Grandpa's car was a big old pale green LaSalle, always spotless. It smelled of metal and shop oil from he and dad riding home from work in it every day. We did not have a car of our own, so getting to ride in one was a treat. Grandpa would pick one of us kids up to help with garden work. Carrying water was what we did. Though Grandpa was retired he still smelled of the railroad, machine oil and metal. Dad, and three of my uncles worked for the Burlington. They were railroad men. Hands of steel, hardened from handling and shaping steel. Indian and Harley motorcycles were their mode for getting around. Old photos show motorcycles surrounding my grandparent's house when dad and my uncles were young. Some of the bikes belonged to men dating my aunts, who later became uncles. Real men. Now there are just a couple Harleys left around. If we finished gardening in time and my uncle John was home from work, he'd take me home on his Harley. We’d go the long way if he had the time.
The “river garden” was the big garden where we scooped water from the local river and carried it past the hobo camp to where granddad wanted it. Ten trips and out would come a grape NeHi soda pop. We split the pop as we rested and watched the river flow by. With the weeds gone and carrots and cucumbers in the car, granddad would take a couple cans of beans over to the hobos and harvest a cabbage on his way back. Cabbage salad with shredded carrots and cucumbers sliced so thin you could see through them was the cool treat for dinner for grandad and Uncle John who, unmarried, still lived at home with Grandpa and Grandma.
Bacon fried and vinegar sweetened with honey was waiting for the small harvest I carried into Grandma. With freshly pinched cheeks, I returned to the car with a cold Orange Crush this time. Now it was off to the country garden. Again, I was the waterboy, accompanied by Mr. Zake's old collie dog. Here I pumped the water and carried it out behind the horse barn where the garden was. Grandpa had to catch up on the news of old friends and share the news he had. I sat with Ranger, who lapped water from the pail, sometimes he seemed to need it more than the garden. Ranger and I watched the chickens and ducks patrol the garden for bugs. Looking under the large pumpkin leaves the hen seemed to disappear, rooster tails were always above all the plants. The Zake’s small pinto pony would watch us, almost calling for attention… but I learned the hard way that some horses bite…
From the house I’d hear Grandpa tell me there was manure in the barn. That was my other job at the Zake’s, shoveling out the stalls. Grandpa had to wheel the wheelbarrow of manure out because it was too heavy for me. The horse manure would not be ready for the garden for a year. Too many unwanted things grew from the fresh manure. It was dumped on the compost pile where leaves and other yard debris rotted. Mom would request a bushel of well-aged horse manure for her roses. With a bushel of manure in the trunk , gardens weeded and watered, Orange Crush gone, we were on our way. Dropping the manure at the house with mom Grandpa would take me home with him, knowing I’d want a motorcycle ride. When Uncle John was there I’d get my spin around the neighborhood.
All these dreams of long ago summer days drift into present day paintings.
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