July 20, 1969 by Ann Alves

My four younger brothers and I did not give my mom much downtime.  We jumped on the beds, or played “Hide and Go Seek” under the beds while she tried to make them.  We attempted to sneak a snack out of the pantry while she cooked dinner.  My brothers wrestled to determine each other’s physical prowess, while I retreated to my room in avoidance.  But Mom was the one that kept the household running and made it possible for the six of us, including Dad, to leave the house each day ready to succeed in the world.  Dad was a banker and stock broker, and my brothers and I were students.  We were fed, had clean clothes, and our hair was combed.  We slept in comfortable beds.  We had desks at which to study and books to read. We were well loved.

We were always excited when Dad got home from work in the evenings.  When we were smaller, we ran to sit on his feet (taking turns, two at a time, one on his left foot and one on his right) and he marched us up and down the hallway.  The excitement did not diminish when we became too big to sit on his feet, and he was always greeted with hugs and screams of “Daddy’s home!”  Once he got settled, he would start right in to help with any incomplete homework, and supervise the bath or shower schedule.  Dad was also the bedtime storyteller.  He was Irish, and we begged him nightly for a Leprechaun Story!   My brothers and I were central figures in his stories.  We found the pot of gold, but the Leprechaun always got away at the end (necessitating another story for the following bedtime). 

My mom told us stories too, but hers were of her childhood.  She told what it was like to grow up in the apartment above the grocery store her Italian Immigrant parents owned.  Some stories were about how she slept head-to-toe in the same bed with her older sister, Josie. Other stories were about how she almost died of pneumonia as another child put snow into her carriage when her oldest sister, Esther strolled her to Central Park.  Or there were her stories of how her parents fed their neighborhood on credit during the depression.  My grandfather wrote the customers’ names and the amount they owed in a ledger.  These transactions were polite and dignified, even though both parties knew the debt would never be repaid.  Mom questioned her dad “When will they pay us for their groceries, Papa?”  His response was “Someday, Cara Mia, someday.” 

Mom made sure we understood that while we did not live with unlimited resources, there were families who were less fortunate.  One day, on the way home from school, she took a detour and drove us through a part of town where the houses were dilapidated and the front yards consisted of dirt and old tires.  My brothers and I got her message.  

My parents were politically astute, and were as active as they could be considering they were raising five children.  Mom’s activities were church-related.  Dad was involved with my Uncle Gordon in community concerns.  They worked together on a gun-control campaign, and I remember one morning waking up and overhearing my parents discussing a threat my dad had received from “the Minutemen.”  I do not remember if I was privy to the content of the note, but I do remember that it was written on a torn piece of brown paper bag, possibly a grocery bag, and that there was a triangle on it.

On the weekends, my dad provided some relief for my mom by taking us to the park, or hiking at Superstition Mountain.  Most often, he took us to the library and we picked out a book.  This was one of my favorite outings, and one to which I attribute my love for reading. I walked reverently through the stacks. I felt empowered to choose my own book.  That book would sit by my bedside to be read for the next two weeks.

  Every once in a while, Dad took just one of us to his office downtown where he caught up on his work. We looked forward to any one-on-one time with either parent, so this was a great treat!

One weekend Dad took me to his office.   As he worked at his desk, I roamed around to investigate.  There was a little tickertape machine at the front of the room.  It sat on a brass base, with a glass dome covering its brass internal workings.  It could have been mistaken for a mantelpiece clock. The machine spit out thin strips of paper, sent by telegraph, to report current stock prices. But I did not see it working that day, as the Stock Market was closed.  A bin, full of the previous week’s expended tape, sat next to the machine.  Black rotary telephones, staplers, and yellow legal pads sat atop rows of heavy wooden desks in a big, open space. Sunlight filtered in through the two-story windows, revealing dust motes in the rays of light and all the dust you might otherwise not notice on the bookshelves and glass covered desktops.

After a while, I told Dad I was going outside to walk up and down the sidewalk. I felt the heat of downtown Phoenix, compounded by the concrete and the surrounding tall buildings. I watched myself in the same windows that were letting the sunlight in to my dad’s office.  A newscaster from Channel 5 News was interviewing people on the street because man had landed on the Moon.  He asked me, what did I think about putting a man on the Moon?  I thought, “I’m 12 years old.  Why is he asking me?  What does he think a kid will say?  Maybe some other adults don’t want to talk to a newsman about putting a man on the Moon.”  I knew there was controversy about the Space Program, but I did not understand all the concerns.  I answered him the best I could.

When I got home, I told my mom that I was going to be on the 6 o’clock news.  There was a black and white TV in the family room, but Mom took my hand and led me into the living room, where the color TV was located.  We weren’t usually allowed in the living room, as it was reserved for adults and guests.  She turned the TV to Channel 5.  And there I was on TV!  I answered the man by saying “now that we’ve put man on the Moon, maybe we could feed people on the Earth.”  My mom hugged me, laughing and crying at the same time. We fell to the floor and rolled together on the carpet, both laughing so hard.  

I think Mom was pleased with my answer; that her stories and her efforts to impart my parents’ values were realized.  It was one of the most memorable days of my life.  I got to go to work with my dad. I rolled on the floor and laughed with my mom, which I never had done before and never did again.  And I got to be on TV. 

That August, the astronauts were given a tickertape parade.  Traveling down the “Canyon of Heroes” in New York City, they waved to the crowds in the street.  Streams of tickertape were thrown from skyscraper windows on to the parade.  I wondered what happened to the discarded tickertape I had seen in my dad’s office a few weeks before.  Maybe it was being saved for a parade in Phoenix?  My brothers and I could throw tickertape from the top of my dad’s office building.  I thought that would be fun!   

Ann M. Alves resides in San Diego, CA.  She earned a B.A. in Psychology from UCLA.  Now retired after 40 plus years in Healthcare Managment, she reads, writes, swims and paints. Her poetry has been published in the San Diego Poetry Together Challenge (2020) and the San Diego Poetry Annual (2023 – 2024 and 2024 - 2025).