Tales from a Free-Range Childhood Page 8

  We ended up in the emergency room. Our own doctor, Dr. Lancaster, came through the curtains. He knew both of us. He took my brother somewhere into the back and left me to wait.

  That is where Mama eventually found us after searching everywhere from the drugstore to the parking lot. She had left Grandma in the car while she looked for us, and her worry about getting back to our grandmother probably saved us from having a scene right there in the emergency room. There was plenty of time for this later.

  Joe came out from behind the curtain with Dr. Lancaster. One half of his face had been painted with some stuff Dr. Lancaster told Mama was called “gentian violet.” He looked like half a normal boy and half a package of purple hamburger meat.

  On our way home, Joe told us that he liked “that new purple stuff.” He said it did not burn like iodine. Dr. Lancaster had sent a bottle of the gentian violet home with us, and Joe was carefully guarding it like it was his best friend.

  We arrived back at home at about the same time that Daddy got home from work. He knew nothing about all of our adventures, so there was a lot to tell him. I meant to let Joe do most of the telling, but Mama seemed to think that she had a lot to say about the day also. Daddy listened with smiling interest.

  We had supper, and when we finished our meal Daddy had something to say: “I think that there is only one thing left to do to make this day complete.” Without explaining, he picked up the bottle of gentian violet from where Joe had left it on the cabinet.

  I, of all people, should have known what was coming. It was very foolish for me not to put two and two together, knowing my father as I did. He sat me in a kitchen chair and handed the gentian violet to Joe. He then asked Mama for a bunch of Q-tips. About then, I figured it out, but it was too late.

  “Well, son”—he was talking to Joe—“why don’t you fix your brother so that anyone who sees both of you on the street this week will know that you are related?”

  Joe then proceeded to decorate my face with the new purple medicine.

  Grandma watched and then announced that we did not need to watch Texas wrestling on our new television that night. When we asked why, she replied that we did not need to watch television since I looked worse than the Swamp Monster, and I was right here in the house.

  When I whined and complained about being painted, Joe had one comment to make: “You are responsible!”

  Chapter 9

  “WATCH WHERE YOU STEP!”

  Sunday was a day of predictable routine at our house. Breakfast was not hurried as on school days, and we had pancakes instead of eggs and bacon. Mama made the pancakes from her own recipe, and we added gobs of our own butter and our favorite, Log Cabin Syrup, from a small cabin-shaped can that she heated by placing it in a pan of hot water on the stove. Everything was predictable.

  The most predictable thing about Sunday, however, was church. We always went to Sunday school and church.

  But I never gave up. We would get to the breakfast table on Sunday morning, and I would ask, “Well, what are we going to do today?”

  “What day do you think this is?” Daddy would question.

  “It’s Sunday. What are we going to do today?”

  “We are going to church,” Daddy went on.

  “We went to church last Sunday.”

  “We are going again. Do you know that if we don’t go, they won’t have church?”

  “Well”—now I had an idea—“why don’t we stay home and give everybody a break?”

  It did not work. We went every Sunday without fail. Before I was out of elementary school, I had a string of Methodist Sunday-school perfect-attendance pins that was longer than the lapel of my little Sunday suit.

  Before we left for Sunday school each Sunday, Mama had her own routine. As she cleaned up from breakfast (she washed the dishes and Daddy dried and put them away), she was at the same time starting our Sunday dinner. By the time we were ready to leave, she had it all but ready to eat. It would then go into the refrigerator so that, as soon as we got home from the eternity of church, we would be almost ready to eat. It was a good plan.

  I was about eight years old and Joe was nearing six when, one summer Sunday, we got home from church to a sad announcement from Mama: “I didn’t start working on our dinner before we left for Sunday school today, boys. I am going to have to cook it all now. While I cook, you boys can go outside and play.”

  Joe and I both heard and understood those words clearly— “Go outside and play”—so we headed for the door.

  Just as we got to the kitchen door, Mama said, “Where do you boys think you are going?”

  The answer was simple; she had said it herself. “We are going outside to play.”

  “Not in your Sunday clothes, you’re not!” I really wondered why mothers insisted that you be able to read their minds. She had said nothing in this world about clothes. “Go to your room and both of you put on something for play that cannot be hurt. Put your nice clothes away for next Sunday.”

  Joe and I went to our shared room. I said to my brother, “Something that cannot be hurt . . . ummm . . . I guess we’ll have to go naked. They’ve never made clothes that can’t be hurt.”

  After we both laughed, Joe and I took off our Sunday clothes and put them on hangers in the closet. Since it was summertime, both of us ended up putting on shorts and T-shirts. As always in the summer, we stayed barefoot, relieved to be out of the shoes we wore to church.

  Now re-dressed and back in the kitchen, we asked Mama, “Is the food ready yet? We are about to starve.”

  “You’re not going to starve,” she countered. “You know it’s not ready this soon. It takes a long time to cook Sunday dinner. You are going to have to wait. I know . . . I have a good idea about something you can do while you wait.”

  I knew that whatever she was thinking was going to be stupid. I didn’t have any idea what it might be, but I certainly knew that it was going to be stupid.

