Slippage - Memoir (and)

YVONNE CANNON

Slippage

Everything dates from 1964, I’ve thought often, sometimes

mistakenly. We bought a KitchenAid dishwasher

and a Maytag that year and our sturdy Plymouth.

That’s when my husband finished our kitchen remodel

I recalled, but he said I was wrong, it was 1967,

when China exploded the hydrogen bomb.

In 1964 our firstborn daughter turned eleven.

We watched Ed Sullivan, large head welded

to thick neck, introduce the fabulous Beatles

through barely moving lips. Our daughter

bought Beatles LPs, named her kitten Ringo,

and vowed when she grew up she’d marry Paul.

I thought JFK was killed in 1964, but my boss

reminded me it was just before

Thanksgiving 1963; we’d seen the ticker tape

winding around the savings and loan, repeating

endlessly, “The President has been shot.”

Earlier than 1964: Sputnik I, tumbling

among constellations; MLK Jr.’s dream

that hovered above us in heated August air

until September, when it perished,

along with four little girls at Sunday school.

In 1964, nobody we loved died. That summer

we drove north to Mt. Lassen, our youngest

carsick only once. Late snow ploughed off the mountain

into glorious drifts that towered over our Plymouth.

We parked and romped on the snowy slope, warmed

by July, our three daughters clad in shorts.

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