Letters from Hillside Farm (14 page)

Dear George,

We have had a string of hot, hot days here in Cleveland. I wish I could spend a few days at your farm, but I just can't afford a long trip right now. I'll bet it is cooler there in the country, away from all the big buildings.

Your father's encounter with the bees sounds dreadful. Beestings can be dangerous. But I don't have to tell you that—you saw it firsthand. I'm very glad he's feeling better now.

What a Fourth of July celebration! Picnics are fun, aren't they? And having one near a lake makes it even more fun.

Amos Woodward just doesn't give up, does he? I would have liked to have seen his face when your tug-of-war team pulled his team into the muddy water. It seems you didn't mind getting wet and dirty—it's part of the fun, isn't it? Who cares if you win or lose? It's having fun while you're doing something that counts. At least, that's what I've always thought. But I can understand your disappointment over Amos cheating. It's no fun competing with someone who cheats.

I'm looking forward to some cooler weather.

Much love,

Grandma S.

July 12, 1938

Tuesday

Dear Grandma,

It was an awful day, Grandma. Just awful. Remember that I told you that Ginger didn't feel well after he performed so well in the circus? This morning, Depot and I went over to his stall to say good morning to him, as we do every morning, and I noticed that he was lying down, with his head stretched out in front on him. Pa was there with a glum look on his face. I reached out to pet Ginger, and his neck was cold.

“He's dead,” Pa said in a quiet voice. “Likely had a heart attack. He was pretty old, you know.”

I burst into tears. Depot put his nose close to Ginger's head and let out a high-pitched bark. It was a mournful sound. Ginger and Depot had become good buddies, and Ginger was gone.

Pa blew his nose into his handkerchief and then said, “Well, the cows still need to be milked. After breakfast we'll bury Ginger.”

Grandma, I milked cows this morning with tears running down my face and dripping into the milk pail. I wonder if anyone will notice that their milk tastes salty.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. When little Annie heard about Ginger, she began sobbing and didn't quit. She wouldn't eat breakfast. I didn't eat very much. All I could think about was Ginger lying dead in the barn. No more circus performances, no good times riding him around the yard, no more circus tricks.

We buried Ginger on the hill on the west side of the farm, next to some big pine trees. When we finished, Pa cut a couple of pine tree branches and used some twine to fashion a cross. He pushed it into the ground at one end of the grave. Ma, Annie, and Depot were there with us. Annie put some wildflowers on the grave next to the cross. Ma had picked a couple of roses from the rosebush that grows alongside our house, and she gently placed them on Ginger's grave as well. Then we all stood there with our heads bowed. Pa asked if I'd like to say some words over the grave. “Ginger was a good pony,” was all I could think to say. And then I started crying and mumbled, “Why did you have to die?”

Pa put his hand on my shoulder. He said, “George, remember what I told you when Polly died? On a farm there is birth, and there is death. One we look forward to, and the other we don't. But both happen. And we must go on.” He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. I could see tears in his eyes. Ma was crying, too, and Annie was sobbing with her head buried in Ma's apron.

Pa turned to walk back to the house, and the rest of us followed, all except Depot. He lay on Ginger's grave, and as we left he lifted his head and howled a long, deep sound that I've never heard him make before. He stayed at Ginger's grave all day, finally coming home when it was getting dark.

This evening around the supper table we were very quiet. Then Pa said, “Let's each say something we remember about Ginger.” And that's what we did. I told about how well he had performed in the Struckmeyer Family Circus. Annie talked about how much fun she had had riding him. Ma said she just liked having him around and that he was such a friendly little pony. Pa said he thought Ginger was always smiling.

It will be hard to not keep thinking about Ginger, Grandma.

Love,

George

Dear George,

I'm so very sorry to hear about Ginger. What a wonderful little pony he was. I wish I could have gotten to know him. I know how bad you and your family must be feeling. Ginger had become a part of your family, too.

Try to remember the good times you had with him and feel good that you and your family took such good care of him after he came to your farm. Remember, too, that you gave him one last chance to perform in front of a crowd of people. From what you wrote, that was something Ginger really enjoyed doing.

I'm sorry, George. There's nothing more I can say.

Love,

Grandma S.

