. Seared into my retina, the afterimage refuses to fade.

I am there, standing next to the multicolor, miniature flowers that overflow the narrow plot next to one neighbor’s wire fence. The ever-changing confetti of blossoms randomly covers parts of the cement walk, creating a living hopscotch path for me to leap through, from our back door to Rough Alley.

The aptly named alley twinkles prismatically from ground-in broken glass. Brilliant colors on sunny days. I can almost ignore the rank garbage cans flanking the crumbled pavement.

Just the other day I begged neighbor teen, Willie, to let me ride his man-sized, rusty bicycle. My bruised knees and shins were revolting against my outgrown tricycle. Watching the big boy fly by on a two-wheeler, free as a bird, had me lusting (my adult word) after a real bike. I really, really wanted a big bike!

It didn’t matter about my small size. Willie nodded and snickered, obviously amused by my request.

I never expected he’d say, "Okay, squirt." I figured the big boy must be bored, but I didn’t dare question him.

He held his bike upright for me to step on the dented chain guard and clamber up. My toes barely touched the slippery, bare metal pedals. I tried but couldn’t keep my behind from sliding off the ragged padding he’d taped on the metal seat.

Can’t reach and sit, Willie! I whined.

Never mind, pipsqueak. Quit complainin’. Willie rolled his eyes. Just stand on the pedals. Here. We. Goooo!

I performed magnificently until, without warning, he gave a powerful shove and released the heavy bike from his grip.

"Arrgh! Nooo . . ."  I jetted forward, waggled uncontrollably, and became airborne, making a spectacular landing on all fours. The set free bicycle lurched on until a row of garbage cans grabbed it, without losing much of their reeking contents.

Crapola! My bike! Willie screamed, his eyes popping.

Really? He’s worried about the bike? I thought it looked perfectly at home nestled within the garbage cans.

He lifted his treasured bike, dusted it off, speaking to it like it was his best girl. Ooh, gee whiz, you alright?

He bent down and actually smooched the ragged padded seat.

Hey! What about me? I struggled from under the pile-up. Glittering glass shards deeply imbedded my knees and paws; dark red bubbles already popped up from the cuts. I couldn’t help my tears. I’d bitten my tongue too, but stifled a scream until I reached the house, oozing blood, and minus bits of skin.

Mommy! I wailed, slamming in the kitchen screened door.

Good Lord! What on earth? Mommy dropped the bedsheet ironing and pulled me to the bathroom. Sit on the toilet lid while I tweezer out the slivers. Lord in heaven, how’d you . . .?

I couldn’t speak, choking on tears and a swollen tongue.

She propped me on the toilet lid. Try to sit still, and here, she wet a washcloth with cold water. Cover your face with this cloth and keep it there, she instructed.

With each sliver of glass extracted, the tiled walls reverberated with, Eek! Yikes! Oh God! That was Mommy.

I moaned into the wet washcloth. My tears and a metallic tang saturated the soggy fabric.

She finished the operation and dabbed fiery iodine on my hands and knees. Only then did I shriek, Yow! It burns!

Hush! You’re done, she sighed and gently pressed most of the box of band-aids over my wounds. Don’t do this again. We’re out of band-aids.

I mumbled thickly, Wha bou m’ tong? 

Your tongue will stop bleeding on its own. Spit it out if it bothers you. She left me sitting on the toilet lid and returned to bedsheet ironing.

I think she mumbled, Lord, help me.

My supply of tears suddenly ran dry—as had Mommy’s sympathy. Naturally I ran back outside to try it again.

Still in the alley, Willie rubbed at a dirty wheel with his grubby tee shirt and picked off random peels of rust that had eaten away most of the rear fender.

He growled, No way am I ever lettin’ a runt like you on my bike again, scram! He hustled home with his decrepit sweetheart.

I had admired Willie—he had an adult bike. Not anymore. A big person calling me a runt shattered my fragile psyche. I couldn’t help that I was small. It wasn’t my fault.

Returning to my own yard, I was in too much pain to jump and play hopscotch between the portulaca confetti-petals on the sidewalk. With nothing else to do, I spent the afternoon in my sandbox, reclining on an imaginary beach and burying my body up to my knees. All my wanting and wishing did nothing to produce a warm lake and gentle waves to wash away my pain and disappointment.

AFTER SUPPER, BOREDOM and the lure of sweetly scented portulacas drew me back outdoors. Carefully lowering myself to the cool grass, trying to keep the band-aids from popping off, I sniffed the delicate flower scent and briefly considered the bike episode.

Maybe I’ll get a bike for my birthday in November. I’ll be healed by then. If not, then maybe I can write a letter to Santa.

Sullenly squashing flower petals between my fingers, I moaned, "Yeah, right . . . like I got the lake I had wished for all day. Wishing doesn’t work. Suddenly my hope dissolved.  Maybe I’ll stick with flowers; they can’t hurt me."

FOR SOMEONE LEARNING to read, words with more than five letters, like portulaca, are big words. The seed packets were handy primers. When Mommy planted anything, she patiently repeated the seed packet words until I could read the instructions myself.

I helped with all the seed planting, my index fingers the perfect size to puncture soil and make seed nests. On the opposite side of the lawn, we even seeded a wider patch. Mommy splurged some of her hard-saved pennies to fill in with a few full-grown plants. ‘Happy plants’ she named them.

Pretty plants need happy plants, sort of like having good friends if they are to thrive, she insisted.

Demonstrating, she gently pinched a Snapdragon’s plump cheeks, showing me a flowery grin. 

Do you hear that? She asked. Put your ear close, Honeylamb. This is one happy, snappy Dragon.

Already on my hands and knees, my nose next to the Snapdragon’s pinched face, I declared, I do hear something, Mommy.

If she heard it, I heard it. And she didn’t stop there.

In an effort to make our dull grey house more attractive, Mommy looked upward to expand her beautification project. Unfazed by soaring heights or rationed funds, she planned.

One Monday morning, I found her in the backyard wearing a faded old apron over her slacks and blouse,