Summer's Orchard

"You'll have to ask your dad", was Mom's way of saying, "No". Dad would continue on with his crossword puzzle, not even hearing the question, and say, “If it is ok with your mother.” Before you could get back to the kitchen to tell Mom it was OK with Dad, Dad would have you take off his work shoes and massage his feet. On days when dad went to his part-time second job, us kids had to struggle getting Dad's boots on him. Not sure what that second job was, but his boots always needed the mud cleaned from them.

All my Uncles had second jobs. I think it was why they sat in chairs napping at family get-togethers. I cannot ever remember Uncle George being awake. Only a broken down tractor or combine could excite them. I remember all of them heading over to the Burger's farm, neighbor of my Uncle Hank, to fix a tractor. The rest of the day they discussed how Ford redesigned that tractor. Again, us kids had our own jobs to do at family get-togethers. Fighting bees to pick up fallen fruit was just one of those things I recall doing. The orchard smelled sweet and was so colorful in the Spring. Summers changed the sweetness of the orchard, the time when Grandma wanted the fruit. That fallen fruit was claimed by bees and mean yellow jackets. Aunt Marie's chickens were set free to feast on those yellow jackets and bees, making them sting even quicker. One old rooster would always attack us, giving Uncle John a good laugh. With fruit picked up, us kids were set free to run around with my cousin's dogs and throw rocks at the old model T Ford half sunk in the middle of the farm pond. The dogs would jump in the pond looking for the rocks. I met my cousins Timmy and Johnny for the first time there at Uncle's Hanks pond. It was at those family gatherings I got to meet and play with kids my own age and find out what real trouble was. Shooting an old coffee pot off my little sister's head with a BB gun got my Aunt Marie moving really fast. Grandpa was told never to buy BBs for us again. 

Sitting in the studio painting, sipping hot chocolate, I am often visited by friends from the past. Some were not so friendly. Mike Perze is one such visitor. Only knew Mike for a second, never met him before and never saw him again after that second. It's a second I'll never forget. I was riding my bike on the school playground. I stopped to roll up my pants and out of nowhere came a fist right in my face. Felt like a rock, only I saw it was a fist. Another kid said it was Mike Perze. I pause with painting and wonder why that memory visited. After 65 years you'd think I'd forget. Back to adding the chickens to my painting of the orchard…  

Hard Work & The Tasseled Ladies

Mom always had hot Malt'O Meal ready for breakfast, even on hot summer days. A wire milk basket with six empty milk bottles waited on the sink board for pick-up by the milkman. On Mondays, milk was delivered. Us five kids would finish off one bottle every morning at breakfast, maybe more some mornings. On school days eggs would be sizzling in the frypan over the blue flames from the gas stove. Mom always complained about the milkman coming when the eggs were ready. I remember the flames from the burner jumped into the frypan one morning, but Mom always knew how to handle such things, though the eggs were a bit black  in our sandwiches that morning.

Egg sandwiches, made with Wonder Bread, were our usual lunches we carried to school. We had chickens in those days and plenty of eggs, before Mrs. Matthew complained to the city. I remember a carrot, or some fruit was put in our lunch bag with those egg sandwiches. We were always reminded to bring the bag home. My little sister got jelly sandwiches with the crust cut off for her lunch. Those crusts were put in my lunch. Every morning us boys were given our assignments for the day, by dad, before he left for work. Micheal left early to serve as an altar boy. On snow days, Francis and I were up an hour or so early, given our snow shoveling chores, and told which neighbor to get done first.  Before anything else, we began by bringing the wash down and loading it into one of the washing machines. Pulling our boots on and hunting for dry gloves in the basement, we readied ourselves for the cold. Boots buckled, with shovels, lunch and schoolbooks packed in our book bags, we left the house ready to do battle. We were usually pretty wet when we finished shoveling. Francis and I began classes wet and tired. I remember Miss. Raush hitting Francis in the hallway one morning for being late. Dad was right there the next morning turning Miss Raush's ear red.  No nun or teacher was allowed to put hands on Francis.  Whacking Michael or myself was ok though. Hiding the shovels in the school basement, we were ready to shovel around the church after school. Dad believed in work , and doing volunteer work was something he taught us. 

Summers were different, only in what chores we were given. Francis had his lawns to mow, Michael still served as an altar boy. I was assigned to garden work before I could play. Taking rhubarb to Mrs. Martin or green beans & peas to Mr. Kish, after pulling weeds from the garden up the street.  Sometimes my reward was a magazine. I loved the cover illustrations, and people saved them for me. Dad subscribed to the Saturday Evening Post, which had the best covers. I couldn't touch the Post till Dad was done reading it. Mr Pauls, our mailman would keep it for a day to read it himself before delivering it. Sometimes it came with jelly on a page… Mom assured Dad it came with jelly and not to blame me. I never read any of the articles, just collected the illustrations. Drawings of women in girdles were forbidden for me to save.

Mr. Adams, up the street, tossed out a magazine full of pictures of women with tassels on their breasts. Mom checked what magazines I brought home for my collection every day after that. She never explained those tassels, told me just to forget them. My attempt to draw one of those tasseled ladies wasn't very good and cost me my drawing privileges for a week.  There weren't any weeds left in any of the gardens that week. I learned to hide the works of the tasseled women…

Some days there just wasn't anything to do. Too many old people in our neighborhood. Pestering people was what mom said I was good at. Drawing them was seen as pestering them. I drew most as cowboys, a lot of sleeping cowboys in my sketchbook. “Don't draw people without their permission and no tasseled ladies was the rule.” No more crawling under the lilac bushes to draw Patty Mathew, no more staring at Mr. Koos, who was alive when Custer was killed at the Little Bighorn.

Drawing for me was a form of collecting things and Mom's praises was one thing I craved. Dad would grunt and ask where I got the paper and pencils from. Then ask if I ever tried reading a book.