Along the Back Roads of Yesterday Read online

  Along the...

  Back Roads of Yesterday

  By Oris George

  Along the Back Roads of Yesterday

  by Oris George

  www.OrisGeorge.com

  ©Copyright 2010, by Oris George

  Drawings by Shlei of Shlei Original Art

  ©Puchan/Dreamstime.com

  Cover design by Sheri Brady

  All rights reserved

  The contents of this book may not be reproduced

  in part or by any means without the written consent

  of the author.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87144

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-9827826-9-9

  Library of Congress Number: 2010940854

  This book is dedicated

  to my most precious treasures…

  my grandchildren and great grandchildren.

  Gratitude

  I want to thank my wife, Patsy, for her patience and understanding during the time I have spent putting these stories together.

  Without the support, encouragement and contributions of Jan Verhoeff, Danielle Simone, Don Buck and Patricia Dunn, this book would still be an idea in my head.

  Table of Contents

  Forward by Danielle Simone 1

  The Man at the Side of the Road 2

  Ol’ Billy 12

  Little Man 15

  Ol’ Sam 27

  Mule-Apples! 29

  A Perfect Understanding 35

  Ol’ Blue and Charlie 42

  A Man Full-Grown and His Donkey 49

  A Naked Impression 60

  Faded Blue Bonnet 63

  A Volcano on the River 66

  Sounds like A Plan 72

  Elmer’s Bull 85

  From the Author i

  About Oris George ii

  Afterward by Jan Verhoeff iv

  Glossary v

  Foreward

  All writers are not the same.

  Throughout this book, Along the Back Roads of Yesterday, Oris George takes us to a different, unique reality, not usually found in normal nostalgia. He whisks you away to a time in the not too far past, when life held more simplicity, more family, more fun.

  Oris’ capacity to tell a story shines through his Mother’s cocky rooster sporting a top hat and tuxedo, his ornery billy goat whose life’s goal amounts to keeping Oris’ little brother, Eddie, trapped in their outhouse and through his buddy Henry, who teaches him much about getting into trouble, about friendship and about life – particularly in the 1940’s.

  Several years ago I wrote an article about Oris entitled A Love Affair with Words. His prolific writing career through books, magazines and newspapers (here and abroad) attests to his lifelong affair with words.

  But Oris also has a love affair with life. No parts of his days are left unturned, no corner unexamined, no idea unexplored, no person in his reach left without their share of his insatiable energy, intelligence and caring.

  The emotional and intellectual adventure you will experience through the pages of Along the Back Roads of Yesterday, will leave you changed, filled with a different corner of life - life through the war years, life on a hard-working farm, life during a childhood that overflows with an abundance of youthful energy and imagination, and life clothed in the harsh realities of the 1940’s.

  Enjoy your dance… Along the Back Roads of Yesterday.

  Danielle Simone

  Columnist

  Oris George on Red, Circa 1942

  The Man at the Side of the Road

  “Oris. Getting you to listen to what I’m telling you is like asking a pet mouse to eat a bushel of red apples.”

  I had asked Mom if I could hitch my mule, Red, to the cart and go for a drive. (Red wasn’t really my mule but I claimed him.) He was a small one-eyed aggravating mule Dad let me ride and drive.

  Mom’s answer didn’t make the day any better.

  “Bring some wood for the kitchen stove, fill the kitchen water bucket, and take out the trash.” I tried not to listen to what she was saying, but my ears wouldn’t shut off.

  “But—Mom, I want to go now. I’ll do those chores when I get back.”

  “You’re not listening to me.”

  “OKAY. I hear you. You don’t have to yell.”

  “Don’t get mouthy with me, young man. I’m not yelling; I’m trying to get you to listen, for once, to what I’m saying.”

  That hot summer of 1941 is still fresh in my memory.

