On a pleasant day somewhere near downtown Los Angeles in 1953, a boy took his first shaky steps on soft and bouncy grass. The tiny white leather shoes were small. He flexed his feet in the tiny white leather shoes, stood on his toes, and fell.Mother helps him up and holds his arms above his head. She lets go. He teeters back and forth before staggering a step forward. A couple more of mis-starts and he staggers towards mother. Down along the side of the old wood plank house, arms flailing his big head propels him forward. It’s his first thrill of self-mobility and a taste of independence. He has taken his first steps.
Mother scoops him up and carries him into her basement workshop. They step over a worn wooden board threshold onto a dirt floor. The small space is filled with makeshift benches of plywood and boards covered with buckets, plaster, and molds. One bench is littered with small paint bottles and brushes. Several molds hang suspended in the air to dry. Here mother pours molds of plaster of Paris animals and paints them with a small variety of her favorite colors. Beams of sunlight filter through the dirty windows and light up the air with tiny plaster dust particles floating around the room. He squirms and stretches his stubby fat arms and tiny fingers to touch the floating powder. A musty odor of dirt, dust, plaster and old wood fill the room. It’s magical.
Eyes wide with wonder and curiosity, he notices the many odd-shaped creations. Some are carefully painted colors and others sit plaster white waiting for her attention. His eyes wander from piece to piece. With her free arm she reaches over a bench and picks up a chocolate brown puppy with a large blue bow. She whispered that she made it for him. Turning it over his name is painted on the back . She points and verbalized each letter of his name. He was safe in her arms and happy. Mother is happy. Unaware and too young to imagine, this would be the happiest experience of his mother in his life. It would not last.
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