 A Series About Childhood Memories |
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 Currier & Ives' "Winter-Time on the Farm" |
Cows, geese, popcorn, pneumonia
--they all were part of that winter
By AUDREY YEAGER
of TheColumnists.com
SOME TIME in the 1970's I heard a song that speaks of the wish
"…to be a kid again; doing what I did again."
There aren't many of us that wouldn't like to give that a try,
but I've overheard some people add, "If I could only go
back knowing what I know now."
I view it differently. I wouldn't want to go back with all the material that has been tamped into my brain over the years. I would want to BE that little girl.
The above-mentioned song continues to a line that suits my feelings perfectly, "Once more through the door, once more AS BEFORE."
Let me go back as completely naïve and free of the details of human failings as I was then, knowing nothing of wars, prejudices and suffering.
If I could return to childhood let it be--not a return--but a beginning, all over again just as I was one particular winter.
Being a city girl I had learned all manner of interesting things, and at least one cruel myth. We could never step on a crack in the sidewalk because we had been indoctrinated into the belief that there was a direct correlation between that act and crushing our mother's spine. So, for two or three years, while we still believed our footprint wielded that kind of power, much of play-time was actually a high-stress occupation dedicated to avoiding fissures in the walkways.
Whenever in close proximity to cracks, we knew no peace. Even when common sense told us the idea was stupid, ridiculous, and only nincompoops would pay the least attention to it, we just couldn't bring ourselves to take the chance…we were nincompoops. Except at Grandpa's farm.
It was the year I had pneumonia, one of my favorite winters. My mother was recuperating from an illness and we had moved in with my grandparents the previous fall.
The Depression was winding down. Nobody talked much about it anymore and since my grandfather was a farmer we were better off than some. There was always plenty of food.
The house was on a narrow country road. It was an animated "Currier and Ives" print; smoke curling out of the old chimney, a creek meandering lazily across the back of the property, fat pumpkins squatting in the field and cows swinging their tails and moving from one green patch to another.
The building itself, had been planned as a barn and there were two-by-fours shooting up into the shadows all over the inside. I'm not sure what had happened, except it was now the house and there was a picture-book, big-mouthed barn some distance behind it.
Time and the weather had painted the house a lovely pearly gray. It is still referred to by our family as, "The gray house."
The farm was wonderful, and there was an extra bonus. There were no sidewalks. Free at last! The burden of Mother's spinal welfare was lifted from small shoulders.
There were new worries now. Being careful not to walk under ladders, running a half-a-mile out our way to prevent the black barn cat from crossing our path, and being careful not to spit into the wind. Grandpa, who chewed tobacco, always added that last piece of irrelevant advice. I prefer not to imagine what experience prompted him to repeat the warning so obsessively.
My attention was mainly on the farm animals, and I learned fast. Lambs are loveable. Geese are killers. Or, they would be if they had blades attached to their beaks. As it is, their aim is to pinch you to death. All kids seem to rub them the wrong way…if there is a correct way to rub a goose.
I took to the cows right away although I soon found out you shouldn't follow too closely in their wake. All kinds of unpleasant things can take place, things that require hosing you down.
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Pigs are harmless and fun to watch from outside their sty. Fall in and you're history…or so my young, companion aunt told me.
You may have heard that the color red raises a bull's hackles quicker than anything. True story. (With more time I could tell you quite a tale concerning a little, red organdy dress of mine, and a near-death experience.) The brutish fellow will seem to explode from within, smoke pouring from his nostrils. He will paw the ground with neon-hate flashing in his eyes, then with nothing but carnage in mind, be after you at a dead run. He will also react the same way to green, yellow, polka-dots, purple, hot-pink and black. It's best to just strip and run for your life.
There was an incident that showed me I really didn't know myself very well. Something came over me and I pulled up all Grandpa's potatoes when they were only the size of marbles. I just couldn't help myself. Neither could Grandpa. He gave me a couple of, "Whupps" and I spent all day sticking the tiny vegetables back in the ground. He said they probably wouldn't grow. It was the principle of the thing. Yes, I took in some philosophy that winter also.
When the last small whirlwind of colored leaves had floated to the frosty ground, and the fire in the living room glowed and hissed, it was popcorn time…it was winter time.
Up in the attic of the house, under the eaves, Grandpa hung a special kind of corn, just for popping. When Grandma saw him come down the stairs one evening, carrying a kettle of corn, she said, "Now we know it's winter for sure. Grandpa's going to pop the first corn."
It's a good memory, lying deep in a feather bed, full of popcorn and listening to Fibber McGee and Molly traveling down the hallway from the big old cathedral radio.
It snowed, a perfect winter, no matter what came next.
They thought it was only a cold in my 5-year-old chest, but it developed into pneumonia that became like a huge stone, cutting off my breath. There were no antibiotics, only sulfa and home remedies with acrid smells and little effect. The doctor stayed all night, as did my paternal grandmother. It wasn't looking good. They tell me we needed the proverbial miracle.
My aunt, who was only two years older than me, sat on my bed and promised to buy me most of the toys in the world if I would only get well. Shoot! I was trying!
God brought me through, but slowly, and recuperation was extremely pleasant. It was obvious there was something different about me now. A brush with death separates a person from others for awhile, I suppose.
Grandma held me on her lap a lot and sang old songs. Mama read to me. Auntie would have done just about anything I asked. Her devotion was not just for a passing moment either. When I was well enough she took me for walks in the woods, even holding my hand. We forged a bond that was never broken until her death a few years ago.
I gathered images that will last a lifetime. Images of that winter; waking to the ethereal quiet of the first snowfall; a bowl of waiting corn flakes nearly buried beneath thick golden cream. Then being pulled in a wagon over rutted lanes by handsome half-grown uncles, and hearing, "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight." And best of all, being aware of love, seeing it and feeling it for the first time, and knowing it was something terribly special.
Spring was waiting behind the wind and in the veins of every tree and bush. When it came, it would bring a thousand new experiences, but for now life's magic wand was wielded by a shimmering, icy king, who had his way with the countryside.
No, for me, there could never be another winter like that one.
© 2001 by Audrey Yeager.
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You can comment on this column or contact Audrey Yeager with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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