GROWING UP AMERICAN: A Collection of Childhood Tales Page 2

  I think it might have been the year they put up the new wagon shed or it could have been any number of things but I remember a long weekend where it seemed like every Taylor in existence turned up at the farm with enough food to feed an army. We worked and we ate, and we ate and we worked. Friday night started the festivities, and lunch Saturday found us around the long table again. At supper Saturday night we all washed our hands, wiped our faces and settled back around the table.

  Everything grew hushed in anticipation and we all turned to look at granddad. All eyes focused expectantly upon him he calmly picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of roast beef and put it on his plate. A muffled gasped escaped our collective mouths and then eyeing us with a twinkle granddad said "I've already blessed this food twice if that's not enough I'm doing something wrong.". Laughter and eating commenced.

  Over The River

  It's a wonder my mother didn't turn gray over night with some of the things we kids got up to. Like the time I decided to ride my horse Tanner across the Susquehanna River. It was early spring and although the ice had let out of the river there were still a few hidden patches off snow here and there. I road down the hill past the progress camp and that was really about as far as I had planned to go but the river was low and slow there so I decided to see where I would come out at on the other side. Tanner gamely stepped out into the fridge river and all was well until we were a little more than half way across. It was there that the river started getting deeper and for just a minute it was up over my stirrups, I tucked my feet up to keep then dry but in the end my boots got wet. We came out on the other side near a road and since I was pretty sure it wouldn't be far until I hit the pleasant valley road I kept going. I really didn't want to cross the river again.

  The road I was on twisted and turned upward until by late afternoon I was to ping the hill near Egypt and knew where I was. I came out by the little church in the valley, crossed 970 and took the loop past Finks farm. A half hour later I was loping over the field toward Reed's stables as the sun began slipping from the sky. Cliff was in doing the feeding, took one look at me and told me to get down and put my Tanner in an empty stall. He then called my dad to pick me up and I could come to get my horse in a day or two. It ended up taking a little longer than expected since I'd gotten a bad chill with those wet boots and contracted walking pneumonia. Mom was actually in Florida with my sister or she would have stopped me when I went to fetch Tanner. It was still cold and I was still sick but he needed to come home so Missy dropped me up, I saddled up and started home.

  Tanner ducked his head into the brisk wind and pointed his head toward home as we traveled the coal truck traveled 970. I remember the feel of the saddle that day and the singing rhythm of Tanners trot. Everything was shiny for some reason. Crossing the old metal bridge at Shawsville was the worst. Fearing two trucks would want to cross at the same time we scrambled across it as fast as we dared. I swung down at Shaw's store for some reason, with two of the eight miles still ahead of me to find Brian Wise and Rickey there. Rick took one look at me, grasped Tanner by the reins and shoved me into Brian's red Duster. “I’ll take him from here" he said gently, giving Tanner's head a good scratch.

  I don't remember much more than that except that the car was warm and Tanner came home safe and sound. I could always depend on my childhood friend Rickey. That spring I cleaned three trunks full of Tack for Cliff to thank him for keeping my little palomino for a week.

  DIY Neighborhood.

  Our family was DIY way before the concept was popular. If something needed done you just figured it out and did it. My mom always had a project or two going. There was painting, replacing windows, putting up a deck. The thing you need to understand about my mother is that she moves faster than other people and this can sometimes result in a variety of mishaps. Like the time she hired the Beard boys to help her finish siding a house.

  These tall and jovial boys were not used to mom's frenetic motion and although mom will never believe us Jonathan and I were treated to a very slapstickish show. The first major mishap was the hammer drop. B-boy 1 was just passing under the ladder leaning against the peak of the 'little red' house as mom lost her grip on her hammer, Jonathan who was holding the piece of siding in place yelled and Jim turned just enough to let the hammer slip past his eat with a whizz. The second was unloading 2x4x8 foot lumber. Mom grabbed a board hefted it to her shoulder and swung toward the house. Jim dropped and covered as the board swished over his head and mom walked away oblivious to mishap number two.

