GROWING UP AMERICAN: A Collection of Childhood Tales Read online

  They were not overly taxing rules and accepted as reasonable to even the most rebellious teen, though they did result in a great deal of mad dashing about to get to which ever location was given at which ever toll of the bell. A teen-age fancy can be many things, none of which need to be remotely logical. They can be the cute boy two rows up, or a denim pants suit and tennis shoes, or even agreeing that a particular preacher, on a particular sultry evening, in a particular open-air youth tabernacle looked just like a pineapple candy wrapper. This last was the fancy that struck my cousin Linda and I at exactly the same time in the chapel as a cheerful looking missionary typed stepped up on the low platform at the bottom of the steeply sloping concrete aisle. She looked at me and I looked at her hen an overwhelming case of the 'giggle' ensued. Even at the time we thought we were terribly rude but the giggles, progressively getting louder and more uncontrollable, began bubbling out of us in waves. At first they were minor sniggers, and then began the titters, but finally the hiccupping gaffs began to make their appearance quickly followed by shimmering tears in the eyes.

  By now several people were glaring at us, as the nice man, with the red and orange zigzag striped shirt, and the white tufted head, droned on oblivious to the two hysterical teens at the back. Even the two boys on whom we had a bit of a crush, and who had just happened to sit down next to us were looking askance. It was finally too much when one of the older chaperones began slipping quietly toward us and we, arms wrapped around our middles, made a hasty exit through the back door, dashed across the water shed, plunged into the ravine and scrambled out onto the volley ball field where we collapsed in complete wreaths of mirth. We honestly didn't mean it, as we lay there in the grass, (it must have been a dry day) tears streaming down our faces completely incompressible as we muttered and spluttered "pineapple".

  However we may be judged by this performance at the end of our days it simply proves that a teen’s fancy will strike, devastatingly, when and where it will and no one will ever understand why. No, not even the unfortunate teens themselves!

  Weed Whacking

  Overall we were pretty good kids. We were generally obedient, polite, and honest. Even when we were up to no good it was seldom ever all that serious. Like the time one winter's evening that Ronda and I got bored. It was a typical Friday night. I had come home with Roni from school; we'd made ourselves something for dinner, probably Ronda's famous mac and cheese, and for some reason had to drive the Jeep Wagoneer somewhere.

  As we came home and looked out across the shimmering snow that sparkled in our headlines we realized that the back pasture had a serious weed issue. Up through the pristine soft white curves of the mounds of snow stuck dozens of sparse, brown reeds. Ronda looked at me, and I looked at her. Smoothly she shifted the gear handle into drive, pushed the gas and charged for the nearest offending weed. Obliterating that one with the shiny bumper of the brown Wagoneer, she whirled the steering wheel and attacked the next, then swirled and swished around to the next. As copilot, I kept a sharp look out for the spindly offensive spears and directed the fearless driver to whack the next weed. Our headlights rocked and jumped trying to spy the next victim as we glided almost noiselessly over the crisp, crusty snow. Finally after a series of, swirls and pirouettes we had obliterated the enemy and turned back toward the house and garage.

  Decidedly pleased with ourselves we got ready and dropped into bed. Ronda's mom had stayed on the mountain that night at their hunting lodge but returned early in the morning while Ronda and I ate breakfast. Vera huffed as she walked into the house and looked at us with a slightly bewildered and somewhat miffed look on her face before announcing forcefully. “Some Drunken idiot must have missed the road last night.They've driven all over the pasture." Ronda and I looked appropriately shocked and innocent at the same time.

  Boys and Girls

  Boys and girls are different and, no, I don't mean the obvious differences that you might suddenly learn about at the age of three when your brother decides that streaking is a good idea. I mean they are different. They think differently, see things differently and settle their problems differently that girls do. Growing up we had all had our fair share of misunderstandings and miscommunications with our fellow man.

