GROWING UP AMERICAN: A Collection of Childhood Tales Read online

  This porch became a sewing room for my mother over the years but for ages as a small child I remember going out and playing in the cool space under that porch. It’s amazing the things a kid can stuff under a porch; and it was one of the favorite spots for Speedy to take her kittens as well. Over the years things changed: the porch was enclosed, rooms redecorated, even the clay basement where Jonathan and I took dad’s good hammer and dug roads for our Matchbox cars is all finished now. It's nice to think back and remember the changes to our home and how over the years it grew around us.

  Necessity the Mother of Invention

  If necessity is the mother of invention, then inexperience is the recipe for disaster! I had been working at the Clearfield bakery, my first real job for several months. Fall had come and Thanksgiving gone and life had settled into a somewhat irregular routine. Morning, evening, or afternoon, you could find me zipping along the river road to or from work; depending on what shift I pulled. I think I liked the early morning best. There was little traffic, the earth was just waking from its slumber, and the gray of dawn was turning to the gold of morning. On this occasion I was coming home after a long after noon shift. I was driving dad’s Ford Fairmont, a little four-door Sedan which to me never had much character. It was one of those dark drizzly days where the fine mist could not actually be called rain but still managed to turn everything black, wet, and slick. I had made the loop around the winding curves at the top of Lick Run hill, and slowly made my way to the bottom of the long winding slope crossing the overflowing Little Lick Run Creek with its sharp curve.

  The car infront of me was a big burgundy station wagon and I fully expected that once we had navigated the serpentine mountain road, the driver might decide to go more than 25 mph. But he didn’t speed up. All along the river road, I sat behind him creeping through the wet pre-dusk with at least twenty other cars. When we finally came out on the flat stretch bordered only by the river on one side and steep embankments on the other and into the passing zone, the car in front of me zipped around the big leviathan along the passing zone and was gone. With still nearly a mile of clear straight road ahead I turned on my signal and started around the ponderous station wagon. At this point apparently the driver woke up and floored it. Already in the passing lane and with a row of cars now to my right I had nowhere to go but past the other car so I put my foot down and tried to overtake. My little four bangers never stood a chance against the 450 horsepower V8 engine now fully alive; a roaring tank beside me.

  That’s when I saw the truck. It had just made the turn by the dam and was coming toward me at the same rate of speed I was approaching it. I knew I couldn’t just slam on the brakes, my brother had taught me that, and I also knew the car I drove had a light rear-end making it prone to slide on a wet road.

  I did the only thing I could think of. I took my foot off of the gas, and angled toward the dirt road, known as Bloody Run, that cut sharply through the steep embankments. From there everything became surreal. As if in slow motion the rear of my car danced out sideways swinging the nose toward the steep earth mound, as full darkness descended, the little car’s forward momentum combined with the now sideways slide pushed it straight up the black bank; headlights raking the tree limbs far above as it slowly tipped like a heart-shot animal, stiffly onto its left side, then turned still sliding on the wrong side of the road to its room and as the now fading centrifugal l force faded rammed fully upside down into the grill of the oncoming pickup truck. I remember the headlights aiming straight up, and the feel of the car tipping like a floundering boat but then it felt as if some massive unseen entity reached from the back seat and engulfed me in the thickest, heaviest, most sound proof blanket in the universe. Nothing. For a long moment only silence and blackness enclosed me. When I opened my eyes the radio was still on. The dash lights still sparkled in their green and red and white softness. The seat was firmly pressed to my bottom and both hands were still on the wheel. Instinctively I turned off the radio, pushed the light switch, and shut off the engine. It was still light in the car and now I was faced with the question of ‘”How exactly do you get out of an upside down car?” Unbuckling my seat belt I rolled onto my shoulder to the ceilingand then slid carefully out the smashed driver’s window. I nicked my finger on a piece of glass as I got out, but that was forgotten as sheer panic struck me like a fist in the stomach.

