The Graduation

People have told me how much they enjoy my growing up memories. Here's another.
Are the walls of the University of Iowa ivy covered? I don’t really remember. It all started when my mother awakened me one bitterly cold Iowa morning in January at 2:00 p.m. when I was 12. It was so cold there was ice inside of the north window at least ½ inch thick. There was no heat register in my room to permit the flow of warm air from the stove below. That room belonged to my youngest brother who had had rheumatic fever.
Two p.m. is not my waking hour. If she hadn’t pulled the feather bed off of me and lit the lamp, I would have remained there. She trudged down the hall and woke my eleven-year-old brother.
It was a special day as we were going to Iowa City to watch my middle brother graduate from the University of Iowa. The year was 1950 in the state of Iowa.
My brother awoke rapidly. The thought of driving all the way to Iowa City and eating breakfast in a restaurant was all he needed to be wide-awake. Somehow I pulled on my clothes and made a mad dash for the little house outside. The suitcase with our good clothes was already in the trunk of the car.
By 2:30 a.m. we were all in the 1940 Chevrolet going down our rutted, dirt road to Highway 30. It was only five miles away. At least this car had a heater unlike the 1932 Chevrolet my father had all the other years I can remember. Just try traveling on a freezing day winter day and the windows are frozen shut, any blanket inadequate and one’s father smoking a cigar.
Papa had sold the cattle and must have received a decent price to buy another car, but the speedometer wasn’t working. Mama used a clock to time our speed. On the pavement, we hit sixty miles an hour.
“We’ll be in Iowa City at least and hour before we told Norman,” my father boasted.
We stopped at some small restaurant for breakfast. Papa order the least expensive breakfast on the menu: oatmeal for all. I hate oatmeal and still do, but he had promised hot chocolate for all. The hot chocolate was covered with tiny marshmallows. The waitress had put on extra for the children. This was turning into a disaster. I detested marshmallows and still do. The chocolate was hot and scalded my tongue. I consoled myself with the thought we would be eating lunch at the Tea Room where my brother had worked while attending the University. There was no restaurant in our little farm town other than a hamburger and malt shop. Nothing else was really on the menu and Papa did not believe in dinners out when Mama cooked so well.
The roads were in surprisingly good shape until Iowa City. To pass the time we read Burma Shave signs, sang hymns, and listened to Mama and Papa do their own strange Can You Top this bickering. As we neared Iowa City the ice began to coat the landscape. In Iowa City, Papa had to watch the streets for ice and Mama looked at the signs. The parking lot was a sheet of ice. Since we all wore overshoes, this should have been no problem. Papa got out and went to check the numbers on the doors to make sure we had followed directions. He returned with a huge grin.
“This is it. Everybody out.”
Mother opened the door, stepped out, and froze, too fearful to take another step. Papa grabbed her by the arm and slid her along.
To me the whole city thing was a disappointment. We really hadn’t seen much except grey lead skies, gray pavement, and grayish looking buildings in the morning’s grey light.
We crossed the parking lot and walked up the sidewalk to my bother’s door and Papa knocked. There was no response. This was puzzling as we would have all been up on the farm by this time. Papa closed his fist and banged on door. From inside came a muffled sound that could have been. “I’m coming.”
The door opened partially to reveal my brother trying to stay out of the cold.
All that came out of his mouth was a gargle of sounds. “Uh, ah, oh, uh, ah.” This was from an English major, graduating magna cum laude. I considered it odd.
“It’s cold out here,” said my father. “And your Mother is having trouble standing.”
“Uh, I, uh, we didn’t expect you so early,” said my brother as he stepped back and swung the door wider allowing us to enter the stuffy, smoke laden room.
That they hadn’t expected us so early was obvious even to my twelve-year-old eyes. Ashtrays overflowed, empty lipstick smeared glasses, empty wine and beer bottles, dirty plates, and bowls were strewn about on every available flat space. The apartment was a studio. Norman and his roommate slept on daybeds and one daybed still held a snoring man. On the wall were various prints. Two were by Picasso pink lady with misplaced body parts and a blue man with guitar. One of Toulouse LaTrek’s cancan dancers, and a print of one of Rueben’s fleshy ladies; two male figures were in the latter, but I doubt if my younger brother was looking at the male figures. My father pointed at one of the Picasso’s and asked, “What is that?”
