GROWING UP AMERICAN: A Collection of Childhood Tales Read online

  What do you say to a five year old when they ask for a pony that will not destroy their childhood pleasure in Santa?

  In the end they always said they would see what they could do but the sleigh might be very full and then asked to talk to my mom while I was given a second candy cane then shuffled out to wait with my brother. Santa never did deliver the pony, each year a new toy horse would appear and after my initial disappointment I loved them as much as any real pony.

  Getting Buck Lost

  We all know that being lost is bad. I lost a two-year-old Luke in the mall in Bahrain and was in a complete panic for all or five minutes until I found him (everyone in the mall directed me) at the pizza place where we had just eaten, being fed strawberries. As a kid, getting lost was a challenge. From the time I first started exploring the mountain trails behind my house on my pony Flame right up to the teen years when Ronda, Missy, and I would do our best to get totally lost in the woods of Eden. I remember one time when we turned this whole idea into a science. We were out riding behind Missy's house and turned off the Knobs Rd and into the forest on the left. From there we each took turns choosing which direction to turn at each urn in the trail. First Ronda would choose, then Missy, and the next time I would choose.

  We had no plan, no goal, and no idea where we were. The funniest thing is that we ended up right back at The Lodge, home of two of the horse. We did things like this on a regular base but no matter how hard we tried we could never through off Buck's uncanny homing device. Try as we would and as lost as we could be we could always depend on Buck finding the quickest trail straight home. Once we thought we had finally truly gotten lost. We stood horse by horse by horse, in the deepest part of our Pennsylvania forest looking left and right trying to figure out where we were. Sunlight filtered from an indeterminate direction through the thick foliage of the trees and dappled the shining hides of our mounts while they waited patiently for direction. We looked at each other with satisfaction and a bit of confusion no one knowing remotely where we were then Ronda nodded, crossed the reins over Bucks white mane and said, "Take us home."

  We had been riding since early morning and it was well into a late summer’s afternoon. We knew we had covered miles of wooded trails, forded streams, and topped dozens of mountains. There was no way Buck could do this. Slowly the old mare raised her buckskin head, pricked her ears to the right, huffed and stepped over a log and into the forest itself. Missy and I strung out behind, wound our way, under branches and around tall trees until suddenly three sets of well shod hooves stepped out into a wide grassy trail. Buck swung right picked up the pace to a well stretched out walk and led us ten minutes down the trail and straight to the barn.

  Snow Day

  The logic of a child makes sense only to a child. This and the fact that they will sometimes pour ever ounce of energy into something of absolutely no value truly boggles the adult mind. It must have been the winter of '83 and it was cold. A storm was moving in with the promise of more snow. I was staying at Ronda's but we had school the next day so of course like every child who has ever lived in the great white north we anxiously awaited to hear the forecast but by bedtime no schools had been cancelled. The next morning, rising before the sun, we munched our breakfast cereal and listened in silence to the radio announcer as he calmly listed school delays and cancellations.

  To our utter dismay our school was still opening on time. Together we looked outside to discover that the night's storm had not only added snow to the existing two feet but had rained and frozen in the early morning to leave a stiff, glistening cover of ice over everything. Ronda and I looked at each other in disbelief that any adult in their right mind would ever endanger a child’s life by expecting them to go to school in that deadly freeze, so we simply gave ourselves a snow day. As the blackness of a frosty dawn turned to the glimmering, diamond hews of bright sunlight we bundled up and slipped out to the barn. Surely the horses in their heavy winter coats would be happy to go crunching off into the snow. Bridles were warmed then donned and we slipped onto soft, warm, fuzzy backs and turned toward the woods. As we stepped out onto the sparkling, ice-encrusted snow, fully expecting to hear the crunch of snow under hoof, the horses started sliding. Scrabbling madly on the rock hard glaze the horses made it back to the gravel drive and stood head drooping on wobbly knees.