  There lying in the road, on the slick, black macadam was a little red helmet! Had I somehow hit a car with a child who had worn that as his precious hat? My heart pounded in my chest. Then I remembered; the helmet was my dad’s security hat that he had to wear at work. Still somewhat dazed and disoriented I turned toward the truck that was now just kissing my upside-down car. The driver jumped out and ran to me. He was a younger man and I found out later that he was utterly terrified because he’d just stopped for a couple of beers on his way home from work and thought it was his fault. Soon the State Patrol turned up. Red lights flashing across the river, and splashing us all in their demon glow. It was still light enough to see several cars pulled along the berm and a few people now milling about. A neighbor came to check on me and noted the blood on my jacket. I looked down confused and then remembered my finger. She then turned back to the others as the driver of the truck stood by and hugged me and told me everything would be all right. Just behind me I could hear the click of the police cars’ door and the soft squishing sound of rubber soles on wet road. Then the gentle voice of a man asking the same neighbor, “Is the body still in the car?” This got my attention and I turned in horror as the officer listened for her reply.

  “The Body is standing right there,” she said, somewhat indignantly. The young officer, only two weeks out of the academy turned a shocked and relieved face toward me. Someone went off to call my dad and the officer ushered me to the front seat of his patrol car, and the pickup driver climbed in the back. The weirdest part of the whole thing was when the officer, George J., (yep that was his real name) asked for insurance and registration. I had to climb back into the wrecked and upside-down Fairmont and retrieve the cards from the sun visor that was now the floor of the car. In the end I was charged with driving too fast for road conditions. The pickup driver was not deemed under the influence and apparently the big burgundy beast had been going so fast that by the time my car stopped sliding he was over half a mile down the road making the turn up Shawsville hill, a space that could be clearly seen by those who stopped to help. My dad picked me up in the green station wagon, in my opinion a far more reliable and trustworthy car, just as the tow truck arrived. When he stepped out, not being able to see me, he turned white as a sheet. He couldn’t see me where I sat in the patrol car; all he could see was an upside down piece of scrap metal. Realizing what he thought, I jumped out of the car and shouted to him. The relief that washed over his face was instantaneous. Looking back I now understand what a parent was thinking at that moment, especially a parent who just a few months before had buried his only son. Unfortunately the only cure for youth and inexperience is age.

  Cell Phoneys

  Nowadays everyone has a cell phone. Even grade school children are completely plugged in and connected at all times. Once upon a time no-one had those little handheld devices that you flip open beeped a couple of times and immediately connected you to the mother ship. And yet we blissfully went about our daily lives completely aware that we could be stranded at any time. My friend Susan came into my life after a car accident on her way home to Jonesville from Clearfield made her decide that driving late at night in the middle of winter two hours home from work was not such a great idea. She attended my church and when she said she needed somewhere to stay at night after work, my mom immediately took her in. We hit it off like gangbusters! We were the same age and had been through many of the same growing pains. We would sit up talking late into the night sharing all the girlhood dreams and fears, felt by the multitude of most women throughout time. We simply lived. On a particular early summer's day we decided to
go for a walk. Tanner was spending the summer at Ron and Sue's, so we were on foot.

  We took the gently twisting path out of the back pasture, cut across the rusty stream, flowing from the old deep mine, turned up passed the old nearly completely tumbled down coal tipple and headed up the well trodden horse path toward Eden. We had just climbed past the dirt mound on the old logging road when we heard voices along the power line - male voices. For just a moment we hesitated, then looking at each other I stated in a loud but calm voice, "Didn't the guys say the would meet us just up there?" Susan, a quick study, simply and in an equally clear voice affirmed my presumption. It turned out that the voices we heard were only some of the neighborhood boys, but you just couldn't call for help. It turned out to be a great nature walk that day. We saw squirrels, a fox and just as we came out of the woods and hit the Knobs road, a rare bobcat. We walked all the way to Hemphill's barn, had a great cup of tea and got a lift back home. Thinking on your feet and creating inventive ways to deal with situations when you know you only have yourself to rely on was just part of the way things were.