  “Why don’t you boys go outside,” she suggested, “and see how many times you can run around the house until I call you?”

  It was stupid!

  Joe and I couldn’t think of anything better to do, so the two of us went out the kitchen door and started to run around the house.

  Where we lived, on Plott Creek Road, we really were in the country. Behind our backyard was the chicken lot. As we rounded the corner below the house, we were running parallel to our own cow pasture. Turning into the front yard, we were just through the bushes from the gravel surface of Plott Creek Road, then . . . trouble. Just before we got to the side of the house where the little yard separated the house from Daddy’s garden, we came to our own gravel driveway. Besides the basic gravel, it was also a place where Daddy dumped coal cinders in the wintertime. With bare feet, you could not run across there.

  Actually relieved, we walked all the way back around to the kitchen door. Slouching in the door, we complained to Mama, “We can’t run around the house. The cinders and gravel in the driveway, they hurt our feet. We can’t do it!”

  By that time, Daddy had taken off his necktie and was in the kitchen setting the table for all of us while Mama was in the middle of cooking. “I have an idea,” he offered. “Don’t try to run around the house. I couldn’t do it either. Those cinders are sharp. So why don’t you go back outside, climb over the fence, and run around in the cow pasture? There are no cinders and no gravel in the pasture. It is just nice, green grass.”

  Sounded great to us. We headed for the door before Mama had a different idea. As we went out the door, I barely heard Daddy caution us, “Better watch where you step!”

  Joe and I were both pleased and excited. We didn’t climb over the fence. Instead, we went to the back corner of the yard and went through the gate beside the chicken lot. It led directly into the corner of the pasture on the way to the barn. We only had one cow: a heavy Jersey milk cow Daddy had named Helen in honor of our nearest neighbor, Mrs. Helen Burgin, much to Mama’s embarrassment. We only nee
ded one milk cow, and the pasture was about large enough for one cow.

  Joe and I both started running all over the place—no organized game, just running in crazy circles and chasing one another. After all, dinner would surely be ready very soon. Looking down as I ran, all of a sudden I remembered what Daddy had said as we left the kitchen: “Watch where you step!” I chuckled because I knew that he did not need to tell me that. I knew very well what was on the ground in the cow pasture (Daddy called them “sun cakes”), and I wasn’t about to step in one.

  About that time, Joe happened to come running in a circle in front of me. That’s when I noticed his sweet little clean feet. And that is also when I got the idea for a science experiment.

  “Joe, Joe, Joe,” I called to him. “Stop running and come over here. I want to tell you something.”

  “What is it this time?” He was cautious. “I am not going to smoke another cigar.”

  “Nooo,” I promised, “you have already done that. I just want you to think about something.”

  “What?” He was interested.

  “What if you were running around and you just happened to step into a cow pile—you know, a sun cake. What do you think would happen if you did that?”

  “I know what would happen,” Joe frowned. “It would get all over your foot, and you would stink for the rest of your life.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “Or maybe not!”

  “What do you mean, ‘Maybe not’?”

  “Just think about it.” I was leading him. “What if you were so fast—and I know that you are fast—what if you were so fast that you could step into a cow pile and pull your foot out so fast that there was not time for anything to get on it? What do you think about that?”

  “Do you think it would work?” He was thinking about it.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” I offered helpfully. “Let’s try.” But I knew very well I meant not, “Let’s try.” It was, “You try.”

  We looked around until we found a nice fresh one. It was nice and slicky-greenie looking on top. Then Joe got ready. He lifted his little six-year-old foot and came down, Splaam! It geysered up between his toes! It was beautiful!

  “It didn’t work,” he lamented with real sadness.

  I took care of him. “Don’t worry. That’s just your first try. You don’t expect to get anything perfect on the first try. Do it again!”

  He did it again. This time seemed to splash as high as his head. When I looked at him, he had a little grin on his face. He was beginning to like this.

  “I’m going to try the other foot,” was his solution.

  He tried one foot, then he tried the other foot, then he ran and jumped with both feet. Sometimes, he slid down in the attempt. In no time, he was covered all over. I could only wonder how far away you could catch a whiff of his smell.

  Just about that time, Daddy called from the house for us to come to dinner. We did not go toward the house. No. We went around and hid behind the barn. I remember thinking that I could actually live behind the barn. I didn’t need a house. This would do very well.

  After a few calls from the house, Daddy came looking for us. He came through the gate and across the pasture calling, “Boys! Donald, Joe! Where are you? Dinner is ready.”

  Joe was lurking just around the corner of the barn. When Daddy called his name again, he jumped out, arms spread, a big smile on his face. “Ta-daa! Look at me!”

  Daddy almost fell over backwards. “Whoa! What in the world got a hold of you?”

  My brother, Joe, seemed very happy with that question. He proceeded to tell Daddy the entire story of everything that had happened since we arrived in the pasture. I was the main character in the story.

  Knowing my father, I would have soon guessed what was in his mind. There was no need to guess, however, because he immediately told me: “If you are so smart, you can now show him how it’s done.”

