kimmy doll

At six foot four, the neighbor's father was an imposing figure. The fact that he had one crossed eye made him all the more scary. He was strict and never made conversation or played with us. He was to be feared. And there were so many rules at the neighbor's house. Children were to be home for dinner at a quarter to five and not a minute later... or else.  I think "or else" involved the backside of a hairbrush.

Dinner was served at 5:00 o'clock on the dot. (even the word strict conjurs an erect, tight-necked straight-backed towering image for me to this day)

The kids weren't allowed to go barefoot in the summer as we were.

They had the unbelievable regimen of having to take a bath EVERY NIGHT! My mom was content to let the summer swimming at the public pool  and the saltwater dips at the camp in Maine to soak away the first layer of grime we accumulated. The back to school bath on the other hand involved a scrubbing equal to a Moroccan salt bath.

 One day  I was in the young son David's room sharing a bit of naughtiness. David was about 4 years old and I was six. He was giggling in his rapid-fire staccato, talking about "wieners and hotdogs".

What he couldn't see  but I could was his father standing,  towering in the doorway surveying the situation, his crossed eye scanning the room and bearing down on my young sinful, naughty soul.

I wasn't even doing the talking. My guilt was for listening, witnessing and even enjoying David's oratory.

 My heart sank as I was ordered home immediately. So scared I was that I left my Kimmy doll behind. With a confusing mix of shame and embarrassment I indignantly vowed to never set foot in their house again.
How would I ever get my Kimmy doll back was a pressing concern. How would I explain the tears and solemn vow to boycott their house and get my mother to fetch Kimmy doll without implicating myself?

As you can see nearly 50 years later Kimmy doll in my possession and memory fades as to how I resolved the dilemma.

dishes

There were the little differences that I noticed at the neighbor's house.
That little scrubby sponge that they used to wash dishes. They used Ivory Flakes and perhaps their water was softer too and that would explain the excess of fine foamy bubbles. The suds would foam up through the fine pored sponge. It felt so different from the terry cloth washcloth and detergent we used at home.
 I would beg to have them let me wash dishes. At home it was said that I kept the dishwater warm with my tears. It wasn't until I was a pre-teen that I figured out the perfect routine for washing the dishes for our family of seven on my assigned Saturday night.
The black & white portable TV would be set up on the kitchen counter with the detective show "Mannix" on. I was allowed to stay up until 10:00 on a Saturday night. I would languish over the dishes until my hands were suitably pruney and at the end pick at the softened calluses on my hands, scraping away the dead skin with the sharpest paring knife.
 Usually the next morning I would be in some sort of trouble for leaving a scuzzy sink load of undrained water or ignoring the impossible to scour broiler pan on the opposite counter.
 You would think that my mother would have appreciated my baking endeavors as well but with the rogue mixer spattering the walls like a Pollock painting and the scrim of flour ringing the outer reaches of the counter she hardly thought my treats were worth the mess.