by Bill Dodds
“Really!”
Charlie entered the yard and I followed. “What kind of jacket is that?” she asked me as I walked by.
“A red one,” Charlie said and she laughed.
Then she hopped down off the gate and ran up ahead of Pat. “Mama, Mama!” she was yelling. “Mr. Vaudeville has come for Charlie’s birthday and he’s got a red jacket.” By the time she had gotten all that out she had disappeared into the house. Pat followed her.
“Charlie,” I said softly and he turned around.
“Is all this . . . real?”
He smiled at me. “Uh huh,” he said. “Yep, it sure is.”
“But how long am I going to be here?”
“Not long,” he said.
“CHARLIE!” a woman called from inside.
“How long is not long?” I asked.
“Not long is when it’s time to go you’ll kind of wish you could stay longer.”
“A few more minutes?” I asked and he shook his head. “Hours?” No. “Days?” No. “Weeks!”
I was going to be here for weeks?
“A week,” he said.
“A week! But what about my family?” I asked. “They’re going to miss me.” I could imagine Mom walking into Great-grandpa’s room and me gone. Just disappeared in a flash of lightning.
“They won’t even know you’re gone,” Charlie said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I just do,” he said, adding, “This has been the best birthday yet.”
“Maybe for you,” I told him.
“Ah, you don’t know the half of it,” he said and smiled. “Come on.”
We walked up the wooden stairs and into a little entry way room. Coats and hats were hanging from hooks along one wall. There were some old, muddy work boots on the floor beneath them. There was a door to our left and another to our right. I could hear the little girl talking in the one to our right, repeating her news.
“Charlie?” The woman’s voice came from the room to the left.
“Yes, Ma?” he answered.
“Wash up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there someone with you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, he’s welcome to stay,” she said. “Show him where he can wash up, too.”
“Just like a mom,” I whispered. “First stop for any kid is the bathroom.”
“The what?”
“Bathroom.”
“We don’t have to take a bath,” Charlie said. “Just wash our hands. Come on.”
We entered the room to the right and a bunch of kids and a man were sitting at a long wooden table in the center of it. It was a kitchen—a large one—with a big metal stove on the left and counters and cupboards on the right. Along that wall was a sink, too.
“Now who do we have here?” the man asked and the room was suddenly very quiet.
“Mr. Vaudeville,” said the little girl in the blue dress.
“Hush, Sissie,” another girl said. She looked older than Pat.
“This is Michael,” Charlie said. “He’s a friend of mine and a shirttail relative.”
“Is that so?” the man said, standing up and walking toward me. He was a little on the short side—maybe five and half feet tall—and wore work pants and a badly stained work shirt. He held out his right hand. There was black under his nails and in the many creases on his fingers and the back of his hand. He shook my hand and his skin felt thick, like the covering on a basketball. His grip was firm but he didn’t try to crush my knuckles or anything.
I gave him a firm handshake, too. That was something Dad had taught me. He had taught all of us. “Look a fellow right in the eye, give a firm grip and say, ‘How do you do, sir?’” Dad had instructed us.
“How do you do, sir?” I asked and he smiled. He was missing a couple of teeth off on the side, up toward the front. The ones he still had were yellow and were pretty bent. He had a bushy mustache.
“I’m doing just fine, son,” he said. “And yourself?”
“A little confused but just fine, sir,” I answered honestly.
“He banged his head, Pa,” Charlie said.
“Let’s see,” the man said. He motioned for me to step forward and he reached out and felt the top of my head.
“In back,” Charlie said and his father touched me gently back there.
“Well,” he said, “I expect that bump’s no more than a robin’s egg. You’ll be all right.”
“A robin’s egg?” I asked.
“No bigger than a robin’s egg, son,” he said.
“Is that good?”
“Lot better than a hen’s egg or a duck’s egg, I guess,” Pat said and some of the kids at the table laughed.
“Oh,” I said.
“That’s quite an outfit you’ve got on there,” Charlie’s dad said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sissie here tells us you’re in vaudeville.”
“He was, Pa,” Charlie said. “He quit.”
“That so?” the man asked and I nodded. He narrowed his eyes a little bit. “And Charlie says you’re a shirttail relative.”
At least I knew what that was. I have a lot of relatives. The close ones are called . . . . Well, they’re called close ones. But the ones that are further out on the family tree are sometimes called “shirttail relatives.”
“Yes, sir, I think I am,” I said.
“What’s your name, lad?” the man asked.
“Michael,” I said.
“Michael Farrell,” Charlie added.