  It then became my select privilege to be taken around by Daddy so that I could stomp every cow pile in the pasture. Twenty-six I remember being fresh enough to merit attention. All the while, my brother was following along with his commentary: “It doesn’t work. I knew it wouldn’t work. See, it doesn’t work. . . .”

  When we got back toward the house, Mama had walked out into the yard to see why we had been so slow in coming. She took one whiff/look at us and announced that our clothes had to be burned.

  Joe started wailing, “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!”

  “No, silly.” She was smiling now. “You’re not going to die. You take them off first.”

  So right there in the backyard of our house, where people riding down the road in cars could look at us, we had to take off all of our clothes until we were little naked boys in the yard. Daddy started spraying us with the water hose while Mama pushed the ruined clothes into a pile with a garden hoe. They would be burned later.

  Then, while we were still being sprayed, Mama went back into the house. She returned a few minutes later with a big bucket of warm, soapy water and the mop. She and Daddy both laughed as she proceeded to mop us naked while he continued to rinse with the hose. It got to be fun. Joe and I joined in their laughter as we were tickled by both the mop and by Mama and Daddy’s enjoyment of the end of our adventure.

  We all had so much fun that we didn’t stop until all the soapy water had been used up. Then Mama tossed us towels she had brought out to the porch, and we all went inside.

  There was a burned smell in the kitchen. We had played in the water so long that our long-awaited Sunday dinner had burned. Mama didn’t even get mad about it. She just threw out the burned food, and we all got in the car. Daddy took us to Charlie’s Drive-In to eat.

  After that Sunday, Mama tried very hard to be sure that Sunday dinner was well under way before we left for church. After that Sunday, I do not remember Daddy ever suggesting that we play in the cow pasture.

  I decided that day that if we ever got another little brother in our family, we should all agree not to teach him to talk. That way, no matter what, he could not tell on me.

  For a long time, it was not clear to me whether my brother, Joe, had learned anything that day. I actually thought he had not because he continued to do whatever I suggested—“Smoke a cigar,” “Jump off the house with an umbrella,” “Roll that ball out in the road and see what cars will do. . . .”

  Eventually, however, I realized that he had learned a lesson I had missed: if he did something but I was the one who thought it up, he was not the one who paid for it. No, just like in the cow pasture, he almost always had the last laugh on me.

  Chapter 10

  PIMENTO CHEESE

  Mama was never involved in many social activities. From the time I was born until she started back to teaching school, she spent all of her time taking care of us and the household. When she went back to teaching, there was no time at all for optional organizations. She was, however, always a part of the Women’s Society of Christian Service at the Methodist church.

  The WSCS, as it was called, was organized into “circles,” smaller groups of women who met monthly at various homes of members, where they had refreshments, exchanged community and personal information of importance, and occasionally had study programs. Mama was a faithful member of her circle.

  I loved it when the circle meeting came around to being at our house. There was one reason: leftover refreshments. Mama always planned the refreshments with the assumption that every single member of the circle would surely be coming to the meeting. In reality, only about half of those on the roll showed up for any particular monthly meeting. She also thought that every woman coming would try each of the things she had to offer. This also was not true. While some of the ladies clearly gobbled down more than their share, some of them ate like birds. There was always an abundance of leftover refreshment material after the meetings.

  When Joe and I were little and she was not teaching, Mama would make the refreshments on her own at home. But aft
er she was teaching again, there was no time for this. No, now she bought the refreshments at Whitman’s Bakery on Main Street in Waynesville.

  I loved to go to Whitman’s Bakery. Mr. Whitman was a balding, pale man with rimless glasses. I thought he was so pale because he lived in contact with so much white flour all the time. More than anything else that they made, I loved the filled cream horns most of all.

  Mama did not buy cream horns for the circle ladies. No, for them, she got an assortment of cookies, always the same. She got dozens of tea balls, Danish wedding cookies, sugar cookies with sprinkles on top, and pecan cookies that had chopped nuts in them. I loved them all.

  One Sunday, I read in the church bulletin that “Circle No. 3 will meet at the home of Mrs. Joe Davis.” It made my mouth start watering right there in church. I knew that on Wednesday afternoon, we would be going to get the cookies at Whitman’s and I might be able to beg a cream horn at the same time.

  On Tuesday night, I thought that maybe I should be sure that Mama remembered the circle meeting so that she would not forget about the refreshments. “Mama, I guess we will be going to the bakery after school tomorrow for sure.”

  “What for?” She looked puzzled.

  “To get ready for the circle meeting. I know that we will be going to Whitman’s so Mr. Whitman can get together the refreshments you are going to need.”

  “Oh.” She looked thoughtful. “I have a new plan for tomorrow. We are not going to have cookies for the meeting. No, some of the women are talking about going on diets and staying away from so much sugar. I have another surprise plan for tomorrow. I think everyone will like the idea.”

  That was all she was going to offer. There was no clarification, no further explanation. We were to be in the dark about the refreshment plan.

  The next afternoon, Joe and I met her at the car for the ride home from school. We started for home but stopped right across the street from Ralph Summerow’s Cash Grocery in Hazelwood. I knew that Mama was going to the grocery store at Ralph’s because that is where we always shopped.