To use David Keene’s words “The Islamic world, along with the politically correct world, is in a snit” over the pope, all the while Iran’s mad man continues threatening to wipe Israel off the map and make America bow to Allah and Iran. Not really much to be done about these things on the part of us ordinary folks except look to the ballot box and keep hoping, and maybe praying, cooler heads will eventually prevail, and in the meantime keep our powder dry.

It seems a vain hope that any truly civilized solution can be found for Muslims threatening the destruction of Western Civilization. And all the politically correct diatribe aside the pope is certainly justified and proven correct by Muslim reaction to his words. Try to imagine Christians finally reacting with such barbaric threats and violence to the ridicule being continually heaped on them by the ACLU and other of the politically correct. And it is obvious the MSM is avoiding any criticism of Islam and the barbaric actions of Muslims due to abject fear!

Maybe if Muslim boys were raised to value and respect girls, if Muslim girls were raised to value and respect themselves things would be different. After all, girls should be a civilizing influence on boys provided they are raised to value and respect themselves, if they are raised to expect boys to show the proper deference due the fair sex.

Because of all the bad news abounding with lunatics rattling their sabers I’m going to write about the kinder and gentler civilizing influence girls should have on boys. For example, Sam Clemens wasn’t joking about Tom Sawyer trying to impress Becky Thatcher. Sam easily recalled his own efforts as a boy trying to impress girls. But when a boy meets that special girl, and meets her at that special time in their lives, a whole new world of the civilizing influence girls should be on boys becomes a reality. How many of you men can recall the first time when as a boy that special girl got your attention? I certainly remember that girl when I was a boy, and therein lies a tale.

“Grandma?”

“Yes, Donnie, what is it?”

“Grandma, can you tell me how to dress for a girl?”

If it was anyone but grandma I couldn’t even have uttered such words. Or wanted to. Grandma (actually our great-grandmother. Somehow she became “grandma” and we called my grandmother “Tody,” though I never knew why) was the one person my brother Ronnie and I could tell anything and she would understand. She loved us without reservation; and Ronnie and I knew that when she would tell us if we got hurt or were suffering from some illness that she wished she could take the pain on herself she really meant it. In spite of a bad hip and having to walk with a cane, grandma always seemed to be a strong woman. She wore her silver hair in a bun and had pale, blue eyes that would twinkle when Ronnie and I were younger and would tell her some fanciful story or share some recent capture of a lizard or June bug. But those eyes had the most uncomfortable ability to pierce you through her steel-rimmed bifocals if you had done something wrong or tried to lie to her. We didn’t lie to grandma.

“Why Donnie, whatever is it? Tell me why you want to know?”

“Well, grandma, I met this girl; her name is Jean.”

Grandma hesitated a moment and then asked, “Tell me about this girl, how old is Jean and what does she look like?”

“Well, she’s twelve like me, but a few months younger; her birthday is June tenth. She’s small and kind of quiet, and she has really beautiful, long, light brown hair. And she has violet eyes. I’ve never seen violet eyes before, grandma. They are really beautiful.”

Grandma smiled at that.

“Violet eyes, you say? My, that is unusual. She sounds like a very pretty girl.”

There was a twinkle in grandma’s own eyes and in her voice as well.

“She sure is, grandma, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life!”

“Well, well, Donnie, now that really is something. I’m going to have to meet this beautiful girl.”

Grandma didn’t seem altogether satisfied with my abbreviated description of Jean, but I was having great difficulty meeting grandma’s expectation of a description. A lot of things were going through my mind, things I wanted to say, but just didn’t seem able to come up with the right words. I wanted to say so much more, like Jean’s eyes, how they seemed to know what I was thinking, but....

Grandma sensed my difficulty and said, “Never mind, Donnie, she sounds like a very nice and beautiful girl and I am definitely looking forward to meeting her. Now, let’s get to the original subject of your question about how to dress for a girl.”

I felt the tension go away. I was really concerned and badly needed to talk to grandma so I plunged ahead.