“Well, Michael Farrell,” the man said. “Tell me who your mother and father are and tell me how I’m related to you.”
My mind started racing. You? As near as I can figure out, you’re my great-great-grandfather.
Chapter 11
And My Great-great-grandmother
“Yeah,” Pat said, “tell us how you’re related to us.”
“Well,” I began, “my father’s name is John Farrell and his father is Thomas and his father . . . .”
Well, actually his father is Charlie and he’s standing right next to you.
“Thomas!” Charlie’s dad exclaimed. “Big Tom Farrell! The one who ran the pumpkin farm? Why, I haven’t seen Big Tom since I was just a wee lad. A long, long time ago.”
“Time flies,” I said.
He nodded. “You have no idea how fast the years can pass,” he said.
“Oh, he knows something about that,” Charlie said.
“Cousin Tom was a lot older than I was,” Charlie’s dad said. “Why, we used to see one another—our families got together—about once every two years. Then they moved farther west and kept on moving, I guess. One place right after another. Always on the go. So you’re Big Tom’s boy.”
“His grandson,” Charlie said.
“Oh, of course. That’s right.”
“What’s your ma’s name?” the older girl asked me.
“Mary!” Charlie’s dad shouted out and I jumped a little bit. How did he know my mom’s name was Mary? “Mary, come in here and meet Big Tom’s grandson. By golly, I just guess we are shirttail relatives.” He reached out and took my hand again and started pumping it enthusiastically. “You’re pa growing pun’kins like your grandpa did?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “he . . . .” He’s an accountant for a cable television company. “He went into show business,” I said.
“Is that right?”
“Uh huh.”
“I expect that’s how you got started, huh, cousin Michael?” Charlie asked without really asking.
“What? Right,” I said.
“Now what’s all the commotion?” a woman standing in the doorway asked. She had a platter of fried chicken in her hands. It smelled really good.
She was in her middle thirties. About five-feet-two with straight brown hair tied up in back in a bun. She was wearing a brown skirt that went down to her shoes which were black and had little buttons on them. The sleeves of
her white blouse were rolled up and she was wearing a long white apron. There was a sheen of perspiration on her face. She had a healthy, red glow to her cheeks.
She was plain, but at the same time, pretty.
“Mary, guess who we have here?” Charlie’s dad asked.
“What a lovely jacket,” she said.
“This is Big Tom’s grandson. Big Tom’s Pumpkin Farm. Remember I told you about Tom?”
“Oh, sure,” she said and smiled. She came into the room and set the chicken down on the table. I noticed there was already mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and homemade bread there.
“This is Michael,” Charlie’s dad said.
“Hello, Michael,” she said, “I’m . . . . Well, let’s see. What should you call me?”
“Aunt Mary,” the little girl said.
“Well, that’s stretching it some,” she said, “but that sounds like a good idea.”
“Hello, Aunt Mary,” I said.
“I guess that makes me Uncle Peter,” Charlie’s dad said.
“Hello, Uncle Peter,” I said.
“And,” he continued, “this is Brigid.” The older girl nodded. “ You know Pat and Charlie.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He continued naming them, from biggest to smallest. They had crowded around him. “Jerome, Catherine, Sissie, and the young one’s Frank.”
“Francis,” Aunt Mary corrected him.
“Francis,” Uncle Peter said, “but I expect it would be a lot easier to go through life being Frank than it would being Francis.”
“Let’s eat,” Aunt Mary said. “Have you boys washed up?”
“I have,” Pat said and Charlie gave me a gentle push in the direction of the sink.
“Company first,” he said.
I could see the spigot where the water would come out but there wasn’t any knob for turning it on. No one else was paying any attention to us. They were all busy jabbering away as they sat back down.
“How do you turn this thing on?” I whispered.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t you have water in the future?”
“Hot and cold in every house,” I said and he gave a little snort as if that were the funniest thing he had ever heard in his life.
“One knob for hot and the other for cold,” I said. “Everybody has that.”
“Talk about telling some tall tales,” he said. “Maybe some folks in town do but not out . . .”
“No, really,” I insisted.
“Boys!” Uncle Peter said, sounding a lot like my dad.
“Come on,” Charlie whispered, taking the handle on the contraption and pumping it up and down.
Pumping it up and down.
“This is a pump,” I said a bit louder, sounding surprised, and everyone laughed.
“I mean,” I said. “I mean . . .”
“Come on, boys,” Aunt Mary said. “Birthday or no, dinner’s getting cold.”
