Sunbeams

My aunt, uncle and cousins lived in what’s now called in San Clemente, an “Ole Hanson”, so-called after the town’s founder. In 1957, to us, it was called “Granddad’s duplex”.

In the kitchen of the “old” Spanish style house there was a side door, it was painted that 1950’s green-yellow. In that door, there was a window. And through that window broke the sun rising over the big hill a few hundred yards away. I might mention that that view was on its last days, the house then under construction next door would soon block it forever. That house would become the house I grew up in.

I stood in the kitchen, I was so small! I raised my head up to be spackled by the glinting beams. There was bread in the toaster. It was the airy, sliced white bread favored by post war Americans at that dawn of the consumer age. I still remember the brand. It was named “Sunbeam” and was in a toaster probably bearing that brand as well. Sunbeam was also the make of a car my Dad owned. My mother told me almost to her dying day how she could have killed him for selling her beautiful ’55 Ford for that “thing”, the Sunbeam. She couldn’t even say the word.

Resentment can last a lifetime.

The toaster popped up that sliced morning confection. It was the first time I noticed how good melted butter on toast smelled. My aunt handed me my slice: “Here ya go, David!” she said in her sing-songy Texahoma accented way.

I no longer recall the taste. How could I? The sunbeams were overwhelming.

I think they still are.

Those sunbeams busted through that window like I’ve never seen sunbeams bust through anything since. Those Sunbeams piercing that 1957 morning-cold glass impressed on me the definition of what a sunbeam was. Those sunbeams were to be the sunbeams of the rest of my life.

I stood in that kitchen, the whole future before me. I think I must have been in awe.

I think I still am.