  World War II raged in Europe and Africa. The term, the Germans, struck fear into the hearts of me and my eight-year-old friends. When I was riding Red or driving him to the cart, I daydreamed and played like he was a large beautiful horse instead of a one-eyed, contrary red mule. Out by myself, I couldn’t hear my parents, grandparents and the neighbors talk about the war.

  The water bucket was always empty. The big gray Monarch cook stove was always hungry. The trash basket was always full. I had more important things to do than be bothered with chores.

  Mom didn’t see it that way.

  Hanging the shiny water bucket on the pump spout, I raised the pump handle and poured a little water from a can into the pump to prime it. Water splashed into the bucket as I pumped the handle up and down. With the full bucket in my left hand, I opened the kitchen door, walked to the water bucket stand, and set the bucket by the dipper.

  “How many times do you have to be told not to fill that bucket so full? Now look what you’ve done. You’ve splashed water all across the floor. Get a rag and wipe up that mess. I’ve too much to do. I can’t be cleaning up after you all the time.”

  I wiped up the water and started out the door to go get wood.

  “And don’t slam that door when you go out.”

  General, Mom’s big Buff Orpington rooster, perched on top of the woodpile, peered down at me with beady eyes. Wearing a black cowboy hat, a blue shirt with a red bandana around his neck, a pair of brown leather chaps, along with yellow cowboy boots and silver spurs, he looked over-dressed—even for a rooster.

  He removed a large black cigar from between his pointed chicken lips and said, “You come any closer to this woodpile and I’ll give you a lot-of-what-for. This is my yard. I bought this farm from the bank. I don’t want a skinny little boy like you messing around and causing trouble.”

  I went back to the house. “Mom! The rooster is on top of the woodpile and won’t let me get wood.” Mom came out of the house and shooed that sneaky rooster off the woodpile. (He had shed his clothes. He didn’t want Mom to see him dressed up.)

  He strutted past me and in a low gravelly voice Mom couldn’t hear said, “Next time I see you, I’ll peck your eyes out for causing trouble.”

  Three trips to the woodpile and the wood box was full. (No sign of the bothersome yellow rooster.)

  While I was busy carrying in wood, Mom, thinking there wasn’t enough for me to do, found more trash. Two trips to the trash barrel and freedom beckoned.

  Red didn’t want to be caught. He trotted to the south end of the small pasture and waited for me. I put a rope around his neck. No way did he want to wear a bridle. Finally, he lowered his head and let me bridle him. “Come on mule, “I said.” Let’s go to the barn.”

  Red stood tied by the barn door while I brushed, combed and harnessed him. I led him to the cart where he stood ‘still as a fat turtle on a hot day’ while I hooked him between the shaves. “Good mule,” I said, and patted him on the neck. “Let’s get out of here before Mom finds something else for me to do.”

  I whistled for Buster, my long-haired brown dog. He jumped into the cart
and sat on the seat beside me.

  “Git up, Red,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Red was an aggravating mule. One thing he did like to do was pull the cart. He raised his head high and broke into a trot as we left the barnyard. Mom saw us coming and hollered as we drove past the house. “Oris. You stay off the county road and get back here before chore time. Do you hear me?”

  “I’ll be home in time to chore,” I said, and waved as Red picked up the pace.

  Grandad and Grandma Fletcher lived down the road from us. Grandma was hanging clothes on the clothes line. She waved.

  At the fork in the road, I pulled Red to a stop. Our road turned right and ran along the brow of the hill and over to the reservoir. The other road led to the county road. “Red, which road should we take?” I asked. Mom had told me to stay off the county road, but I could tell that was where he wanted to go. “Okay, Red. You win.”

  From our lane, we turned north. Red went at a ‘spanking’ trot. Buster jumped off the seat and followed along behind the cart.

  Red’s hooves beat a tattoo on the hard road. The trace chains on the harness jingled a merry tune. The musical sound of those trace chains that day, and the sound of trace chains these many years later remain my favorite sound.

