Norman
By his sister, Helen
By his sister, Helen
Norman Ernest Turner
Born 8/24/43 in Portland, Oregon
First home was our house on San Rafael Street in Portland
Our family was in for a surprise! For ten years it had been David, Donald, and me (ages 10, 12, and 18, respectively).
We thought that was it. But along comes this little guy, Norman, and announces, “Hey, wait for me! I’m supposed to be part of this family too.” Well, he turned out to be a really nice surprise and a blessing to us all. He was one cute little bundle who, after the initial Turner baldness, sprouted a head of beautiful soft, brownish golden red curls that framed a light skin sprinkled with freckles and set off by a pair of big brown eyes.
Not only did we all adore him, his siblings soon discovered the benefit of having a small scapegoat around on whom we could blame our mishaps. It was, “Norman did it," or “The baby must have broken it.” He was too little to defend himself or even be concerned about our accusations.
Norman didn’t have his full name yet when he came home from the hospital. Mama wanted Ernest for his middle name after her youngest brother. She asked me if I’d like to pick out his first name. I don’t think I ever told him I named him after one of my old boy friends. I wasn’t overly enamored of the boy friend but thought Norman was a most distinguished sounding moniker. Norman told me after he was grown that he didn't like his name. Aw, come on, little brother. Think of all the prestigious Normans out there: Rockwell, Schwarzkopf, Vincent Peale, Mailer. On the other hand, I have wondered if I could have come up with something that went better with Donald and David. Daniel/Dan sounded too much like Donald/Don. How about Douglas? OK, Norman, how would you like to be Douglas or Doug? That goes well with your coloring. ☺
Anyway, be it Norman, Douglas, or Rasputin, nobody ever got more attention than that little guy.
Donald and David arrived from Eastern Montana shortly after Norman came home from the hospital. I was asleep on a mattress on the floor of my room upstairs when I heard footsteps running up the stairs and two little boys exclaiming excitedly, “Helen Mae, Norman sure is cute!” They adored him as did we all, and he grew to idolize his big brothers.
When he reached the toddler years, he began to exhibit some discomfort with all the attention from visitors. There was a lot of, “Oh, you’re just so cute!” etc. And he was! Once when company was there, he disappeared. A search found him sitting on a little chair behind Mama’s and Dad’s bedroom door, where he’d retreated for a break from all the fuss people were making over him.
He was a happy little fellow who enjoyed chasing our ducks around and around the back yard or turning the hose on one of his brothers. Birds would bring an excited “teedle, teedle,” his imitation of bird songs.
One thing that really struck his funny bone was the sound of buttons rattling in Mama’s button jar. I’d shake it and he would laugh so hard it caused a vein to stand out on his forehead. When I saw that, I’d stop. I was afraid he might pop that vein.
Norman tended to be very exacting and literal. He was a smart little guy, our speller, pronunciation monitor, and would-be stock broker. We had trouble explaining why he shouldn’t carry the kitty by it’s tail. To him, kitty’s tail was its “hangle” or what you used to hang on to the kitty by. You didn’t drop “ing” on the end of words. We had a neighbor, Mrs. Eaton, and whenever Norman heard someone say her name, he’d correct with, “No, Mrs. Eating.”
While still an infant, Norman was baptized at Montavilla Methodist Church by Rev. Al Wilson. Al took the baby from Dad and a little pink hand reached out and got a grip on Al’s nose. He wasn’t being difficult. He’d just found another of those “hangles” and, boy, did he hang on to it to the amusement of all, including Al.
Donald and David came close to being the world’s worst spellers. When they were in the service, I asked if they would mind if I corrected the spelling in their letters to me. Both agreed, but persisted in spelling my name “Hellen.” I finally realized they were doing it on purpose and gave up. Both of them ended up making more money than I ever did. Where’s the justice? When the boys were still in school, Mama would find one of their misspelled words, and ask Norman how to spell it. Of course, he would spell it right -- probably the not the wisest psychological move.
