I never saw my mother drink alcohol until the sweltering Fourth of July in 1958.
Though it is a holiday for nearly every other American, my father had to work. A salesman for Consolidated Tile, he had a “call,” which meant driving to someone’s house on the city’s north side to show them wall tile samples.
I watched out the living room window as he drove off, wondering if the family whose home he was visiting was lucky enough to have air conditioning. The thermometer clamped to the window sill showed 90 degrees outside. Indoors felt no better.
In fact, it had been hot all week on the south side of Chicago, and on the previous Monday morning, my brother Net (short for Kenneth) and I sneaked out early before the sun started baking the pavement. It was junk day, which came once every year. Anything you wanted to get rid of, you could carry out to the curb: stoves, tires, lamps, broken furniture, the proverbial kitchen sink.
Net and I schemed that if we left at dawn, we might find something good before the other junk pickers had a chance at it. And sure enough, sitting on the parkway next to a couple of galvanized garbage cans was a desk fan. It was dark green with three blades, an electrical cord and a heavy pedestal with a black switch.
It looked solid to me, and I wondered out loud why anyone would throw it away.
“They’re probably rich,” Net said.
The afternoon of the Fourth, we were all sitting around the kitchen table. Mom was at the head, and clockwise from her were Charlie (age 13), Jimmy (12), Rosie (11), myself (10), Net (9), Kevin (6), Patrick (8), and Nancy (3) in the high chair next to Mom.
Net and I chose the corner farthest from Mom, plugging our new fan into the electrical outlet where the radio played Howard Miller every morning. Mom was busy adjusting the tray on Nancy's high chair and just nodded when I asked if I could turn it on.
Voila! It worked. Or it was humming, at least. The blades began to turn slowly, and then more quickly, and soon fast enough to create an actual breeze.
Not only that, but the whole fan assembly started oscillating to the right, then to the left.
Even my older brothers were smiling, and I was filling up with a feeling I’d never had before — pride, I think — when Mom suddenly stood from her chair.
“Get away!” she shouted. “Don’t touch it.”
She charged toward the fan, veering left at the last second before yanking the plug from the wall.
“You could have been killed,” she said.
I watched the blades slowing, coasting, finally stopping.
“My God, I would have never let you keep it!” Mom said. “There’s no protection. It could chop up your face. Or cut off your hand.”
“Oh, yeah,” Patrick said. “It’s supposed to have a cage around it.”
Without a safety guard, it was an outboard motor propeller inches away from our faces. And I realized, suddenly, why they threw it away.
It felt even hotter in the kitchen than it did before. Which is when we watched Mom open the fridge, bend down and take out one of Dad’s cans of Hamm’s beer.
“Wait, Mom, you don’t drink beer,” Rosie said.
“I’m really thirsty,” Mom said as she rummaged through the silverware drawer before extracting a can opener. She looked funny leaning over the Hamm’s for leverage before punching two holes and lifting it to her mouth. We were mesmerized as she took a long pull, her eyes closed. She put the can down on the counter, swallowed, then lifted it once more to hold against her forehead.
“May I have a sip?” Kevin said.
“Just a little one,” she said, tipping the can, her other hand on the back of his head. The rest of us lined up for sips, all except for Charlie, the oldest, who said one sip was not worth it.
Mom sat back down with what was left of Dad’s beer in front of her.
“I know what!” Jimmy said. “Be right back.”
He ran to the rear of the kitchen and out the screen door, and I heard him shoving and banging heavy things in the garage before he came running back inside.
“How about this?” he said. He was holding Speedo’s birdcage. Speedo was our late parakeet, which Dad named after The Cadillacs’ hit song from 1955. It took me a second to understand what Jim was up to, and then I was all in, helping him lower the cage over my fan. It fit perfectly, with elbow room for the oscillation.
After Mom gave the OK, I held my breath and the fan blew blessed relief in our faces from inside Speedo’s house.
“Good idea, Jim,” I said, looking at the others for agreement.
Nancy’s cheeks were flushed. Two strands of her blonde hair fluttered about her forehead. Rosie shut her eyes, savoring the fan’s magic.
Mom took another sip. No one spoke, as talking seemed a wasteful use of the priceless air current.
Thus, we sat silently on the Fourth of July, 1958, my mother and her eight children, our countenances lifted to receive the blessed wind from the killer fan.
Today, I visualize the scene in our kitchen from 66 years ago, as I sit in an electric leather recliner in our climate controlled “smart” house, typing on a razor thin laptop and drinking espresso.
A wave of sadness — laced with guilt — for the deprivations my late parents endured raising eight of us makes my head hurt.
Although they never could afford central air conditioning for that house, my mother, who did not finish high school, and my father, who was not able to attend college, made sure their children took advantage of the freedoms and opportunities available in this country to get an education and pursue careers in law, higher education and medicine. And we never had to go shopping on junk day again. Our parents derived happiness from our successes, a fact from which I, in turn, derive some solace.
And on this Fourth of July, the best way to return their favor is to perpetuate the American dream for our grandchildren by working to restore the earth, and to preserve and strengthen democracy, equality and freedom in America.
David McGrath is author of the just released Far Enough Away. a collection of his work. His essay “His Intimacies with Lake and Stream,” published in this magazine, was cited in Best American Essays 2022. Email him at mcgrathd@dupage.edu.