GROWING UP AMERICAN: A Collection of Childhood Tales Read online

  The problem was that Jack and Cleo didn't have a conventional thermometer. Still Jack dutifully trotted out his foot and a half long high tech cooling system gauge and stuck it under my arm where it quickly reached a roaring 103 f. I believe there was a general consensus on Jonathan's earlier utterance, so they bundled me out into the sweltering FL heat, tucked me in the car and drove to the nearest doctor who took one look at me and voted unanimously that I was indeed very sick. At which point, after much, poking, prodding, hemming and hawing it became apparent I had a nasty case of strep throat. He then prescribed copious amounts of antibiotics and I went back to sleep. It was perhaps two days later (it's a bit hazy on my part) that my sister offered to arrange for Jonathan and I to go riding.

  A few phone calls later found us walking down a soft sandy road under a huge canopy of live oaks and Spanish moss toward Mr. Brown’s farm. We arrived at the fence, ducked under the wire and started looking for horses. We found an open-air barn gathered up a bridle each and continue through two more fences to where we found the horses. I managed to grab a little black mare with a white face and one blue eye, while Jonathan snatched up a chunky chestnut and white skew ball pony. We bridled them, swung up and headed back to Cleo's on our prancing steeds only to find a shocked and horrified Cleo who had to scrabble around and call all the neighbors to find out exactly whose horses we had stolen. As it goes the owner felt no harm was done and the ride did me some good as it allowed me to then come back in and go to sleep. There is something surreal about riding with a fever. The whole world is shiny and you feel as if your flesh has melded to your mount. You feel it’s every twitch and each muscle seems to sing into the slow even strides. A day or two later and again we were off for another Florida adventure. Yes my time line was still pretty hazy; we were off to the beach, more specifically St. George Island on the coast.

  Two things I remember about that trip. 1. The water was warm, and 2. We had plenty of ice. Once we got established on the beach my dad happily cast a line and began fishing while Jonathan and I plunged into the deep green, foaming water. There was a lovely sand bar not too far from shore and we rollicked happily out to it, ignoring snouts full of water as we got our sea legs. That is until, with a gush, my nose started bleeding. We were still on the sand bar a good 30-40 feet from shore when I felt the flood and quickly, with visions of jaws in my head, threw back my head, squeezed my nose tight and in a pinched, nasally voice, called for my big brother. In true big brother fashion he simply picked me up and carried me back to shore where the massive amounts of ice were quickly put to good use. After a few, interminable minutes I was allowed to go back into the surf once more, where no sooner had we reached the sand bar than it happened again. Jonathan got be back to the beach a second time where more ice was applied and I then decided to stay close to shore until we packed up, climbed into the car and, you guessed it I went back to sleep.

  A few things strike me now, as an adult, about this story that as a kid I never even considered. Firstly the graciousness of, my sister putting up with a sick AND contagious teen while pregnant, and secondly the fact that I now know that that particular sand bar in the Gulf of Mexico is home to a huge number of the rare shark attacks that happen each year in the United States. Just as an aside, even sick I'd rather be riding.

  Learning To Cook

  Technically my mother never taught me to cook. She never got out the cookbooks and ingredients and said, "Today I will teach you to cook." No, instead she simply allowed us to participate in cooking. When I was very small she picked up an Easy Bake oven at a yard sale and when she was busy making pies, or cookies, or even bread, she would break me off a piece of dough and I could make whatever I wanted along with her. There was always a tall stool or a chair to be pulled up to the L shaped peninsula counter top and plenty for little hands to do. We rolled cookies and decorated them no matter how much of a mess we made. We helped roll dough and shape bread loaves or rolls, there where even the tearful episodes of pie making, but that's a story for another time. Overall, I learned by doing and helping. At least this was stage one of learning how to cook. As I got a little older things began to change. When I was about nine I made my first batch of "Never Fail Fudge" all by myself.