“Grandma, she made me feel funny. I don’t quite know how to explain it, but I just felt like my Levi’s didn’t fit or I was wearing the wrong socks and shoes when I met her. I felt kind ‘a mortified.”

Grandma gave me a quizzical look before she replied.     

“Well, Donnie, you have very nice clothes you wear for church or going to special events where you have to dress nicely.”

“But grandma those are dress-up clothes. Most all black or brown with a white shirt and tie. I need clothes like regular ones; you know, regular pants and shirt. And shoes. I need a pair more like the clothes; regular shoes that aren’t exactly like Sunday shoes.”

“I believe I know what you mean, Donnie. I’m sure we can do something for you. It’s good to see you finally taking such a special interest in your appearance. You’re the right age for such things to begin to become important to you.”

Grandma was giving me a look I had never seen before. Her kind eyes were still quizzical; and yet there was the understanding in them I was hoping I would get from her. Grandma would understand what I was trying to say even if I couldn’t say it right.

“Well, Donnie, it seems you like this girl very much.”

If anyone but grandma had said such a thing to me, I would have been defensive and embarrassed. But coming from grandma, I knew the statement was well intended. She never embarrassed me and her comments were always genuine. I not only loved grandma, I respected her. This made it easy for me to talk to grandma about things I would never consider talking about with anyone else. Grandma had a way of making you want to talk to her about things you wouldn’t talk about with anyone else. And I really did want her help in trying to understand my mixed up feelings about Jean. So I tried to answer the best I could.

“I don’t know Grandma; well, I guess I do, but she isn’t like any other girls I know.”

Grandma was smiling and the twinkle was in her eyes. But there was a serious look there now as well.

“Donnie, she sounds like a very exceptional girl, and I am very much looking forward to meeting her.”

I went on, “I just never met a girl like this before. If you saw her and talked with her you’d know what I mean. She’s just different and I feel real funny around her.”

“And you say you felt embarrassed about the way you were dressed?”

“Uh, huh. I had clean Levi’s, my fingernails were clean and my hair was combed. I even had my good tennis shoes on. But I still felt funny, as if I just wasn’t dressed right?”

Grandma’s expression turned reflective.

“Well, well, well,” grandma murmured.

She sat back slowly in her rocking chair and with her hands folded in her lap, looked up at the ceiling for a few moments. Then, unfolding her hands and placing them on the arms of the rocker, she started gently tapping her fingers on them. Bringing her gaze back down to me she said, “I’ll tell you what Donnie, I’m going to ask your grandparents to take you to town. I think I know the kind of clothes and shoes you need.”

A feeling of relief swept through me. Grandma did understand.

“Thanks grandma, I love you.”

I gave grandma a hug and kiss and went outside thanking the Lord for grandma. Like the Lord, she never failed us. Grandma always had a way of explaining things that took the puzzle out of them, and this was another reason I knew she would understand what I couldn’t really explain. And though I was too young at the time to appreciate it, in looking back I realize grandma was somewhat ahead of her time in sticking up for what girls were capable of and should be learning and doing. Even so this was uncharted territory for me, and I was still uncomfortable with thinking and talking seriously about any girl. But between grandma and Jean, in some as yet incomprehensible way I knew I was going to have to think about a lot of things I’d never thought about before; intriguing things, yet somehow vaguely uncomfortable as well.

That very afternoon grandad and Tody told Ronnie and me to get ready to go downtown. I was delighted. If things went well, hopefully the next time I saw Jean I would be better dressed than I had been the first time, however being better dressed turned out to be.