  It was clear that this snow day would not include riding. Putting the horses safely back into the safety of the barn we then face the dilemma of what to do for the whole day, so of course we decided a nice hike would be perfectly safe. Sliding gently down the path past the frozen pond we quickly made our way to the tiny forest stream that raced, bubbling and babbling along its frozen banks. Carefully we hoped the stream and started up the steep path to the top of the hill. A toboggan run had nothing on this path. It was bare and hollow and sloped up to the top of the hill. Surrounded by small trees it looked like a tiny sloosh. We made it maybe a third of the way up before I lost my footing and slid like a shooting star toward the happily laughing brook. Throwing my body this way and that I finally succeeded in wedging myself into a tree at the very edge of the stream.

  A minute later Ronda swooshed to a stop a few feet away. With new determination we started again, this time we stayed close to the tiny trees dotting the edge of the path. We made it half way up this time before the frozen trunk snapped like kindling leaving us to speed screaming toward the yawning maw of the hungrily growling stream. Somehow we both saved ourselves by latching onto a bigger tree before dropping in to the watery abyss. The third time’s the charm as they say and this time we made it to the top of the hill using a combination of tree trunks and simply bashing our heavily gloved fists through the crust and pulling ourselves inch by inch to the softly rounded knoll. We then promptly walked a few yards to the large trail that led straight back down to the house where we made hot chocolate, bundled up in blankets and watched "The Cat and The Canary" until we were totally petrified.

  Tree Top Christmas

  Christmas tree hunting was a tradition for my family, even when I, as the baby, was the last kid still at home; we still had the hunt for just the right tree. Dad and I would collect the tree and mom and I would decorate it under dad's supervision of course. That was right up to the year dad decided the big Douglas Firs along the road had gotten too tall. It was true; they had grown so big you couldn't see the river anymore. They were big, healthy trees, each standing between thirty and forty feet tall.

  So that year everything changed and a new yearly adventure began. On the day we were to 'top' the tree dad came up out of the basement with the trusty handsaw and a length of rope. Together mom, dad and I bundled up in coats and gloves then walked the ten or so yards to the trees. Dad looked at the trees critically and chose our first victim. Mom, muttered about the height and how would it come down but let us begin. Dad tied the rope around my waist, hooked the saw to my belt and with a big grin gave me a boost into the lower branches. An old hand at tree climbing I wove my way between the thick evergreen boughs and up the trunk. The higher I climbed, the more strident my mother’s voice became. "Pete, it's too high. What if she falls?' "She'll be fine Mary." My dad replied calmly. A little half way up the tree I took a moment to look down.

  I've never liked heights but for some reason it always feels safe nestled in the branches of a big pine. I looked down through the deep green, fragrant branches to see dad standing tall and calm on the ground, carefully feeding rope out to me while mom stood hunched in her winter garb, wringing glove covered hands. I couldn't help but smile. I scrabbled the last ten feet up to the top of the tree, untied the rope from around my waist, (you didn't think it was for me did you?) Tied it around the top of the tree and then began sawing. As I cut deeper and deeper into the narrow width of the tree, dad pulled back gently allowing the saw to continue its path without binding. I quickly worked my way through the slender trunk. Then gave a shove. Dad pulled on the rope and our first tree-top Christmas tree landed with a soft thud i
n the snow thirty feet below me.We did this for the next three years and mom never did get any more comfortable with my scrabbling up those scaly trunks.

  Christmas Tree Pickers

  Listening to Christmas carols today made me think of childhood Christmases: the snow, the smell of cookies baking in the oven, steamy windows and Bing Crosby's crooning drifting across the house. I think getting the tree was always one of the most special parts of Christmas to me. Living in the north there wereplenty of beautiful Blue Spruce or Douglas fir to choose from. Most years we would go to my grandfather's farm; the whole family bundled up against the cold and dad with the trusty hand saw. We always had a nice visit and then left the warmth and comfort of the big white farmhouse, (and grandma's kitchen) for the great outdoors. It was a big adventure looking for just the right tree. We would trudge across the snow cover mining roads looking left and right, up and down, to find the right tree. Not too tall, it wouldn't fit in the house, but not too small or it would be lost among the bookshelves It couldn't be too fat or there would be no room for presents or too thin or the window it stood in front of would be all you would see. We always seemed to find just the right tree.

