GROWING UP AMERICAN: A Collection of Childhood Tales Page 7

  I remember being afraid to even climb up onto the highest rock that jutted out over the dark, slow flowing water. Jonathan finally convinced me to just have a look when he promptly pushed me right off and into the deep end! I never even had the chance to be afraid. You usually don't if you have a big brother you just blithely follow along to be duped repeatedly, no matter how many times the pattern repeats itself. The whole neighborhood used to pile into the old blue Dodge Polaris station wagon; Harry and Donny, Pam and Bridget, Rickey and Dale, even April and Rossy were crammed into the interior along with Jonathan and me.

  Mom usually drove but sometimes, Jody would be there and often Missy joined the whole crew. Occasionally evena dog or two found there way into the mix. We would run at breakneck speed, like skinny white deer along the trail bounding over logs, slithering under branches and leaping over slimy mud, to plunge with shrieks of delight and terror into the Deep Hole. On one occasion, one of the rare ones where a dog managed to join us, the dog managed to outrun us all, only to stop us dead in our tracks while he heroically dispatched a large rattle snake that had been dozing behind a fallen log that lay directly in our path. For a while after that we were slightly less raucous on our way for a swim. We were not unaccustomed to thecall of " Snake" at the deep hole. Often the over-heated creatures would slither into the cool water and always on the look-outsomeone would call the alarm so that we could all scrabble out just long enough for the usurping serpent to float by. En mass we felt pretty comfortable at the Deep Hole. Even when we encountered a strange man in the middle of the stream lathering up with a bar of pure and natural Ivory soap. Sammy, as we soon discovered, was a truck driver. He drove a scrap truck and had no real home so for at least one summer he was a regular at our favorite swimming spot. He was friendly enough but never overly familiar with any of us. We later discovered when he was nowhere to be found (he was in jail) that his idea of picking up scrap was to tow any stranded car off of the side of the road to a chop shop in a distant city.

  Still the Deep Hole was a cool haven on those sweltering PA summer days - a cool, bubbling way to while away the hours when it was too hot to do anything else. It was amazing the things we learned to do there, in the tree shrouded, sun lit water. As we got older the boys climbed higher and higher up the cliff face, throwing their lean muscled bodies out and away from the projecting rock to three or four feet of fast moving water above the bend. They weren't graceful but they were, accurate, and skillful. Jonathan, now a superb and confident swimmer himself taught many of the younger kids to swim and often challenged the strongest swimmers to a competition to see who could swimfurthest in the rapids of the frigid spring run-off. Many times he could only gain inches himself against the madly pushing water, and many times we watched in awe as he simply swam in place unable to move forward but unwilling to give ground until, completely exhausted, he would finally stop his drive and drift into the quieter waters of the deep hole.

  My last swim in the deep hole was at the end of my best friend’s 18th birthday party. For some reason Missy decided the way to celebrate her special day was for each of us to plunge into the freezing biting current of Little Trout Run. We all did and in the end she dared me to swim to the other side, which foolishly I did. I made it to the rock platform, crawled out into the frigid night air and plunged back in to emerge back at the beach, almost completely blue.

  Dad and Poison Ivy

  Dad has always been a woodsman. Even now at the age of 89 he still collects and chops his own firewood. As kids, sometimes he would take us for hikes in the woods. He showed us how to suck the sweet juice out of a wild grape, while avoiding the sour middle fruit; how to climb hills; and look for fossils. We would pick small ripe, blackberries off thorny bushes, find lowland blueberries, and even get the sweetest, tiny little wild strawberries. Dad taught us what dewberries where, how you could grind up acorns, where to find nuts, and all types of trees. In the fall he would even take us to dig up sassafras roots to make tea. He showed us how to tap two sticks together to scare snakes, and instructed us to always talk or sing on trails so the wildlife would know we were coming and hopefully clear off before we could accidentally startle them. In the spring he burned off the grass in the pasture so that all the old dead buffalo grass could be burned away to let the new shoots spring up with the rain.

