Letters from Hillside Farm (15 page)

August 10, 1938

Wednesday

Dear Grandma,

I knew it would happen, and it did. There wasn't much I could do about it, either. Amos made good on his threat.

We were threshing oats at Rachel Williams's farm when it happened. A week ago Pa had cut our oat crop, and we had stood the oat bundles into grain shocks. Our neighbors did the same thing. Now it was time to thresh the grain.

Threshing is different from anything else we do on the farm. It is a community event where all the neighbors go from farm to farm for what usually amounts to a day of threshing for each neighbor. Horse-drawn wagons go out into the oat field, where the driver loads grain bundles and hauls them to the threshing machine. A threshing machine is huge—three times bigger than our Plymouth car, maybe even bigger. It separates the oat seeds from the stems and blows the chaff and stems onto a straw pile.

On Tuesday I drove our team and hay wagon over to Rachel's farm. On the way I passed by Amos Woodward's place, a plain-looking farmstead with a long driveway and buildings that need paint. The road is dusty and crooked, with a couple of steep little hills. Maud and Tony didn't seem to mind as they walked along with me standing on the empty wagon.

I noticed three other wagons already working in the Williamses' oat field when I arrived, one of them driven by Amos. I made sure I worked on a side of the field as far away from his wagon as possible.

But Amos and I arrived at the threshing machine at the same time. He pulled his load to one side of the machine's feeder, and I pulled up to the other side. We scarcely exchanged glances. I could see several of the neighbors working around the machine; one was forking straw on the straw stack, and others were ready to carry the threshed grain to the granary.

“You guys ready?” Joe Carlson yelled. He owns and operates the thresher, and he was sitting on his big red tractor, ready to set things into motion.

I nodded, and so did Amos. The big threshing machine began shaking and shuddering. Its many belts started slowly turning, and the elevator that moves the bundles into the machine creaked into motion.

Amos forked a bundle onto the elevator, and I followed. Amos, then me. It was going well until Amos started forking bundles faster. I, of course, had to keep up. Soon both of us were working furiously, pitching bundles as fast as we could.

“What are you guys doin'?” yelled Mr. Carlson. But Amos didn't hear or didn't want to, and I figured I just had to keep up with Amos. Soon the threshing machine began to shudder and shake more violently, and then it growled to a stop.

“You guys oughta know better,” Mr. Carlson yelled. “You've plugged the machine.”

“It was George's idea,” Amos yelled.

I wanted to yell back that Amos had started it, but I didn't say anything.

“Well, don't you ever do that again, either one of you,” shouted Mr. Carlson. It took a half hour for him to finish unplugging the machine and get the threshing started again.

On our way to dinner, I asked Amos why he told everyone it was my idea to pitch bundles fast and plug the machine. He said, “'Cause I wanted to.”

“You started it, and you know it,” I said.

“You know that, and I know that, but Carlson and the rest of the men don't, now do they?” Amos said.

“You're mean,” I blurted out.

“I'm tough,” replied Amos, a sneer spreading across his tanned face. “You gotta be tough when you live in the country.”

I said that I'm tough, too, but that's not the same thing as being mean. I told him, “You chose to be mean, and I kept up with you, too, until the machine plugged up and stopped.” Amos went into the house for dinner ahead of me without saying another word.

After the noon break we were back hauling bundles and unloading them at the threshing machine. Amos and I didn't find ourselves paired at the machine again that day, which must have been good luck on my part.

I was tired at day's end and started the team home along the road. I sat on the edge of the wagon, not thinking about much of anything, when I heard a voice say, “How about a race?” Amos had pulled up behind me, his team at the trot. I told him I didn't want to race and that he should pull out and pass me. I drove Maud and Tony to the side of the gravel road so Amos would have enough room to go by.

When Amos got alongside my team, he took the end of his leather lines and brought them down across the rumps of Maud and Tony. They took off at a gallop, almost tossing me from the wagon.

“Hay ya!” Amos yelled at his team. They are a pair of western-type horses, smaller than Maud and Tony but no doubt faster.

