Lazy kiddos will you wake up, will you wake up, will you wake up…Mom sings her wake-up song, and Kenny, Tommy, and I struggle to open our eyes. We are tired. Dad graduated from Officer Training School, is on two weeks' leave, and yesterday he took us fishing in the mountain streams outside of El Paso, returning to Fort Bliss after dark with our catch. “Mom, can't we sleep more?” I ask.
“Not if you want to join water day at the park,” she replies.
“What?” I gasp as Tommy and Kenny sit up. “It's today? Yeah, we wanna be there.”
Kenny asks, “Is Dad coming with us?”
“No, Kenny. Dad left early on Army business, but he will pick you kids up at the park when the noon whistle blows. Now, hurry so you arrive before the Army water truck.”
I grab my clothes and head to the communal bathhouse, a cinder brick, roofless building where our trailer block uses the toilets, showers, and washes up. Mom and I assist my brothers, Kenny, three years of age, and Tommy, sixteen months, in the girls' section. Clean and dressed, we head to our trailer and devour our Cheerios and milk, eager to leave. Mom walks us to the sandy road and, pointing, says, “Just walk straight down this road…” when she suddenly grimaces, saying, “Oh, ouch,” and holds her side.
“Mommy, are you okay?” I ask.
She lets out a long sigh and smiles, saying, “Dad will be back soon to help. It’s just labor pains; I had them all night.” Before I can ask about them, she continues with directions to the park.
Wanting to be brave, but anxious, I ask, “What if we get lost again? How can we find you?”
“The park is at the end of this road,” Mom explains. “Diane, you are four years old now; just keep walking ‘til you see the park.” She explains more, but I only half listen. Instead, I think Mom is weird today, those pains, and she's making us hurry to the park, as I stare at the broad shadow of shade cast by trailers along the route. “Diane,” Mom says. Hearing my name, I refocus on Mom as she continues to explain. “You have played at this park before. Find the sandbox and stay there ‘til the Army water truck arrives. Dad will pick you up. Okay?”
“Okay, Mommy,” I respond. But as I look down the road, Tommy is already running the wrong way, and I mutter in frustration, “He is always running and always going the wrong way.” Kenny and I get Tommy and start walking toward the park.
“Mom is really weird today,” Kenny says.
“Yeah, somethings up,” I reply. “Let's get to the park.”
The shade along the road is cool, and, forgetting about Mom, we skip, hop, twirl, and sing Home On The Range, keeping Tommy with us. After the fourth chorus, we see the park. It's contained within a chain-link fenced, an area of sand and struggling grasses with rows of swings, slides, teeter totters, and the largest sandbox in Texas.
We stake out our sandbox territory along the worn, wooden border that separates the sandbox from the packed, hard, sandy ground. We jump into the sandbox, forgetting it is burning hot, and quickly leap out. We shoe up and commence flipping sand into the air, erasing traces of yesterday's creations. Next, we dig out a shallow area to contain a future lake. Soon we all have sparkling sand adhering to our sweaty limbs and scalps. Sounds from the road catch our attention. We stand, like soldiers at salute, scanning the park entrance. The sound gets louder, and the water truck appears.
The large, pea-green-gray camouflage Army tanker truck ambles within view, dwarfing the trailers and reddish hills of El Paso in the distance. Like a friendly monster with arms, it moans and clanks as it releases a fine spray, banishing the haze from the park so everything is more transparent, with brighter colors. We watch older kids crowd near the truck, jumping and chanting, “Water truck, water truck!” The chanting and jumping elicit smiles and laughter from the driver as he and others exit the cab turning large metal wheels and nozzles that release water. The dripping water increases to a waterfall from a slit in the tanker bumper. From the sandbox, Kenny, Tommy, and I join in the chanting, our arms waving as we jump and twist in excitement, watching the big tires roll forward; the waterfall dampens the dusty road as nozzles and hoses direct streams of sparkling water into the air.
The Army water truck starts its routine journey around the playground as it shoots out streams of water, hitting the hot metal slides and pinging their hard surfaces. Older kids chant and jump; birds scatter as these sounds shake the air, and the water sends the red metal swing seats flying, tangling their chains as water flows through the red seat perforations to create dark brown indentations in the sand. We watch kids tame and claim a swing and lie on its coolness as others, barefoot, walk up the cooled metal slides.
Our attention moves to the truck. I watch with envy as kids reach into shiny water sheets that emanate from all sides. Hands and arms poke into the sheet from below and create bursts and sprays that rain on their gyrating bodies. I long to join and feel that water soak my sundress and hair. I mutter, “When I'm five, I will be an older kid and do that. Kenny can watch Tommy” The truck makes new sounds as it slows and turns. Excited, I point and shout, “Look! The truck is approaching us.” Kenny and I crouch near Tommy and whisper, “It is coming.”
