Along the Back Roads of Yesterday Page 2

  “Yes, sir.” I said.

  Mr. Thatcher milked two cows. The streams of milk beat a tattoo on the bottom of the bucket and told us he still knew how to milk a cow.

  We finished chores.

  When we got to the house, Mom had the table set with fried chicken, fresh baked buttermilk biscuits, mashed potatoes, green beans and roasting ears from her garden, and a silver pitcher of cold milk.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I haven’t had a meal like this in years. Thank you so much.”

  For dessert, Mom had baked a blueberry cobbler. She served it with thick cream.

  For once, my two younger brothers were quiet during supper.

  When supper was finished, dishes were pushed to the middle of the table. The folks and Mr. Thatcher talked for a long time. Mom told me to get ready for bed.

  “Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad. Goodnight, Mr. Thatcher.” I said.

  “I hope you have a gentle sleep tonight young man, and thank you for bringing me to your home.”

  My bedroom was upstairs over the kitchen. A grate in the floor allowed warm air from the kitchen to heat my room in the winter. After I was ready for bed, I crawled over to the grate and listened to the conversation.

  Mr. Thatcher told my parents about his son going off to war. One afternoon two Army officers came to his door and told him his son had been killed in action in Germany.

  “My son, Anthony, was all I had. His mother had been dead for seven years. My heart was broken. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d die. The third of February I woke up, decided to close up the house, and walk to San Francisco. I’d always wanted to see California. I put boards over every window and gave the keys to my good neighbor, Augustus Chapo, to look after things until I got back.”

  “We’re sorry for you loss. “ Mom said. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child.”

  “This walking adventure has been good for me. I’ve had a lot of time to think and remember the love, good times, and the sound of laughter that filled our home. Yes, walking has been good for me.”

  I felt tired and worn out. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear more, but I didn’t want to miss any of what he was saying.

  “Do you have any idea how long it will take you to reach San Francisco?” Dad asked.

  “No, sir. I don’t have any idea at all. One thing for sure, I enjoy walking and I’ve met some wonderful people—people like you folks who are kind and understanding.”

  The talk in the kitchen turned to war.

  I didn’t understand the war or anything about it. The discussion scared me. I crawled back to my bed and pulled the covers over my head to block the sounds of war that were echoing in my mind. The news reel at the movies on Saturday afternoon showed soldiers, sailors, fires, long lines of people evacuating their towns and homes, bombs, gunfire, the scream of dive bombers, fighter planes, and battleships.

  I tossed and turned, very much afraid, until sleep turned off the frightening pictures and sounds rampaging through my head.

  The sound of tap, tap, tap woke me from a groggy sleep. Mom’s broom was tapping the ceiling in the kitchen, telling me it was time to get up. “I’m coming,” I said, even thought I wasn’t fully awake.

  The folks and Mr. Thatcher were sitting at the kitchen table having their first cup of coffee for the day.

  “Son,” Dad said, “Mr. Thatcher wants ta help with the chores this mornin’ so apply the seat o’ yer pants ta that chair and have a glass o’ milk ta start yer day.”

  Again, Mr. Thatcher enjoyed milking two cows. He helped me feed the calves and the pigs. We put the mules in the barn so they would be there when Grandad came to get them. He was going to haul some gravel for the driveway. Next, we drove the cows down the lane to pasture. Buster nipped at Daisy’s heels to hurry her along—she was always the last cow in line. Contrary Mable led the herd, most often in the wrong direction, but this day she followed the lane without making a fuss.

  I closed the gate.

  We watched the five Jersey cows fan out across the pasture and begin grazing the fresh green grass. Mable stuck her nose in the air and headed for greener pastures, but the fence got in her way. She settled for the greenest blades furtherest from the lane.

  Mr. Thatcher placed his left hand on my right shoulder and said, “When you are grown and have been gone from home for many years, once in a while, your memory will remind you of how peaceful it was when you took the cows down this lane in the morning and brought them back in the evening. I know, because I’ve been there.

  “Hey, you two,” Dad called. “Are you gonna take all day? Let’s head fer the house and breakfast.”

