2005/06/18
Various Neighbors, Part II
Walter and Alma had been married forever. And I mean for ever. I think nearly seventy years. They were good sweet people, childless, but still kind to children. As far as I knew, they were kind to each other, too. They lived so far out in the country that it was almost another era by the time you got to their farm. It was kind of surreal, like a place time forgot. The little farmhouse was the only home the two had ever shared.
Walter, though, had lived there longer than Alma. In fact, Walter was a man with a past. One of the longest-running marriages I will ever know was actually a second marriage. Walter had once had a short, unsuccessful marriage to some other woman who had long since been forgotten. It had to have been around 1917 or so, back when people whispered "divorcee'" with slightly less--well, I don't know, maybe even the same amount of-- horror than "axe-murderer". Only after half a century and more of steady and unimpeachable behavior had Walter seemed to put the sordid little story behind him. It was certainly never spoken of in front of tender ears like mine.
Once dad took me with him to do a little carpentry work for them. I don't remember for sure what it was exactly, but it was some minor kitchen re-do. Alma was explaining to Dad exactly what she wanted. She demonstrated her kitchen's flaws and then said in a stage whisper that was definitely intended for Walter's ears, too, "He built it like this for that other woman."
Dad about dropped his hammer. Then he saw the twinkle in Alma's eye and heard Walter just barely chuckle.
I guess even at ninety, a man likes to know that his woman wants him all to herself.
Walter, though, had lived there longer than Alma. In fact, Walter was a man with a past. One of the longest-running marriages I will ever know was actually a second marriage. Walter had once had a short, unsuccessful marriage to some other woman who had long since been forgotten. It had to have been around 1917 or so, back when people whispered "divorcee'" with slightly less--well, I don't know, maybe even the same amount of-- horror than "axe-murderer". Only after half a century and more of steady and unimpeachable behavior had Walter seemed to put the sordid little story behind him. It was certainly never spoken of in front of tender ears like mine.
Once dad took me with him to do a little carpentry work for them. I don't remember for sure what it was exactly, but it was some minor kitchen re-do. Alma was explaining to Dad exactly what she wanted. She demonstrated her kitchen's flaws and then said in a stage whisper that was definitely intended for Walter's ears, too, "He built it like this for that other woman."
Dad about dropped his hammer. Then he saw the twinkle in Alma's eye and heard Walter just barely chuckle.
I guess even at ninety, a man likes to know that his woman wants him all to herself.
2005/06/15
Various and Sundry Neighbors I have Known
Just a few months ago, Rex asked Dixie and me to name the owner of the biggest pair of ears we had ever seen. We shot right back without hesitation: Hooley Middleton. Second place? Willy Murley. Why did we remember that? I have no idea. But little memories like that are what make up a childhood. And for us, growing up like we did, a lot of those little scraps of memories are about our neighbors.
Most of those neighbors (and by "neighbor" you realize I am using the term in the rural sense of the word, the definition meaning"somewhere within an afternoon's drive, yet still between you and the next town") were not at all major players in our childhood. But we remember them years after they are gone. There were many more. Some of them paid attention to us--like Willy, a childless old single man who sent us kids bags of candy every Christmas. And some of them probably didn't know our names. But I think maybe the sum total of all those overall-wearing men and their apron-wearing, fruit-canning wives very much shaped our lives. Together they formed kind of a boundary to our giant "neighborhood" that stretched from Kansas to Alva.
Wayne and Gladys were neighbors whose son, Donnie, was born over fifty years ago when doctor's didn't say special, or Down's Syndrome, they said "hopelessly retarded" and "put him away". But Wayne and Gladys were made of sterner stuff than that. They took Donnie home and loved him fiercely. They patiently, patiently, patiently taught him over and over again how to feed himself, dress himself, and hang clothes on the clothesline. They bought him a trap drum set and endured endless hours of his, uhm, practicing. Light years ahead of their time and place, they did practically everything right for their son because they followed their hearts and their instincts and not some specialist's advice. Donnie is still a happy five-year-old in a middle-aged body, and I can't think that anything other than his parent's love and devotion is the reason why.
And then there was Clyde and Alvina, our nearest neighbors. They had no children and didn't seem to want any. They weren't social people, they lived only for each other and their farm. Work was their job, identity, hobby, and joy. They spent no time, money, or maybe even thoughts, on anything that wasn't farm-related. Of course, if you live like that for sixty years or so, with no kids and doing nothing but work, the money will start to pile up in an alarming way.
