Pride Nickel: A Short Story

Pride Nickel

My father began his trenching business in the second half of the 1960's. Business was changing in our area and he wisely saw the need to secure a more reliable source of income for his family. Housing starts were booming, yet, even the most skilled builders, had no experience in the mechanical digging of footings; the long narrow holes in the ground, necessary for the pouring of concrete foundations. This is how the middle class built their hopes and dreams. My father saw opportunity. My father purchased state of the art Davis machinery; the control panel of which was a mass of gauges and levers reminiscent of a NASA creation. The diggers were not difficult to operate, only confusing, until study and practice made the controls

District Policy prescribed and arbitrary "cut off date" for which five year olds could enter school, regardless of ability or maturity. Any child turning five after September sixth, would have to wait until next year to matriculate. My birthday fell four days too late. My mother announced her implacable refusal to be derailed in her pursuits, as if this were somehow my father's doing. After all, as the 60's commonly proposed, men make these rules, men should take responsibility for their consequences. My father was to either single handedly force the school board to make an exception, or "deal with" the daily supervision of his

It was fluffy and white with tiny pink rosebuds. On one corner would be my crayons and "Ranger Rick" magazines--cast offs from my older brother, who was now, "too big" for them. Another corner would house my Snoopy thermos of Kool-aid, peanut butter and cheese crackers, and peanut butter Girl Scout Cookies. My father bought the peanut butter cookies by the gross, so that, properly rationed, they lasted the entire year. I wish they still made those cookies. The blanket was my kingdom. The only rule was that I never left its boundaries. I was to remain within the queen-size limitation, amusing myself as I chose, for the duration. The reward was that, beyond a doubt, upon that quilt, I would always be 100% safe. My father would grab his wooden flats of marking twine and screwdrivers to secure it in place. Then guided by flags placed out by the contractor, he would measure and set the sight lines for the foundation footings. He would check the diagonals twice to ensure that the house would be perfectly square. I watched from my kingdom. Every so often, my father would look up to check on me. He would see me on the blanket, as instructed, and briefly, a smile would flash from him to me. I waited for those smiles like Spring waits for warmth to turn to Summer. My father was