Uncle George had a funny way of speaking. He said I “walked like a forked stick.” And when Timmy was popping out beans with his pants undone, he’d say, “Better zip up yer cage or yer birdie’s gonna fly away!”
Uncle George had built a tiny one-room shack for Aunt Dutz when they were first married, though it was hard to imagine them that young. The shack was perched up on the rounds of a tree, the kind that gets split into stove wood, one round at each corner and one in the middle. He always meant to add onto it, or to build Aunt Dutz another house higher up on the hill where she might have a view. But it was so comfy sitting in the shade of the apple tree planted out front, or whittling on the doorstep by the Rose of Sharon, that I guess he never saw the use of going any farther.
Of course, Uncle George wasn’t really my uncle, any more than Aunt Dutz was my aunt. But everyone called them that out of respect. They were a very convenient stop-off for my parents on their way to work on the house, and I’d often linger on with the old couple. Uncle George had a “banjer” hanging on the wall that he hadn’t touched in forty years, thinking that his fingers were too old to play. One day, to keep me entertained, he took it down, and strains of “Old Granny Hare,” “The Rabbit Skipped and the Rabbit Hopped,” “Pretty Little Girl with the Blue Dress On” hung in the air.
From then on, notes filled my day and night. In the daytime it was Uncle George, with his gnarled old fingers that limbered up little by little. At night it was my Daddy, who played the tunes on his banjo after Uncle George had shown him once through, as he walked home from work.
“Come on in, Pete,” Uncle George would call out in his cracked voice, sounding like the frogs that kept him company in the spring below, “I’ve got a new tune to show ye!” There was no end to the tunes in his head, and every day he’d remember another. Then Daddy would take me by the hand and we’d stroll on home, at my two-year-old’s pace, while he whistled the new tune to keep it in mind till he could get his fingers around the banjo neck.
A state road now runs in front of the little old shack, in place of the narrow, mossy wagon rut where I learned to walk. When Uncle George and Aunt Dutz died, Daddy bought the land where they had lived for so long. Vines and trees have grown up, half hiding their tiny, empty home. But the Rose of Sharon and the daffodils still bloom around the doorstep. And whenever I get to longing for the old man and woman, I take out my own banjo—the little wooden one Daddy made for me when I was five years old, with the skin hide and a heart cut in the back—and I play: “Pretty little girl with the blue dress on…stole my mule and away she’s gone…”
I’m Not Afraid
“I’m not afraid of anything!”
This was my proud declaration, one sunny summer day. I was showing off to a group of girls we had as guests, one of whom was older than my five years.
“Wow!” the eldest responded, mouth open wide. “You must be really brave.”
That made me puff up even more.
“I’m not afraid of foxes…”
An appreciative “ooh” arose from my listeners.
“…or coyotes…”
More oohs.
“…and I’m not even afraid of bears!”
Shrieks of fright escaped from the girls at this pronouncement. I was delighted, and feeling braver every minute. Meanwhile, I was hanging by my knees in the dogwood tree, and as I looked out at the world from my precariously inverted position I caught my Daddy’s eye looking sternly out at me from his workshop window.
“Stop bragging, Susi,” he said in a voice that meant if-I-have-to-tell-you-again-you’ll-feel-it-with-the-palm-of-my-hand. I wasn’t sure what “bragging” meant, but I had a good idea that it wasn’t very nice, and I began to deflate. Meanwhile, the two younger girls were clamoring to know what else I wasn’t afraid of. But I’d told them all that I could and had to fall silent.
Actually, the creatures that haunted my nightmares were not hobgoblins or Draculas or alien beings, or even robbers or baby-sitters. These things I knew nothing about, having been raised with no TV, no comic strips, no city experience, and even no baby-sitters, beyond Uncle George and Aunt Dutz.
