The Hike to Aunt Marie's

Hiking out to my Aunt Marie's farm was “staying out of the way,” so I thought. My brother Michael had come down with polio and needed special care. He just collapsed one evening getting a book for my dad. Drying dishes in the kitchen with Mom, I saw him collapse. My parents rushed to him. The rest of us kids were rushed to our rooms and told to go to bed, without being told what had happened. All we knew was that Mom and Dad were rushing him to the hospital. We'd never heard of polio before. Patrica, the oldest, had to calm  us down. She couldn't answer any of our questions. That night we said an extra bedtime prayer for Michael. I laid in bed looking at Michael's model airplanes hanging from the ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come, too much whispering between the rest of us.

Dad tried to explain the next morning just what had happened with Michael. Telling us the best way for us to help was to behave. No more fighting between my sister Cathy and myself. We were all given chores to do to keep us out from underfoot. Weeding the garden was one of the things I had to do on my own now, without Mom, and taking the neighbors' peas and green beans. I couldn't tell the neighbors where Mom was, or what happened with Michael. I didn't know myself.  

When I was through with the garden each morning and the neighbors had their peas and beans, I took to hiding in the attic. With my pencils and drawing paper to keep out of the trouble, I drew pictures. Mom thought it best for me to get some fresh air. So I was sent outside to play and ended up wandering the neighborhood. I decided to visit my Godmother, Aunt Marie. I should have told Mom, but thinking wasn't one of my gifts. I had never before gone more than a few blocks from the house on my own before. Once before my sister Patricia had led us to Aunt Marie's, on the four mile hike to her farm. That day I was on my own. Francis was attending summer school and Cathy had her dolls.  My older sister was left in charge. So on my own, I filled my canteen with water and loaded my backpack with green apples and a salt shaker, pencils and sketchbook, and Great Grandpa's pocket knife, and I set off. 

Out Church Road I went, thinking I was doing the right thing. After all, I was staying out of the way. The first cornfield I came to was Mr. O'Malley's, a friend of my parents. His goats were loose in the fields again, eating corn. Lucky for me, there was a fence keeping them in the field. Speeding up, I remembered being chased by them once. Horses and cows I would raise on my farm when I grew up, not goats. I'd have chickens too, like Aunt Marie and Uncle Hank had. Passing Mrs. Oberwise's house,  she waved from her porch asking if my Mother knew where I was. She was one of the volunteers who drove my brother to his therapy. There were several volunteers who helped out that way. I waved back and moved on knowing she would be calling Mom to tell her where I was. 

No matter where I went there seemed to be people who knew my parents. I guess it was all the volunteering Mom and Dad did.  My parents ran a dance for teens on Friday nights. Mom was on the phone a lot asking for chaperones. 

Turning onto Molitor Road, someone honked at me and asked if I needed a ride, telling me I shouldn't be out there walking alone. He too, was one of the volunteers who came to the house… 

I look back now and realize how those days and journeys contributed to me becoming an artist.  Drawing horses and cows along the way was leading me. I didn't make it to Aunt Marie's. Grandpa was alerted and found me, taking me home. After the "talking to” I got from Patricia, I sort of understood the worrying I caused. When Michael was carried into the house, I showed him the drawings I did on my hike. I knew I needed more time in the attic drawing... He couldn't tell which were the cows and which were the horses. The back of the attic would have to be my hideout. Mom could yell up to me, and be happy with just me yelling back. My sister, Patricia, led us kids on an approved hike to Aunt Marie’s a week later. Grandpa followed behind, giving Cathy a ride most of the way. 

Drawing Wanted Posters

Hand-me-downs were a way of life when I was a kid. Shirts, toys, bikes and chores. Accompanying Mom to the garden was my older brother's job before he got a paper route. His Redwing wagon was mine once I began helping mom in the garden. T

urning over the compost pile was one of those chores and accompanying her out to Mr. Vagos’ pony farm to get manure, was another. A big sign on the manure pile read, “Free.” Mom loaded up on horse manure, and Dad said the car smelled for days afterwards. He never said anything to Mom, just gave me the chore of cleaning out the trunk. He said the roses looked better and the peas tasted sweeter after a visit to Mr. Vagos. The fresh horse manure added to the compost needing turned over and mixed really well. To do this, Dad presented me with my own spade. I wanted my brother's blue bike at the time, but the spade was it. Practical gifts were what we got. Dad loved giving us strange things, and calling them gifts… "Didn't I just give you a brand new spade?", he'd say, when I asked for a Hopalong Cassdy cap pistol. He'd get that cap pistol eventually, he just liked kidding us.

He found me a bike - one more my size. It was second-hand, but new looking after he worked on it. Annie, my older sister, taught me to ride it. I could only ride it around the block, and then, only on the sidewalk. Met my first bully riding that bike. Butch DaSale, I was on his street and told not to ride my bike past his house. So I would ride halfway around the block then turn around in Mrs. Martin's driveway. When I told Mom I was going to sock it to Butch, I was told to stay on our street only. Trouble was I didn't stay on our street, but just found turning around in Mrs. Martin's driveway was my way of not fighting Butch. Mrs Martin would stop me and find something for me to do, though. Like getting some grapes from the man at the end of the block - which meant passing Butch's house, which meant I was not keeping to my own street. I was confined to our yard for a day after testing my fighting skills. So with my cap gun strapped on, I drew wanted posters till it was time to head up the street with my spade and wagon to the garden to pull the weeds that grew out of the horse manure. Mom would spread compost around and chat with a passing neighbor who alway remarked on the wonderful helper she had. I always found weeds at the far end of the garden so I would not have to answer questions about who I was going to shoot. People liked pinching my cheeks and commenting on how quiet I was.  

Cleaning off my spade at home, I was struck by a rotten tomato. Butch just smiled at me, letting me know to stay off his street. He took off running when I stood up. Must have done pretty well punching him. How was it my fault getting hit by a rotten tomato? Wash the tomato off the bricks and another day of drawing wanted posters in the yard. I was getting quite a collection of wanted posters.