I have been wanting to record events from my past for awhile now. I never intended to write it for public consumption. But lessons can be learned from every life lived.
I was just a simple girl, a shy girl, really. I happened to be handed some building blocks and some bridges to cross at a very early age. They have served me well throughout the years.
We all have defining "moments". Age sixteen was a tsunami for me (more on that later) and at fifty I found my passion.
This blog began as an expression of my political and philisophical point of view. What better way to expand on that than to share with you events from my past that made me who I am today? So, I will begin interspersing the present with stories from one insignificant life. My life.
"By honoring the past, we shape the future. Let us pray that we choose the lessons wisely, so that we may arrive safely to our destination." -jkt-
Down on the Farm
My
Grandmother, Virginia, was the housekeeper for a widower, Mr. Williamson, who
lived on the west side of Columbus. His house seemed like a mansion through the
eyes of a child…filled with dark furniture, oriental rugs and with gleaming
silver on the sideboard in the dining room.
Once in a while
Grandma would invite me to stay over for the weekend. Mom and Dad would pack us
all into the family sedan and we would drive across town on a Friday night. My
sister and brother could not wait to get there. LET THE GAMES BEGIN! Or should
I say, let the torture begin. They would race into the house and begin pawing
their feet on the wool rugs, like young race horses waiting at the gate. Once
they could feel the hair on their arms standing on end they would take off
chasing me through the rooms and halls until they cornered me. They would point
a finger at me, an evil gleam in their eyes and electricity would arc from
their finger to my arm. Screaming, with tears running down my cheeks, off I
would go running until caught once again.
Boy was I glad when it was time for them to leave and the house settled
back into silence, just Grandma and me. Mr. Williamson was there but I never
saw him. (He was probably hiding from the mayhem raining down upon his house
with each arrival of Grandma’s heathen grandchildren.)
There was no
television back then. We spent our days playing gin rummy. Grandma always won!!
No matter how hard I tried I never could beat her. It became an obsession of
mine. And so the days passed slowly, hidden away in her small sitting room up
on the third floor, until evening finally came and it was time to go to bed.
Those were
the winter days I remember at Grandma’s. Soon snows melted and spring passed
into summer. It became time to close the house up and move to the farm where
they would stay until the crops were harvested and the cycle of seasons began
again. Before they could leave the furniture had to be covered in white sheets,
the packing had to be done and then off they would go to the country.
I remember
the summer I was invited to go along. I wasn’t very old. I imagine it was sometime
in the late 40s. When we arrived, Grandma showed me around the farmhouse. The final room she led me into was the dance
hall. My eyes grew wide with wonder as she described the dances that used to
take place in that room. I couldn’t wait for Grandma to leave me alone to my
own imaginings. I stamped my foot impatiently until finally she was off to
oversee the unpacking. I was alone at last.
The room was
enormous. Glass windows and doors stood from floor to ceiling along one wall.
It was empty of all furniture. The
merriment ended forever with the passing of Mr. Williamson’s beloved wife. All
was quiet now. But in my mind I heard the music playing and I began to sway
back and forth. I held out my arms to my handsome prince and began dancing
round and round until I fell to the floor at last, exhausted. It was magical.
When I
finally was able to stand, I staggered into the kitchen for a drink of water. Wait
a minute…..there’s the sink but where’s the faucet? Grandma!!! She came running
and showed me how to pump the handle up and down (and up and down) until finally
water poured into my glass. Phew, living on a farm is hard work!
Of course,
after gulping down several glasses of water, nature called. “Where’s the
bathroom, Grandma?” next I asked. She
chuckled and led me out of the house and down a garden path to what appeared to
be a tiny wooden shed. She pointed and told me to go on in. Carefully I peeked
around the door. It was an outdoor bathroom…just a hole in the ground, really,
with a wood seat covering it. Imagine that.
This was all
well and good in the daylight. But, little girl that I was, this did not bode
well for the night. I admit it. I was frightened of the night and the darkness
that envelopes my world upon the setting of the sun. I was certain demons
lurked under my bed and in the closet after dark. Just like in those fairy
tales my parents read to me, nights were full of goblins and wolves and witches
and things.
As feared,
on the first night I awoke and had to go. I really had to go. I tried to hold
it because I did not want to go out there into the night. Finally I gave in to
the urge and I went to wake up Grandma. She got out of bed, put on her robe,
lit the kerosene lantern (nope, no electricity or flashlights either) and off
we went down the garden path. Not so pretty at night...dark shadows and strange
noises. When we finally arrived I peered through the doorway, certain that
creatures were lurking within…spiders at the very least. Afterwards, I raced
out ahead of Grandma, trying to get as far away from my fears as I could.
No matter
the night, morning would always come and it was time for another day of
adventure. My sister was given a ukulele for her birthday. She soon lost
interest in it so I took it for my own. It became my constant companion and I
wasn’t going to leave it behind when I went to the farm.
After breakfast the first morning I raced out
the door to explore, grabbing the ukulele on the way out. I soon came upon a fenced field. Lo and
behold there was a cow in the middle of it. I was so small I had to peek
between the slats of the fence to see. It was love at first sight. Yes, I fell
in love with that cow and I did not hesitate in letting her know how I felt. I
brought my ukulele up to my chest and began strumming on it. I had no idea how to
play the ukelele, but the discordant noise coming from it was music to my ears.
I began singing “Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O. And on that farm he had a
cow, E-I-E-I-O. With a moo, moo here and a moo, moo there…” well, you know how
it goes. Over and over again I sang until that cow finally looked up from
chewing on the grass and stared my way. She moseyed on over to me. We stood
there looking at each other, me strumming and singing at the top of my lungs,
she chewing on her cud.
The farm hands, in their bib overalls, started
wandering over, laughing at the strange little city girl who thought cows were
for singing to, not for milking. It was such a happy time and I remember it all
these years later.