  The summer I was twelve he even declared war on all the poison ivy, something that for some reason I had failed to learn to identify. I'm still not sure when it happened but I remember waking up with the tell tale red, weepy splotches on the tender underside of my fore arms. In just a day they were bright red, and swollen and no matter how much Calamine lotion mom used, absolute agony.

  By the third day my arms were three times their normal side, covered in red and yellow pustules and sheer torture so mom took me to the doctor. Normally we would go to our family doctor, Dr. H., but he was on vacation so we went to another local physician. I can't remember his name but he was a small, gray man with a bushy mustache, a pipe, and a heavy German accent. Gently he turned my arms over, looked at them with shock and stated, "What did you do girl, lay down and roll in it?" Apparently as I grew older and my body chemistry changed I suddenly developed a severe allergy to poison ivy. For the next three summers I suffered with this malady despite the fact that my dad mowed and burned everything that even resembled poison ivy. The second time was even worse than the first because then it was on my face and neck. I looked like a big red, basketball head, with a bumpy, scaly face and slits for eyes.

  Finally either I builtimmunity or dad had truly eradicated poison ivy from the woods because I stopped getting poison Ivy. Years later, while in college I came in contact with poison oak and once again my tender forearms erupted in bright red bumps and lesions. This time I hadn’t any Calamine lotion so applied the first thing in the medicine cabinet that looked soothing. For two days I slathered medicated face wash on my lumpy arms and let it dry. It stopped the itch and by the end of the third day all of the open spots had dried up and were fading away.

  Blood, Sweat and Tears

  Blood, sweat and tears are just part of growing up. The occasional scraped knee, the endless hours of hard play, and the inevitable first crush who doesn't feel the same way, add up to this classic equation. Summer usually found us out in the woods somewhere and often ended with all three elements of this trifecta. This particular summer found all of the neighborhood kids at the little stream below Goshen school playing in the mud, catching crayfish, and finally building a rock dam. I had ridden the pony that day and he stood by patiently nibbling leaves and sprigs in the shade of the big trees while we all moved various sized rocks to the narrow end of the stream. Donny and Jonathan were the biggest of us and moved the larger rocks while we smaller kids, moved and balanced smaller ones into the spaces in between. The water was already slowing when I packed a small rock into the narrow gap in the middle of the rushing water and Donny hefted a large rock to use as a key stone when his foot slipped and the rock came crashing down on my hand. In a flash I jerked my hand back but not fast enough. The large rock settling into the now still water caught the tip of my left hand middle finger, which came away, gnarled and bloody.

  In shock I lifted my red dripping hand and in the next instance my brother bounded over the stream, snatched up the ponies saddle blanket, ripped off a long strip and tied it tight around my fingertip. He then swung me up on Flame and led me home to mom. By the time we got there the little strip of thick cloth was soaking through. Mom took one look at the damaged digit and put me in the car and off to the emergency. The wait wasn't long, and soon I sat on a white emergency room bed, where I was instructed by my mother to show the doctor my finger. Even in pain I had to smile at the irony that my mom had just told me to flip off a Doctor. In the end I had removed all but a third of my fingernail and there was some doubt it would ever grow back. The Doctor wrapped it in a nice clean bandage, put a steel guard on my finger, and sent me home. It took forever for that nail
to grow out and it was sensitive for months, but I still smile when I think of giving the middle finger to a man in a white coat.

  Kicked

  If you spend any significant amount of time around horses it is inevitable that you will be stepped on, bit, and even kicked at some point. Having spent a good deal of my childhood around a multitude of horses I've experienced my fair share of each vice. At nine my new pony took offense at some misdeed and quick as a snake turned and bit me on the side of my neck, leaving the world’s biggest hickey, a word I learned that very next week in school.

