by Ron Padgett
I remember rick-rack earrings.
I remember big brass wall plates of German drinking scenes. (Made in Italy.)
I remember Tab Hunter’s famous pajama party.
I remember mammy cookie jars. Tomato soup. Wax fruit. And church keys.
I remember very long gloves.
I remember a purple violin bottle that hung on the wall with ivy growing out of it.
I remember very old people when I was very young. Their houses smelled funny.
I remember on Halloween, one old lady you had to sing or dance or do something for before she would give you anything.
I remember chalk.
I remember when green blackboards were new.
I remember a backdrop of a brick wall I painted for a play. I painted each red brick in by hand. Afterwards it occurred to me that I could have just painted the whole thing red and put in the white lines.
I remember how much I tried to like Van Gogh. And how much, finally, I did like him. And how much, now, I can’t stand him.
I remember a boy. He worked in a store. I spent a fortune buying things from him I didn’t want. Then one day he wasn’t there anymore.
I remember how sorry I felt for my father’s sister. I thought that she was always on the verge of crying, when actually, she just had hay fever.
I remember the first erection I distinctly remember having. It was by the side of a public swimming pool. I was sunning on my back on a towel. I didn’t know what to do, except turn over, so I turned over. But it wouldn’t go away. I got a terrible sunburn. So bad that I had to go see a doctor. I remember how much wearing a shirt hurt.
I remember the organ music from As the World Turns.
I remember white buck shoes with thick pink rubber soles.
I remember living rooms all one color.
I remember summer naps of no sleeping. And Kool-Aid.
I remember reading Van Gogh’s letters to Theo.
I remember daydreams of dying and how unhappy everybody would be.
I remember daydreams of committing suicide and of the letter I would leave behind.
I remember daydreams of being a dancer and being able to leap higher than anyone thought was humanly possible.
I remember daydreams of being a singer all alone on a big stage with no scenery, just one spotlight on me, singing my heart out, and moving my audience to total tears of love and affection.
I remember driving in cars and doing landscape paintings in my head. (I still do that.)
I remember the tiger lilies alongside the house. I found a dime among them once.
I remember a very little doll I lost under the front porch and never found.
I remember a man who came around with a pony and a cowboy hat and a camera. For so much money he would take your picture on the pony wearing the hat.
I remember the sound of the ice cream man coming.
I remember once losing my nickel in the grass before he made it to my house.
I remember that life was just as serious then as it is now.
I remember “Queers can’t whistle.”
I remember dust storms and yellow skies.
I remember rainy days through a window.
I remember salt shakers at the school cafeteria when the tops had been unscrewed.
I remember a job I once had sketching portraits of people at a coffeehouse. Table to table. During folk singing intermissions. By candlelight.
I remember when a Negro man asked me to paint a big Christmas picture to hang in his picture window at Christmas and I painted a white madonna and child.
I remember one year in school our principal was Mr. Black and my art teacher was Mrs. Black. (They were not married.)
I remember a story my mother telling of an old lady who had a china cabinet filled with beautiful antique china and stuff. One day a tornado came and knocked the cabinet over and to the floor but nothing in it got broken. Many years later she died and in her will she left my father a milk glass candy dish in the shape of a fish. (It had been in the cabinet.) At any rate, when the candy dish arrived it was all broken into many pieces. But my father glued it back together again.
I remember a big black rubber thing going over my mouth and nose just before I had my tonsils taken out. After my tonsils were taken out I remember how my throat felt eating vanilla ice cream.
I remember one morning the milkman handed me a camera. I never did understand exactly why. I’m sure it had something to do with a contest, though.
I remember Marilyn Monroe’s softness in The Misfits.
I remember the gasoline station in the snow in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.
I remember when hoop skirts had a miniature revival.
I remember waking up somewhere once and there was a horse staring me in the face.
I remember sitting on top of a horse and how high up it was.
I remember a chameleon I got at the circus that was supposed to change colors each time he was on a different color, but he only changed from green to brown and from brown back to green. And it was a rather brown-green at that.
I remember never winning at bingo, though I’m sure I must have.
I remember a little girl who had a white rabbit coat and hat and muff. Actually, I don’t remember the little girl. I remember the coat and the hat and the muff.
I remember radio ball game sounds coming from the garage on Saturday afternoons.
I remember hearing stories about why Johnny Ray was such an unhappy person but I can’t remember what the stories were.
I remember the rumor that Dinah Shore was half Negro but that her mother never told her and so when she had a light brown baby she sued her mother for not telling her. (That she was half Negro.)
I remember my father in black-face. As an end man in a minstrel show.
I remember my father in a tutu. As a ballerina dancer in a variety show at church.