  The final mishap ended the short stint of paid labor at our house. Mom and Jim both arrived at the wood pile at the same time but mom being the fastest moving grabbed the top piece of wood, and hefted just as Jim stepped up, the long 2x4 zipped upward as Jim thrust himself, startled legged backward from the hip, narrowly averting the end of his reproductive life.

  Scotty And The Horse That Wouldn't Die

  Those of you who knew me as a child will remember Missy, and that we spent nearly every weekend at one or the other's house. It would take years to recount the things we got up to and I'm sure the statute haven't yet run out in a few but we were pretty well inseparable. It must have been for her birthday the October we entered the 5th grade that she got a book. Just a typical horsey story, maybe a little thicker than we were used to but it had a blazing sun set and silhouette of a horse and rider on its front cover.

  I suppose it was getting cold by then and we were more than likely bundled up for bed but instead she asked my dad to read to us. We crawled up on either side of him on the wide double bed, he tilted the lampshade just a bit toward the book and for the next several weekends dad read " Scotty and the Horse That Wouldn't Die" to us. I don't really remember the story but I do remember the bedtime ritual of a story before we went to sleep.

  Beau Hunkis

  Not all stories have a happy ending. The year I started kindergarten we had a dog named Beau Hunkis. He was a medium sized brown terrier and would do anything for the 4 year old me. That summer we found an old bike at the dump which had no peddles and no chain so for power we stole some of mom's rug rags (strips of wool you braid to make rugs) and made a harness for Beau, who pulled me anywhere that Jonathan led. Beau Hunkis had two bad habits however, 1. He hated the paper-boy, and 2. He chased cars.

  One day that fall while Jonathan and I waited for the bus, Beau lunged at a car. I remember it very clearly: it was a big old station wagon, with fake wood panels on the side, and a 'school' transport sign on top. Our little brown dog swooped out at the metal beast, was swept up under its shining jaws, and rolled the length of its maw. He came out dazed, head tilted, and blood dripping from his tongue.

  My mom, who unbeknownst to me, always watched us from our house window rushed down to gather all three of us up. Beau staggered home and mom washed his mouth out with cold water and then he slept. He seemed to get better over the next few days and would follow us around like the same old dog but other times he would go and hide under the back porch steps and not want to come out. I could do anything with this poor mutt even at my young age. He didn't care if I; wheelbarrow' walked him around on his front paws, or held him in an awkward or uncomfortable position, or made him my pony. But suddenly that stopped. The day he snapped at me when I reached for him was the day Mom realized that our little brown dog had not truly survived his accident.

  That night, she called my uncle, and while we sat on the bed with my dad, begging, crying and hating our mother she bundled Beau Hunkis into the car and had my uncle humanely put him down. I can remember being so angry and confused. But I learned a true lesson about compassion and mercy even though at the time I was too young to know it. My parents showed us that many times the right decision is the hardest one to make but that choosing it can bring peace through the pain.

  Mouse Pillow

  Being the youngest in the family was interesting for many reasons but I think one of the best was that I was exposed to everyone's likes, and preferences so h
ave a wide range of things I like. The fact that our family came in two sections made it even better. My sisters were pretty well grown by the time I became much of a personality myself and their interactions in the household made for an adventurous life.

  One such remembrance is when Jody was working at the Best Western and would come home in the wee hours from her job to the room we shared. She always seemed to take things in stride when she got home. She simply clicked on the light got ready for bed and slid under the covers. It was something that never disturbed my sleep much at all. Until, one night when she came home and Speedy cat had left her a little gift. Yes, she did wake me up and make dispose of the dead mouse Speedster had left just for her on her pristine white pillow. It's always nice to be appreciated.