No, the creatures that pursued me endlessly at night were precisely foxes and coyotes and bears. Why, I’m not sure, when these furry creatures were my friends of the daytime. But I had read and listened to so many stories of pioneer exploits, and children being eaten by these beasts of the forests, that I began to see them lurking in dark corners when I was stripped of my waking senses.
As my young years started to add up, and I encountered playmates who were afraid even of their own shadows, I began to know that most terrible of all creatures: FEAR. Every night, it seemed to me the loft just on the other side of the log wall by my bed was full of foxes and coyotes and bears. If you held your breath and didn’t jiggle the covers, they wouldn’t be tempted to come get you. So I had marathon sessions of stillness, as I lay there with my body all tense, sleep the farthest thing away from my mind.
I may not have slept very much before midnight, but I became a pretty good runner—at least, in my dreams, keeping just in front of the jaws and claws and slobbery paws for miles on end. I also became expert at shinnying up trees and jumping from limb to limb like a monkey, and even flying when all else failed.
Most of the time I managed to escape, usually by willing myself awake just before I might have been swallowed. But sometimes there was no way out, and—what else could I do?— I’d turn around in my flight and put my arms around my aggressor, riding off into the woods on the back of a black bear, welcome from then on into his secretive world.
This happened only rarely, but when it did, I’d wake up in the morning with a feeling of warmth and acceptance, ready to meet anything the world had to throw at me.
So maybe I did have some reason for boasting to my friends that sunny summer day. Maybe I had become a friend to the wilds that night. More than likely, I was trying to convince myself that there was no need to hold my breath and try to keep from rustling the sheets at night. I’m sure I was just as cautious as ever, perhaps even more so, in case I should be punished by the night creatures for my “bragging.”
And I still hold my breath if I see a bear, even if I tell it that I’m not afraid of anything.
Graveyards
Graveyards: sinister, repellant, dreary. Spooky, sad, dead. Grown people stay away from them as much as possible and look the other way with a shiver as they pass by. Some go to visit from time to time, carrying plastic flowers in respect for the deceased, but they leave just as quickly as they consider proper.
To little people, all of the above translates into alluring, compelling, fascinating. Adventuresome, challenging, morbidly mysterious.
There was a graveyard on the hill above our old house that Tim and I would visit occasionally after we’d moved into the new log cabin. We walked the mile and a half of winding sled roads between the two spots, past Uncle George and Aunt Dutz, past Ross’s rusty pink trailer where three little feisty dogs ran out to yap at our heels, across the creek on mossy stepping stones, into the deep piney-woods, and out into open fields again, where we waded through uncut hay, keeping our eyes out for snakes.
Then it was up through another pine patch, this one dry and speckled with rocky outcroppings. The road here was covered with a blanket of needles, tinted a rich burnt sienna, and their aroma, rising with the midday sun, warmed our nostrils and welcomed us to the other-world of tombstones and testaments.
Not all was dead here. Dandelions bloomed in joyful profusion, and violets, instead of hiding shyly in clumps, were spread like purple confetti. The plastic daffodils and tulips and hyacinths were all faded by the sun and had a dull, noxious odor, but the wildflowers were brilliant and sweet, and we made bouquets of them to add to the bleached tokens left by others.
And we contemplated the tombstones, those somber grey, heavy marble blocks. Bodies aren’t made to last forever, but grave markers are. Odd how people wish for eternity in th
e form of a headstone. Especially odd to see a double headstone where one half of a couple lies buried, and the other’s name and birthdate are already inscribed, with the death left blank. What happens if the lonely spouse gets married in the meantime? What happens if she remarries more than once? At death, does she join her first husband? What must she feel when she visits her husband’s grave and sees her name waiting there to claim her?
The most senseless monument to death, we thought, were the little houses built on top of individual graves. I suppose it was to protect them from the weather, as if it made any difference. At least the plastic flowers wouldn’t lose their color in the sun, resting in that dark interior. And the plot didn’t need mowing or weeding. But the smell that greeted your nostrils when you opened the door to enter was ten times more noxious than that of the fake blossoms left without, and the earth was dry and dusty and made little clouds where you put your bare feet.