July 15, 1938

Friday

Dear Grandma,

Today is my thirteenth birthday. I hadn't heard Ma or Pa say one thing about it, and I was sure they had forgotten. I know there is no money for presents. And since we are just winding up the haying season, there is still plenty of work to do and no time for celebrations.

When I got up at five-thirty this morning, I was still thinking about Ginger, and, I must say, feeling pretty sorry for myself. I limped out to the barn to milk my cows as usual. Pa didn't say anything other than “Good morning, George,” which he says every morning when I open the barn door. No mention of my birthday. Just some comment about it being a nice day for making hay. The last thing I wanted to hear about was making hay. That's about all we've done for the past month.

Nothing was different at breakfast, either. Ma made oatmeal, fried eggs with bacon, and sliced hunks of homemade bread spread with butter and homemade strawberry jam. The usual. Nobody had much to say while we ate. Annie finished her breakfast and went off to play.

“Something wrong?” Ma asked when she noticed I was dawdling over my oatmeal.

“Nothing wrong, Ma,” I answered. But there was something wrong—mighty wrong. Here it was my birthday, and nobody had even mentioned it. When I finished eating, I started to get up from the table, but Pa said, “Why don't you wait a minute?”

Just then Annie came through the door from the dining room carrying a pile of packages that came almost up to her chin. She was smiling the biggest smile I've ever seen. “Happy birthday!” everyone said.

I was absolutely speechless. Annie started handing me packages.

“This one is from me,” she said. “Open it.” I tore open the paper and found a big red handkerchief, the kind Pa uses.

I thanked her and opened the next package. I found a new shirt from Ma. Your package was in the pile, too, Grandma. Thank you so much for the new supply of writing paper and the new pencils, too. I also liked your card.

The biggest surprise came from Pa. There was one tiny package left. I had no idea what it could be. I shook the package, but it made not a sound.

I ripped off the paper and inside found a plain brown box. I lifted the cover, and there was a beautiful new jackknife with a bone handle and three blades.

“You're old enough to have your own knife,” Pa told me.

“Thank you,” I said. I had all I could do to keep from crying. Grandma, there's nothing I've been wanting more than a knife. I've been eyeing the collection of knives in the glass-covered display case at Johnson's Hardware. Johnson's has everything from tiny penknives to huge hunting knives that you carry on your hip in a leather sheath. Now I have my very own jackknife for whittling, cutting string, working with leather—doing all the jobs that require a knife.

“Take care of it, George, and that knife will last a lifetime.” Pa said. He had a big grin on his face. I told him I surely will.

Then he really surprised me. “One more present, George: no work for you today. You can do whatever you want—read, work with your leather, anything. It's your day.” I just about fell off my chair.

The first thing I did was hike up to Ginger's grave, where I placed a couple roses from Ma's rosebush. Depot went with me, of course. I sat under the big pine tree near the grave and listened to the wind move through the pine needles and breathed in the fresh smell of pine. Depot lay with his head on the grave. I thought about Ginger and all the good times we had together. I sat there most of the day. I had brought along one of my books, so I read a little, and I even took a little nap under the trees where the fallen pine needles have made a soft bed. Depot lay down beside me and napped, too.

Ma had invited Grandma Woodward over after supper for birthday cake, and everyone sang “Happy Birthday” after I blew out the thirteen candles with one big puff.

It was the best birthday I've ever had.

Your grandson,

George

July 20, 1938

Wednesday

Dear Grandma,

I heard the rumble of thunder during the night and woke up once to see my room as bright as daylight as lightning flashed. At five-thirty, when it was time to get up, rain was still dripping off the roof and splashing against my bedroom window. I heard the thunder growl, but it wasn't as close as it was during the night.

The cows dripped rainwater when Pa let them into the barn for milking. The smell of wet cowhide is something I can do without, but it's a part of milking cows on a rainy morning.

“Looks like a good day for fishing,” Pa said. It was too wet to work in our fields.

By the time we finished milking and turned the cows back out to pasture, the rain had slowed to a mist. Pa and I dug earthworms back of the chicken house. (We use earthworms for bait.) We found our long cane fishing poles and the fish hooks that Pa buys at Johnson's Hardware, and we headed for Church Lake, which is just down the hill from the Norwegian church. I have seen fish jumping nearly every Sunday morning when we attend church. Now I was hoping to hook one.

