A Girl with Ambition

“Dad, you know the Yankees are Burnie’s favorite team, right? That’s just so dumb. I don’t understand why he thinks they are so wonderful. Whenever he talks about them, his eyes get kind of glassy, and he starts talking faster. I told him he could go with us to see the Cardinals or the Cubs sometime, but he pretends he is throwing up. If he wasn’t my best friend, I think I would kick him when he does that!”

My dad did not look up from our beloved Des Moines Tribune sports section. “Well, darling daughter, who should never kick anyone, it says right here that sports columnist Ted Ashby thinks the Cards and the Athletics will be battling each other in the World Series again this year...so you should be thinking of a better way to settle things with Burnie. You know he will be cheering for the Athletics. He’s an American League fan. One of you is going to be crowing, and the other one will be eating crow. Taking off his eyeglasses, he put down the newspaper. “Maybe Mr. Orwig or I would like our cars washed. Or it could involve some fall window washing at the other one’s house? By that time, in October, there will be all sorts of fall chores you two could wager over; raking leaves or putting up the storm windows. The grownups would have to help you with the upstairs windows, but you kids could do the ones on the ground level. What do you think about that?”

“Gee whiz, Dad, I think I am going to be very, very busy with school in October. Senior year is hectic. I’ll be swimming on the girls’ team and maybe on the boys’ team, too.”

“What!” Dad pretty much yelled.

Mom stuck her head in from the parlor. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s talking crazy, that’s what she’s talking about”

I guess I had sprung that idea on him before I really took time to prepare him. “Listen, Dad….and Mom, I can outswim all the girls on the girls’ team, and I can outswim all the boys on the boys’ team. Really, there might be one, or maybe two of the boys who can backstroke faster than I can. That’s all. Swimming against the girls is really not that much fun anymore. Most of them don’t even want to try to beat me. In fact, Dorothy is the only one who has even come close to my times in the 40 meters and the 100 meters. Coach said I need to get into more meets so I can be challenged. Then I can do even better. If I am on both teams, I will have twice as many meets!” I thought I had laid out a great argument. I was beaming.

Dad, however, was ready to disagree. Mom always let him do the talking when it came to me and my sports. “Mable, I thought you just said you were going to be ‘very, very busy’ this school year. With girl’s swimming season starting in August and the boys’ season starting in November, how are you going to have time to do school work and be on the newspaper staff? Or are you going to quit the newspaper?”

I stopped for a minute. That was something else Burnie and I had talked about. Burnie was doubtful at first, but I convinced him I could do it. He just didn’t want me to get razzed by everyone at school for even thinking about it.

“Actually, I was thinking of asking Miss Hawn if I could be the editor of the Oracle’s sports section.” I thought it might help, so I added, “Burnie thinks it’s a nifty idea!” I tried to look really calm.

There was dead silence. It was so quiet, I heard my mother sigh one of those “oh, boy” sighs. She would do that whenever she was feeling like supporting me, but still wanted Dad to handle it.

Dad looked at me with an expression that shouted, “Are you goofy?” Then he very carefully went on to explain to me the many reasons why I should not be disappointed when Robert Dodd got the job. Robert was a very good writer. He knew everything about football, baseball, and basketball. He had been on the newspaper staff all four years and this was only my third year. He was also in line to be the editor of the yearbook. He was really smart. On top of all that, his dad worked for the sports department of the Des Moines Tribune. The thoughts flying through my brain while Dad listed all these quasi-facts were more like “Robert is a complete doofus, he walks like a duck, and he likes to think he knows everything about sports because he certainly can’t actually play any of them.”

Of course, I couldn’t let any of those comments out of my mouth or my mother would be shocked and disappointed that I could be so unkind and un-lady-like. However, even she had once said, after meeting Robert in the bleachers at one of my swim meets, that she thought he smelled like boiled cabbage, but I knew this would not be a good time to remind her of that. My mind was racing a mile a minute. It was not the right time to discuss this, but I had let the cat out of the bag. I quickly decided that the best tactic, for now, would be to just let Dad think he had talked me out of it.

I wanted to spend the last few weeks of summer vacation enjoying going to baseball games with Dad, finishing up the swimming lessons I was giving little pool rats at Birdland Pool, and shooting hoops right before dark every night with Burnie in his driveway. There would be time enough for school details when school started.