  My toes have been severely damaged by the weight of a half ton animal resting a surprisingly sharp, if well rounded hoof on them and have of course been kicked in a number of odd ways. Eventually you learn to shift, scoot, and slide out of these situations but even the most skilled horseman, in a moment of inattentiveness can find themselves right back on the receiving end of a horses angst. I had put Tanner up in the barn for some reason. He had probably just been re-shod and so needed to be turned out into the upper pasture. I grabbed his lead rope and we slipped between the two trees that made up the outer gate of the corral, and walked up the narrow hoof trodden path to the open field, known to all as the ball diamond, a reference to way back when my big sister still attended the now extinct, one room school house just above our home that had at one point cleared the field to play baseball. I slipped the halter over Tanner's head, ran a hand down his back and turned to walk back to the barn. Just as I had made a three quarter turn, Tanner, now feeling his oats, kicked out with both hind legs catching my left inner thigh squarely with a steel clad hoof forcing my turn to become a stumbling pirouette. Somehow,I managed to stay in my feet and began staggering, leg suddenly numb, back to the narrow trail toward the barn.

  I entered the little path and half dragged, half lounged my way from skinny tree to skinny tree, down the tail. I was almost to the barn when I came to the one obstacle, a fallen tree laying low across the path and blocking my way. I tried several times to scrabble over the thing, but my leg was completely numb from just above the knee to my toes, and try as I might I could not get over or around the log. Fortunately for me I had taught all of my horses to come when I whistled and generally they came at a fast clip to discover what treat I might have for them. Sinking onto the log, I caught my breath and whistled.

  A second later Tanner came dashing down the trail, skidding to a sudden stop in bewilderment when he saw me. Coaxing him to the log, I swung my arm over his withers, grasped his mane with both hands and allowed him to half carry half drag me the last twenty feet or so to the barn. There I managed to give him a handful of grain, and dragging my now useless leg along, Istaggered to the house. Mom came running at my call and dutifully rubbed medicated ointment on the black and purple hoof print, complete with nail and cleat prints, rising up on my leg. After much ice and loads of the end all fix all medicated ointment, she still didn't like the look of the leg so took me to the doctor. I have to wonder what he thought looking at that amazing semi-circle of bruising. I know he counted the six nail marks and commented on the obvious cause. He told mom to keep up with the ice but also informed her that where one of the cleats had scored a hit I would probably have a speck of dead muscle tissue for life. He also informed me that by all rights I should have had a broken leg. I was just grateful I wasn't still sitting on that log trying to get help because the same creature who branded me had carried me home.

  Duane Knots

  My cousin Duane could tie a wicked knot. Growing up I was pretty much the quintessential tomboy. Looking back I'm not sure how much of that was nature and how much of it was simply for pure survival reasons. After all I spent most of my summers roaming the hills with three boys. Other cousins would come to the farm during the summer too and that was the best because I then also had girls to play with. One of our favorite things to play at the farm in the summer when our Indiana cousins would come was "War". Really the rules were very simple. We had two teams, and for some bizarre reason girls against boys seemed best, and we would take turns invading each other’s space, then dash away. If you were unlucky, or possibly unskilled in the art of war, you would be captured. For some reason my three feminine cousins seemed to have a knack for getting captured, and of course to make sure the prisoners did not escape, Duane would tie there hands. Of course if another member got to them and orchestrated an escape that was good too.

  As usual, Amy, and Linda had been captured and were being held, where else, at the barn. I crept around the bottom of the barn, to the far corner, watching as the boys ranged out to see who else they could capture ensuring a victory, then grasping the bottom window sill I pulled myself up, shinnied over the open space and pulled myself up to the second story window, then into the third. Silently I made my way to the hay shoot, slid down the rope and quickly untied my cousins. Just as they dashed down the barn stairs to escape, Duane pounced. In a moment, he pinned me to the floor grabbed a bundle of bailer twine and bound me both hand and foot. Then for extra measure, he made a loop around my waist, and trussed up like a pig, tossed the loose end over a beam, hoisting me up to be suspended in mid air. I guess here I should mention that I was notorious for not staying tied like a good prisoner. I just always figured some way out and had all types of little secret ways to adjust my hands so I was never truly tied fast. Confident that this time I would not escape Duane launched himself down the stairs and out to hunt down my compares. So there I swung, slowly creaking like an awkward pendulum and thinking now what. One good thing about barns, if you have to be tied up in one anyway, they have hay. Slowly I worked my hands down to my ankles and began plucking away at the knots; soon I had my feet free and could work on the knot holding my hands and the rope suspending me. As the knot gave, my hands and waist came free and I splashed face first into the hay mound. Later I remember thinking, "Good thing no one left the pitchfork there." Still my efforts were too late, just as I sprang to my slightly numb feet, the boys returned with my team and the war was lost. On the other hand the chance to see Duane's utter astonishment at the fact that I had indeed escaped was priceless.