Brother Norman was trying to soothe my mother who was sniffing, wrinkling her nose (sure signs of her disproval) as she picked up dirty dishes and ashtrays while muttering under her breath.
“Those are prints of Pablo Picasso’s works.” Norman got no farther as my father was doubled up laughing. His loud voice woke up the sleeping man. The man became as red-faced as my brother. He hurriedly ran to the bathroom and upon returning offered to leave.
Mother let Norman hang our coats but she continued picking up. Wanting to know where the soap was for washing and where we were to change into our “other” clothes. Norman was becoming more coherent and offered to do the dishes after we left. This produced another loud audible sniff from my mother.
“As soon as I finish these dishes we can have an early dinner before the graduation.” Lunch was dinner to farm families.
She directed the rest of us to change and Norman improvised a sheet wall before he carried out trash or stuffed it into a box. Mother finished up some of the dishes and asked for a dishtowel. Of course, there were none.
“Why don’t you get changed, Mom,” Norman suggested.
“No, you first.”
“This is what I’m wearing.”
Mother was staring at him with a horrified expression. The shirt and black trousers had seen better days. In fact, the slacks had a couple of holes that needed mending as did the once white shirt.
“You can’t graduate in those clothes. I’ll not have my son up there with holes in his pants!”
“The black robe will cover me. No one will see my clothes.”
Mother’s face reddened and there was fire in her black eyes as she turned to Papa. “We have to buy him decent clothes.”
Papa threw up his hands. “Where? If we do, there’s no money for a restaurant.”
“We can eat here.”
My heart sank. There went the lunch in a real Tea Room and Mama’s idea of a quick, cheap lunch was sardines, pork and beans, and soda crackers. I hated everything but the sardines.
Papa turned to Norman. “Where can we buy clothes here?”
“Uh, I haven’t really shopped. J. C. Penny’s is close.”
“Good.”
Needless to say we went to Penney’s where a white shirt, dark slacks, and a tie were purchased and then to the corner market. Mother’s idea of a lunch was purchased and they bought a bottle of orange pop for my brother and me to share. I didn’t like orange pop then and still don’t. At least there’s still the graduation, I thought. I envisioned a rich, dark wooden area like a theatre with fancy, plush seats.
The graduation ceremony, however, was in the gymnasium; a cold sterile place that smelled of sweat. There was a stage with a lectern, a desk holding baskets of diplomas, chairs for the officials, a U.S. flag on one side and an Iowan State flag on the other. It seems to me there was bunting on the edge of the stage, but I do not remember the colors. We were handed a program as we entered and were directed to the left side, third tier.
Mother managed to step up the bleacher’s first tier, steadied herself, and froze. Her acrophobia won over her resolve. Papa grasped her by the arms, lifted her to the next tier, stepped up, and repeated the process. Her face was red with embarrassment, but the idea of seeing her son graduate overrode any desire to leave. Somehow his achievement was her achievement. There it was in black and white on the program: his name, magna cum laude.
The band played and the speakers spoke. Then the long (to me) line of graduates started forward. I stared with fascination at one young, petite, smiling Chinese woman hobbling along on her incredibly small feet as fast as she could trying to keep up with the long strides of the rest I had read about the Chinese binding the feet of little girls, but had never seen the results. She was the first person I had ever seen of Asian descent. In fact, it was the first time I had ever seen anyone darker than my mother and here were several people from different countries of the world. This was like the people I met in books and magazines coming alive. We applauded madly for Norman.
It was another physical exercise for my father getting Mama down from the bleachers, but once down she held her head high and her shoulders straight, any embarrassment forgotten. She did frown when she realized Norman and friends were passing around something stronger than water. My father didn’t seem to be surprised. We took what books Norman wanted to send home with us as he was staying for a few more days to earn money before coming home in February.
On the way home we sang hymns and the old favorites of my parents. By that time I realized the songs they were singing were not the songs of modern day America, but I loved the melodies.
Before he reclaimed his books, I had read The Four Georges and Vanity Fair by Thackberry, and Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence, and discovered that Thomas Wolfe was still beyond me. That was a surprise as I read every adult book that my parents had carefully hidden in the closet.