A trip to downtown Bakersfield was always exciting for Ronnie and me. The cartoon matinee, for example, was only ten cents. For a dime we could watch two hours of glorious cartoons. And there was always a stop at Owen’s Toy Store, that fabulous place of such fantastic wonders! This was the source of electric trains of all descriptions, of our own Lionel, of cap guns, of peashooters and yo-yos. It was Mr. Owen himself who told me that yo-yo came from the Tagalong language and meant: Come, come. There were bicycles and tricycles and tops and marbles of every kind. I really believe grandad enjoyed Owen’s nearly as much as Ronnie and I. At least he was always talking with Mr. Owen and picking up various toys and examining them, all the time smiling and laughing. Grandad had once bought me a film pistol at Owen’s. A strip of film, mostly cartoons could be loaded, and when you pulled the trigger a light shined through the barrel. The film progressed one frame with each pull of the trigger, and the picture could be projected against a wall or anything you chose. My favorite strip was one of Tarzan.

Nearby was Vest’s Pharmacy with its marvelous soda fountain and delicious milkshakes, sundaes, and sandwiches. The beautiful green and white tile façade of the store was always a delight to our eyes. Nearby, two gray, stone pedestal drinking fountains were mounted on the sidewalk. They were equipped with white ceramic balls that had holes in them through which the water spouted when you turned the handles. These were welcome items for shoppers and children during the extremely hot Bakersfield summers. During the hottest days, the stores would have large blocks of ice sitting on the sidewalks in front of them to cool things off; or at least make you feel cooler by just looking at them. Encased in the clear blocks would be straw hats, skimmers, adorned with red, white, and blue bands. Most of these large blocks of ice came from grandad and Tody’s icehouse on 4^th and Chester.

The trips to downtown held marvelous sights like the magnificent Clock Tower of such intricate stonework. The clock sounded beautiful chimes on the hour. Nearby was the Bakersfield Arch over Union Avenue, and the adjacent large motel built like a Spanish Mission with its towering palms all along the front.

There was a drive-in restaurant that had the tail assembly, the empennage, of an airplane sticking out of its roof. This fascinated me and I always wanted to climb on the roof and examine it up close. Another restaurant mom would take us to not far from Vest’s Pharmacy had electric model trains running on tracks suspended from the ceiling. Ronnie and I were enraptured of the trains running overhead with their clickety-clack, clickety-clack, and the whistles of the locomotives as we ate. The owner must have really loved model trains. The big city certainly had its attractions for us.

And there was a Jewelry store not far from Vest’s Pharmacy with the most amazing “toys” in its front window. These were intricate, carousel-like and clockwork driven, with tiny figures, usually elves, doing a variety of things such as ringing tiny, silver bells with tiny, gold hammers. Ever so often a new creation would be displayed. I remember one that had an elf using a gold hammer to work something on a silver anvil. Ronnie and I would watch these mobile works of art with rapt attention, marveling at the amount of movement and detail in these wondrous displays of the watchmaker and jeweler’s artistry.

Brundage Lane, Niles, Union and Chester Avenues were almost as familiar to us as Cottonwood and Padre or Weedpatch Highway. Other areas were of excitement and enjoyment to us as well. Like China Grade East of Bakersfield where we could look out over the barren oil fields and hills punctuated with the many pumps, bobbing up and down slowly and rhythmically like huge iron birds sipping black nectar through steel straws.

Trips up the canyon along the river on highway 178 to Kernville and Isabella were really exciting and we had made many trips before grandad and Tody had acquired the mining claim. Ronnie and I always gazed with wonder at the tunnel way up the mountainside just before you entered the canyon. Grandad said a mining railway used it. As you drove up the canyon, you could see the tailings from the mine and the trail alongside the mountain that the old donkey engine with its ore cars had followed.

The fantastic granite sides of the canyon with enormous rocks as big as houses, some of them balanced so precariously they looked as though they could fall at any time, were fearfully awesome and fascinating. Tody would find pictures in the rocks. She would always point to one in particular that she said looked like a lady playing a piano. I dutifully looked, but could never make out the picture.

I had a great love of animals, birds, the outdoors and nature. I loved our visits to the mining claim in the forest. But downtown Bakersfield was always a study in people and architecture, and adventurous and exciting in its own distinctive way. While Ronnie and I had lived in some large cities like San Francisco and Cleveland, there was something about Bakersfield that was just different. And it wasn’t just because of it being more like a hometown to us. It was just somehow different in some indefinable way than other cities we had lived in.

