October 13, 2014
Greetings from the fo’c’sle,
It’s funny how memories sneak up on you. Yesterday, as I stood in the yard and watched
my neighbors recreate a weekly ritual, hauling brightly colored bins to the
curb, I remembered when my Dad used to decorate the house for the holiday when
we were kids.
Each year he would push through the detritus in our garage
and drag out huge pre-fabricated panels that would be assembled in our front
yard. These would be affixed to the
front of our house with an elaborate combination of brackets, nails and duct
tape, forming a realistic looking hull jutting out into the lawn. To the uninitiated,
it might appear we were building an ark.
Huge rolls of canvas were unfurled and hung from the
eves. A Spanish flag would be hoisted
from the TV antenna. And overnight, our
house would be transformed into the Santa Maria.
It never struck me as odd that none of the other families on
the street did any Columbus Day decorating.
We believed everyone was at home in their own kitchens making Columbus
Day cookies, wrapping Columbus Day gifts, watching the 1949 epic ‘Christopher
Columbus’ with Fredric March in the title role.
It was my family’s responsibility to lead the celebration of
this auspicious day.
The neighbors contributed in their own ways. Our next door neighbor, Sam Goodhue, would
help my Dad haul the hull out of the garage, and lift the authentic balsa-mast
onto the front porch. This was an
extraordinary effort considering that Sam was Canadian and didn’t care a whit
about Columbus. It was kind of like
having a Jehovah’s Witness help decorate the Christmas tree. (Sam always got the first choice when the
Columbus Cake was cut.)
I don’t remember when the tradition started. We knew that
one day in early October that Dad would begin wearing a velvet cap and a robe
with large billowy sleeves, not unlike a graduation gown one might purchase at
a garage sale over on Vernon Street. And
from there the anticipation would build, until we were all swept up in the
recreation of the discovery of the New World.
Each morning my Dad would stand on the front porch, which
was authentically replicated as the bridge of the ship, and pilot us into the
front yard. He would take out his
sextant, which looked remarkably like an egg beater, and would peer into the
sky. (We children were never allowed to
use the sextant, or even say the word, because we were Catholic.)
He would scan the horizon with his telescope, which
occasionally would cause some embarrassing moments for Mrs. Nelson across the
street. He would shout commands to his
crew, using his best Italian/Spanish/Scottish accent, which sometimes led to confusion
over details. To this day I don’t know
port from starboard.
The recreation did have an impact on our lives. The mail would not be delivered due to a
misunderstanding when someone tried to shanghai the postman. Occasionally the paperboy would loft a Flint
Journal high enough over the bow to make it on to the porch, but usually for the
week or so that Columbus was in port, the news would pile up at the water line.
We would prepare for weeks.
My mom would dress up as Queen Isabella, replete with the huge collar,
which looked exactly like the plastic cone our dog Patches wore after his ‘special’
surgery. She would send Columbus off to
search for the new world, and then, slightly at odds with history, retire to
the galley to make pot roast for the crew.
We kids would have to pretend to be sailors on the ship. It was a part that I loved, but my Dad
insisted on complete immersion in the role.
We dressed in rags, swabbed the deck, ate raw fish, and when possible,
developed scurvy. For weeks leading up
to Columbus Day we were trained in the socio-economic status of the common
sailor of the late 15th century.
I thought the world was flat until I was twelve.
The neighbors eventually became involved, culminating with a
dramatic pageant on Columbus Day. The
kids on the street all had to dress up like indigenous peoples, a confusing
array of feathers, loincloths, football jerseys and Converse All Stars.
Usually on the weekend, we would go ashore and conquer the ‘Indians’
and capture a few, imprisoning them in the dining room. Queen Isabella would not tolerate this and
often forced us to quarter them outside behind the garage, which led to
numerous escapes into Sam Goodhue’s yard, not to mention the decimation of the
rhubarb there.
My sisters did not enjoy being sailors on the Santa
Maria. This dissension, which I believe
was historically accurate, was dealt with fairly by the captain. They were all sent to clean the ‘poop deck’,
our appropriately named back yard where Patches did his business.
The Santa Maria was often still afloat at the end of the
month, which made our house a popular stop for Trick or Treaters, particularly
pirates. But ultimately it would be
dismantled before people began anyone made any inappropriate Mayflower comparisons.
I know that time has a way of altering history, creating
myths and legends that perhaps once were only more ordinary truths. I suppose this is why it was so important
that our family carried on the tradition of Columbus Day. It makes me proud to preserve this memory,
this slice of history, so that the story of Columbus discovering Ohio would
sail on into the generations to come.
Hope this finds you exploring,
David
Copyright © 2014 David Smith
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