  It was a typical day in our home. We kids had attended school, dad had come home to an early dinner and watched the news and about the time that "Gunsmoke" came on everyone was wishing for a snack. Mom was busy in here sewing room, dashing up some confection of either leather or lace so when Jonathan asked for fudge she said she was busy and that Paula could make it. "Me!" I replied in some surprise. "You can do it, I'll just tell you how." Mom stated: "just go to the kitchen and listen." So that's what I did. First I got out the heavy stainless steel skillet, the 12 inch one and then followed each step as mom called them out around the low noise of the introduction and pounding hooves of "Gunsmoke". 1 stick of oleo (that's what we call margarine) in a pan on medium heat, 1/2 cup of canned milk (just evaporated, not condensed), 2 cups of sugar added slowly and stirred with a whisk and 2 Tbsp. of corn syrup as that came to a boil Mom instructed me to get out a mixing bowl and add in 2Tbsp. of peanut butter and 2Tbsp. of cocoa powder.

  Then stir the now boiling sugar mixture for 4 minutes then add the bubbling, golden goo into the peanut butter and cocoa and mix well before pouring onto a buttered plate. It worked pretty well and suddenly I was the official fudge maker in the house. I can't say it always went well, sometimes I overcooked it and it was crumbly, other times it was undercooked and we had to scoop the soft caramel-like substance off the plate with a spoon, but we always enjoyed it. It takes eight minutes to make fudge and it was not uncommon for me to make during the 5 minute interval of commercials while watching our favorite T.V shows while Jonathan narrated the events of the three minutes extra I needed to complete my task. With this practice bit by bit I became more confident in cooking. Eventually I would grab a cookbook and make dinner and then I made pumpkin pie. It was just before Thanksgiving and mom had a million errands to run. She had the fresh rolls proofing on the stove, the Turkey thawing in the fridge and an abundance of vegetables ready to be whipped into shape. She had just picked up her keys to run to town and said she would make the pies when she came back. I simply said, "I'll make them." This is when mom pulled out her last trick in the bag. "You can't make Pumpkin pie. " She stated factually, and left.

  Of course I had to take up the challenge so I dug out the canned pumpkin, turned the can to the back label and read the recipe. I then assembled all of the ingredients and with great frustration made two not so pretty piecrusts. I then proceeded to make Libby's original pumpkin pie recipe and bake it carefully in the over without spilling a drop. Mom came home and with gleeful delight proclaimed them beautiful. When we finally were able to consume my fare she declared loudly to everyone that "these are the best pumpkin pies ever, Paula you make them much better than me so you can make them from now on." I never fell for that stage of cooking instruction again but I had learned to do it on my own and pumpkin pie is still one of my very favorites. After this it was not uncommon for me to cook a meal or prepare lunch for the family if mom was busy and I've always been thankful that I can cook.

  Tree House

  Growing up in rural Pennsylvania there are several things you take for granted; the inevitable dead skunk on the road to school in the spring, the tractors driving slowly down the bumpy lane to the next field and the little gray sheds out behind the houses in your neighborhood. These were common sights of my childhood and everyone knew that if you where out playing and ran into an emergency you could just duck into one of those little sheds and take care of business, thus avoiding having to go into the house and perhaps be given some new chores. Of course over the years with new modern plumbing and updated conveniences most of the little sheds fell into disrepair and were eventually demolished, but before that it was a summer ritual for the teen boys in the area to sneak out in the middle of the night and physically move the out house so t
hat it's owner in the wee hours of the morning could not find the facilities.

  By the time I came along this practice no longer occurred but it was still easy to simply pick up the little gray structures and move them at any point. They were designed that way originally for hygienic purposes but this fact came in very handy when my brother decided to recycle the no-longer needed outdoors toilet. Our little gray shed was actually painted gray and not only housed the necessary but also had a small storage shed at the back where dad kept rakes, hoes, and shovels. But the days for this structure were well passed and soon the whole thing would disappear. First Jonathan, without permission and with no-one the wiser, gathered up some stout 2x6 planks left over from building our deck and hoisted them up into the tall black locust tree on the very edge of our property. Discovering that scrabbling up the rough outer bark of the tree required more effort that he wanted to expend, he then gathered up old abandoned rail road spikes and drove them into the lower reaches of the tree, spacing them exactly the length of his tall gangly form from each other, thus insuring that little kids and pesky little sisters couldn't climb it. From there he nailed in nice easily accessible boards, ladder fashion, up to the deep V in the trees branches. Then he devised a clever pulley system and one by one hoisted the outhouse walls, in their entirety up 30 feet, to be reassembled in their new bowery home. Then came the roof but there was still one problem. He was missing one wall. The space where the door once stood could not be adjusted to fit the tree specifications so one wall stood wide open to the world.