I managed to wriggle out of the downward spiraling discussion with Dad and Mother when I remembered about promising Burnie to meet him for a quick free-throw contest before dinner. I always thought it was hilarious to watch him trying to make the underhanded baskets that I was so good at. I politely excused myself and left my parents staring at each other across the parlor. Mother had a few splashes of tomato across her apron, from the canning project she had going in the kitchen. She must have been nearly done for the afternoon because, as I let the screen door slowly close, I heard her tell Dad that she would be bringing him some lemonade in a few minutes and then they could relax on the front porch for a little bit. Not exactly my idea of whoopee, but they enjoyed their “porch sits.”

As I hurried down the wooden steps and across the browning grass, I knew where I would find Burnie, who had become my best friend immediately after we moved in next door to his family. Back then, I had just finished sixth grade. That meant starting junior high in a much larger school than I had ever attended. The schoolhouse in Steamboat Rock was out by my Uncle Albert’s house. It was pretty small and had two grades in each classroom. I had a complete education up to this point. I loved reading and I especially loved to write. Math was not my favorite, but my parents and teachers were intent that I accomplish all the needed lessons correctly, so I did. That’s just what was expected.

As the only child, making my parents proud was required. My mother and father meant everything to me. I adored them. My mother taught me how to be a young woman, and my father was my real-life hero. He encouraged me to be an athlete in any sport I chose, and he was as proud of me as if I had been a son.

Anyway, as we drove up to our new house in Des Moines on that late May day six years ago, Burnie was in his front yard trying to get a rope over a high branch in their big elm. His younger sister, who was quite an active little pip of a girl, wanted a tire swing. Her name was Rosie. She was only six, and she thought her 6th grade brother could do anything. Well, he was having a heck of a time with that rope, and as we pulled up, he had just begun to tie a rock to the end of it, so he could toss it up into that elm; hopefully over the favored branch.

Dad got right out of the car and instead of heading to our new front door, he veered into the Orwig’s front yard to help. Burnham Wilson Orwig was skinny, but tall for his age, so he looked older than he was. I’m pretty sure Dad was afraid the rock was going to land on someone’s head, so he dashed over and offered to help Burnie. He quickly came back to our overloaded automobile and grabbed a hammer from his tool box in the trunk.

“A hammer will be much easier to control when we throw it, son,” said Dad. “and it will be easier to attach to the rope. A lot easier.”

Burnie looked relieved to have a grown man there to help out. His dad was not back from work yet and he wanted to get the job done so he could surprise him. The hammer went over the branch on the first throw, and Bernie was obviously impressed.

“That throw sure was the bee’s knees, sir,” admired Burnie. “I’ll get the old tire out of the garage if you would be willing to help me tie it on.”

Dad smiled and got the tire securely tied on in a jiffy. Rosie was swinging, Burnie was happy, and Dad had introduced himself to our new neighbors as a good guy. I was the good guy’s daughter.

Dad had decided to leave Steamboat Rock, give up the welding and blacksmith shop he had on the north side of town near our house. He was fascinated by all the tall steel buildings going up all over the country and decided to move us to Des Moines, where he was closer to the trains that would take him to places like Chicago, Houston, and Dallas. They were building skyscrapers in those growing towns and he now made good money as an iron worker. He might be gone for weeks at a time; once he was gone for three months, but he always sent money to keep the house paid and food in the cupboards. When he was home, we were inseparable. As an only child, I was probably a little spoiled in some ways, but both Mother and Dad were strict when it came to me being taught manners and respect for adults.

Today, Burnie would be on his back porch, in the afternoon shade, sorting through his most recently acquired sports cards. He had his favorite players and I had mine, but since my dad did not smoke or chew, I had no opportunities to collect any cards. Burnie had at least fifty or sixty, and I was envious of his cigar box full of them. His favorite was a pitcher named Dazzy Vance, who was born in Orient, Iowa. Burnie was a pitcher on our North High Polar Bears team, so that made sense.

He loved to tell about how in 1924, Dazzy struck out three batters on nine pitches in the second inning of a 6–5 win over the Chicago Cubs. My Chicago Cubs. Dazzy didn’t play for Burnie’s beloved Yankees; he played for the National League Brooklyn Robins, but if they were beating my Cubs, that was enough to keep Burnie’s incessant needling of me and my Cubs going. He was still my best buddy. I knew my Cubs would come through with a string of wins very soon.

“Hey, Burnie, it’s time for those baskets we talked about yesterday! Are you ready to get clobbered again?” I teased.

“OK, Mable Hall, I guess I can take a few minutes out of my busy afternoon to give you a chance to beat me. But you can just forget that baloney about clobbering me.” Burnie always started out confident, but the truth is, his only game was baseball. He had some great pitches, but very few basketball moves. I started out letting him get ahead a little bit like I always did, but then finished him off and won 10-7. Our shooting contests always ended with a similar score. And we were always still best friends.