Once downtown, Ronnie and I would see a few Zoot-suiters and scantily clad women wearing lots of makeup, strange hairdos and hair colors. A few of the women would elicit the phrase Painted Hussy from Tody, a phrase with which Ronnie and I had become well acquainted from earliest memory. Neither of us, of course, had the foggiest notion of what a painted hussy was; but we had heard the expression often enough, and somehow we had gotten the idea that any woman wearing a lot of makeup was a painted hussy.

But today, the strange outfits of some of the men and the strangely clad and made-up ladies only added mystery, intrigue, and excitement to the atmosphere of the Big City. This trip was different. There wouldn’t be any matinee or visit to Owen’s. I was going to get some clothes, different kinds of clothes than the usual bib overalls or Levi’s. Usually, Ronnie and I made directly for the toy department or the ice cream fountain at J. C. Penney’s. Ronnie did the usual; but grandad and Tody led me to the clothing department, an area I usually avoided with studied indifference if not downright disdain.

A lady clerk came over and grandad introduced Tody and himself and gave the clerk a very generalized idea of what they thought we were looking for. I say we even though my input was not invited.

The clerk looked me over like I was a bug in a jar. She seemed snooty to me. I didn’t like her. Instantly.

“Well, I think maybe we have something that will suit you (this to Tody and grandad, not me).”

The snooty clerk went to a rack of trousers and pulled off a pair. They were some kind of dark blue material. Then she went to another rack and pulled a shirt. It was white, long sleeved cotton. I wasn’t too sure about that. I had a couple of long sleeve flannel shirts for winter. But a long sleeve shirt in summer? What the Sam hill would anyone want a long sleeve shirt in summer for unless you were fishing or hunting in order to keep off mosquitoes or other bugs? Besides, I already had a couple of long sleeve white shirts. Why buy another one? I looked at grandad and Tody and started to say something. But grandad had that “Don’t” look in his eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. Tody seemed to be silently agreeing with grandad. The clerk got a matching leather belt off an oddly shaped wire hanger near the counter and threaded it through the loops in the trousers.

Now why couldn’t she have let me do that? I could sure put my own belt in trousers! I wore proper pants on Sunday; I didn’t always wear Levi’s like I was now wearing! And they had a belt in them, didn’t they? Who’d she think put the belt in them? I was feeling somewhat indignant.

“What is his name?” the clerk was asking Tody.

The way she said this she might as well have said: What is its name! Why didn’t she ask me? Didn’t she think I knew my own name? Indignation increasing.

“Donnie,” Tody replied.

“Well, now, Donnie (she made it sound like it was a word that fitted that bug in the jar) you just go in that dressing room and try these on.”

I went, feeling indignant and resentful. I put the pants and shirt on, somewhat surprised the snooty clerk hadn’t insisted on helping me to dress myself. But I was even more surprised that the pants and shirt fit perfectly. The snooty clerk hadn’t even taken or asked my measurements. Well, I could give her credit for knowing her job. Albeit very grudgingly. I walked out of the dressing room.

“Now go over to that mirror,” the clerk said imperiously. Knowing her job or not, she was really getting on my nerves. But having been taught not to argue with or show disrespect to my elders I obediently walked to the full length mirror, with an effort holding my opinion of the clerk to myself.

Tody and grandad were beaming.

“My,” Tody said, “doesn’t he just look grown up?”

I had to admit the pants and shirt really did make me look grown up. And in a much different way than my Sunday clothes. I hadn’t realized what a difference such clothes, properly coordinated, could make in my appearance. And somehow these clothes felt right on me when I tried to visualize myself standing in the presence of Jean, though I didn’t understand why? But once more I grudgingly admitted to myself that while I didn’t like the snooty clerk she knew what she was doing (I was to frequently confront this lesson about people over and again in my life).