I would phone home, Norman would answer, and I’d ask, “Is Mama there?” Norman replies, “Yes” followed by long silence. Finally Norman, who’d been sitting there holding the phone all that time would ask, “Did you want to talk to her?”
Of course, you little dickens. He expected the caller to be specific.
I’d be in the bathroom. Norman would stop outside the closed door and ask, “Are you in there, Helen Mae?” Me: “Yes.” Norman: “What are you doing in there?” None of your business, you nosey little squirt.
Mama had a thing about pets in the house. One of the boys would bring home a cat and Mama’s first reaction would be,
"That cat is not coming in the house!” But it always ended up there. In our living room was a small chest of drawers.
The bottom drawer was Norman’s toy drawer. Mama came in to find Norman had pulled out the drawer, his toys were all on the floor, and in the drawer sat Norman and one of those cats who was not to come in the house. Mama melted and the cat stayed in the house.
Later, Norman was playing with one of his friends. Mama heard the friend ask, “Where’s Pat?” (the cat). Norman responded, “I put him in the oven.” Mama rushed in the house and freed a yowling cat from the oven. Déjà vu Lakeside. Only this time the cat didn’t have a nice cold lake to jump into.
When Norman was still a toddler he was fascinated with the light that came on when the oven was turned on. He’d pull himself up the front of the range and flip the knob that turned on the light. Mama tried everything she could think of to make him stop doing that and wasting all that electricity. Finally, when she caught him in the act, she paddled him. It wasn’t a very hard paddling and Norman was really too young to understand. He looked up at her like, “What are you doing that for?” The next day, I was sitting in the living room and saw Norman headed for the range. He pulled himself half way up the front, stopped, reached around and paddled himself on the behind, then climbed up the rest of the way and turned on the oven light. What he learned from the paddling was that it was part of the process for turning on the light.
Once I had an appointment for a job interview. Unfortunately, when it was time to leave, there was no one else at home to leave Norman with. So, I took him with me. Well, I should have learned by then that when you take a child someplace, you take the child to the bathroom first. I didn’t. Sure enough, on the bus Norman announced that he had to go to the bathroom. I had no idea where we might find a restroom, but we got off the bus and started walking and walking -- and walking. Finally it was too late. Poor little guy. Soon we did spot a service station on Sandy Blvd. I left Norman there and told him I’d be right back. I hightailed it up the street to Penney’s and bought the first pair of overalls that looked like the right size. As I approached the service station I could hear a plaintive little voice wailing, “Helen Mae, Helen Mae.” I grabbed the door knob. Oh, no! Norman had locked it from the inside. There wasn’t a sign of anyone in the station. Finally the manager did come back from across the street where he’d gone for coffee. He got a ladder and climbed up to a high window, but before he had to crawl through it Norman got the door unlocked. Whew! I got him into his new dry pants, put the wet ones in a sack, and we headed back to catch another bus. On the bus, Norman held up the sack, and asked in a loud clear voice as only a child can do, “Helen Mae, are these my wet pants?”
OK, Norman, maybe you think I shouldn't have told that story on you. Well, little brother, just consider it pay back for those times you stood outside the closed bathroom door and asked, “What are you doing in there. ☺
Norman got a lot of hugging. When he approached his teen years, as with many youngsters, I sensed a withdrawal from those hugs. Although I still wanted to hug him, I decided to respect his space and hold off with the hugs. I wish I hadn’t done that. Later I read that when kids reach that stand-off stage, ignore it. Hug ‘em anyway. When our David’s oldest (we called him “Davie” then) reached that stage, acting sort of cold and aloof from the rest of us, I saw him sitting at the table and announced, “OK, Davie, you think you’re too big to get kissed, but I’ve got news for you.” And I planted a big kiss on the back of his neck. A grin spread across his face and he just seemed to come out of the shell he’d been building. OK, little brother, here’s several years’ backlog of hugs. ☺