Pa parked the car in the church lot, and we walked down to the lake. He lugged the fishing poles, while I carried the can of earthworms and the lunch Ma had made for us. Depot came along, too, and bounced along beside me. He is hardly a puppy anymore, he has grown so much this summer.

Church Lake is not real big but not tiny, either. I suspect a good ball player could throw a ball across the narrowest part of the lake. It has several little coves that by this time of the summer are filled with pond lilies. Pa says these are good places to catch fish, as the fish like to hide under the lilies, where it's a little cooler and where they can find plenty to eat.

We unwound the line from our fishing poles, tied on cork bobbers, threaded fat worms on our hooks, and tossed out. The surface of the lake was so smooth it looked like you could walk on it. I saw a long-legged bird standing in the water near the opposite shore. Pa said it was a great blue heron and that it is better at fishing than we are. I watched the heron standing there like a statue, and then all of a sudden it slammed its bill into the water and came up with a fish. Just then my cork began jumping a little—not going under, just dipping up and down.

“You're getting a bite,” Pa said. “When it goes under, pull up your pole.”

I noticed that Depot was watching my bobber as well, his head cocked to the side. I tightened my grip on the pole and watched. Dip, dip, dip, then gone. I lifted my long cane pole. I had snagged a big bluegill, and soon I had it flopping on the shore, the hook caught in its lip. Depot tried to catch the flopping bluegill but didn't succeed. It was quite a sight: the fish flopping, and Depot jumping around after it. I grabbed Depot by his collar and asked Pa to hold him while I removed the hook from the bluegill's lip. Then I shoved the fish into the old burlap bag Pa had brought along, and Pa tied the top shut and put it in the water close to shore. He explained that this would keep the fish alive as long as possible and keep the meat fresh.

Soon both of us were catching bluegills one after the other. We stopped fishing at noon to eat our sandwiches and lay in the tall grass on the shore of the lake. A little breeze was blowing away the clouds and rippling the surface of the lake.

After our break we got back to fishing. Before long I could scarcely lift the wet bag of fish out of the lake to slip in another one.

“Got enough for a couple good meals,” Pa said. “Let's fish for a few more minutes and then head home.”

My bobber floated quietly, no action at all. No bites, no fish. “Nothing biting,” I said. I had no more than said it when my bobber disappeared—no dancing on the water, no going under and then coming up again. It was just plain gone. I started lifting my pole, but I couldn't budge whatever was in the water, grabbing my bait.

I pulled harder, and then I heard a crack. The bottom three feet of my fishing pole broke off in my hands. I made a lunge for the rest of the pole and fell in the lake. I stumbled to my feet, wet and spitting water, but I still had hold of what remained of my broken cane pole. It was then that I noticed Depot in the water with me, paddling with all four legs.

“You all right, George?” Pa yelled.

“Yeah,” I answered when I finally stopped coughing.

“Grab hold of the line,” Pa yelled. I pulled the jerking pole through my hand until I got the line, which I pulled hand over hand. The line jerked and tugged, and once I thought I was going head first into the lake again. Depot somehow got tangled in the fish line as well. Slowly I struggled toward shore, dragging the line with one hand and trying to hold onto Depot with the other as I trudged through the ooze and the tangle of pond lilies. I was soaked from one end to the other.

“Here,” Pa said. “Let me help you with the line.”

Pa grabbed the line, and slowly we retrieved it, both wondering what was on the other end. Just then there was a terrific tug. I lost my grip, but Pa held on.

I crawled up on shore, pulling Depot with me. As I did, I saw Pa pull a giant northern pike out of the water. It flopped around on the shore, but this time a very wet Depot kept his distance.

“I bet this fish will go five pounds,” Pa said. “Can't wait to weigh it.”

We retrieved our sack of bluegills and headed home, where we weighed the fish on Pa's scale in the granary. “Quite a fish you got there. Weighs five and a half pounds,” Pa said. “We'll ask Ma to bake it.”

I had a chance to use my new jackknife when I helped Pa clean the fish. A jackknife sure comes in handy.

We had fresh fish for three days, Grandma. What a treat. Fried bluegills are tasty, but baked northern pike is even better.

I can't wait to go fishing again.

Your grandson,

George