  Somehow we would all agree on it each nodding approval as the other made a comment. Then dad would get down on his knees in the snow and the little saw would take its first bight into pine. The smell of Christmas wafted up and filled your nose as shavings began to cover the pristine white blanket below. I know that nowadays some people are dismayed when a tree is cut but for us it was a very special family tradition.

  Tanner Guard Horse

  As kids we sometimes don't think about how things might appear to others, which at times can cause complications for adults. Goshen school was only 1/4 mile from my home. A small squat, concrete and glass 4-roomed structure, the school perched at the top of a hill. The driveway to the school arched up the steep little macadam road, leveled off at the stoop then bent downward and out on to the main RT. 879 again. Directly across from the school house in front of the staff parking spaces was the playing field. A long narrow swatch of green flattened off the top of the hill like a swirly ice cream cone's tip lopped off by a toddler.

  This small area had three steep grades covered in high grass but the flat top was always kept clipped and neat by Mr. Shank, our deeply-respected and cheerful janitor. Not having much pasture for my horse I would often end a ride by turning my horse loose on the lush over grown grass along that field. I would curl up on the manicured surface and read a book or simply stretch out in the sun oblivious to the cars whizzing past below me. One day on just such an occasion I had drifted off into a peaceful doze when suddenly, I heard Tanner's call to attention. The chunky palomino stomped his front hoof, and snorted loudly "harrumph!" He blew, stomped again and snorted even louder. I rolled over sleepily, gazed up at the shiny gold beast, whose ears where pinned flat to his crown. Then I saw him. The threat.

  A nice older gentleman had parked his car in the staff parking area and now stood there rooted to the pavement looking at my horse. “Hello" I said walking over to give Tanner a pat. The man politely asked if I were all right. Standing nervously just one heavy hoofed, lithe bodied, horse length away from me. Apparently he thought I might have fallen and was injured so he stopped to check on why a fully tacked out horse was in the schoolyard. Fortunately he had that oh so rare commodity called common sense and realized that horses make good watchdogs too. Before leaving, from the safety of his car door, he timidly asked me what my horse would have done if he had tried to approach me. I assured him that the now contentedly munching animal would have attacked like the neatest of Doberman Pinchers and smiling mounted up for home.

  Parents

  Parents are, well, parents. They are supposed to be mature, responsible, and in charge, but sometimes we forget that they were children too. This was brought sharply to my attention this summer when mom told me the following tale.

  The barn that currently stands at the T. Lee Taylor farm is not the original but is build over the foundation of a larger structure that stood there before. This big barn had among its many attributes a rabbit hutch approximately 10-12 feet long with a slanted roof. The kids used to climb up on it and sit there looking out across the field. It had a long wooden track and wire cages, which allowed for easy cleaning. Mom was maybe 5 or 6 when Bob started coming down to the rabbits with her and for some reason known only to a child's brain one day asked Bob if he would like a piece of candy. He of course said yes at which time mom handed him a rabbit pellet, which he promptly ate. Apparently shame, or guilt, has imprinted this delirious story in mom's brain. I must admit to some shock and consternation at this story as well as some serious laughing but it does go to show us that we were all kids once.

  Skunked

  I must have been in sixth grade because my neighbor Billy and I had to walk along the road from the bus stop. We were just ready to turn up our dirt road when we heard the strangest thing. It sounded like one of those old fashioned dolls that say "ma a ma a" it wasn't loud but we traced it to the deep culvert that crossed under the road. We looked down Ito the dry watercourse, and then looked at each other. “it must have fallen in" Billy said looking from me to the whole in the ground. “But where's its mother then?" We looked around cautiously. No signs of wildlife were evident and the plaintive cries once more drifted out of the dark earthen bowl. “Well, we can't just leave it there." I said to my friend. “We’ll have to take it with us."