  A conflict between girls can go on for hours, days, and even weeks or heaven forbid longer. They usually follow a pattern of snotty voiced telling off, then squabbling, then gossiping, and not talking to each other for a while until they come full circle with tears, hugs and kisses for a total reconciliation. Boys on the other hand seem to get an idea in there head that they have been slighted or that they need to assert their masculinity and then take a swing at the offending party. Growing up we were taught not to fight. It was deeply engrained in us that we never started any conflict, but we were also taught to defend ourselves when needed. Several times I watched my big brother walk away from rude words and personal jibes, usually ending in the epithet 'chicken' or 'yellow'. Still he just squared his shoulders and walked away. The first time I remember a different ending was when we were in middle school. We had just stepped off of the bus, and for some reason I never knew: David jumped him!

  The wiry neighbor leaped off of the bus, onto my brothers back and took a swing with his left hand while holding on to Jonathan’s neck with his right. Anyone standing close by never saw my brother’s long bony hand slashed back and grab David's wrist. All they saw was David leap and then land, flat on his back, on the side of the road. Once again Jonathan simply walked away. Later that year it was Jeff who took a swing on the bus and ended up on the floor, then Pat, and finally Denny.

  After that one simple challenge where my brother stood up for himself, Jonathan and those boys became best friends. They drove together to school, hung out together on weekends, and visited at school. Boys are different. A punch on the nose equals fast and lasting friendship a bond that holds right to the grave as each of those boys served as Jonathan's poll bearers.

  Fish Tales

  One of my dad’s favorite pastimes was fishing. Even now at the age of 89 he will trek out to a nearby pond and cast a line. Sometimes in the summer he would take us kids fishing with him. We would go grub around in the manure pile for worms, or zoom around in the high grass to catch grasshoppers, then he and Jonathan would heft the canoe onto the top of which ever station wagon we had at the time, load up the tackle box and turn toward his favorite fishing hole which was usually the spill gate at the Curwensville dam.

  On this particular sunny summers day we parked in the field near the spillway, loaded the canoe into the spill way, tossed in our gear and paddled up stream to just below the tall stone and concrete dam. Dad liked to fish from both the shore and the bank and since he had me along he decided to start on the shore. After baiting my hook, something I was always squeamish to do he stepped across the stones to cast a heavy lore in to the slowly moving water. I inched my way along the large white limestone boulders to get closer to the water, my sandals having a hard time keeping a grip on the steep angels of the rock, only to finally fail completely and let my whole foot slip with a splash in to the muddy embankment. With a squishing noise I pulled my muddy food out of the water rinsed it out then settled myself on a rock and cast my wormy line into the green water.

  I sat there a while getting a little nibble now and then on this sultry summer day, when I glanced down at my feet to see a steady steam of black water trickling from my feet and down across the silver grey stone to the water line. "Daddy?" I called out questioningly, "Something’s wrong." Assuming I needed him to take a fish off my hook, (I always thought I was hurting the fish) he stretched his long legs across the embankment and knelt down to look at my severely and deeply slashed big toe. Taking a deep breath, dad wrapped my toe tightly in some sort of cloth, called Jonathan, and we all crawled back into the canoe. At this point, concentrating on getting me to the car and then to the hospital he simply let his fishing rod dangle behind the canoe as he paddled smoothly and swiftly down stream.


  Just as we had reached about the halfway point, his rod twitched, then the whole canoe jerked. He had just, inadvertently, caught a Musky! Musky, or Muskellunge fish are large fresh water predators and one of my dad’s favorite fish. He looked at me and looked at Jonathan then grabbed his rod. After a brief but fierce struggle Dad dragged the steadily tiring, silver and green fish toward the boat. Jonathan grabbed up the net and balanced himself ready to scoop the trophy from the water. Dad, jerked the line, pulling the fish to the surface, and Jonathan dipped the net pulling the large fish up and into the boat. The fish simply opened its massive jaws and sliced through the reinforced nylon net like hot butter. I stood up and screamed as the boat rocked violently and the two-inch long teeth snapped at my ankles and feet. Moving fast and somehow managing to keep the canoe from tipping, dad slapped his paddle onto the head of the big fish and everything went still again. Then, calmly, dad picked up his paddle again and rowed us the rest of the way back to the car.

