My Deprived Childhood

I like to claim I had a deprived childhood. Somehow my parents kept me from developing into a full and complete person because of the numerous joys that I missed out on during the 18 years I resided with them.

However, deprived is far from the truth. My parents always kept a roof over my head and I had more toys than I knew what to do with. As the recently unearthed photos from my younger ages proved, food was NEVER in short supply in the Asplund house. Overall, despite a few bumps and lumps, I feel I turned out just swell.

Deep inside, I always wondered if there was SOMETHING that I missed along the way. Every so often I encounter a reminder of my supposed deprivation and wonder, “What if?”

Slip and Slide
Recently, I overheard a near tantrum thrown by one of the neighbor children. Apparently this child had his heart set on going to the YMCA to ride the waterslide, but his parents were making him settle for the Slip and Slide they had hastily set up in the front yard. The child was less than amused and he was expressing his displeasure in an unholy combination of screams, yells, cries, and possible convulsions.

I wanted to run over and tell this child how lucky he was to even have a slip and slide. Growing up, water play for my sister and I consisted of leaping over a lawn sprinkler in my parents sand-burr infested front yard. Every other trip through the sprinkler had to be followed up by a de-thorning of sorts.

Then one day my sister and I saw the Slip and Slide commercial on television. We HAD to have one. There was much begging every time we loaded up the Ford Taurus to head over to the old, dumpy Target on Coon Rapids Boulevard. The answer was always no. My sister and I were defeated.

Then came my sister’s creative idea. We would combine an old brown tarp we found in the garage and the sprinkler into a half-assed Slip and Slide. The idea seemed great in theory. Unknown to us what the fact that the woven plastic texture of the tarp was nothing like the smooth, frictionless high-tech plastic of the store bought Slip and Slide. After five tries my sister and I neither slipped, not slid. Our bodies were covered in red welts that took on the same grid-like relief of the old brown tarp. We left the tarps on the lawn and sulked with defeat back into the house. We would never slip, nor slide.


Kohl’s and Cool Shoes
For the most part, I avoid shopping at Kohl’s. I usually only visit Kohl’s when basic clothing and household needs arise and I feel to lazy to drive to the actual mall. Kohl’s should appeal to my sense of value, and their business model affords one the opportunity to purchase a wide variety of household and clothing needs at reasonable price points. They do offer some fashion-forward merchandise, but to access it one must dig through piles of non-humorous Family Guy t-shirts and shoddily assembled Daisy Fuentes handbags.

Residing deep inside me is the sadness that always resulted from my childhood back-to-school shopping trips to the now-defunct Kohl’s store at the Northtown Mall. I was convinced that my elementary school social ills had only one cure, cool shoes. Not just any shoes, but a pair of Nikes. After all, blaming my lack of friends on my shoes was much easier than admitting to the fact that I was (and still am) a complete dork.

To this day, I have an exceptionally wide foot and off-the-shelf Nikes will not fit me. As a child, I prayed that my wide foot would go away and I could magically become the cool kid with Nikes. Sometimes I would feel angry at the Nike company and their narrow shoes, as I felt the were conspiring to squelch any hope I ever had of ascending through Westwood Elementary’s social caste system.

Each year’s trip to Kohl’s would end with me resigning myself to a pair of British Knights or even worse: a pair of Avias. Nikes would mean playground games of four square and possible admission to the fringes of the cool kid table at lunch. Avias meant playing tetherball by yourself and dining alongside the creepy kid who I am pretty sure is on one of those sex offender registries now. I still long for some Nikes and hope that I can finally be accepted amongst the cool kids.


Starter Jackets
To match their Nikes, all of the cool kids at Westwood Elementary had Starter jackets. The usual suspect teams were the Chicago Bulls, Charlotte Hornets, and Dallas Cowboys. If I couldn’t have cool shoes, maybe I could have a cool jacket.

Starter jackets were also newsworthy because supposedly elementary-aged children were being shot over them on a daily basis. My mother was convinced that a Starter jacket would lead to my eventual mugging on the sketchy and dangerous sidewalks of Blaine, Minnesota.

I take comfort in knowing that the Starter brand has fallen from its former glory. Walmarts across the country are now loaded to the gills with $7.96 Starter workout shorts. A fitting punishment for the company I blame for keeping me uncool in the 1990s.

