Pamplin Avenue 01

Perhaps my clearest early memory is of getting in trouble, with a capital T, not long after turning three. For me, the most fascinating thing the new house on Pamplin Avenue we had just moved into was the dirty clothes chute, located off the main hall, between the living room and our bedroom. The chute led from the first floor to the laundry area in the basement immediately below. The chute had a circular lid, vaguely similar in size and shape to a small toilet lid, that was hinged above the opening to the vertical shaft. Perhaps I was drawn to the chute because it was situated only a foot higher than my head. If I dragged a footstool over and stood on my tip-toes, I could look down the chute directly to the dirty clothes hamper in the basement. That view and its promise called to me.

One day, not long after we had settled into the routine of the new home, I stuck my head in the chute and declared out loud that I could slide all the way to the clothes hamper in the basement. I sought immediately to recruit my brother, Jack, in the scheme. Naturally, being 14 months older and therefore wiser, he disapproved of such craziness. But, seeing that I was willing to take all the risk, he said he would “watch” me do it. Although I do not remember all the details, I’m sure a little goading entered the equation in the form of, “Bet you won’t do it,” or “I dare you.” I’m certain he covered his ass eventually by saying, “You better not. Mom will be mad.” Magic words that simply spurred me on.

Pumped with excitement to the point of exploding, I ran downstairs and shoved a load of dirty towels that Mom was preparing to wash that day back into the hamper to cushion the fall. Although I may have been an adventurous three-year-old I wasn’t stupid.

I hurried upstairs, grabbed the footstool, and positioned it in front of the chute. After making sure Mom wasn’t in the immediate vicinity I boosted myself into the chute head first, with a little help from my previously reluctant brother. After balancing precariously for a couple seconds on the lip of the chute, I tipped forward and down I slid toward the basement, arms stretched out in front like Superman. And promptly got stuck.

At first I tried to wiggle loose and continue my journey downward, convinced I could do it. No luck, the chute was too tight. Even my skinny three-year-old body was too large for the opening. That’s when the very tight quarters started working against me. I did the unthinkable and called for help from Jack. He grabbed my feet and pulled. To no avail. Of course, he panicked immediately and started to wail out loud, which started me crying because it was pretty damned frightening in that dark chute.

That’s when Jack lost it altogether and began screaming hysterically for our mother. Who came running to find her eldest son standing in the hallway crying his eyes out. When she asked him what was wrong he pointed toward the dirty clothes chute and said, “Bobby’s stuck.” Not understanding what was going on she opened the lid and nearly collapsed when she saw my feet sticking up in the chute.

Poor Mom didn’t know what to do. She was worried that if she pulled too hard I might be injured by a sharp piece of metal inside the chute. She thought about calling the fire department but quickly dismissed that idea because by that time I was growing more and more frightened by the possibility of being stuck there permanently and began yelling my fool head off. She simply took the bull by the horns, so to speak, grabbed my ankles, and cautiously but firmly pulled. Up and out I came, no worse for the experience, other than quite a few tears.

After a minute or two of maternal reassurance, hugs, and careful inspection of all the body parts, her parental disciplinarian streak asserted itself. Mom turned me over her knee and gave me a well-deserved spanking on the butt. Then, she stood me upright, shook me once or twice and in a properly exasperated tone demanded, “When will you be good, Bobby? When?”

Through my tears I sniffed and, without hesitation, replied, “Tuesday.”

Years later Mom told me she had to walk away because she knew she was going to laugh and didn’t want me to be wrongly encouraged. After that, “Tuesday” became one of the stock answers to all sorts of questions in our family. And it always had the same connotation — never.