For the first quarter mile or so, the two teams galloped side by side, thundering down the narrow, twisting road. I hauled on the lines, keeping Maud and Tony from running off the narrow road, or worse, crashing into Amos's wagon. A big cloud of dust poured up from behind us as the two teams and steel-wheeled wagons bounced down the road.

“Hay ya!” Amos yelled again. He swung the ends of the leather lines across the backsides of his team as they pounded down the road ever faster.

The road made a sharp turn at the bottom of a hill. I don't know if Amos's wagon couldn't make the turn or if one of the wheels broke, but his wagon rolled over, and Amos flew off into some raspberry bushes. When the wagon tipped, Amos's team stopped, their sides heaving and sweat pouring from them.

“Whoa, whoa!” I yelled to Maud and Tony, pulling on the lines to stop them. I had no more than stopped the team when I felt something yanking on my leg. It was Amos, blood streaking down his face from the raspberry thorns. He pulled me off the wagon and took a mighty swing at me. His thick fist caught me just below the eye, and I fell in the dusty road. Before I could stand up, Amos was on top of me, pounding with both of his hands. I swung at him and got in a couple of good licks.

Just then Pa came by in the car on his way home from Rachel's place. He saw us rolling in the dirt in the middle of the road. He stopped the car, ran out, and pulled us apart. “What has gotten into you two?” he said. “Can't you get along for one minute?”

I didn't say anything. Neither did Amos. Pa looked at Amos's wagon and at his team. “Busted up your wagon pretty good,” he said to Amos as he helped him unhitch the horses. “George, you drive Maud and Tony home—and you better walk them.” I could see that Pa was mad, and you never want to make Pa mad. I hoped he would cool off by the time I got home with the team.

As I started off down the road, Amos headed in the other direction, walking along behind his team without the wagon. I wondered what his Pa was going to say to him.

When I got home, Pa helped me unhitch the team, unharness them, brush them down, and turn them out to pasture.

“Got yourself quite a shiner there,” he said. He was looking at my black eye, which I hadn't yet seen but sure could feel. “Don't you ever run that team again,” he said. “Ever.”

“I won't,” I said. I wanted to tell him what Amos had done, but I thought better of it. I don't think Pa was in the mood to hear any excuses. I'm surprised he didn't say anything about the fight. I expected a tongue-lashing about that, too.

I guess I've got a lifelong enemy, Grandma. My eye hurts like everything, but not as much as I hurt inside. I don't like having people mad at me.

Your grandson,

George

August 14, 1938

Sunday

Dear Grandma,

An awful thing happened yesterday. Depot and I were on our way to fetch the cows from the pasture when I caught a whiff of smoke. At first I thought maybe Ma had put a fresh stick of wood in the stove. But then I realized the wind was blowing in the wrong direction for me to smell smoke coming from our chimney.

I walked on toward the far side of the pasture where I thought I'd find the cows. When I got to the top of the ridge, I smelled smoke again, stronger this time. I think Depot smelled it too, as he held his head high and sniffed the air. It smelled different from burning oak or pine kindling, which is what Ma uses in our cook stove.

From up on the ridge I could see our house, and I could also see Grandma Woodward's little house in the distance. Then something stopped me cold. Smoke was pouring out of Grandma Woodward's kitchen door and out the kitchen windows, too. Grandma Woodward's house was on fire.

Her house was about a half mile from where I was standing. I didn't see any other people. I was the only one who knew her house was on fire. I started moving toward her house as fast as I could, Depot bounding along beside me. The faster I moved, the faster I discovered I
could
move. Soon I was running, forgetting that my gimpy leg was supposed to slow me down. I raced across the road and up her driveway, calling, “Grandma Woodward! Grandma Woodward!” No response. I ran up to the screen door and began pounding on it and yelling, “Grandma Woodward!”

The smoke pouring through the screen door was so thick I could see inside only a few feet. “Are you in there, Grandma Woodward?” I yelled again. I could see flames licking at the curtains and running up the kitchen wall. I jerked on the screen door, but it was hooked from inside and wouldn't open. Then I remembered my new jackknife. I took it out of my pocket and opened the big blade. Smoke was stinging my eyes and I began coughing.