  Quickly gathering up his gear, but with no time to gut the fish, dad wrapped the fish in plastic, tossed it in the foot well of the back seat and loaded the canoe. I jumped in still favoring my ever-reddening toe rag and perched away from the silent, and still, fish. Dad shifted gears and pulled out onto the main road, and the fish jumped. I screamed, dad stopped pulled out a hammer and smacked the fish on the head again. The rest of the trip to the hospital was uneventful. I required 11 stitches in my right big toe and my brother was rock as the doctors looked on and quietly prepared the treatment. Jonathan in true big brother form made sure I knew that it was very serious and that they would have to cut my toe off to save my life. When they gave me the stitches it was a great relief. That night, foot propped on a chair, I ate the fish that tried to take a bite out me.

  Tip to Stern

  Kids are a bizarre blend of innocence and evil. This was evident the day dad agreed to take Missy and me down to the river to paddle around in a small rubber raft we had acquired some way or other. Since he was headed to the river anyway, ever-practical dad loaded the canoe and his fishing tackle so that he could fish while we splashed around. We put in just above the Shawsville Power plant a little upstream from the high water dam that fed water into the plant turbines. After a stern warning to keep well away from the dam, and out of the current dad turned us loose in our bright yellow craft. Missy and I gleefully paddled up and then down and then back up the river several times until we realized that our minute vessel was loosing air. We quickly decided to head for where dad was fishing in the shadows near some semi submerged boulders and a big tree.

  Skillessly we headed across the river and slightly up stream into the wind. As we neared dad we innocently called out: "We're sinkin’!" Dad whipped his around just as gust of wind swirled down stream. The crimped bow of the olive black canoe jerked, then rose slowly up out of the water. Dad desperately leaned into the wind trying to counter balance but it was already too late. As gracefully as a dancer the sleek canoe rose higher and higher into the air until it almost balanced on it's stern. Dad still holding his paddle and nearly doubled over tried turning the craft away from the wind but to no avail. The bow rose just one more inch, froze for a second and then arched over spilling dad, paddles, and tackle into the Susquehanna River with a resounding smack. Startled Missy and I looked at each other then as my dad plunged out of the green water, fishing hat still in place and tackle box in hand we burst into uncontrolled and none too kind laughter. Righting the canoe Dad loaded his gear; communicated to us with a glare we were going home and turned the canoe down stream. Still laughing at the other's misfortune, we paddled our deflating raft to shore and got into the car.

  Snow Drift

  Rain, sleet, snow or shine, as a kid you could still find me atop a horse somewhere between home and Missy's place. The day before I left for college I rode Tanner over the mountain to Mom and Dad Hemphill's in the pouring rain. My felt hat flopping under the deluge as my fringed buckskin shirt did it's best to shed the rain away from my torso. It was never uncommon to see hoof prints in the snow where I lived and over the years strong hooves blazed many a trail. One such trail was of course to my best friends house; up Croft hill, past the coal tipple, through the water course under the pines, along sleepy hollow (the old orchard on Lee C.’s farm), down the old login’ road and eventually on to the Knobs Road. I tried to avoid the main road as much as possible and so instead wore a narrow path along the embankment on the Knobs, just where the pavement ran out and the dusty dirt road took over. On one particular crisp winters day I had made it onto this narrow path, Tanner beating through the heavy snow that covered a trail he could follow on his own.

  The snow wasn't overly deep so we trudged on knowing that there was a warm barn and a hot cup of tea at the end of the trail. We had gone as far as the trail would go, just to the point where the embankment got to steep to walk on so with out me even thinking about it Tanner swung his winter shaggy head to the slope and stepped toward the road. The problem was that mounds of snow had been densely packed snow that had been pushed to the side of the road. Tanner plunged shoulder deep into snow and been stopped cold. For a moment he blinked, then snorted and before I could react, reared up on his powerful hind legs and leaped out of the drift. In the same moment and by no choice of my own I tumbled right over his rear and onto the snow. Even then I started laughing. Lying there on my back on a mound of snow with four horse leg impressions in it. Tanner being ho he was, just stood there and waited for me to crawl over the snow and onto his back before charging off for a well-earned rest.