  Sleeping like aBaby

  The expression sleeping like a baby has always puzzled me. Babies never seem to sleep all that much. But perhaps it is not the soundness of the sleep but the sweet innocence, a deep rest that no-oneelse can seem to find. My mare Fancy was small, wiry, tough and fast. Through the best weather month of the year she was racing fit and we covered miles upon miles together. It was summer and Ronda and I had been working at Ben's barn taking care of the horses. Ronda organized vet visits, farrier appointments, and regular grooming. It was still dark when I crept to the barn, and the sun was just struggling to tint the horizon grey as I swung the door open. Fancy lifted her head from where she stood dozing and looked at me. I grabbed her bridle, slid under the rail and slipped bit and bridle over her head. It was five miles from my house to Hemphill's over the mountain and another five or six to Ben's.We rode the sun up. Birds began to chirp and animals began to scurry through the brush. An hour later I passed Ron and Sues' my little dew-covered mare patiently plodding by. I made the turn and started up the hill and past the Shoppe camp. It was here we always turnedhoof and took the back trail to Ben's: The one that led straight up to the barn. I was just squeezing past the gate and on to the grass; off the dust of the road when I saw Cliff's truck headed up the track. The farrier, an old friend and horse trainer knew my little horse and as he passed by I waved and laid heels to Fancy's flanks. The race was on!

  Fancy loved to run and in in seconds was stretched out, tail flying like a raised flag as she tore up the grassy trail. Laying low over her neck, black mane and blonde hair tangling in the wind of our own making. Strong black hooves pounding the soft turf and clawing up the final hill as the big red barn came into sight. We hit pavement, and Fancy slid to a halt just a Cliff’s truck made the turn from the big lodge, laughing so hard we could hear him through the rolled down window. That day we helped Cliff shoe three horses, washed all the tack, bathed the dusty animals and then saddled up for a leisurely ride through the hills. It was pushing suppertime when I turned Fancy homeward. Back taking our early morning ride. At the beginning of the paved road I dismounted and walked until wehit the grass trail down the mountain. Fancy plodded steadily in as the sun sank further and further toward the horizon. We arrived home just as the last rays were painting the valley gold. I rubbed down my tough little steed and gave her an extra feed of oats, and then staggered to the kitchen for supper. The next day I sneaked Fancy out on fresh grass and watched to see when I needed to move her. She grazed some but most of the day she kept lying down, stretched out in the warm sun to rest. We had covered over 50 miles in the one day before and now she needed the rest. It is always strange to watch a horse lying down since they generally doze throughout the day just standing up. As an adult I can now identify with that little horse that day. The utter exhaustion of long days and the wearing rhythm of the everyday routine make sleep a desperate need. The sweet peace of a sleeping baby is no longer in our grasp.

  Flame and Dolly

  Surveyor is a tiny spot on the map approximately three-quarters of a mile down river of the little mining village of Croft. Originally created to house the coal tipple workers who loaded coal onto the trains for the Shaw Ville power plant, it has carved its way in tiers up the side of Surveyor hill at an angle away from the tracks it serves. On the other side route 879 from Surveyor is a dirt road that leads to the river, and tucked neatly behind this road stood a little trailer house and a minute red barn, which housed the rotund and shaggy form of my friend Peggy's little mare, Dolly. Dolly was a mild mannered little Shetland pony, with a thick black body and a stubborn streak to match. Still Peggy and I spent hours riding through the back woods trails around and behind Surveyor.

