Louisa Kentucky

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.