Toward the end of his life, Clyde had so much money that banking was one of his regular chores. He was constantly at the bank, rolling over CD's or some other such drudgery that I will be mercifully spared. Once Dad was visiting with Clyde when out of the blue Clyde just shook his head and said in wonder, "That compound interest! It sure is something, isn't it?"
Clyde and Alvina were clients of Rex's, and after Alvina died, Rex started getting a little concerned about Clyde. He called Dad and told him that Clyde had taken to wearing Alvina's rhinestone horn-rimmed reading glasses and carrying his "banking chores papers" in Alvina's good summer straw handbag. Rex was afraid that people might start questioning Clyde's competency when they saw him walking down the street in his dirty work overalls and ancient Co-op hat, squinting through cat-eyed glasses and dangling Alvina's church purse. But Dad just laughed and said, "Well, I'm sure the handles and the clasp are still good, no sense in throwing it out, and it'd be a shame to waste those glasses when you can still see through them." And that, my friends, is probably why you'll never be rich.
Eventually Clyde got sweet on Grandma Irene, who was also widowed by that time. She would get all flustered and order us to stay if she saw Clyde coming up the driveway. He always brought her a gift. And it was always something he had scrounged out of some dumpster in town. He thought the dumpsters in town were just amazing sources of goods. Grandma would accept it all with good grace and then throw it away as soon as he was gone. But she always made sure Dad burned it immediately because she was half afraid Clyde would fish it out of her trash and bring it back to her.
No, Clyde never did win Grandma's heart, but he did leave the Lutheran Church a humongous endowment.
Most of those neighbors (and by "neighbor" you realize I am using the term in the rural sense of the word, the definition meaning"somewhere within an afternoon's drive, yet still between you and the next town") were not at all major players in our childhood. But we remember them years after they are gone. There were many more. Some of them paid attention to us--like Willy, a childless old single man who sent us kids bags of candy every Christmas. And some of them probably didn't know our names. But I think maybe the sum total of all those overall-wearing men and their apron-wearing, fruit-canning wives very much shaped our lives. Together they formed kind of a boundary to our giant "neighborhood" that stretched from Kansas to Alva.
Wayne and Gladys were neighbors whose son, Donnie, was born over fifty years ago when doctor's didn't say special, or Down's Syndrome, they said "hopelessly retarded" and "put him away". But Wayne and Gladys were made of sterner stuff than that. They took Donnie home and loved him fiercely. They patiently, patiently, patiently taught him over and over again how to feed himself, dress himself, and hang clothes on the clothesline. They bought him a trap drum set and endured endless hours of his, uhm, practicing. Light years ahead of their time and place, they did practically everything right for their son because they followed their hearts and their instincts and not some specialist's advice. Donnie is still a happy five-year-old in a middle-aged body, and I can't think that anything other than his parent's love and devotion is the reason why.
And then there was Clyde and Alvina, our nearest neighbors. They had no children and didn't seem to want any. They weren't social people, they lived only for each other and their farm. Work was their job, identity, hobby, and joy. They spent no time, money, or maybe even thoughts, on anything that wasn't farm-related. Of course, if you live like that for sixty years or so, with no kids and doing nothing but work, the money will start to pile up in an alarming way.
Toward the end of his life, Clyde had so much money that banking was one of his regular chores. He was constantly at the bank, rolling over CD's or some other such drudgery that I will be mercifully spared. Once Dad was visiting with Clyde when out of the blue Clyde just shook his head and said in wonder, "That compound interest! It sure is something, isn't it?"
Clyde and Alvina were clients of Rex's, and after Alvina died, Rex started getting a little concerned about Clyde. He called Dad and told him that Clyde had taken to wearing Alvina's rhinestone horn-rimmed reading glasses and carrying his "banking chores papers" in Alvina's good summer straw handbag. Rex was afraid that people might start questioning Clyde's competency when they saw him walking down the street in his dirty work overalls and ancient Co-op hat, squinting through cat-eyed glasses and dangling Alvina's church purse. But Dad just laughed and said, "Well, I'm sure the handles and the clasp are still good, no sense in throwing it out, and it'd be a shame to waste those glasses when you can still see through them." And that, my friends, is probably why you'll never be rich.