  A small flock of red-winged blackbirds arose from the cattails, scolding us for disturbing them.

  Buster flushed a large speckled cock pheasant from the weeds along the left side of the road. Mr. Pheasant dropped from sight into a tasseled cornfield.

  A lone hawk drifted slowly and effortlessly in the bright blue sky above us.

  We rounded the bend. Ahead of us a man walked on the right side of the road. He wore a small brown hat, carried a tall walking staff in his right hand, and had a pack on his back. He stepped off the road and turned to face us. “Good afternoon, young man, I heard you coming. Thought I’d better get out of your way.”

  I pulled on the lines. “Whoa, Red.” He stopped and turned his head to look at the stranger. Buster eased over and sniffed the man’s shoes. The stranger reached down and scratched Buster behind the left ear. Buster, acting like he had known the man all his life, lay down on the ground at his feet.

  “Where is that red mule taking you on this fine day?”

  “I’m going for a drive. What are you doing out here by yourself?”

  He stepped to the cart and rested his left hand on the cart wheel. “I’m out to see where I can go.”

  “That don’t sound like fun to me,” I said.”

  “One day I decided to walk to San Francisco. I left New Your City and this is where I am now. I’ve worn out three pair of shoes. I’ve seen lots of country and met nice people. I’ve not met a small boy and a red mule until now.

  “What do you eat?” I asked.

  “I manage quite well.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “At times, along the side of a road or under a bridge. Sometimes in a farmer’s barn.”

  “I’d like to do that. Then, I wouldn’t have to take a bath.” I thought for a few seconds and said, “My Dad will let you sleep in our barn tonight. It’s summer and no mules or cows in the barn at night. It would be nice and quiet.”

  He smiled as he said, “Well, it sounds good to me.” Stepping up into the cart, he placed his pack under the seat and sat down holding the walking staff between his legs. I turned Red around, and we went back towards home. The walking staff, standing straight in the air, looked like a small flagpole,

  Red headed back to the barn, trotting faster than when we left. Wherever we went, he always picked up speed on the way home.

  “I haven’t ridden in a cart since I was a boy about your age. How old are you?”

  “I’m almost eight.”

  “That’s a good age. You’ll be a grown man soon enough.”

  Red was in a hurry to get to the barn. It didn’t take long to reach our lane. Buster ran on ahead of us. He barked all the way to the house to announce our arrival. Any other time, he’d ride in the cart or follow along behind.

  Mom heard Buster’s barking and came out of the house. She was standing in the dappled shade of the cottonwood tree, waiting to see what the commotion was all about. Red stopped when I said ‘whoa’. (I kept a tight hold on the lines because he wanted to go on to the barn.)

  “Mom,” I said, “I told this man Dad would let him sleep in the barn tonight, ’cause he’ll have to sleep under a bridge if he doesn’t find a better place. It’s summer, and there are no mules or cows in the barn. He can sleep in the hayloft on fresh hay.” (The expression on her face said she didn’t think much of the idea.)

  “I don’t know what to say. My husband isn’t here now. He won’t be home until about chore time.”

  Mr. Thatcher looked at the woodpile and said, “From past experience, I know there is never enough split wood to feed the stoves. I’d be happy to pick up an ax and go to work splitting wood until your husband gets home.”

  The expression on Mom’s face softened. “Okay.” She said.

  Mr. Thatcher leaned his walking staff against the fence and placed his pack on the ground. Buster plopped down beside it. “Git up, Red,” I said. Let’s go to the barn and unhitch from this cart.”

  “Oris, when you get that mule taken care of, come in the house. We’re going to have a talk.” Mr. Thatcher looked up and winked at me.

  On the way back to the house, I saw General Rooster scratching in the dirt at some imaginary tasty morsel. As usual, the silly hens fell for the trick and raced to see what he had discovered, only to be disappointed. I picked up a handful of small pebbles and tossed them at him.

