THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 3, 1995 TAG: 9509010600
SECTION: COMMENTARY PAGE: J3 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: GEORGE TUCKER
LENGTH: Medium: 65 lines
When I consulted the microfilm files of old issues of The Virginian-Pilot awhile ago for background material for a column, I took time out to enjoy the comic sections of the Sunday editions of my childhood. Back then, the funnies were really funny.
While so engaged, I suddenly recalled an occasion in the ``dear, dead days beyond recall'' when two luscious slices of chocolate cake played the dual role of nemesis and anticlimax in a Berkley midsummer idyll in which I participated.
It was a sultry Sunday afternoon, and the air was heavy with the heady perfume of hundreds of ivory chalice-like magnolia blossoms on a big tree in our front yard. My eldest sister and I, both dressed to the nines in our best attire, had been sitting on the side porch enjoying the latest shenanigans of Happy Hooligan, Mutt and Jeff, and the Katzenjammer Kids. When the delights of the brightly colored comics were exhausted, however, profound boredom set in.
So I suggested we take an unauthorized sashay around the block before we undressed for our obligatory afternoon nap. Slipping quietly out the side gate, my sister and I were soon exploring the dusty store windows of Chestnut Street, from Jimmy Contrada's shoe repair shop to Laibstain's dry goods and notions store.
When we grew tired of that, we turned into Pine Street, deciding it might be a good idea to pay an unannounced call on Miss Mamie West, our Sunday school teacher who lived there.
Miss Mamie, who always sported a pair of diamond earrings that reminded me of imprisoned rainbows, was noted for her fine baking, a good deal of which was avidly bought by less talented Berkley housewives, including my mother.
Never dreaming we were on an unsanctioned ramble, Miss Mamie welcomed us with open arms and treated each of us to a big slide of freshly baked chocolate cake. In the process of gobbling this down, tragedy struck like a bolt out of the blue.
My sister dropped her gooey slice into the lap of her yellow organdy Sunday-go-to-meeting frock, leaving a telltale stain. Fearing to go home, we said goodbye to Miss Mamie and called on Mrs. Woody Moore a few doors down.
Mrs. Moore was enjoying a light love story on her shady front porch. Asking no questions, she agreed to let us play with two of her boys for the rest of the afternoon and later invited us to stay for supper.
But the pleasure of watching the boys operate their miniature steam engine and create fantastic structure with their Tinker Toys and Erector Sets was soured by the knowledge that sooner or later our temporary bliss would end in catastrophe.
Just after the 9 o'clock gun boomed over the Elizabeth River, a man came to Mrs. Moore's front gate and asked if she had seen us. When she informed him we were inside, he exclaimed, ``Thank God! Half of the town is out looking for them!''
Retribution struck swiftly when we arrived home at the magnolia-perfumed corner of Mulberry and Middleton streets. Finally, when my justifiably irate father had returned to his rocking chair on the front porch after administering a double dose of ``switch tea'' to my sister and myself, there was a profound silence, except for our muffled whimpers, for a while.
Then, as quietly as a mouse approaches a piece of cheese, my mother crept into our bedroom and brought us an undeserved snack - two slices of luscious chocolate cake from one she bought the day before from Miss Mamie as a special treat for our Sunday night family supper! by CNB