“You need a microwave,” I whispered to Charlie. “Warm everything back up in no time.”
“A what?” he whispered back.
“Boys!” Uncle Peter said and it was obvious he was through playing around.
We washed quickly with a weird bar of soap (“Pine tar,” Charlie whispered when I gave him a look.) and sat down. Everyone was quiet, even the little kids. “In the name of the Father,” Uncle Peter began, “and of the Son and of the Holy . . .”
Each person was making the Sign of the Cross. “You’re Catholic!” I couldn’t help saying. Everyone stopped. I smiled and made the Sign of the Cross. “Me, too,” I said.
“Well, I should hope Big Tom’s grandson is a Catholic,” Uncle Peter said good naturedly and some of the younger kids giggled.
We said the same grace we always said at home except they said “Holy Ghost” instead of “Holy Spirit.” Still, it felt good to have something almost completely the same. I started to relax as we passed around the platters and bowls of food. It looked and smelled wonderful and tasted even better.
Then there was a sound outside and everyone was quiet. My guess was it was a horse riding up toward the house. It was coming fast.
Aunt Mary and Uncle Peter exchanged a look with one another but didn’t say anything.
“PA!” someone shouted outside. “PA!”
Then he burst into the room. He was older than Pat but looked a lot like him. He had the same red hair and lots of freckles. “Pa, there’s a letter here for you,” he said, waving an envelope in his hand. “It’s from the bank.”
“The bank?” Aunt Mary asked.
“Easy, Sean,” Uncle Peter said.
“I don’t think it’s good news, Pa,” he said and Uncle Peter nodded.
“No,” Charlie’s dad said, “but it’s something I’ve been half expecting.”
Chapter 12
Bad News
“What is it, Peter?” Aunt Mary asked and she sounded worried.
“Mr. Braxton told us this was coming,” Uncle Peter said. “Remember? He warned us several months ago.”
Aunt Mary nodded.
“First, let me make sure I know what I’m talking about,” he said. He tore open the envelope and quickly read the one-page letter that was inside. “Uh huh,” he said.
“Uh huh, what, Pa?” the oldest boy, Sean, asked.
“Mr. Braxton has sold some of his bank notes to someone else.”
“What?” Pat asked.
“A bank makes loans,” Uncle Peter said, “so people can have money for things like land or a house.”
“Did the bank loan us money for our land and our house?” Charlie asked.
“That’s right,” Uncle Peter said. “That’s called a mortgage. And every month we make a mortgage payment. We pay off a little bit of the loan until we’ve paid off everything. And the bank charges interest on the loan. We pay back more than we borrowed because we’re using the bank’s money. That’s how it makes money.”
“So what did Mr. Braxton do?” Sean asked.
“When a bank needs more money, for whatever reason, sometimes it takes some of those loans and sells them to someone else. Then people like us make our mortgage payment to that someone else.”
“Oh, Peter,” Aunt Mary said, “not . . .?”
Uncle Peter laughed. “Who else?” he said.
“Who?” a bunch of the kids asked.
“Mr. Meyer’s bank now holds the deed to the farm,” Uncle Peter said. “We’ll be making monthly payments to him.”
“Julius Meyer?” asked Brigid, the oldest girl. “The one who used to be Mama’s boyfrrr . . .” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Julius T. Meyer,” Uncle Peter said. “One and the same. The very fellow who had such a crush on your mother when she was just a lass.”
“Mr. Meyer was your beau?” Sissie asked.
“Her what?” I whispered to Charlie.
“Boyfriend,” he whispered back.
“He was not my beau,” Aunt Mary said. “He was simply a gentleman caller. On occasion we attended the same dances.”
“And did you dance with him, Mama?” Sissie asked.
“Did she!” Uncle Peter said. “Well, I’ll just say she did. He was quite a dashing fellow, you know. Son of a banker. Finest clothes. A matched team and brand new buggy.”
“So why didn’t you marry him, Mama?” Sissie asked and Aunt Mary blushed.
“She met a farmer,” Uncle Peter said. “Son of a farmer. Old clothes. One mule and a used plow.”
“Who was that?” Sissie asked.
“Papa,” Brigid said. “She met Papa.”
“I fell in love with a farmer,” Aunt Mary said. “A big, strong, handsome man who worked so hard and was so kind and gentle and sweet and I love him still.”
“I hope she means me,” Uncle Peter said and everyone laughed. “And I hope that beautiful woman made bread pudding for dessert because this happens to be the handsome farmer’s son’s birthday.”
