"PALS": The Greatest Invention

“The Greatest Invention”

We each had a project to create in the second grade. We were expected to stand in front of the class and talk about it. There was no way I could ask my alcoholic parents for help. I had to come up with my own idea. Flash cameras were quite the rage back then. It was fun to watch the big bulbs explode catching a piece of history. It was also fun to watch the people taking pictures burn their fingertips when removing the scalding hot and then useless bulbs. They would jockey the hot bulb back and forth between one hand and another. The seasoned photographers would quickly move the scalding bulb among their fingers and thumb on just one hand waiting for it to cool. I especially liked that part. The whole process reminded me of the St. Vitus Dance.

My idea was to make my own version of a new camera. The supplies included a shoebox, aluminum foil, paper grocery sacks, colored pencils, and a set of encyclopedias. I stole the foil from the lower third drawer of our kitchen cabinets to the left of the sink. I hid the foil inside my woolen parka that day as I walked the half block to Audubon. I cut through Mrs. Cierney’s yard and sat down in the snow with my back propped up against her dilapidated garage by the alley.

I had to hide out in there so I wouldn’t be discovered creating my camera. Older kids might beat me up and destroy my work. Other mothers might tell Ma and I would be in real trouble. I could possibly get a whipping from the Old Man. Each yard had clotheslines strung across the grass and the lines were on the long sticks with a ‘v’ cut into one end. It was the ‘v’ end that supported the line ladened with clothes during warm months. Had this project been given to us during those times I would have easily hid behind the clothes. That particular day all the poles were neatly tucked away in garages, garages so rickety that they were almost falling down. But like an engineer at Eastman Kodak, I was laser focused on my invention.

A few days earlier I had taken paper grocery sacks and cut them to fit perfectly into the shoebox. Then I stole some of Ma’s carbon paper and carefully traced pictures of animals I found in our set of Encyclopedia Britannica. After that I used the colored pencil set I got for Christmas from some nice guy at the Elk’s Lodge. He adopted my family because we were poor. Those folks at the Lodge sure were kind to us, and a lot more families like us. They were a real Godsend. All of us kids in my family had nice gifts that year.

I created an ‘ABCs of Animals’. Each letter had a corresponding picture attached to it with tape. There I was with twenty-six pieces of old grocery sacks cut perfectly to fit into the shoe box. I colored each one, never once going over the traced lines. I placed each animal picture in order from A-Z into the box. I was bursting with pride that day sitting in the snow and putting it all together. The wind and sub-zero temperature never daunted me a bit! I crinkled the aluminum foil to give it the appearance of a futuristic camera. I covered the shoebox - lid and all. I ran to school knowing I would be the best in the class. I hung my winter coat on the hook in the coatroom put my mittens in the pockets, and removed my black rubber boots. Sitting in the back of the room, I could hardly wait for my turn to share my invention with the class.

Right after the pledge and we started the big day. God, I was bored when all the other kids got up and did what I thought were stupid things. I felt that way because of “critical thinking” I learned a year earlier.

One kid made an ant killer with a magnifying glass he won from a Cracker-Jack box. All of us boys knew that old trick. Betsy demonstrated how to set a table correctly. That also was stupid. We were taught that activity at home. She even brought in a set of little dishes. I heard Miss Miller say, ”Dave, it is your turn. Come to the front.”

I walked past Anna Schultz who stuck her tongue out at me while I blew a puff of air through my pursed lips in her direction. Her tongue trick didn’t offend me. I was going to be the best inventor that day.

I explained my ‘ABCs of Animals’ and began to pull them from my “camera box.” However, there was just one problem. I had wrapped the entire box in aluminum foil. I should have wrapped the big part of the box and then the top separately. My fingers fumbled as I tried prying off the lid. I was so upset I just ripped the lid off. There it was, my perfect invention with chunks of aluminum foil hanging off the cover. Parts of my camera box were bare of any covering at all. I tore some of the foil off the lid and attempted to patch the bare spots on the box. A roomful of snickers began. I bit my cheek and looked around to see who thought this was funny. They would go on my enemy-list for sure the next time we had playground. After making the corrections I was ready.