The Slap Bracelet
In third grade, everyone who was everyone had a slap bracelet or two. I did not own a slap bracelet and again I was on the outside of trendy looking in. My mother did not believe in spending money on such ridiculous wastes.

Soon after the craze began, the news media exposed the dirty secret behind the snap bracelet. The snapping action was created by a sharp piece of metal embedded inside the bracelet. The news warned that the metal would slice open the hands of unsuspecting children, leading to nearly instantaneous death by exsanguination. Not only were the bracelets a waste of money, but my mom also had media hysteria on her side when she said no.

My deprived childhood is now expressed in writing. Writing is far cheaper than a therapist's couch. Will you be my friend, even if I shop at Kohl’s and lack a Slip and Slide?

Pie Shop Therapy

An afternoon of running errands with Great Grandma often entailed some sort of trip to Baker’s Square. The meal was usually mediocre, but the pie that followed was always amazing. As the years went by, I started doing the driving instead of Great Grandma. What never changed is that Great Grandma ALWAYS paid.

Great Grandma said that she needed to pay for the meal because she was using my gas as I drove her about. Of course, she usually insisted on stopping at Costco on the way home so she could fill my gas tank as well. “You’re in college,” was her usual excuse.

I graduated from college and moved back in with my parents and Great Grandma after my efforts to find a full-time teaching job fizzled. There was still lunch and pie, but never at my expense.

I managed to land my first full-time teaching gig in 2005, few days before Christmas. The next day, I took Great Grandma on an excursion to finish her gift shopping and of course we needed lunch and pie. I figured today would be my treat, as I was excited about my new job and I wanted to celebrate.

In my attempt to pay, I was slapped by Great Grandma and informed that I was unable to afford to take people to lunch “on a schoolteacher’s salary.” The Saturday trips to Target and the hair salon continued and still I never paid for lunch and pie.

The school year wound to a close and I was informed that my services would no longer be needed in Becker, Minnesota. Clark County had impeccable timing, having their early offer of employment waiting for me in my mailbox the day I received the axe. Another new opportunity was upon me and there was another reason to celebrate. However, Great Grandma still insisted on paying for lunch and pie on those trips to Baker’s Square.

With my relocation to Nevada in 2006, the trips to Baker’s Square were relegated to three or four times a year. I would gladly give up a day of each of my visits to take Great Grandma shopping or to the hair salon. Still, the lunch and pie was on Great Grandma. “You need to live on that schoolteacher salary,” she often said. I often wondered if she thought that I was completely destitute and living in a cardboard box. In fact, she still insisted on slipping me grocery money each time I came to visit. I would always try to refuse, but she never had it. “It’s a pity what they pay you schoolteachers,” as she forced the money into my hand.

This past Christmas (2009) came along and I struggled for days trying to figure out what to get Great Grandma for Christmas. At the age of 93, she quite possibly owned everything. Finally, I decided that her gift would be a certificate declaring that we would go to lunch at a restaurant of her choice at my expense.

Unfortunately, the scheduling never quite worked out and the lunch did not happen during my Christmas visit. The night before I flew home, Great Grandma reminded me that in fact owed her lunch and that she would be “collecting” during my next visit to Minnesota. Great Grandma hellbent on receiving her lunch and pie, even if it meant a little chunk out of my “pitiful schoolteacher salary.”

Great Grandma never collected upon her gift. She passed away on March 22, 2010. In true form, she slipped me a little cash on the way out. This time in terms of the down payment for the house she knew I wanted to buy.

Today I decided it was time for that last lunch with Great Grandma. I walked into Baker’s Square. I imagined Great Grandma next to me, with the tops of her white curls barely grazing my shoulder. Inside I found a restaurant far worse for wear than I remembered. The carpet was fraying, the woodwork warped, and the booth cushion was being preserved through duct tape.

I made my selections from the tattered menu and found enjoyment in my over-grilled sandwich and salty-bland canned soup. There wasn’t a story that I had heard hundreds of time over coming from the other side of the booths. Yet I still performed the exact pattern of convincing “I am kind of listening, even though I have heard this story more times than I can count” head nods.

After the mediocre meal came the pie. Even though it was served on a chipped and knife-scratched plate, it was still every bit as good as I remembered.

I left a ridiculously large tip for my server, settled my bill with the cashier, and walked out of Baker’s Square. I had proved my point. I could in fact afford lunch and pie on my pitiful schoolteacher’s salary. Somehow, I suspect that Great Grandma is still going to find a way to pay me back. It was just her nature.