I cut a hole in the thin wire screen large enough so I could push my hand through and unhook the door. All the while I kept calling, “Grandma Woodward!” Grandma Woodward!”

The smoke was less thick near the floor, so I got on my knees and began crawling across the kitchen floor. Depot stayed outside, barking like crazy. I had crawled only a few feet when I bumped into something soft. It was Grandma Woodward, lying on her stomach with her hands over her head. I shook her and called her name, but she didn't respond. She didn't even open her eyes.

I put my hands under her arms and dragged her toward the door. Slowly I made my way through the smoke. Now the flames were crawling along the ceiling above the stove.

When I finally got to the door with Grandma Woodward, my eyes hurt so much I could hardly see. I was coughing so hard I had trouble pulling her. But I lugged her through the door and onto the porch. Trying to be careful, I pulled her out onto the lawn, several feet away from the burning house. Depot lay down next to her and licked her face. I fell over on my back, trying to catch my breath and focus my smoke-filled eyes.

“George, George, you all right?” It was Pa. Behind him were Amos Woodward and his pa. I could see tears streaming down Amos's face as he put a handkerchief on Grandma Woodward's forehead. He had wet it at the pump. Grandma Woodward was moaning and coughing, but color was starting to return to her face.

By this time a dozen or more neighbors had arrived. They began throwing pails of water on the fire. Ma had noticed the fire about the same time I did, and she had called telephone central to put out a general ring on the party line phone. The general ring had summoned neighbors from miles away. One came with a pickup truck filled with cans of water. Another placed a ladder against the house so the roof could be soaked with water. Others went into the smoky kitchen and doused the flames with pails of water. Within a few minutes the kitchen fire was out, and Grandma Woodward was sitting up, concerned that so many people were fussing over her.

“You feeling better, Grandma?” Amos asked. I noticed that he had slipped his jacket under her head for a pillow.

“My gosh, yes. I must have passed out.” she said. She sounded confused.

“The smoke got ya, Grandma,” Amos said.

“Mercy me, I do remember that old apron falling on the stove and catching fire,” she said. Her voice was raspy. “I thought I could put it out, but I guess I didn't. Trying to do a little canning today. Sweet corn is ready, you know.”

“You gotta take it easy for a while, Grandma,” Amos said. “You could have died in there.”

“Mercy me. Mercy me,” she said.

I was feeling better, too. I had stopped coughing, and my eyes had quit stinging. Depot seemed okay, too.

Pa was telling the neighbors about how I had dragged Grandma Woodward out of the house just as he, Amos, and Amos's pa arrived on the scene. Some of them came over to me and patted me on the back, telling me I had done a good thing. Others were petting Depot.

“Couldn't have done it without my jackknife,” I said, holding it up so everyone could see.

When everything had quieted down and it had been decided that Grandma Woodward will stay with Amos and his family until her house is repaired, Amos came up to me, holding his hat in his hand. “George,” he said quietly. I saw that his face was dirty and streaked with tears.

“Yes, Amos?” I said, not knowing what to expect.

“Thanks for saving my grandma.”

“It's okay,” I said. “I like her, too.”

“Could I have a look at your jackknife?” Amos asked.

“Sure.” I pulled it back out of my pocket and handed it to him.

“Nice knife,” he said. He handed it back to me.

“It sure comes in handy,” I said. “I use it for my leather work, too.”

“Suppose you could show me how to make things out of leather?”

“I could,” I said, surprised. “Anytime. Be glad to.”

Do you know what, Grandma? Amos held out his hand and shook mine. Can you imagine that? Then, as Amos followed his father and Grandma Woodward to their car, he turned, smiled, and waved to me.

Pa and I headed back toward our house. “Say, George,” Pa said, “how'd you get over here so fast? I thought you were going after the cows in the far pasture.”

“I ran,” I said.

“But I thought you couldn't run.” Pa said. I answered that I had thought that, too, but I surprised myself. I hadn't realized how much better my leg has gotten. I felt better than I've felt in a long time.

I hope you can come to visit us yet this summer, Grandma. There are so many things I want to show you and a bunch of people I want you to meet. This farm is really a nice place.

Love,

George