In response to Suleika Jaouard, I am trying to journal about the same topic for 100 days. I chose writing anecdotes about my childhood with my sister, mom, and grandma. My plan is to record them here as I go along.

Memory 1: The hair dryer built into the floor

When Misty and I were young, we lived in a little house across the street from my Grandma Silvey’s house on High Drive. Our little house was heated by oil kept in an oblong silver drum in our backyard. During the year, my mom would set aside money each month so that when fall came, she could order enough oil to fill the drum that would provide heat all winter long. I am talking 1970’s and very early 80’s here. We lived in that little house until the spring of my 7th-grade year, when we moved into an apartment across town. My parents sold the little house for around $32,000, if I remember accurately. My mom just couldn’t find the right house for the right price when they sold the little house, so we lived in an apartment for a year while the money from the first house drew interest. A year later, they bought a fixer-upper in Hickory Hills, but that’s another story.

I have so many sweet memories of our time in the little house on High Drive, but the heater vent right outside my bedroom door ignites a visceral memory, one that still burns my feet if I think about it too long.

My mom often bought Misty and me matching nightgowns, sometimes made of flannel, but more often cotton or polyester, even though we were four years apart in age. The bottoms almost always featured curvy, rolling hems that grazed our ankles and sometimes caught our bare feet to send us tripping forward if we tried to move too quickly while wearing them. I remember artistic renderings of our favorite dolls, like Holly Hobbie or Raggedy Ann, or a pretty design of flowers or rainbows in frill-lined frames on our chests.

We always took our baths at night back then, right before we went to bed. We often spent the night across the street with Grandma Silvey, all three of us – my mom, Misty, and me – when my dad was on one of his long-distance hauls (he was a truck driver for Atlas Van Lines). When we slept at our little house, though, our nightly bath routine included hair washing and vent drying. My mom made sure we washed and rinsed our hair thoroughly, sometimes requiring us to stick our heads under the faucet until there were no suds visible. Then she covered our heads in what she called “creme rinse.” She said it would help her comb out the tangles. I guess she was trying to prevent me from screaming the next morning when she raked that wire hair brush across my forehead and down the back of my head, yanking at the knots that had formed overnight. She even bought detangler in a spray bottle for the morning brush routine.

My hair has always been stick straight, which also meant instant static electricity. My second-grade class photo featured a dynamic show of electricity with fine strands floating upward, fanned out around my head and behind the plastic white hair bows on either side of my middle part. My sister suffered worse, though. Her golden curls were often referred to as rats’ nests when my mom started her morning brush routine. Yet, she was also the one who received all the adoring comments: “What beautiful blonde curls! She will be a heartbreaker someday!”

I, with my stick-straight, fly-away, sandy strands, was known as the “Smart Sister.”

At night, though, after our baths, when Momma had all the tangles combed out of our wet hair, she would pull our long nightgowns over our heads and tell us to dry our hair on the vent.

That vent seemed to take up the whole corner of the hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom, so it had plenty of room for both my sister and me to stand on it. I know that it didn’t run all the time; it would cut on and off periodically, but when it erupted, our little feet could take the heat for about 10 seconds at a time. We often stood just long enough for a whoosh of hot air to blow out our polyester gowns as we cackled and poked each other’s bellies like they were balloons. Then we’d jump backward onto the carpet and toss our heads forward so that the heat would reach our hair and not our feet.

Sometimes a hopscotch match would ensue, a game of jumping patterns in and out of the fiery center. Or we would play follow-the-leader around the corners, faster and faster, until I inevitably tackled my younger sister or she screamed for my mom to rescue her. I can’t say for sure how long it took for our hair to dry from gushes of hot air from that black metal vent. It had to take at least 30 minutes, and I am pretty sure my mom was aware that it would wear us out enough that we would fall asleep the minute we crawled into bed together, right after my sister hollered, “let me in the middle,” as she always did.