  Skipping School

  Anyone who tells you that a horse cannot drag you by its bridle is just plain full of mud. I was probably 14. It was one of those idyllic spring days that just begged you to be outside but of course we had school. I don't know how I missed the school bus that morning, all I know is that as it drove slowly past I was just behind the neighbors garage and apparently out of site because the driver just kept going. Having missed the bus I figured why waste this gorgeous morning in the house, when Fancy and I could be in the budding mountains under a dazzling blue sky?

  Grabbing her bridle, I swung up bare back and headed across the pasture to the catch in the wire and let myself out onto the small dark back trail to the coal tipple. Staying deep in the cover of the flourishing trees I spent my day riding and relishing the cool loveliness of the forest. Somewhere around 2 I thought I'd better head home just incase I was missed so headed down hill to the back field behind the Michael’s house and came out on the quarter mile of Route 879 near my house. I was nearly home and pretty sure no one had noticed the errant waif on the wiry little buckskin mare who had been well 'not in school' all day. Fancy's wide black hooves had just touched gravel and stepped out for home when a large Ma-Bell cherry picker truck came barreling toward us.

  As the terrifying green and white beast charged, Fancy spooked, reared and leapt straight to the black macadam path of the angry truck. Her first lunge completely dislodged me but as I landed on my bare feet I hauled in on her reins and managed to physically drag the panicked animal out of the road just in time for the truck, now blaring its horn whizzed by. Fancy, eyes rolling, took three or four mighty leaps forward, me still hanging on the reins and dragged me at least 100 yards before she realized I was there and came to a quivering stop. Gingerly pulling myself into a standing position and speaking soothingly, I staggered to he frightened horse, stroking her glossy neck with my bloodied hands. The little mare huffed then dropped her head gently against my chest and we just stood there for a few moments letting racing hearts slow. That's when I looked at my knees. The jeans I'd been wearing where shredded from the knee down and a thick black mat of blood and coal dust glistened in the afternoon sun. Gulping to keep down the bile, I allowed my eyes to drop to my feet where a layer of skin had been replaced by heavy grit from the berm.

  There was no way I could walk the rest of the way home. Gently pulling the now calm mare into the drainage ditch I carefu
lly climbed the embankment and through a leg agonizingly over her back and allowed her to head home. Each step brought another oozing trickle of blood from knee and foot until tiny droplets were dipping in the dirt. Fancy happily stepped out and stopped on her own accord at the barn gate where I slipped off, turned her out and hobbled to the house. At this point I truly realized how much I would actually pay for my day of truancy, as I eased the jeans away from my legs, put my feet in to the tub and picked up the soap and scrub-brush. Though well faded now, I still bear the scars on knees and feet from my day off. I think it was two weeks later with thick scabs now well formed that I told my mother of my idiocy.

  Trip to Florida 2

  My second trip to Florida was to when my oldest sister Cleo was pregnant with the first grandchild. I was 14 and it was August or maybe September. This time instead of my uncle’s Winnebago, Mom, Dad, Jonathan and I all traveled in a large sea-foam green Dodge Aspen station wagon. I had been feeling a little under the weather that week so when we loaded up the baggage I crawled into the 'back-back' (in those days we didn't have seat belt laws) curled up on the soft mat mom kept there and promptly slept my way from PA to FL. I vaguely remember Jonathan telling mom 'I think Paula must be really sick, she slept through Kentucky', but otherwise remember very little of the trip. I do remember it was very warm cuddled up among the luggage with the sun beaming through the wide back window. I also remember by the second day my throat didn't hurt anymore. We arrived safe and sound at my sister’s house in Tallahassee where I said hello, to everyone, and went back to sleep. Mom had been trying to make sure I ate and drank enough during the journey but now she knew this was more than just the flu and asked for a thermometer to check my temperature.