Without any signal, we sandbox kids raise our arms and begin hopping quickly in and out of the hot sand. Some kids falter as slivers from the sandbox railing puncture their skin, yet, after a short pause, they continue their frenzied greeting. Finally, the truck arrives, blocking out the sky as sheets of water hit the sand and release puffs of white, swirling dust. Circling the sandbox multiple times, water sheets spray the sand, rendering it a dark, grainy slush. As the truck passes, we arabesque into the water sheets, allowing our sweat to dissipate with the dust and heat. Finally, the truck squeaks to a halt, and the sprays collapse to mere drips, our cue to begin.
Pulling, pushing, and lifting, we work. Kenny and Tommy pile sand into their shirts, and I use my sunsuit ruffle to carry cool, dark sand to our site. Our imagined city emerges. The sun whitens the edges of our roads, houses, and trenches as we rush to beat the heat's impact. Grains of brown cling to our hands and faces as we spit out directives and requests for more sand and deeper trenches.
Engrossed in construction, we are surprised to see Dad. He arrives before the noon whistle and says, “Let's go, kids.”
I protest, “We can't go now. The sand is still wet. The noon whistle didn't blow.” We stand motionless, his request landing with a thud as the brown sand on our limbs and faces turns drier and whiter.
“Hurry up,” Dad urges, “we'll clean up, rustle up some lunch, and see when we can pick up Mom and Johnny, your new baby brother, from the hospital.”
“What? A baby brother? Mom is in the hospital?” Kenny and I sputter.
“How did that happen?” I ask. “Mom was with us at breakfast.”
Dad chuckles, and with a swinging gesture of one arm, he lifts Tommy onto his shoulders, grabs his sneakers, and starts for the entrance, saying, “Get your sneakers on, kids. I'm hungry, aren’t you?”
Kenny and I follow Dad, listening to Tommy giggle on Dad's shoulders. We lament our lost sand creations, and wonder about Mom and Johnny. Finally, we pile into the Studebaker, and Tommy is sleeping before we leave the park. Dad opens the windows, and the hot air blows my hair into a curling mess and dries the sand, which slides onto the seat and bounces with us.
Cleaner and stuffed with tacos, Tommy naps, and Kenny and I color at Dad’s office while he finishes more Army business. Then, finally, we drive to pick up Mom and Johnny at the hospital. “Here he is,” Mom says, getting in the car. “Your brother John, all seven pounds of him.”
Kenny mutters, “He sure is little.”
I smile, nod, and say, “Yeah.”
Dad drives. He eventually parks at a large expanse of white row houses. “Well, here we are. One of these houses is ours. What do you think?”
Mom seems as surprised as we are. “Was this your Army business this morning? I thought we were on hold?”
“We were,” he replies. “I went to check; we were upgraded to fully furnished officer digs, so I sent a requisition for the Army movers to pack up and transfer our belongings to the new address pronto, and they did. Oh yeah, then I scheduled visiting nurse services for us. A busy day, eh?” he adds.
“Busy it was,” Mom responds, looking at Johnny.
Tommy is awake now, and we all stare out the windows, our eyes big. The housing complex has a vast lawn, sprinklers water the grass, and kids running through them. Dad opens a car door, and we pile out, clamoring, “Can we run through the sprinklers too, Dad? Right now? Please?”
He looks at Mom, who nods and then answers, “Sure. I'll get Mom and Johnny settled and rustle up dinner. You all stay at this sprinkler,” he says, pointing, “and come when I call.”
That night in my own bedroom near the indoor bathroom, with Mom, Dad, and Johnny down the hall in another bedroom, and Kenny and Tommy in their own bedroom and beds, I hug my Raggedy Ann doll and sigh, “What a day I had, Raggedy! I want to stay home tomorrow without surprises.”
“Raggedy,” I say, “Remember my birthday surprise? Mom told me to take out the garbage packet, but when I picked it up, it didn't feel like garbage. Then I saw your hand peeking out.” Laughing and hugging Raggedy, I say, “That was fun. You were my present, and it was a surprise that you, not garbage, was in the packet. We were all laughing.”
I want to go to sleep now, but I can't. My mind is whirling with the day's events. They come of their own accord: Mom rushing us, those pains, Dad's Army business on leave, the hospital, baby Johnny, and the new home. They are all surprises, but different from my birthday surprise. These are like surprises that hold secrets. I want Mom and Dad to give us birthday surprises, but I feel tired and afraid of surprises that hold secrets.
I don’t like secrets.
Author: Diane Baumgart
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