I have been away from 709 Strong Street long enough that I am pretty sure most of my memories will go unnoticed and the people who helped create them are long since dead and buried. As long as I do not name people, no one will know who I am talking about. It is nice to know I have out lived a lot of people so I can tell the stories as I remember them and no one can say "Nope! That is not how it happened."
One of the girls in our neighborhood liked to ride a stick horse. So did her mother. Sadly, this was also the woman who babysat for Mary and Dorothy when mom worked. Her father was a farmer of sorts. He raised peanuts and pumpkins mostly. Also pigs and a goat or two. Her mom had a bit of brain damage, but managed to still cook and clean. They had a wood cook stove, but so did we. Hers was fancier and had enamel on it. There was also a water pump and a sink right in the corner, so they did not have to go outside for water. I was envious of that.
She would make a chocolate cake every day and the daughter always tried to get me to eat it, but I just could not bring myself to do that. For some reason it had a greenish tint to it. I think it was probably the cocoa she used, but I was never sure. She was always frying something, or boiling something. Seems like parsnips were cooked more than potatoes. I just figured out the other day that parsnips are actually very good. Lagree's had some on the mark down shelves and I bought them and brought them home. I peeled them, boiled them and then sauteed them in butter. Yep! Parsnips are now on my eating list. They have a sort of sweet, nutty taste and I really like the browned parts.
There were 5 in the family. Mother, Father, son, son and daughter. The oldest son was already grown and gone when I met the daughter. The father just farmed. He planted things and harvested things and fed his pigs and butchered his pigs. I never knew him to ever have a friend. I heard rumors that they had been in a car wreck right after they were married and the mother had brain damage and the father felt guilty.
The daughter only wore jeans and flannel shirts. Her shirt pocket was always bulging with baseball cards she collected. Same with the pockets on her jeans. I never saw her in anything else. When the mother needed to go to town, she and the daughter would mount their stick horses and ride the 6 or 7 blocks into the grocery store. I never knew either of them to ever ride in the pickup the father used for hauling his produce to market.
The house was sturdy and very well built. I expect it is probably still standing. I forgot to look last time I was home. It had no indoor plumbing and that was not unusual. All the houses on Strong Street had the out house going on. Theirs was the worst though. It consisted of a shed in the corner where two rows of chicken houses met. A big hole had been dug and a metal wash tub with a hole cut in the center had been turned upside down over said hole. The proverbial Sear and Roebuck Catalog was at the ready. Man, I have been in some scary places in my life, but that one was the scariest thing I had every seen. There was no way in the world that I could ever bring myself to even go inside that let alone pull my britches down and crawl on that tub. No way in hell! Never had to pee that bad!
The grandma lived in town in a big house with a bathroom and running water and all that good stuff. The brother went to live with grandma leaving just the 3 of them on Strong Street. When I was 17 we moved away and I never heard of them again. Years later I heard that the daughter had married and had a couple kids. The mother died and then the father. The daughter died when she was 50. I often wondered how their life went. They were just such isolated folks back then, but looking back no ones life really touched anyone elses.
We all lived on Strong Street until we left. I sometimes wonder if mine was the only life that is changed by that little dirt road. I never heard my sisters ever talk about it. Was it because they were too young, or in Josephines case, too old? Did that life shape me for who I am today, or did I escape? Who knows. I do know I take solace in the girl I was back then and I think she is buried some where beneath my callous exterior. When I drive down that street now, I can not recognize the places, but when I close my eyes at night I can see the stars, hear the cougar down on the river, and I can feel the hot, humid air on my bare arms.
One of the girls in our neighborhood liked to ride a stick horse. So did her mother. Sadly, this was also the woman who babysat for Mary and Dorothy when mom worked. Her father was a farmer of sorts. He raised peanuts and pumpkins mostly. Also pigs and a goat or two. Her mom had a bit of brain damage, but managed to still cook and clean. They had a wood cook stove, but so did we. Hers was fancier and had enamel on it. There was also a water pump and a sink right in the corner, so they did not have to go outside for water. I was envious of that.
She would make a chocolate cake every day and the daughter always tried to get me to eat it, but I just could not bring myself to do that. For some reason it had a greenish tint to it. I think it was probably the cocoa she used, but I was never sure. She was always frying something, or boiling something. Seems like parsnips were cooked more than potatoes. I just figured out the other day that parsnips are actually very good. Lagree's had some on the mark down shelves and I bought them and brought them home. I peeled them, boiled them and then sauteed them in butter. Yep! Parsnips are now on my eating list. They have a sort of sweet, nutty taste and I really like the browned parts.
There were 5 in the family. Mother, Father, son, son and daughter. The oldest son was already grown and gone when I met the daughter. The father just farmed. He planted things and harvested things and fed his pigs and butchered his pigs. I never knew him to ever have a friend. I heard rumors that they had been in a car wreck right after they were married and the mother had brain damage and the father felt guilty.
The daughter only wore jeans and flannel shirts. Her shirt pocket was always bulging with baseball cards she collected. Same with the pockets on her jeans. I never saw her in anything else. When the mother needed to go to town, she and the daughter would mount their stick horses and ride the 6 or 7 blocks into the grocery store. I never knew either of them to ever ride in the pickup the father used for hauling his produce to market.
The house was sturdy and very well built. I expect it is probably still standing. I forgot to look last time I was home. It had no indoor plumbing and that was not unusual. All the houses on Strong Street had the out house going on. Theirs was the worst though. It consisted of a shed in the corner where two rows of chicken houses met. A big hole had been dug and a metal wash tub with a hole cut in the center had been turned upside down over said hole. The proverbial Sear and Roebuck Catalog was at the ready. Man, I have been in some scary places in my life, but that one was the scariest thing I had every seen. There was no way in the world that I could ever bring myself to even go inside that let alone pull my britches down and crawl on that tub. No way in hell! Never had to pee that bad!
The grandma lived in town in a big house with a bathroom and running water and all that good stuff. The brother went to live with grandma leaving just the 3 of them on Strong Street. When I was 17 we moved away and I never heard of them again. Years later I heard that the daughter had married and had a couple kids. The mother died and then the father. The daughter died when she was 50. I often wondered how their life went. They were just such isolated folks back then, but looking back no ones life really touched anyone elses.
We all lived on Strong Street until we left. I sometimes wonder if mine was the only life that is changed by that little dirt road. I never heard my sisters ever talk about it. Was it because they were too young, or in Josephines case, too old? Did that life shape me for who I am today, or did I escape? Who knows. I do know I take solace in the girl I was back then and I think she is buried some where beneath my callous exterior. When I drive down that street now, I can not recognize the places, but when I close my eyes at night I can see the stars, hear the cougar down on the river, and I can feel the hot, humid air on my bare arms.
I am home!
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