  A few years later I almost won a bet on this Houdini’s. Our neighbor’s boyfriend who was in the Navy was bragging that no-one could escape his knots. So I took a bet that I could free my hands in 20 minutes or less. I lost the bet by 2 minutes but in my mind it was still a victory. It's always amazing what you learn growing up with boys.

  Pear Tree

  Grandma Taylor always seemed unbelievably calm. She worked around the house, baked bread, fed us lunch, and played her music. It was peaceful for me at the farm. Not always quiet but peaceful. At one point in our summer adventures we took turns daring each other to climb the highest in the pear tree. It was a nice low-branched tree that spread itself evenly across the open lawn, rising up to a clean sharp point at the tippy-top. I suppose in reality it wasn't even 15 feet tall but it seemed very high to us. So one by one we scrabbled up the brown rungs until the ever-narrowing limbs began to sway. I was the first to give up, never really liking heights anyway, but Duane just kept climbing. Grandma had a guest that day, I couldn't tell you who, but I do remember their comment and the expression on their face as Duane crested the top of the tree, feet splayed on limbs that should never have been able to bare his weight and stretch himself until his torso rose above the summer foliage.

  Even now thinking about it and remembering the ominous sway of the spindly twigs makes my head spin. But there he stood, my young cousin as proud as, well, pears. At this point Grandmas guest gasp and in a shrill voice said "Jesse, don't you think you should do something about those kids?" Grandma turned calmly to the tree, waited for Duane to descend and said "Well I guess you know now so that's enough of that." Later she allowed Duane to put a little plinth quite a bit lower in that tree and he would often just sit up there enjoying the view.

  Cleo Comes Home

  Mom always said she had two families. The first was my two sisters Cleo, 16 years my
senior and Jody only 5 years younger that Cleo: Then Jonathan and me many years later. I think if she could have had it her way mom would have had at least a dozen kids but she got the four of us and some space between. When I unexpectedly arrived Cleo had just had her sweet 16 and inherited just a little more babysitting since she and Jody already watched the three-year-old Jonathan. I've heard that on more than one occasion both girls had had a wonderful time playing dress up the baby brother while mom and dad were out. .

  I don't know but I guess there was some discomfort in this toting around the baby as at 16 Cleo got some very strange and not to friendly looks. But not long after, she graduated highschool and took herself away to 'college in Georgia. Life in the Liddle home when on as Jody continued at highschool, and Jonathan and I both grew. It was summer again and I was four. I can clearly see the little car dropping of a suitcase caring person as I sat at the kitchen table coloring and mom cooked I watched as the woman walked up the old dirt road, across our yard and disappeared around my house, then burst through the kitchen door, dropped her suitcase, through out her arms and announced, "I'm home!" with great enthusiasm. Mom swung around, grinned, squealed and lunged to hug the stranger, as I hid behind her skirt. I can remember the feeling of confusion as this person showed up, and the confusion being dispelled by a little voice next me saying "Hi Cleo." I don't know how Jonathan remembered her but he did and just then, with my big brother next to me, it was all alright again

  Houses Grow

  Horses, just like kids grow. They change and adapt to fit the needs of those who love them. Shortly before I was born, the youngest of four, my mother decided that we would have a toilet in the house. Apparently we already had a tub but not a toilet. So somehow she managed to get some family together and update the bathroom, making the outhouse obsolete. The house I remember as a small child was much like it is now but things changed. To begin with I remember shingle siding on most of the house and an open porch. They had that room shored up and enclosed and it became the main entrance to the house and the laundry/mud room. You now walk through the entry-way and then into the kitchen. I always liked that you walk into the kitchen and not some other part of the house. It made you feel like you belonged. The then front part of the house also had a porch with long steps leading up and a heavy wooden door with three windows in it.