  Bringing Home Flame

  1976 was a busy year. It was America’s Bi-centennial, the year I left grade school, and the year I got Flame. It was springtime and after talking to my friend Kat, I raced out of school at the last bell, dashed across the playground, plunged down the bank, leaped the stream, sprinted down the dark forest path to home, through open the front door and slid across the kitchen on my knees.

  “Please,” I keened looking up into my mother’s startled face, “It’s a pony and they are giving it away, if they don’t find a home they’ll kill it. Please!” For some reason Cleo was home and after some discussion mom agreed that we could go and look at the pony. We got to the farm and looked out over the vast amount of field, where about 15 horses and ponies in all sizes and colors peacefully grazed. The little flame-colored stallion was pointed out to us and we were told to go and catch him. He led us on a merry chase across those hills, nipping and squealing at this little herd of chasers and keeping them well out of grasp. We must have trekked up and down and all around those green slopes for at least a half hour when an old battered pickup pulled in to the barn year. A tall, lanky, dark haired young man stepped out, casually tapped a cigarette out on the back of his hand, stuck it between his lips and lit it; all the while watching the horses and ponies dash and wheel about only feet from our grasp. Taking a deep drag on his cigarette he let out his breath, then whistled softly and called, ‘come here old man’. The fierce little sorrel pony pricked his ears, tossed his head and dashed to the top of the hill to bury his head in the young man’s coat. Pulling the equine along with him to the ramshackle barn by its tangled forelock, he snagged a piece of bailer’s twine from a nail, draped it around the pony’s neck and asked my sister to have me crawl up onto the shaggy back. He then led the pony around the barnyard a few times and we were sold.

  The next stage of my getting a pony was bringing him home. On TV and at shows you see people calmly loading horses of all shapes and sizes into glossy trailers by colorful lead ropes and halters. We hired a friend’s pick-up truck and two boys in the neighborhood to do this job. This process was not ideal when moving a wiry, headstrong, and not very amiable stud pony to his new home. The first part started quite well, the little animal, with his curling hooves, stepped up the makeshift wooden ramp but at the top, looking down at the dropped bed, he leaped forward over the strange obstacle and landed right on Shawn’s feet. Wailing and writhing commenced. The two strapping boys rode in the back of the truck, keeping the wooden railings in place and holding down a none-too-impressed pony.

  It had been decided that on the way home we would stop off at the local farrier’s and have Flame’s curling hooves trimmed so that he could walk normally. Unloading went smoothly but the trimming was another story. Cliff, the man who saw to the hoof health of the horses in the area, was a muscular man to put it mildly, hours of hammering steel shoes and shoeing horses had made him strong and sturdy. With one of the boys holding the pony’s head, he reached down, picked up a front hoof, placed his nippers on the offending toe, and was smoothly lifted off his feet as Flame simply sunk down on his powerful haunches and raised his whole front end three feet off the ground. Another boy was added to the job of holding the pony down and again the same thing happened. Cliff explained later, after many such episodes of this that the problem was that the pony gave no warning. Horses will always lurch forward then swing back onto their hindquarters when they rear up - but not flame, he just stood up and you went with him. Cliff dreaded every time he had to come and trim those turned up toes. Flame was part Hackney, a pony breed known for the way they lift their front feet high in the air, so he did not wear down his front hooves and they required frequent attention.

  The episodes of bring home Flame was one of those defining moments in my childhood that changed everything.

  ***

  Here’s my sister’s retelling of the day we got Flame as well.

  Folks we went to see this pony Paula cried over. Winter/early spring in PA and besides the heavy coat, the thing had not been cleaned or hooves trimmed for years. He stood sleepy-eyed, unable to move because his hooves were so long they curled up like an elf’s shoes. I just kept shaking my head. Heaven only knows what Paula saw, but she stared at him continuously. With a sigh I picked up a piece of binder twine and fashioned a handheld halter 'round his head.

  "Get on," I urged.

  The minute her bottom hit his back, a transformation ensued. His drooping head snapped up, his neck arched and he lifted a brush filled tail in parade alertness. I paid $10 to make things legal and promised to pick him up.