I remember Anne Kepler. She played the flute. I remember her straight shoulders. I remember her large eyes. Her slightly roman nose. And her full lips. I remember an oil painting I did of her playing the flute. Several years ago she died in a fire giving a flute concert at a children’s home in Brooklyn. All the children were saved. There was something about her like white marble.
I remember people who went to church only on Easter and Christmas.
I remember cinnamon toothpicks.
I remember cherry Cokes.
I remember pastel-colored rocks that grew in water.
I remember drive-in onion rings.
I remember that the minister’s son was wild.
I remember pearlized plastic toilet seats.
I remember a little boy whose father didn’t believe in dancing and mixed swimming.
I remember when I told Kenward Elmslie that I could play tennis. He was looking for someone to play with and I wanted to get to know him better. I couldn’t even hit the ball but I did get to know him better.
I remember when I didn’t really believe in Santa Claus but I wanted to so badly that I did.
I remember when the Pepsi-Cola Company was on its last leg.
I remember when Negroes had to sit at the back of the bus.
I remember pink lemonade.
I remember paper doll twins.
I remember puffy pastel sweaters. (Angora.)
I remember drinking glasses with girls on them wearing bathing suits but when you filled them up they were naked.
I remember dark red fingernail polish almost black.
I remember that cherries were too expensive.
I remember a drunk man in a tuxedo in a bar who wanted Ron Padgett and me to go home with him but we said no and he gave us all his money.
I remember how many other magazines I had to buy in order to buy one physique magazine.
I remember a climbing red rose bush all over the garage. When rose time came it was practically solid red.
I remember a little boy down the street. Sometimes I would hide one of his toys inside m
y underwear and make him reach in for it.
I remember how unsexy swimming naked in gym class was.
I remember that “Negro men have giant cocks.”
I remember that “Chinese men have little cocks.”
I remember a girl in school one day who, just out of the blue, went into a long spiel all about how difficult it was to wash her brother’s pants because he didn’t wear underwear.
I remember slipping underwear into the washer at the last minute (wet dreams) when my mother wasn’t looking.
I remember a giant gold man taller than most buildings at “The Tulsa Oil Show.”
I remember trying to convince my parents that not raking leaves was good for the grass.
I remember that I liked dandelions all over the yard.
I remember that my father scratched his balls a lot.
I remember very thin belts.
I remember James Dean and his red nylon jacket.
I remember thinking how embarrassing it must be for men in Scotland to have to wear skirts.
I remember when Scotch tape wasn’t very transparent.
I remember how little your dick is, getting out of a wet bathing suit.
I remember saying “thank you” when the occasion doesn’t call for it.
I remember shaking big hands.
I remember saying “thank you” in reply to “thank you” and then the other person doesn’t know what to say.
I remember getting erections in school and the bell rings and how handy zipper notebooks were.
I remember zipper notebooks. I remember that girls hugged them to their breasts and that boys carried them loosely at one side.
I remember trying to make a new zipper notebook look old.
I remember never thinking Ann Miller beautiful.
I remember thinking that my mother and father were ugly naked.
I remember when I found a photograph of a woman naked from the waist up with very big tits and I showed it to a boy at school and he told the teacher about it and the teacher asked to see it and I showed it to her and she asked me where I got it and I said that I found it on the street. Nothing happened after that.
I remember peanut butter and banana sandwiches.
I remember jeweled sweaters with fur collars open to the waist.
I remember the Box Car Twins.
I remember not looking at crippled people.
I remember Mantovani and his (100 Strings?).
I remember a woman with not much neck. On her large feet she always wore bright-colored suede platform shoes. My mother said they were very expensive.
I remember corrugated ribbon that you ran across the blade of a pair of scissors and it curled all up.
I remember that I never cried in front of other people.
I remember how embarrassed I was when other children cried.
I remember the first art award I ever won. In grade school. It was a painting of a nativity scene. I remember a very large star in the sky. It won a blue ribbon at the fair.
I remember when I started smoking I wrote my parents a letter and told them so. The letter was never mentioned and I continued to smoke.
I remember how good wet dreams were.
I remember a roller coaster that went out over a lake.
I remember visions (when in bed but not asleep yet) of very big objects becoming very small and of very small objects becoming very big.
I remember seeing colors and designs by closing my eyes very tightly.
I remember Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun.
I remember bright-colored aluminum drinking glasses.
I remember “The Swing” dance.
I remember “The Chicken.”
I remember “The Bop.”
I remember monkeys who did modern paintings and won prizes.
I remember “I like to be able to tell what things are.”
I remember “Any little kid could do that.”
I remember “Well, it may be good but I just don’t understand it.”
I remember “I like the colors.”
I remember “You couldn’t give it to me.”
I remember “It’s interesting.”
I remember Bermuda shorts and knee-length socks.
I remember the first time I saw myself in a full-length mirror wearing Bermuda shorts. I never wore them again.