  After a breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, gravy and biscuits with coffee black enough to stand alone without a cup, Mom wrapped a lunch in newspaper tied up with string from one of the many balls of white string around our house. She handed it to Mr. Thatcher. “Here’s a little lunch for you later today.”

  Mr. Thatcher removed his hat and held it in his left hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher, for your kindness and hospitality and the delicious food. You are an excellent cook. Those were the tenderest biscuits I’ve had in many miles. I shall never forget my visit here.”

  Dad parked his old beat-up black Ford pickup by the porch steps. “Git in you two, and we’ll run inta town so this man can git some things he needs.”

  Mr. Thatcher placed his pack and walking stick in the back of the pickup. He opened the door and said, “Oris, let me sit in the middle. I know young boys like to ride shotgun and not be crowded between two grown-ups.”

  We waited in the pickup while Mr. Thatcher went into the Red and White grocery store to buy a few items. Then Dad drove east down the road. He parked the pickup on the right side of the road and the three of us got out.

  Mr. Thatcher extended his right hand to Dad and said, “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher, for your kindness and hospitality. I shall never forget you and your family.”

  My eyes were holding back a rush of tears.

  Mr. Thatcher put his right hand on my shoulder, looked into my eyes and said, “Young man, thank you for finding me along the side of the road and taking me to your home. You’ve made my heart happy. I’ll remember you, your red mule, your dog, Buster, and General, the yellow rooster, for as long as God lets me stay on this earth.” He shouldered his pack and with his walking staff in his right hand, he started down the road. Dad and I watched this gentle-hearted man walk away.

  When Mr. Thatcher reached the bend in the road, he turned. Raising his walking staff in a farewell gesture, he walked around the bend and out of sight.

  Seven months later, the mailman left a letter for me in our mailbox. The letter read, “Oris, I am in San Francisco. Your friend, Antone Thatcher.”

  The years traveled on, as years do. Once in a while I’d get a short note from Mr. Thatcher. The notes usually were signed, “Your friend, Antone Thatcher, the man from the side of the road.”

  Sixty-some years later, in the corner by my desk, stands my walking staff. Often, I look at it and think of ‘the man by the side of the road’.

  Ol’ Billy

  “Now, mind your manners and be polite. Be sure and say ‘thank you’ and ‘please.’ And, for heaven’s sake, if your nose starts to drip, use your hanky instead of your shirt sleeve!” Those were my mother’s parting instructions that summer 6o some years ago when she dropped me off in front of my friend Henry’s house. She then drove away in her 1927 Whippet. Henry and I were six years old, almost seven.

  That day, in the summer of 1940, was the beginning of many wonderful and fun-filled times Henry and I shared over the years to come. (Today, at the tender age of 73, I still worry that my 100-year old mother will discover some of the things Henry and I did while we terrorized the community as two energetic boys looking for adventure.)

  Two events stand out in my mind about that first time I stayed overnight with Henry. I was worried about how to use the bathroom. (We had outdoor plumbing at our house.) The
second was Mort and ol’ Billy. After about an hour, I was introduced to the ‘scary’ indoor facilities and put that fear behind me. (Young boys worry about those new kinds of challenges.)

  “You want to go see ol’ Billy?” Henry asked.

  “Sure,” I said. (That was one dumb question.)

  Ol’ Billy was a white donkey which belonged to Mort Singer. Everyone knew Mort and ol’ Billy. That is, everyone but me. I lived out in the country and didn’t know much about what went on in town.

  Ol’ Billy pulled a wobbly-wheeled cart that served as Mort’s only means of transportation. During the spring and summer, Mort and ol’ Billy plowed and cultivated gardens around town. That white donkey pulled a six-inch walking plow with as much pride as a magnificent dappled-grey Percheron draft horse hitched to a fancy wagon. Each Saturday morning, come rain or shine, found Mort and his dependable donkey hauling trash for a few regular customers.

  Henry’s father told us we would find Mort down by the river cutting grass. He said Mort had a hand scythe and was cutting grass to cure. That’s how and where he acquired hay for ol’ Billy.