Eventually Clyde got sweet on Grandma Irene, who was also widowed by that time. She would get all flustered and order us to stay if she saw Clyde coming up the driveway. He always brought her a gift. And it was always something he had scrounged out of some dumpster in town. He thought the dumpsters in town were just amazing sources of goods. Grandma would accept it all with good grace and then throw it away as soon as he was gone. But she always made sure Dad burned it immediately because she was half afraid Clyde would fish it out of her trash and bring it back to her.
No, Clyde never did win Grandma's heart, but he did leave the Lutheran Church a humongous endowment.
2005/06/11
Dad's Treehouse Story
(Disclaimer: Dad says that Grandpa Hada spoke mostly Hungarian, but when he did speak English, he spoke it very concisely. Therefore, exact quotes may--OK, DO--contain profanity. Hey, I don't make this stuff up, folks, I just report it.)
Because Grandpa Arnold was the last brother to get married and he and Grandma Irene never had any children together, Dad was the last kid on the old homestead. With nobody else to play with, he was often left to amuse himself. And, because he was a normal red-blooded American boy, of course it eventually occured to him to build a treehouse.
By the time I knew Dad he was an excellent carpenter. He put lots of groceries on our table with his skill and reputation. But I guess maybe he wasn't all that whippy at it as a kid.
One morning he set out for a tree down by the barn. Dad said he had somehow squirreled away some boards and nails and a hammer, but he doesn't remember anything about a saw, and who knows if there was even a level or a square on the place. He commenced to build anyway, and by evening he had some sort of a treehouse a good ten feet off the ground.
My great-grandpa Hada was a pipe-smoker. I didn't know this until once not long ago my Mother shocked the socks off me by confessing that she really does like the smell of pipe tobacco because it reminds her of her Grandpa Hada. For those of you who don't know Mom, you probably wonder why that shocked me. But for the rest of you who know her, well, you know.
Anyway, I guess it was Grandpa Hada's habit to sneak outside on summer evenings after supper for a peaceful smoke. That night, he thought the tree by the barn would be a nice shady quiet spot. He lit up and took a deep draw. I imagine it was a classic scene: the sturdy immigrant farmer, pausing from his day's labors, surveying his homestead with pride. This is his dream, this almost-sacred piece of land where two of his beautiful daughters were buried too soon, but seven of his sons grew up strong and free and prosperous beyond his wildest Budapest ghetto-born dreams.
Then he hears some creaking and cracking over his head and looks up just into time to see one of his grandsons about to break his American-born neck falling out of his death-trap of a treehouse.
He hollered up at Dad, "What Hell? No good shit! Get out. Get. Get out."
Dad didn't know much Hungarian, but he and Grandpa never had much trouble communicating. And I don't think Dad ever built another treehouse.
Because Grandpa Arnold was the last brother to get married and he and Grandma Irene never had any children together, Dad was the last kid on the old homestead. With nobody else to play with, he was often left to amuse himself. And, because he was a normal red-blooded American boy, of course it eventually occured to him to build a treehouse.
By the time I knew Dad he was an excellent carpenter. He put lots of groceries on our table with his skill and reputation. But I guess maybe he wasn't all that whippy at it as a kid.
One morning he set out for a tree down by the barn. Dad said he had somehow squirreled away some boards and nails and a hammer, but he doesn't remember anything about a saw, and who knows if there was even a level or a square on the place. He commenced to build anyway, and by evening he had some sort of a treehouse a good ten feet off the ground.
My great-grandpa Hada was a pipe-smoker. I didn't know this until once not long ago my Mother shocked the socks off me by confessing that she really does like the smell of pipe tobacco because it reminds her of her Grandpa Hada. For those of you who don't know Mom, you probably wonder why that shocked me. But for the rest of you who know her, well, you know.
Anyway, I guess it was Grandpa Hada's habit to sneak outside on summer evenings after supper for a peaceful smoke. That night, he thought the tree by the barn would be a nice shady quiet spot. He lit up and took a deep draw. I imagine it was a classic scene: the sturdy immigrant farmer, pausing from his day's labors, surveying his homestead with pride. This is his dream, this almost-sacred piece of land where two of his beautiful daughters were buried too soon, but seven of his sons grew up strong and free and prosperous beyond his wildest Budapest ghetto-born dreams.
Then he hears some creaking and cracking over his head and looks up just into time to see one of his grandsons about to break his American-born neck falling out of his death-trap of a treehouse.
He hollered up at Dad, "What Hell? No good shit! Get out. Get. Get out."
Dad didn't know much Hungarian, but he and Grandpa never had much trouble communicating. And I don't think Dad ever built another treehouse.
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