I remember playing doctor with Joyce Vantries. I remember her soft white belly. Her large navel. And her little slit between her legs. I remember rubbing my ear against it.
I remember Lois Lane. And Della Street.
I remember jerking off to sexual fantasies of Troy Donahue with a dark tan in a white bathing suit down by the ocean. (From a movie with Sandra Dee.)
I remember sexual fantasies of making it with a stranger in the woods.
I remember sexual fantasies in white tile shower rooms. Hard and slippery. Abstract and steamy. Wet body to wet body. Slippery, fast, and squeaky.
I remember sexual fantasies of seducing young country boys (but old enough): Pale and blond and eager.
I remember jerking off to sexual fantasies involving John Kerr. And Montgomery Clift.
I remember a very wet dream with J. J. Mitchell in a boat.
I remember jerking off to visions of body details.
I remember navels. Torso muscles. Hands. Arms with large veins. Small feet. (I like small feet.) And muscular legs.
I remember underarms where the flesh is softer and whiter.
I remember blond heads. White teeth. Thick necks. And certain smiles.
I remember underwear. (I like underwear.) And socks.
I remember the wrinkles and creases of fabric being worn.
I remember tight white T-shirts and the gather of wrinkles from under the arms.
I remember sexual fantasies of old faded worn and torn blue jeans and the small areas of flesh revealed. I especially remember torn back pockets with a triangle of soft white bottom showing.
I remember a not very pleasant sexual dream involving Kenward Elmslie’s dog Whippoorwill.
I remember green Easter egg grass.
I remember never really believing in the Easter bunny. Or the sandman. Or the tooth fairy.
I remember bright-colored baby chickens. (Dyed.) They died very fast. Or ran away. Or something. I just remember that shortly after Easter they disappeared.
I remember farts that smell like old eggs.
I remember one very hot summer day I put ice cubes in my aquarium and all the fish died.
I remember dreams of walking down the street and suddenly realizing that I have no clothes on.
I remember a big black cat named Midnight who got so old and grouchy that my parents had him put to sleep.
I remember making a cross of two sticks for something my brother and I buried. It might have been a cat but I think it was a bug or something.
I remember regretting things I didn’t do.
I remember wishing I knew then what I know now.
I remember peach-colored evenings just before dark.
I remember “lavender past.” (He has a . . . )
I remember Greyhound buses at night.
I remember wondering what the bus driver is thinking about.
I remember empty towns. Green tinted windows. And neon signs just as they go off.
I remember (I think) lavender-tinted windows on one bus.
I remember tricycles turned over on front lawns. Snowball bushes. And plastic duck families.
I remember glimpses of activity in orange windows at night.
I remember little cows.
I remember that there is always one soldier on every bus.
I remember small ugly modern churches.
I remember that I can never remember how bathroom doors in buses open.
I remember donuts and coffee. Stools. Pasted-over prices. And gray people.
I remember wondering if the person sitting across from me is queer.
I remember rainb
ow-colored grease spots on the pavement after a rain.
I remember undressing people (in my head) walking down the street.
I remember, in Tulsa, a red sidewalk that sparkled.
I remember being hit on the head by bird shit two times.
I remember how exciting a glimpse of a naked person in a window is even if you don’t really see anything.
I remember “Autumn Leaves.”
I remember a very pretty German girl who just didn’t smell good.
I remember that Eskimos kiss with their noses. (?)
I remember that the only friends my parents had who owned a swimming pool also owned a funeral parlor.
I remember laundromats at night all lit up with nobody in them.
I remember a very clean Catholic book-gift shop with practically nothing in it to buy.
I remember rearranging boxes of candy so it would look like not so much was missing.
I remember brown and white shoes with little decorative holes cut out of them.
I remember certain group gatherings that are hard to get up and leave from.
I remember alligators and quicksand in jungle movies. (Pretty scary.)
I remember opening jars that nobody else could open.
I remember making home-made ice cream.
I remember that I liked store-bought ice cream better.
I remember hospital supply store windows.
I remember stories of what hot dogs are made of.
I remember Davy Crockett hats. And Davy Crockett just about everything else.
I remember not understanding why people on the other side of the world didn’t fall off.
I remember wondering why, if Jesus could cure sick people, why He didn’t cure all sick people.
I remember wondering why God didn’t use his powers more to end wars and stop polio. And stuff like that.
I remember “Love Me Tender.”
I remember trying to realize how big the world really is.
I remember trying to figure out what it’s all about. (Life.)
I remember catching lightning bugs and putting them in a jar with holes in the lid and then letting them out the next day.
I remember making clover blossom chains.
I remember in Boston a portrait of Isabella Gardner by Whistler.
I remember in Tulsa my first one-man show of brush and ink drawings of old-fashioned children. They were so intricate and fine that nobody could believe that I did them with a brush. But I did.