  With great ingenuity and with great care, Jonathan, and all the other neighborhood boys who could now see what was afoot, lifted a full square window up into the tree and attached it to the front of the little house in the sky. The window faced our house and now with everything snuggled up tight my brother could often be seen sprawled out in his arboreal home reading a book or even doing homework. He even slept up there often in the summers. As I grew, I was able to climb up to the tree house, too, and although I could only enter by invitation, I found the small space quite lovely.

  Apparently we were not the only ones who were impressed with the reallocated building however, because the very next spring a mother flying squirrel made her nest in the tree house, and always the gentleman, Jonathan let her stay. She raised quite a little brood there in the tree house and by late summer we were all astounded to watch the glossy brown and white creatures leap out of the back of the cabin and glide huge distances to the other trees in the forest by the barn. They had to make a gliding leap of at least 25 feet to even reach the nearest tree. The old tree house stood there for many years after my brother was gone but eventually it gave into the relentless march of time and came down. Even the massive locust tree that supported that small haven is gone now, but I can still see my brother hauling, hand over hand, large sections of the one time outhouse up into its branches and the squirrels leaping out with limbs spread wide to glide on silent webbing into the deep darkness of the forest.

  Daytona Renovations

  I guess I was 15 when my aunt Lola T.F. decided to renovate her home in Daytona Beach Florida and for whatever reason she decided the person for the job was my mom. So, she flew me, mom, and my cousin Tammy (who was with us at the time) to Florida. This was a very exciting endeavor for me for several reasons one of which is that it would be my first airplane ride. The trip was uneventful and not even scary. We arrived in Daytona to be greeted by my aunt and her amazing brood of 4 girls and 2 boys, the youngest of whom was three. The visiting didn't go on long before Mom and Lola had organized all that they would do for the month that we would be there. While we children splashed contentedly in the pool under the shimmering Florida sun, the two women made their plans. I can't say that I remember everything that was done that summer but I remember helping to lay carpet, the building of bench surround for the kitchen table, some kitchen work and painting the fence around the pool. I also remember the laughter and the new catch phrase that started each day.

  My mom, always an early riser, would get up and start the coffee, to be joined shortly by me, and then Lola. Mom would lay out the plan for the day, make a list of supplies needed, delegate to each kid what their responsibilities were and pick up her tools. Days were not the nice 9-5 sort of schedule that is guaranteed to the masses under union rules but the mad, driven, task to task, jobs of the short time employee. Days often started at 7 and ended at 8 or even 9 at night with a staggering plunge into the dark waters of the refreshing pool, often fully clothed and soaked in sweat. Lola dubbed this work schedule "Mary-Karry" in reverent respect of the ancient act committed by the shamed Samurai soldier. She would rise up, pour a massive cup of coffee and proclaim, "let us commit Mary- Karry." And we would all follow the so named mother into our next project. Even among the massive amount of work that was accomplished I remember the fantastic food, many of which were Persian dishes brought home from my aunt's trips to visit her husbands family in Iran, the almost daily walks to the beach just two blocks away, and the hours spent in the pool. I was often in charge of lunch and the smaller children, having earned my badge as the 'superior baby sitter' and that could be an interesting adventure in itself. For some reason the three year old Christopher had decided that bathing was evil and it took a great deal of imagination to get the active little boy into the tub. I finally managed with the promise of a 'tickle' - no, not the usual wiggly fingers and giggles but the roll-on antiperspirant "Tickle" which for some reason fascinated the mind of one aged three.

