It was a
ride that never seemed to come to an end. The road wound up and around the
hills, dark green trees covered, overhung of the road, and the last lights of
town had disappeared it seemed hours ago. The drizzling rain made the road
slippery and shiny in the headlights. Everyone was sleepy, but afraid to fall
asleep, worried we might miss our destination. Dad knew where he was going. He
hadn’t grown up at his mom’s new house, but he knew exactly where it was, out
in the country, near the town of Clifford.
We had been
told about our Mamaw. She’d known us since we were tiny, but it was hard for us
to remember her. But still, I looked forward to it. I’m not sure why we were
going to see her. Maybe we were going to
stay a while. We all knew she’d be glad to see us.
We parked
in a cut alongside the road just below the house. It was a two story with two
large silver elms in the front yard. She was at the car before we could even
get out, ignoring the dampness, giving us all hugs and kisses. I was glad to
see her again, though I couldn’t recall ever seeing her before. She led us up the steps, by the porch that
surrounded the front of the house.
We met Mr.
Hughes. He was a large, older man. He walked with a cane and wore suspenders.
He looked a lot older than Mamaw, but he was her new husband. Mamaw had already
outlived at least two others. He ran the country store where we’d parked the
car. He had on a white shirt and dress pants and wore a hat. We probably were
strangers to him, but he welcomed us all into his house.
After we
had all sat down in the living room, Mamaw brought out the sweets and coffee. The adults, Mom, Dad and Mamaw, were all
catching up on things. We stared at Mr. Hughes as he sat there in his rocking
chair with his cane across his lap. We were sort of afraid of him. With his
bald head and pale white skin, he looked kind of spooky.
When my
sister got up to walk into the kitchen, he reached out and hooked her ankle
with his crane. She tumbled to the floor, surprised as he dragged her over
closer to him. Then he tickled her foot. She giggled and kicked herself free.
Soon we all were running around, daring him to catch us with his cane which he
did quite well. It was great fun and seemed to like to do it himself. That was the game we would play whenever we
stopped by.
They had a
dog, Old Trouble. He was a black and white, part collie. He liked his new
visitors and did his part to make us feel welcome as well. He’d run and play, even though he was quite
old. He was an outside dog, and made his
home on the front porch. He never made a nuisance of himself, and knew when to
leave people alone. I don’t remember him even barking at us when we arrived.
Early the
next morning, Mamaw was up cooking breakfast. Country eggs, smoked thick slice
bacon, gravy and biscuits. There was plenty of blackberry jam on the table. We
ate in the kitchen. There was a screen
door off the kitchen and you could see the hen house and the barn. The hens lived closer to the main house, the
barn was about 100 yards away. After
breakfast we ran outside to investigate this new territory.
The old
hens stood behind the chicken wire, looking at us expectantly. We thought they
were glad to see us, too, but they just wanted to be fed. There were Rhode
Island Reds, White Leghorns and Barred Rocks. They all looked old, wise, and
perfectly at peace. At least how I imagined creatures at perfect peace would
look.
There were
no houses in view. Across the narrow paved road was a field and beyond the
field, a line of trees along the creek.
There wasn’t much of a backyard. A steep incline led up the hill. There
were flower beds planted around the house, and a porch swing hung between two
posts just behind the root cellar. Down
where the road curved was Mr. Hughes’ store. I never saw anyone buy anything
there, but it was filled with all kinds of canned goods and sundry items. Dad’s
old black Zodiac was parked in the gravel parking lot.
We spent
most of our time outside. There was nothing on the old B&W TV we would want
to see anyway. All the older folks seemed to like Hootenany or Country Music
Jubilee, but we’d rather run around outside, or sit on the porch and listen to
mamaw’s stories. We found an old bicycle
with no brakes, or chain. The tires were solid rubber and couldn’t go flat.
We’d push the bike up behind the house, past the swing, and coast down the hill. We had to make a hard left turn into the
front yard or we’d wind up in the road. All of us took a turn, even the
youngest, Bev. I don’t remember anyone
ever getting hurt.
One of the
old hens, a barred rock, was slower and more docile than the rest. She was
loaded onto a wagon, and we pulled her all around the yard. She never seemed to
mind. Mamaw said she was sick, so we made sure she had plenty to eat and
drink. She was a good friend and
playmate until she died, just as Mamaw said she would.
The hens
usually passed their days outside the pen, chasing bugs and scratching in the
flower beds. At night they’d be locked up to protect from the raccoons and
other varmints that lived out in the country. Occasionally, one of the hens
would wind up in the frying pan, or in some dumplings. Sometimes they would even volunteer to
eaten. The volunteer hen would rear back
and crow like a rooster. Mamaw saying
was “Whistling woman, crowing hen, both come to a bad, bad end.” We know for certain this was the case for the
crowing hen. We didn’t know any
whistling women at that time.
It was not
in Mamaw’s nature to speak ill of someone else, and it really seemed to bother
her when someone else did. Everyone thought a distant cousin of ours was a
drunk, but she’d only say he was very kind to children. Another young man was
wild, and always getting into trouble. She’d let everyone know how much he
loved his mother. I didn’t know how unusual her attitude was, until I grew into
an adult. Nowadays, talking bad or making fun of your neighbor is the norm, and
the subject of most of what we call reality TV.
Once we had
settled in, we all were assigned our chores. One of mine was to water the
chickens. Dad kept them all down behind the barn. There was an old bathtub that
Dad had put near the little branch that flowed down to the creek. Water from
the branch would slowly fill the tub, and I’d dip an old metal bucket into it.
There were many roosters, all in their own private pen, since game rooster
cannot get along. Dad made their water holders out of old bleach bottles. The
handle of the bottle hung on the wire, and he cut a hole in the front, large
enough for the rooster to stick his head in.
The water stayed fairly clean, and the chicken wasn’t able to scratch
and knock it over.
We fed them
in the early morning. They were always wide awake and chipper, scratching
around in the dirt, pecking at imaginary kernels of corn. They’d all crow challenges to each other, no
rooster wanting his rival to get the last word.
So the crowing continued until they were distracted by the handfuls of
grain Dad would throw them. Feeding the roosters was a bit complicated, since
they all had a special diet. Watering them was easier, but I was always sad
they weren’t as happy to see me as they were the person with the chicken feed.
Watering,
however, was very important. And to forget to water them, especially on a hot
summer day could be disastrous. I remember forgetting to water them once. When
Dad got home from work, he immediately saw something was wrong. The roosters
stood with their beaks open, and their wings drooped to the ground. He sent me down with the bucket. This day
they were glad to see me and rushed to the water containers, dipping their red
heads into the bleach bottle, and then looking up at the sky, letting the cool
water run down their long necks. They
drank and drank until the water came out of their nostrils. That day I was
demoted from Private First Class to Japanese prisoner of war.
I was paid
25 cents a week for my chores. I kept each quarter in an old piggy bank shaped
like an owl. Every week the owl got heavier and heavier, and I’d imagine what I
would buy with all that money. The bank stood on a shelf by the kitchen table.
We’d line up and receive our pay there. I’m not sure how much Kathy and Bev
were paid.
Money was
something that was scarce. Mr. Hughes, however, did seem to have quite a bit of
cash, I guess from his sales in his store. He would always count it in the
backroom of the house. I watched him through the window, amazed to see some
much money (mainly nickels, dimes and quarters) in one place. He kept a few
toys there, but I can’t remember if there were any I wanted to own.