The times our mother had Ronnie and me dressed up in some sailor or soldier outfit came to mind, as well as the year we had spent at St. Joseph’s Military Academy usually dressed in school uniforms. But, except for the Academy, that was playing, acting a part. We knew we weren’t really sailors or soldiers, though we would pretend we were. This was different. I was really going to wear this outfit to see a girl; Jean. It wasn’t playing. In some way that I did not understand, I somehow knew this was very serious business.

“Does he have shoes and socks to match?” the clerk was asking.

Grandad chimed in: “We want to get the boy new shoes and socks to match.”

“Then please come this way,” the clerk said… still snooty, still imperious.

She led us to the shoe department. I took a seat and was made to strip off my tennis shoes and socks and put on the new socks of the clerk’s choosing. They were of a thin, black material and I had to admit they felt good. She introduced Tody and grandad to another clerk (still acting like I didn’t exist), a man that was in charge of the shoe department. He measured my feet. For at least this much, I was grateful. The man didn’t look at me like a bug in jar. He went into a stockroom and returned with a shoebox in his hands, and I soon had on a new pair of black loafers. I had never had such a pair of shoes in my life. Grandad had some though, and I was really feeling proud.

The snooty clerk took over once again and walked me to a special machine and had me put my newly shod feet into it. Through a fluorescent green light, you could actually see the bones of your feet in the outline of the shoes in the device! Marvelous!

“Now, Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell,” the clerk said, “please look for yourselves whether you think the fit is right.”

Grandad and Tody dutifully peeked into the magic apparatus and pronounced the shoes a proper fit.

“Now, Donnie,” grandad said practically, “walk around in them and tell me how they feel to you.”

My heart went out to grandad. He was sticking up for me. Maybe he didn’t like the snooty clerk either? I walked up and down a few times. I was tempted to say they didn’t feel right just to cause the snooty clerk trouble. But that would probably have caused trouble for the man who had selected the shoes and not for her. And besides that, they felt good. And I was beginning to feel a little more charitable toward the clerk. She obviously knew her business. There was another full length mirror just off to the side of the shoe machine. I walked over to it in order to see how I looked in the new outfit, shoes and all… and this time I didn’t hurry because of the snooty clerk. Besides, with grandad and Tody going to all this trouble and expense, the least I could do was to try to cooperate and take a really good look at myself and see if they were wasting their time and money. And now that I was trying to really look at myself, the boy that stared back at me wasn’t me! He was a total stranger! For whatever unfathomable reason, I seemed a different person!

I heard the clerk asking the folks, “Would he like to wear these things or change back?”

“How about it Donnie?” grandad asked me.

Grandad was on my side. He knew we men had to stick together.

Turning from the mirror, I gathered my wits and tried to be nonchalant.

“I think I’ll wear them,” I said as condescendingly as I knew how for the clerk’s benefit.

Grandad had a smile. He looked at the clerk and said, “He’ll wear them.”

The clerk gave a little sniff and replied, “Very well, I’ll wrap his other things.”

I just knew she had wanted to say his old things and was resenting putting my Levi’s, old shirt, and socks into a clean, new store bag and my tennis shoes in the new shoebox.

Serves her right, I thought to myself. I wasn’t feeling all that charitable.

We collected Ronnie; and for his pains he got one of those toy boats that flew apart when a wood torpedo fired from another boat hit it just right. It was worth it just to see his eyes bug out at seeing me in my new sartorial splendor. As we returned to the car, something was bothering me. Then it struck me! It seemed I had never really looked at myself until I finally stood in front of that full-length mirror and tried to really see myself in the new clothes. Apart from the stranger I first saw, the straight brown hair was the same as mine and the hands were the same. But the new and properly coordinated clothes made me not only look older but feel older, and the next time I saw Jean dressed in these new clothes things would be different; I would be different. But I didn’t understand how or why, and that was somehow vaguely pleasant but very disturbing as well.