The Ragamuffin
No one denied that my little brother, Danny, was smart. He spoke plainly, in complete sentences, for several months before he even turned two. He was curious about everything, often taking things apart that would have been better left alone. When he was four, he taught himself to read. After Grandpa taught him how to play checkers, he soon won more often than he lost. A few years later, he taught me to play chess, but I quit playing with him before too long, because I could never beat him. As he grew, Danny became an avid reader; when nothing else was available, he read the whole set of encylopedias, cover to cover.
Danny was just three when our family moved to the Oxnard Hotel in Norfolk. We lived in the main level, manager's apartment, which had a south-facing, outside door, leading to our trikes and the sandbox Dad had installed for us, as well as a large, sometimes vacant, used car lot, where we often played. Another door opened from the north side of our apartment into the hotel lobby, where the old men sat around, smoking and talking, or watching the residents' only available TV.
I had just started kindergarten, so Danny, without his usual morning playmate, followed Mom around as she cleaned hotel rooms and worked at the front desk, just off the lobby. He played in the telephone booths, always checking the coin returns for lost change. He plopped down on the dusty floor of the mostly unused, east vestibule, searching the corners for lost treasures, and playing with the crickets that had found their way past the door. When Mom wasn't looking, he ate the cigarette butts left in the lobby ashtrays. He crawled under the massive library desks, just because he could, and ran up and down the mammoth staircase leading to the hotel rooms on the second and third floors. And then, there was that grand bannister that we both liked to slide down, whenever we got the chance...
Every morning, Danny dressed himself, with a little help from Mom, who made sure that he was completely buttoned and tucked, suspenders fastened, shoes tied, hands and face washed clean after breakfast. Then, he was "off to the races," in typical little boy fashion.
The old men loved it when Danny came around to talk to them. I don't know what they found to chat about, but it seemed like they could converse for hours. I was as shy as Danny was outgoing, so I preferred to stay away from the residents; but Danny was as comfortable in the lobby as in our apartment--maybe even more so, because there, he had plenty of people to talk to.
One fall morning, a traveling photographer set up shop in the lobby, hoping his advance advertising had paid off, and that several mothers would bring their little darlings in for pre-Christmas pictures. Danny was right there, "helping" him set up his table and camera, and asking endless questions: "What are you doing?" "What's that for?" "How does that work?"
The photographer was patient, and seemingly glad for Danny's company. It was a slow morning, so he held Danny up to look through the camera lens, after the big camera was mounted on its tripod. Then, he stood Danny on his table, and snapped a few photos. Danny was in his element!
Mom was so embarrassed when the photographer returned, a few weeks later, to deliver a free picture of Danny, who had been the favorite poser that day. In her words, he looked like such a "ragamuffin"--a thoroughly contented, totally happy, completely normal little boy, but an oh-so-dirty ragamuffin, just the same.
That's one picture that never hung on our wall. But, years later, she made copies for everyone in the family, and put them in our photo albums, because this is truly the three-year-old Danny we remember.
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