  Painting the fence was one of the more memorable activities that summer as well. Everyone from oldest to youngest pitched in. With great glee and enthusiasm all picked up a paintbrush, plunged it into the blue depths of the can and proceeded to swish. Bit by bit the gray aging fence was transformed into a sparkling new protection agent. All went well until someone pointed out that Katie the second youngest had as much paint on her as on the fence, where as at which time, said Katie erupted in wails of chagrin while Lola tried to get a picture for posterity. In the end it turned out that Katie didn't want her daddy (who was at the time in Iran) to see her covered in paint. I also remember the poor geckos that had made the fence their home and were now dispossessed of a place in the sun where they could blend in and hide from predators. One particularly determined gecko sat on the now blue fence, turning blacker and blacker, until he finally fell off, landing in the bushes below with a soft plunk.

  Even with all the fun and activity, I still got homesick. I missed my green mountains, my friends, and of course my horse. One day as the sun was beginning to set I found myself walking along the beach in contemplation as my cousins splashed in the surf. The upper clouds were just becoming tinged with the pink hues of twilight when a male voice interrupted my thoughts. " You look sad," the voice intoned. I looked up into the face of your typical Florida beachcomber and smiled. "I'm homesick," I replied. "Where are you from?" he asked politely. "Pennsylvania." He smiled again. "Then you’re going the wrong way." I laughed and walked back up the beach to collect my cousins and we all walked back to the neat Florida Ranch home and the pool.

  Mark’s New Roof

  My mom has a huge family. There were 12 original children and each of them had at least 2 children with many having up to 6. At my grandmothers funeral my cousin Lee and I counted and discovered that there were 48 grads and 102 greats at that point, we've lost track since then. Much of the family and their descendants still live in the Clearfield area or at least close enough to be there in a few hours and when a major project turned up pretty much everyone else did too. My cousin Mark - the youngest son of the oldest Taylor boy - needed to do some work on his house, as his own family was growing. He had bought a snug little house in Goshen and decided he needed to raise the roof so that he could truly bring out its full potential.

  So on a long warm summer’s weekend the Taylor crew turned up tools in hand to get started. In general the woman were busy in the kitchen, preparing the meals we would eat and hel
ping Kitty keep the mess down to a minimum while the rest of the family, took up various tasks on the project. My uncle Fred was in charge of cutting lumber to length as his prosthetic leg would not let him climb ladders, while younger kids carried the cut wood to the ladders where teens hoisted it up to the men balanced precariously on the ancient beams of the houses upper skeleton. Quay, Mark's older brother was the first to go down. He was spry and agile and as the old rafter tilted under his weight, he lost his balance and legs-first plunged through the plaster ceiling of the attic but was able to catch himself on a beam and pull himself back up.

  My brother Jonathan was the next one to break the surface and both of his legs stopped to dangle in the bedrooms below, but he too managed to catch himself and stop the downward slide. Mom and I had been standing on the porch roof at this time and the whole property looked as if a swarm of busy ants were building a new nest. Shiny cars and pick-ups lined the side of the road, saws buzzed, children danced with delight at the opportunity to pitch in. Dad was busy measuring wood and helping with the cutting as Mark tried desperately to keep an eye on the whole thing. For some reason Mom told me to climb up on the roof and tell the men something, so I pulled myself up, planted my feet on a dark brown beam and made my way, balancing beam style to the recipient of the message. This accomplished I turned and felt the old beam wiggle tossing me straight down onto the plaster board ceiling, but I was not as quick or agile as my for runners and plunged 10 feet to the bedroom floor with a loud crash. I don't know how he got there so fast but Mark was on the spot to see if I was all right. I felt terrible as I looked up at the gaping hole in the bedroom ceiling, where concerned faces gazed back at me. Then I stood dusted myself off and announced that the only thing hurt, miraculously, was my pride. It was an amazing day and evening found the whole upper structure of the house constructed and covered in tarps for the shingling the next day.