  Our adventures didn't really begin however until one bright summer's day when we had just ridden around the back side of the hill and come to a tiny ditch, with just a trickle of water at the bottom. Flame, who was usually in the lead, stepped over the minor obstacle and continued high stepping his way down the dusty trail. Suddenly and without warning he just stopped. Swiveled his ears, and then turned his head to look back the way we had just come. Following his gaze I saw Dolly, splay legged still on the other side of the ditch and refusing, despite Peggy’s urging to cross the damp crevice. At this point everything turned and the whole situation was taken out our hands by my wily little mount. Flame, an old hand at wrangling his own herd, pivoted on his heel, trotted briskly back to the ditch, hopped across its damp recesses and then wheeling around again, snaked out his neck and clamped his teeth firmly onto Dolly’s rump, at which point the fluffy little mare let out a squeal, leaped the ditch, and dashed off down the trail in a cloud of dust with Peggy hanging on for dear life! In a flash Flame sprinted up to her, swiveling head, and flashing teeth and forced her to slow down to an indignant walk once more. Dolly never refused another obstacle as long as I knew her and finally Peggy and I were free to roam any area on the mountain and beyond without protest from her plump black steed: much to the despair and chagrin of our parents!

  Becoming bolder and bolder in our new mobility, Peggy and I would strike out in all directions seeking new sites and adventures. On one particular occasion we decided that every cross road that we came to we would take a right turn which would insure that we would eventually end up back where we had started from. This logically made sense and ultimately proved true with just a few minor adjustments. It was a long ride, we went up and down, over grassy, trails and dirt tracks, we twisted, we turned, and we crossed every obstacle without resistance, only to come out in the end at the very top of Surveyor hill facing the wide expanse of Rt.879. Finally after hours of riding I recognized where I was and told Peggy we should just dash across the road to my friends Suzy S.’s house that was just down the new dirt road to their brand new home. Tired and wishing to allow our mounts a rest while we figured out how to get home before it was too late and we were in too much trouble, we trotted down the Shale drive and arrived at Suzy’s house. I know it was getting on toward evening by now and as we approached Suzy and her siblings spilled out of their house with enthusiastic shouts about the ponies, my mind was thinking fast of how to get us home. The quickest way would be to just travel along the gently sloping curve of the hill and then down the mile long cut and back to Peggy’s house. The problem was of course that we were not allowed to ride along the road. As the old saying goes; “the best laid plans of mice and men…”We had just gotten to the house and swung down, while someone carried a cool bucket of water to refresh our little caravan, when Flames eyes lit with an all too familiar (to me anyway) ardent light. Tearing the reins from my hands he charged directly toward Peggy’s timid little mare, who screamed in protest, snatching her reins from Peggy’s grasp and together they charged down the barren track, with Flames mind firmly set on nefarious intentions. At this point in the confusion, larger people spilled out of the white-framed structure and dashed
after both beasts, grabbing and snatching at any means of controlling the two animals.

  Somehow, and I’m still not clear on who, they managed by sheer force to haul Flame in and tie him, still stomping and squealing in protest, to a telephone pole. The little stud pony, pawed the ground and flashed his eyes, but found that he could he was incapable of escaping. Dolly, eventually calmed down and was walked back to the house where apparently Suzy’s mom had called my mother who arrived in an absolute fury in our old brown station wagon. Calmly, but with eyes as bright as Flames had just been a mere half hour ago, she tied both mounts to the back bumper, pushed Peggy and I into the back seat, turned on the hazard lights, and with great care, crept the three miles home along the berm of Rt. 879. Concerned about our little steeds, Peggy and I kept peeking through the back window, only to see both animals calming trotting behind the car. We dropped Peggy and Dolly at her house first, and from there I was allowed to ride Flame home along my back trail. I was grounded for at least two weeks for that stunt, but in reality we thought we had been very responsible by trying to come full circle. Inhind sight, I suppose my best move should have been the tried and tested one I had used so many times when I didn’t know where I was. Just cross the reins over Flames neck, wrap my hands over his withers and say “Go Home Old Man”. He never failed me that flame colored little beast.