  We found Mort swinging a scythe with the grace and timing of a well-oiled machine. “What you two hellions adoin’ down here abotherin’ me for?”

  Henry, even at that early age, was not at a loss for words. “We wanna see ol’ Billy.”

  “Git-outta-here and don’t come abotherin’ ah man when he’s aworkin’!”

  We found ol’ Billy tied to the back end of the cart. With his long ears drooping and his eyes closed, he was at peace with the world. We walked over to pet him, which was a big mistake! Mort saw us and yelled, “Ya bothersome little brats. Gittaway from thet thar donkey!”

  We moseyed on down to the river. I spied a magpie nest in a twisted cottonwood tree just begging us to investigate. We climbed the tree and peered into the nest. Two magpie chicks chirped at us. (Henry responded by telling them we were not their mother.) We put them in our caps and started down the tree.

  Mort hollered, “What you idiot boys adoin’ with them thar magpies in yer caps fer?” He stood at the foot of the tree glaring up at us.

  We dropped to the ground. Henry looked at Mort and said, “We’re takin’ ’em home so we can teach’em to talk.”

  “You boys set down thar by thet tree and I’m agonna tell ya some things ’bout magpies.” (Henry rolled his eyes at me.)

  “Magpies am nasty birds. They carry more’n one of them bad diseases. They got more lice on ’em than 91 coyotes. They eat dead stuff, like rabbits which been kill’d on the road, an’ dead cows, an’ chicken guts. If’n a cow or horse gets caught in ah fence, them magpie birds’ll pick their eyes out. Ya boys leave them magpies be or ya’ll get a bad disease, and grow a big ugly wart on the end of yer noses!” (When I got home that night I scrubbed my nose until it was red.)

  As summers do (when boys are young), time drifted along with no place to go. Every once in a while we saw Mort. We considered him our idol. My mother didn’t think him a good example for two young boys. She said he drank too much whiskey. She knew his overalls had never seen the inside of a washing machine. And, he had an ongoing feud with soap.

  One warm Saturday night, late in the summer, Mort had too much whiskey and ended up sleeping on a bench in the park. Come morning, Frankie Gadberry, a local horse trader and an all-around lout, offered Mort five dollars for ol’ Billy. Mort, in his bleary state, took the five dollars. Later, when he realized he had sold his faithful donkey, he was devastated. That old white donkey meant the world to him.

  Little Man

  This morning, Punky, my wife of fifty-four years, suggested I sort through a box of ‘stuff’ taking up space on the top shelf in the hall closet. (The translation of that suggestion meant, “get rid of that junk or I’ll throw it out.”) In that dusty old shoe box, I found a cracked and yellowed picture of Homer.

  As I looked at the picture, the years washed away and again I could hear, “What is that stinking goat doing in my kitchen?” Mom grabbed a broom and went after my billy goat, Homer. With the rage of a Mongolian Warrior, she convinced him he should exit the kitchen. Exit he did, right through the bottom half of the screen door. With her trusty broom, she impressed on me the idea that she would not tolerate my bringing a goat that smelled like a combination of skunk and onions into her kitchen.

  “If I catch that foul-smelling goat anywhere near this house again, he will wish he had never been born,” Mom said. “Young man, if you know what is good for you, you will keep that mangy goat penned up. I don’t want to see him running loose around this farm anymore. Do you hear me!?”

  “Okay! Okay! Okay! I hear you.”

  “Oris. Don’t you get smart with me.”

  I darted out the screen door and hot-footed it around the corner of the house to get away from Mom’s nagging and ran smack-dab into Homer. I fell, nose down on my face.

  “Oris!” Mom screeched. I scrambled to my feet and followed Homer. Homer lit out for the safety of the machine shed. I headed for the barn. Neither of us wanted to be anywhere near Mom and her broom.

  A year before this incident, Tex Duggan, a neighbor, gave me a little brown billy goat. I named him Homer after a friend in my third grade class. Homer thought he was a dog. He went everywhere I went. Now, as a full-grown goat, he still followed me every chance he got. That’s how he happened to be in Mom’s kitchen that hot summer July afternoon of 1940.