The only reason we went inside was that the monument was the size of a playhouse and we couldn’t resist seeing if it would be a good place for imaginings. But even with that in mind, we couldn’t bear the mustiness (there, everything was dead), and wouldn’t have stayed even in the worst rainstorm.
When we’d had enough of the other-world, Tim and I would head back into the brilliant sunshine of reality, perhaps lingering by the old shack before returning home, playing in the empty chicken coop or climbing in the moldy mangers where the cows once chewed their cud.
And I would tell Tim that I want a white pine planted on me when I die, so that I can feed it with my body and watch it forever growing upward—a monument to life.
Worm World
The worm world hovers all around us, welcoming the unwary. Who is brave enough to look it in the eye?
Like puppies and kittens, children are fascinated by anything colorful, especially when it moves. Take the cobra caterpillar, the most repugnant, gloppy, gooey glump I can remember from those young days. I don’t remember it with my mind; I remember it with all my senses, and it makes the soles of my feet retract and my hand shudder to even think of it today.
Coming out the door one fresh spring morning, barefoot and eager to wade in the cool dewy grass, I saw the small, raised cobra head one split second before my foot landed—squelch—upon it, carrying my full weight.
Ashy brown in color, with a bulbous head and fake eyes painted in traffic-conducting shades, this creature, when alarmed, lifts its head and waves it right and left, for all the world like a cobra in front of a turbaned snake charmer. At the same time, it emits a sickening odor to repel the intruder. I—the intruder in question—didn’t linger to look at the damage I had caused, but instead leaped like a goat down to the stream to wash the spot of contact, letting the icy torrent whip away the image.
Another friendly foe, the pinecone caterpillar, lies in waiting on those straight stretches of road where you are most likely to come skimming down in abandon, practicing flying. You see this green pinecone ahead of you, and you remember the delight of exploring barefoot in a white pine patch, the long, smooth cones under your feet. Your arches tingle in pleasant anticipation as you prepare to land on it for the sake of sport.
You reach the spot, and suddenly some saving instinct makes you step just a little bit farther, and you turn around, wondering why you missed your mark. Only then do you see the orange and black and white spines rising at all angles from the innocent-looking “pinecone,” and you thank your lucky stars and run on down the road.
But not with quite the same abandon. Such is the power of the humblest creatures of the universe.
Crawlin’ and a-Creepin’
“Late last night I went a-crawlin’ and a-creepin’
Late last night I went a-crawlin’ and a-creepin’
Late last night I went a-crawlin’ and a-creepin’
And I crawled in the bed where my Doni was a-sleepin’
Lay your leg over mine once more.”
It is reported (by all sources in the family) that I sang this song to my great-grandmother, Toots, over the phone when I was two years old.
I had heard it from Dillard Chandler, who sometimes came over from the neighboring community of Sodom to sing ballads with Daddy late into the night. His voice was raw and hair-raising and always ended in an eerily haunting yodel. He chain-smoked, and I recall the dismay of losing my dinner into the sink when the air got too thick with haze, coupled with the awe I felt at the subjects he touched in his ballads.
Toots’s real name was Marion Louise Patterson Porter, although no one ever called her that. And if crawlin’ and a-creepin’ was not exactly in the spirit of your everyday two-year-old, it certainly was in the spirit of MLPP.
A short lady of 200 pounds, Toots was a practical nurse. It is said that once, when she was training a group of young nurses, she was caught instructing them (in her high, coarse voice, followed by a great bellow of laughter), “Now, girls, when you pick up a male patient, you pick him up like this,” (showing two hands palms-up, sliding under the imaginary male body), “and not like this!” (forming a circle with one fist and grabbing hold of the imagined appendage).
When my father brought home his young bride-to-be and presented her to his grandmother, Toots looked the bride up and down, then turned to my father, who was having back trouble at the time.