  Billy's eyes grew big. “I’m not picking it up." He stated emphatically. I gazed back into the hole." Well I'm not picking it up". “Go ahead." Billy urged. “you pick it up I retorted." Finally we stared at each other wondering who would do it. After several long minutes of the soft, sad bleating drifting up to us I took a deep breath held it then reached down and scooped up the little ball of black and white fur. The little skunk snuggled into my arms and grew silent. Careful not to startle it we walked home quietly and Billy called my mom out of the house. Tentatively I showed her the small striped creature in my arms. Mom looked at me then said, "I'll get a box." We placed the little orphan in the box, gave it a saucer of milk and then left.

  Then mom surprised us all and called the vet. She even asked him if the animal could be de-scented. In the end he said the best thing to do was take it back out into the woods with a little food and its mother would find it. We brought a lot of strays home in our life time but who would have been crazy enough to bring a skunk home to their kind hearted mother but me.

  Aunt Joyce

  I was way too young to understand what was going on the time my aunt Joyce came to stay with us. I know mom wasn't there. When I was grown I discovered she had been hospitalized and so aunt Joyce came to look after us kids. Why I remember this is simple: when Aunt Joyce washed my hair, she never pulled it. What a strange thing to remember. Mom's style was a little more vigorous.

  Doll House

  I've always felt that my family was artistic and innovative. One good example of this was my doll-house. As a little girl I always loved to play with my Barbies. It may come as no surprise that I didn't play prince charming meets Cinderella with them but that I played horse ranch. The problem was they had no permanent home until the year Jody remedied that. The big 2x2 box may have been from Christmas I don't know but soon enough Jody had removed one side, and taped in two floors then covered the whole thing with mom's wallpaper and cut windows in it. Fake fur from mom's sewing room became deep carpet and blankets for beds. Imagination pretty much did the rest. I played with that doll-house for years and could never have asked for anything better.

  Lost Horse

  Only twice did I have the chance of taking my horse to the farm. Once was Labor Day weekend the year I entered the ninth grade. Not having a horse trailer I had to ride the whole way and Goshen hill was not much fun. I walked at least half of that but once I topped out onto the open fields Fancy was ready to fly. It was a nice ride and the so familiar track of road took on a new clarity fo
r me as I followed it at a much slower pace than ever before. Fancy was a good-natured horse once you got to know her but she was half Arab and tended toward being flighty. The farm hadn't had horses in a long time so the fences had all been removed but I stretched bailers twine along the fence post and created a rope corral, something that Fancy had been trained to and I had no worries about her wondering off during the weekend. I hadn't counted on the dog. At the time my uncle had a German Shepherd and for whatever reason he spooked Fancy out of the barn, through the rope line and out into the vast forests surrounding the old hay fields. By the end of the weekend we hadn't found my little fawn colored mare but I still had to go to school on Monday.

  The day started as usual with the pledge to the flag and announcements in home room. I can still see my teacher's face as she glanced through the day’s news. A horse owner herself we often talked about our mounts. She closed the paper and grinning widely she said, “Paula, have you seen this? Some ones lost their horse in Goshen." She laughed and shook her head in amazement at some people’s carelessness. Completely unabashed I said, “Yeah, I know. She's mine." My cousin Duane brought Fancy in a couple of days later. He was out riding his mini-bike and saw her wonder out into the hay field with the deer. He quietly came up to her, hooked a hand and into her halter and brought her home.

  Pineapple Man

  You never know just exactly what or when something will strike the fancy of a teen but you can pretty well guess that where will be the completely wrong place. Mahaffey Revival camp was eagerly anticipated by all the teens in our family and this included our Indiana cousins who often bunked with us. They knew my mother’s simple, yet fiercely stringent rules: You would be in at every meal on time or prior arrangements made, three 'chapel' services a day and in bed by curfew. They were the law of the land for each and every soul that passed under our Mahaffey roof, whether that roof were, canvas, metal, or dormitory wood, and they could result in swift and sudden explosion if broken even once.