I told them, “A is for ape,” as I made a clicking sound with my tongue as if to take a picture.

The entire class including, Miss Miller roared as I held up a zebra. “Damn, Son of a Bitch!”  I thought as I instantly realized I placed all animals into the box in the wrong order. I was a failure. Those cuss words were learned from the older boys who hung around at the elm tree on our playground. I also heard those words nightly from my dad at supper. That was my first attempt at public speaking. I was a failure. The laughter of all the kids and the teacher threw off my concentration and I fumbled my way to the end. Nobody clapped that day for me.

I was especially upset with Miss “Turkey” Miller for laughing at me. She was our teacher and should have known better. The reason we called her “Turkey” was her skin texture. It was all wrinkled and hung off her face and drug across her collar when she turned her head right and left. That skin was so heavy it pulled her jaw into the open position and that was where it remained. She had a long narrow face with the mouth stuck open and lip stick sometimes on her teeth.

She was another spinster schoolteacher who stunk. Whenever she’d lean over me to check my printing I’d hold my breath. The perfume was more than a boy of seven should have to bear. When I did have to breathe, I developed a technique of raising my tongue to the roof of my mouth and sucked air in without it going through my nose first. I called it my “Stink Stopper”. I shared it with all the boys on playground. I saw them doing my Stink Stopper whenever they were too close to Turkey Miller. I was glad I could help out.

I never noticed the fumes of dead animals from the Pack that permeated our neighborhood. But I sure enough noticed and didn’t like those nasty vapors of “P. U. Perfume” those elementary school teachers wore. I wondered if that’s why they always carried a lace hanky stuck in their sleeves or hooked to their bra straps. It could have been used as a barrier to avoid another teacher’s perfume odor. I guess maybe, I should have taught the teachers my Stink Stopper as well.

At 3:30 that afternoon I drug myself up the alley towards home when I came upon Mrs. Johnson burning trash in a fifty gallon barrel at the back side of her yard. The snow was blowing sideways and the only comfort I felt was turning my head to the left inside of my parka. I had to look with my right eye through the parka so I didn’t trip. I’m not certain if it was humiliation from my camera disaster, or the Iowa winter that made me feel awful. Inside that hooded garment and all alone, I found comfort.

I asked Mrs. Johnson if I could throw something into her burn barrel. She kindly obliged. With mitten-covered hands I ripped and tore all the photos I had in the box. Like a Harlem Globetrotter, I did slam-dunks with each shred of paper I found in my small grip. Some scraps of my artwork fell to the ground and were pulverized by my black rubber boots. Other pieces fell into the opening of my boots that were not fastened, because I had been in a hurry to leave school that day.

There was melted snow and mud that surrounded the hot, rusty barrel. I slipped and slid as I cussed like no seven year-old in the history of mankind. Mrs. Johnson just stood there with her toothless mouth wide open and knew better than to say a thing. I was probably a miniature of her husband. We heard him beating her on a regular basis in other seasons when the windows were opened. The shoebox and papers burned away into ashes. The aluminum foil lost its luster and would not go away. The radiant dream of my special camera was now tarnished like the singed foil. My memory of that dreadful event was like the aluminum foil.

I have another aluminum foil memory that happened the following spring at Mother’s Day. I cut little pictures out of magazines, and using flower and water I made a paste. I then pasted the pictures on to a piece of paper titled “Why I Love My Mom.” Each picture represented something different. I then crinkled the foil and pulled it back straight. I curled the edges and ends around my pictures to keep them in place. Using discarded wrapping from a previous holiday, I wrapped it and gave to Ma. She opened it and said, “Uh-Huh.”

Later I found my gift wadded up into a ball and stuck down in the garbage. Despite all the years that have passed, I still think of those events periodically when I use aluminum foil.