“Young man,” she hollered up to him with all of her tenth of a ton, the top of her head coming level with his chest, “Young man, your problem’s not in your back-end; it’s in your front-end!”
Despite her cryptic message, he married his bride and had two children to show for it. When Toots went to the old-folks’ home, telling everyone she was the Queen of England, my grandmother—Toots’s daughter—took up the tradition. During a visit by my parents, she noticed that Daddy’s work pants—which were all he ever wore—were in a sad state of repair. As they got in the car to leave, Grandma asked, “Polly, why don’t you mend Peter’s pants?”
Mother looked at her thoughtfully for a moment and then replied, “But Marion, he never takes them off.”
Not to be fooled, Grandma retorted, “Well, I know he’s had them off at least twice!”
Mother: “But Marion, I was busy then!”
Rabbit Proliferation
It’s no wonder that I knew about things like “lay your leg over mine once more,” even at the tender age of two. Proliferation was an everyday occurrence where I grew up, and I had seen it in action many times. My eyes were right on a level with the cats and dogs running around, and they weren’t shy about being true to their natural instincts. And one of my jobs was to feed the chickens. A dozen hens and one rooster leaves somebody pretty busy.
Rabbits are quite a show, too. When Tim and I were a little older, we were each given a pet rabbit for Easter. As luck would have it, they were male and female. We cared for them seriously for a few weeks. Each one had its own cage, and we made sure to change their water daily, wiping out the algae that inevitably grew in the bottoms of the bowls, giving them fresh pellets and fresh hay, and scooping out the droppings where they piled up in the corners.
Gradually, as our time was absorbed by school and other novel things, we began to neglect our furry creatures. Finally Daddy suggested we let them go so that they could feed themselves more regularly in the wilds. Regretfully, but with a sigh of relief, we set them out on the lawn and said good-bye.
Apparently, a lawn is a preferred place for rabbits to hang out, and Daisy and Mayonnaise had no desire to wander much further than the cow stall, where they could consistently find fresh hay and spilled pellets and could hide under the manger.
A short time later, the cats started bringing in baby rabbits. So, to protect them, Daddy built more cages and we caught them all—plus the original culprits—and the careful feeding and watering began again, only this time multiplied by ten.
Of course, by the time the cages were actually finished and the offspring safely enclosed, all the little females were pregnant too. When, a s
hort while later, we found ourselves with fifty rabbits, Daddy decided they might spice up our daily diet of vegetables, and he began putting them in the freezer. They were a lot harder to part with than the chickens who had gone the same way, but we already knew that death is an essential part of balance on the farm (we wouldn’t have missed watching that process any more than we would have missed the procreation), and we took it all in stride.
And fried rabbit tenderloin was the biggest specialty of our family meals that season.
Generations
It was a big deal when the Artificial Inseminator (that’s what we called the man with the job) came rolling up in his truck. Tim and I were eagerly standing by the door, waiting to watch how he could possibly manage.
He hadn’t planned on having little virgin (or so he thought) eyes around, and was visibly embarrassed. At his request (and to our disappointment), we were allowed to tag along only if we stood off at a distance, and as a result we couldn’t make out too well exactly how he did manage. The heifer didn’t seem too excited either, so in the end we wandered off in search of a better source of entertainment.
Down to the creek, a mile away, we descended to play with the neighbor girls. There is a gravelly bend below a sycamore patch, where the Shelton Laurel River slithers quietly out of the shade and into the sun. We called it a creek in summer because the water was calm, especially in that corner. You could wade out into it if you were careful not to put your foot on a crawdad, and there were places where pools formed big enough so that you could dip into them and come out all wet and cool. If you rigged up a fishing line with a piece of bailing twine and an old cup hook, you might catch an old shoe or a potato or a broken phonograph. (Sometimes the neighbors would bring us in a mess of catfish they had caught after an extra-big rain, but we never had that kind of luck with our equipment.)
Child of the Woods Page 2
