Meet Me On the Corner
“I’ve been thinking of my father lately; one night, I was remembering how he used to meet me on the corner when I walked home from my best friend’s house after dark. If I could define the word ‘safety,’ it would be that moment when I would spy my father under the streetlamp waiting. I would call from Beth’s house just as I was leaving, at 9, 10, or maybe 11 o’clock, depending upon my age, and say, ‘Leaving.’ Then I would scoot out her front door and confront the dark, empty street, either walking or on my bike, and, by the time I got to the corner, there Dad would be, often smoking his pipe. Never, ever, did he let me down.”—Kathryn E. Livingston
Words & Wonder
By Kathryn E. Livingston
BOGOTA New Jersey—(Weekly Hubris)—1 September 2022—I’ve been thinking of my father lately; one night, I was remembering how he used to meet me on the corner when I walked home from my best friend’s house after dark. If I could define the word “safety,” it would be that moment when I would spy my father under the streetlamp waiting. I would call from Beth’s house just as I was leaving, at 9, 10, or maybe 11 o’clock, depending upon my age, and say, “Leaving.” Then I would scoot out her front door and confront the dark, empty street, either walking or on my bike, and, by the time I got to the corner, there Dad would be, often smoking his pipe. Never, ever, did he let me down.
Nothing sinister or dangerous ever happened, and probably never would have, because Schenectady, New York, in those days, was pretty safe, and my street and Beth’s were quiet. But Dad was no fool and, being linked into the court system as the director of probation, he knew that crimes did occur even in safe neighborhoods where we didn’t even lock our doors (at least, not during the day).
No matter what he was doing, he dropped it to escort me safely home, and he never told me he couldn’t meet me, or denied me the fun of going to Beth’s house to hang out with my friend, or was too drunk to get to the corner (the man did not drink, except maybe a tiny glass of port or a cold beer on a hot day, though I don’t even remember that), or too tired, or too anything, and he never sighed or sounded exasperated or annoyed, and he was always, always there to answer the phone. The message was that I was a VIP. And there is no better, no more important message for a little girl (or a teen-aged girl, or maybe a girl of any age) to receive from her father.
This is not to say we didn’t have our issues, particularly during my teen years when I started wearing mini-skirts and white lipstick. My dad didn’t seem to know what to do with my budding sexuality, so he withdrew for a few years, looking a bit disgusted and disgruntled when I’d dress for a date. In due time, he relaxed a bit; not only did I acquire a steady boyfriend, but the late 1960s and early 70s were a time of baggy painter pants and construction boots. He couldn’t very well disapprove of that, though I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled with the braless part.
Ironically, it was my proper and gentlemanly dad who accompanied me to buy my very first bra, standing uncomfortably in the ladies’ loungewear department of our local department store when I was in fourth grade, because my mother was bedridden with a slipped disc just when all the girls in my class were getting their first bras (clearly, few of us actually needed them). He stood there like a trooper while I marched up to the counter and bought what I desired, a little piece of stretchy cotton called a training bra. My parents never discussed sex with me, though my mother did hand me a pamphlet about menstruation when I was twelve.
Times were different. I never heard my parents utter a single swear word (my children learned a host of expletives from me early on in life!). I did once hear my father bellow “Son of a B!” as he raced through our house and out the back door in his pajamas (I think there may have been a stray dog or raccoon in our backyard). Beth and I had a good laugh over that for years. His code words for caution were simply, “Hey-hey!” Basically, that either meant “Watch out!” or “Stop it right now!” The odd little word-combo had power: I never even considered ignoring it.
It’s decades now since my father passed, and I still miss him.
Kathryn Livingston
Kathryn E. Livingston was born in Schenectady, New York and lived there in a stick-style Victorian house until she left for Kirkland College (the short-lived women’s coordinate college of Hamilton College in small-town Clinton, New York). In l975, with her BA in English/Creative Writing, she moved to New Paltz to become first a waitress at an Italian restaurant, and then a community newspaper reporter. A few years later, she married a classical clarinetist she had met in high school and moved to Manhattan (Washington Heights), beginning a job as a trade magazine editor the day after their wedding. A few years later, after picking up an MA in English/Education at Hunter College, she became an editor at the visually stunning American Photographer. Motherhood (three sons) eventually brought her to suburban New Jersey, close enough for her husband to moped home for dinner between rehearsal and performance at the New York City Opera. Between baby diaper changes and boys’ homework assignments, Livingston toiled as a freelance writer on the topic of motherhood for numerous mainstream magazines. She also co-authored several parenting books, several photography books, and eventually wrote a memoir of her anxiety-ridden but charmed life and her path to Yoga: Yin, Yang, Yogini: A Woman’s Quest for Balance, Strength and Inner Peace (Open Road Media, 2014). With the kids now grown, and the husband still playing notes, Kathryn enjoys fiddling with words, writing her blog, puttering in her garden, and teaching the occasional Yoga class. (Author Photo: John Isaac/Author Head Shot Augment: René Laanen.)