  The hens squawked and scattered in different directions. General fluffed up his feathers and glared at me.

  Mr. Thatcher chuckled and said, “Looks to me like you and that yellow rooster are having a struggle to see who is boss around here.”

  “That dumb rooster thinks he’s tuff, but he ain’t.” I said. “One of these days I’ll fix him good.

  “Oris, how many times do you have to be told to leave those chickens alone? Quit bothering that man and get in here.” Mom held the screen door open.

  I slid into a chair at the kitchen table and watched Mom take a clear glass pitcher of cold lemonade form the icebox and fill two glasses. She placed one in front of me and sat down at the table with her glass of lemonade.

  “Son, I’m going to tell you something, a secret my grandfather told me when I was about your age. It was a hot day, much like it is today. We were sitting on the front porch watching people go by. Grandfather got up from his wicker chair and went into the house. In a few minutes, he came back, carrying two tall glasses of cold lemonade. “Granddaughter,” he said, “I’m going to tell you a secret. Hot summer days and lemonade were made for one another. Now don’t you ever forget that. Ya hear?” Mom smiled and sipped her lemonade.

  Not knowing where the conversation was going and being a little uneasy, I said, “Mom, you make the best lemonade in the world.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and smiled.

  I began to feel uncomfortable.

  “Oris, I know you have a kind heart and you never know a stranger. It seems everyone you meet is a friend. That’s good in some ways, but in other ways, it’s dangerous. Take that man out there chopping wood. He seems like a nice man, a gentleman. It was kind of you to ask him home. But, son, we don’t know from where he came, where he is going or where he will be next week. I will not feel safe until your father gets back and talks with him. From now on, do not invite strangers home. I mean it, son. Do not bring strangers home. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes. Ma’am.” I said. “But Mom, he might be hungry, and he will have to sleep under a bridge or in a field or in a ditch. Besides, he liked Red, and Buster likes him lots.”

  Mom set her lemonade glass on the table. She looked at me and shook her head. “I understand what you are saying, but know this—‘that mule and that dog don’t know everything’. Now, you r
un along and get an early start on your chores.”

  I walked past the woodpile and checked to see if that cranky ol’ rooster was anywhere around. He wasn’t.

  Buster was lying in the shade on the north side of the woodshed watching Mr. Thatcher chop wood. “Come on, Buster,” I said. “It’ll soon be time to milk. Let’s go get them cows.” Any other time, he would have bounded ahead of me and raced to the gate where the five yellow Jersey cows waited to be let into the corral. Not this time. He turned his head and looked at me, then at Mr. Thatcher, and decided to stay with Mr. Thatcher.

  Mr. Thatcher laughed and said, “Looks like that dog thinks the cows don’t need him to help you bring them in today.”

  The cows were standing at the gate waiting to be let into the corral. I opened the gate. Mable, the boss cow, pushed her way to the front of the line and rushed to be first at the barn door. “I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry, old cow,” I said. “It ain’t time to milk yet.”

  While I was feeding the rabbits their hay, grain and fresh water, Dad and Mr. Thatcher sat on the edge of the water trough and talked.

  “Come here, son,” Dad called. I walked to the trough and stood in front of him.

  “This gentleman tells me you said he could sleep in the barn tonight. Do you think the barn is the best place fer a guest to sleep?”

  I looked at the ground and said, “I guess so.” Dad and Mr. Thatcher laughed.

  “Son, I’ll tell ya what we’re gonna do. Mr. Thatcher’s gonna help with chores. He said he ain’t milked a cow in twenty years. You let the cows in the barn. I’ll git another milk bucket fer Mr. Thatcher, and we’ll see if he still knows how ta milk a Jersey cow. After chores, we’ll go ta the house and have one o’ your mother’s good suppers. This man is gonna sleep in the spare bedroom tonight. Tomorrow I’ll drive him ta town so he can git some things he needs ta continue his trip. That sound okay ta you?”