  We did pick him up: in a pick-up truck. Locking arms, every kid Paula and Jonathan knew held him in. He only got loose twice! Once when we had to tilt him on his side for the farrier. There was a reason his nails were so long. Paula groomed that pony until he grew 3 sizes smaller.

  As things eased into spring, we found tack and 'low and behold', wagon and harness - pony sized. Ambitiously we took it home and began hitching the pony to the cart. Only nothing fit! Day was lengthening when mom had the brilliant idea to call her brother Ellery. He came right down. Stubborn me refused to give up on the leathery puzzle. The pony kept looking at me with the STRANGEST expression. I lifted hocks, rolled under belly, tried every way possible to attach horse and cart. Ellery got out of his car, walked around the animal, and promptly began laughing. Doubled over, tears running down his face, he finally hiccupped, "That pony has more sense than to move. You got the thing upside down and backwards." He began taking all the bits apart and between laughing fits, wound it right way over the little sorrel.

  It looked SO easy. Ellery picked up a short type (what I thought was a lounge) whip and settled into the wagon and gave the pony the office to start.The fire appeared again. Head up, chest out, tail flagging, the pony squealed and trotted off the wagon wheeling behind. The thing only lasted a few days before an old weld broke.

  The pony lasted longer, ate grass from a shut out coal town, fertilized the torn earth and brought joy to a neighborhood - between escapades of another kind.

  I came home one year and my now grown sister was going hiking. She released Flame and he followed her like a big red dog, up the mountain, over the rocks into the hills.As Ellery said, “I got more joy playing with that toy horse than I ever had with Dad's Belgians."

  Those 10 dollars endured for years.

  Bird Nest Christmas Tree

  I have never liked putting a Christmas tree up weeks before Christmas. I think this is because we always got our own fresh trees on my granddad’s farm. We usually all agreed on a nice little, slightly plump, deep green tree that fit our house just right. Except the one year when Jody insisted on one very special tree! It was a dingy little tree. That we had all rejected. It's needles where slightly yellowed and sparse and it was a little too tall and too thin. We had all turned away deciding that the tree was not long for the world and would not make a good Christmas tree. Dad stepped out first, then Jonathan, and me but as three sets of boots crunched through the snow; Jody let out a little shout “it has a bird's nest!" She yelled enthusiastically.

  Together we all turned and took another look at the little forlorn tree. Daylight streamed through the branches b
ut right there near the top set the most perfect little bird’s nests ever. Dad scratched his chin and simply said "Well it's gonna die anyway." We nodded in unison and the tree came home with us. It turned out to be a beautiful tree. It brightened up in a bucket of water and bedecked in glimmering lights and bulbs, and right in the center sat the little red bird we always added to the tree, only this time it rested in its own little nest.

  Childhood Santa

  Looking back I must say I feel a little bit sorry for my childhood Santa Clause. Every year without fail mom would bundle us up, and dash to town to do last minute shopping. Inevitably we would end up at Brody's and then trundle across the street to the spot in front of the Clearfield County Courthouse to where Santa's little hut sat nestled under a mammoth evergreen tree that glittered with tinsel, baubles and lights. Santa's little house, painted red and trimmed in white Gingerbread glowed with golden light as children excitedly waited their turn in the frost air to make their wishes know. The Jolly, plump old elf always greeted us with a hearty "Ho, ho, ho!" And a candy cane then scooped us up onto his lap to listen intently to our Christmas wishes.

  The poor old fellow had no idea what was in store when he lifted the spindly legged, toe-headed girl up and asked “So little girl, what would you like for Christmas this year?" My answer was always simple and the same. “A pony, a really pony." After a seconds pause the be-whiskered Father Christmas would try to convince me that a doll would be a better idea, or maybe a little plastic horse, but no I knew a real pony was all I wanted. You see now why I feel sorry for all those poor souls who donned furry red coat and coal black boot.