Mom knew I understood the gravity of this rite of passage, and she nodded solemnly.
With all of the women working, each sister-wife who had a nursing baby assigned her infant to an older girl between the ages of eight and ten, who served as a second pair of hands. Our job was to do whatever the mothers asked us to do to keep the babies happy while they worked nearby. I was thrilled to be promoted from a liability to an asset, just like that.
I had always hoped that I would be assigned to watch the children of Ramona or Faye. I felt closest to them because they were my half-sisters from my mom’s first marriage. Sadly, that proved too much to hope for. Dan Jordan had given two of his older wives, Sheila and Jody, complete authority over the girls who tended the younger children. They discouraged any form of favoritism and deliberately placed in our care preschoolers and babies we weren’t closely related to. Determined to break up family loyalties, the sister-wives used this self-imposed authority as another way to control us. After being reprimanded and shamed for showing favoritism to my sisters’ children and accused of ignoring the children of Dan’s other wives, I learned not to question who was assigned to my care each day.
Every day brought new excitement, as several of us girls would get together and play moms. We diapered and clothed “our” babies and carried them on our hips around the vicinity of the appliance store. When the babies got hungry, we took them to their moms to be nursed. We often did odd jobs, like cleaning house and doing dishes for the moms, especially the ones who had living quarters on the warehouse property.
The warehouse was located off Federal Boulevard, surrounded by a chain-link fence woven through with plastic slats for privacy. The driveway to the warehouse was beside Taco House. The living quarters of some of my extended family was a tiny, rundown house on the side of the drive. At the end of the driveway was an L-shaped building that contained two areas of warehouse space, the storefront showroom, an office, and Linda’s upstairs apartment, accessed by a dark stairwell. The high ceilings in the warehouse made it hard to regulate the temperature, so in the winter we nearly froze and during the summer it was deathly hot. The big industrial fans hanging from the ceiling did little more than move warm air around. Thankfully, someone usually opened the oversized garage doors leading into the warehouse areas to allow fresh air in.
One afternoon, my step-sister June, my half-sisters Darlene (Linda’s daughter) and Eva (my dad’s seventh wife Rosemary’s daughter), and I took our babies out for a walk in the neighborhood. We passed the white house just inside the gates of the property, turned right, and headed toward Taco House, the restaurant right outside of the property gates. The owner just happened to be changing his menu on the sign out front when we passed.
“My, my. You girls have quite a parade going, don’t you?” he said, with his arms folded over his ample belly.
“No, we’re just taking the babies for a walk,” Darlene said.
“Is that so? Very nice.” He smiled and nodded at each of us. Suddenly, he raised his eyebrows and held up his right index finger. “Hey, wait here. I have something for you. I’ll be back in a minute.” He disappeared into the restaurant.
June’s brow furrowed. “That’s suspicious.”
Eva chimed in. “Yeah, I think we should go. Our moms wouldn’t like it if they knew we were talking to him.”
“I think he’s nice. We should see what he wants.” I rarely turned down the opportunity to get anything free.
“It would be rude to leave now.” Darlene, the voice of reason, finalized our decision, and we waited.
Moments later, the restaurant owner emerged, holding four colorful lollipops in his left hand. “Here you go —something sweet for some sweet girls.” He handed each of us a different flavor.
We thanked him, pulled off the wrappers, and began licking our tasty treats. I made mine last the entire walk. When we returned to the warehouse, our tongues were bright blue, red, green, and orange.
When I was not assigned to a mom and her baby, I was working in the warehouse cleaning used appliances. We never got to pick what appliances we scoured. Instead, each morning, we lined up to attack row after row of never-ending, filthy old appliances. Washers and dryers were always our first choice since they required less work to get them in sellable condition. But once we were done with these machines, we had to move on to the other appliances.
I detested working on stoves the most. Probably attracted by food remnants, there were often dead mice or rats or layers of their droppings inside, as well as dead —or more often, live —roaches scurrying out of reach, and years’ worth of charred, encrusted food and grease that had to be removed.
We used razor blades and Easy-Off to scrape the gunk off everything. The girls cleaned while the boys and some of the women made repairs. Next to the cleaning area was the washer and dryer repair department, then there was a big sliding metal door that separated the warehouse from the showroom.
The showroom floor was old, discolored tile that had to be mopped and waxed regularly. In the middle of the showroom there were rows of stoves, dishwashers, single washers and dryers, and matching sets of washers and dryers. Freezers and refrigerators lined the perimeter of the room near wall outlets, since customers often requested that someone plug in the appliance to show that it worked. The bathroom on the showroom floor had to be kept clean for customers, so sometimes we were assigned the task of cleaning it, too.
Whenever we kids were given permission to take a break, all of us headed for the yard behind the warehouse, where hundreds of discarded refrigerators and freezers were kept for parts. The appliances closest to the warehouse were lined up in neat rows, but those further out on the property were scattered willy-nilly. This huge area was our playground, where we enjoyed games of hide-and-seek, climbed on top of and inside the scrap appliances, and created forts and hideouts. Although I didn’t like them at first, I quickly grew used to the furry mold and the gross smells from the array of machines.
This is why I always dreaded the end of the school year. I would gladly have opted for listening to the world’s most boring teacher or taking tests or doing countless sit-ups in gym class rather than slaving from morning to night at the warehouse.
After work, we would drive home and eat a meager dinner before heading to bed, only to repeat the same grueling schedule the next day. One night I stayed later than usual with my mom so she could finish some paperwork. On the way home, Mom made a surprise stop at Wendy’s and bought two hamburgers, with an order of French fries and a chocolate Frosty to split between us. I was so happy sitting in the car with Mom, enjoying this rare treat with her.