  I ran into the barn and shut the door. I could hear Mom calling. “Oris. Get back here right now!”

  At seven years old, I already had learned not to answer Mom’s calling. If she was busy and couldn’t see me, she soon forgot.

  “What’s goin’ on, boy?” Dad asked. He was standing by the grain box with a bucket of oats in his right hand.

  “Nothing.” I said. Panic hit me. If he heard Mom calling me, he’d tell me to go back to the house.

  “If you ain’t doin’ nothin’, come help me catch Pete and Pattie. Them mules don’t see the need ta pull the mower taday.”

  I held the bucket of oats. Pete stuck his nose in the bucket. Dad put a halter on him and led him into the barn. Pattie followed.

  “Can I ride Red over to Grandad’s this morning?” Red was a one-eyed red mule I rode. I wanted a donkey, but Dad said Red had a lot to teach me before I could have a donkey.

  “It’s okay with me. You’d best ask yer mother if it’s alright with her.”

  Asking Mom if I could ride over to Grandad Fletcher’s wasn’t a good idea. She’d still be angry with Homer and me.

  “I think I’ll just ride over to the pond and back. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. Be careful and don’t go gittin’ yerself lost.” Dad laughed. He harnessed Pete and Patti and went to mow hay in the field south of the barn.

  “M-aw-aw-aw-M-aw-aw-aw! Eddie, my little brother, was calling for Mom. When he called like that, I knew he was in the outdoor toilet and needed help. The help he most often needed was for Mom or someone to run Homer away from the toilet door. If Homer saw Eddie go to the toilet, he’d stand in front of the door and butt it to keep Eddie from coming out. Eddie was afraid of Homer, and Homer seemed to know it.

  I peered around the corner of the chicken house. Mom, with her broom in hand, headed for the toilet to rescue Eddie. No sign of Homer anywhere. Eddie must have had a false alarm.

  Red had other ideas and didn’t want to be caught. He was a greedy mule and always took the ear of corn I offered. Then, I’d snap the lead rope into his halter ring.

  I rode over to the pond, skipped flat rocks across the smooth water, and threw rocks at red-winged black birds.

  When I got back to the house, I caught Homer and shut him in his pen. Mom had forgotten about my taking him into the kitchen.

  After chores were done, supper over, and dishes washed and put in the cupboard, Mom, Dad, and we three boys sat on the porch and put the day to rest to the tune of homemade strawberry ice cream.

  Morning arrived and fou
nd Mom standing at the foot of the stairs hollering up at me. “Oris. Time to get up. Your father’s already gone to the barn. He needs you to help move the big calves into another pen. Hurry it up!”

  Chores were finished. Breakfast was a friendly memory. The day awaited. Like she did with every perfect day, Mom ruined this one. “Oris, before you go ride that red mule, I want you to help in the garden.” (The word ‘garden’ always sent chills along my backbone.) “When you get the weeds out of the onions, pull the weeds along the south fence. Then hoe the beets.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I said. “Then can I ride Red over to Grandad Fletcher’s?”

  “Yes, but not until you’re done with the weeds.”

  I’d been slaving in the garden for about an hour. “Why do I hafta be here with you dumb weeds? There’s more to life than hoein’ you stupid weeds. I’ve better things to do than be out here sweatin’ in the sun with you dumb weeds.”

  I saw Eddie go down the path to the toilet. He went inside and shut the door. Eddie thought he was safe. Homer was locked in his pen.

  At the age of seven years, I once in a while had a good idea. Homer, standing at his gate, looked bored. He needed something to do. The toilet door, begging for Homer to butt it a few times and keep Eddie inside, appealed to my helpful nature. I leaned the hoe against the fence and crawled under the bottom rail. Homer, anticipating my letting him out, began trotting back and forth in his pen. I opened the gate. Homer lowered his head and went for the toilet door. BANG! His horns hit the door! He backed off a little distance. BANG! He hit the door again.