Hell Freezes Over

Oh, how we loved you!

February removes any doubt some may have about the beauty of snowfall and ice-covered bare branches.  White pure white snow from December had disappeared with Santa, as did the joy of making snow angels. Now white snow was a brown slush that froze at night and then became cold slush in the morning.

We sat on the back steps with cold butts and red noses because Mom had had enough of us.  She threw us out the door and told us stay out here until I let you come in. We understood why.  We had had ‘flu for a week and puked and puked and puked some more.  When we finally stopped puking, we started fightin’ and racin’ around the house, screamin’ and laughin’.

That was when the back door opened, and Mom tossed us out. So, there we sat with ice covering our sockless shoes, since Mom didn’t give us enough time to put socks on. Mitten less fingers and frozen butts, we were in a world of misery.    We were lucky enough to have coats on.

Robert said, “We’re gonna die, ‘cause I heard Mom tell Dad that she could not. stand. us. anymore.” I nodded solidly, mouth turned down and an icy tear or two on my cheeks. I had heard the same words.

That was when we saw wisps of smoke rising from the garden. Smoke rose and then disappeared. Surely it had frozen in mid-flight.  We saw our salvation there, right there!

Mom had burned trash that day out in the garden.  Everyone burned trash in their frozen gardens.  During summer the gardens were sacred grounds, ‘cause no one, not no one went into a neighbors’ gardens. 

Moms would stand on edges and chat about tomatoes and green beans, pointing out plants. Then they talked about other neighbors and husbands, who was doing what and where they were going and what they were wearing.  We never stuck around but we did not ever step foot in the gardens. 

But today, we were gonna step foot in the garden. Yup.  That’s what we were doin’. We would not die.

A garden in winter was a bunch of twisted brown plants stuck in their own hell of frozen ground. There were frozen tomatoes hanging onto those vines, tassels of corn and twisted plants that died back in November but wouldn’t give up. But there in the garden were the embers of burning trash. We were saved. Thank you, Jesus, we were saved! We wouldn't freeze to death.

Squatting down close to the smoking blackness dotted with glowing embers, we saw in the center of it all, a treasure: Monkey Ward Christmas Catalog.  The stuff of dreams fulfilled, and dreams not fulfilled, the Monkey Ward was there in among the embers.

Burning that catalog is sacrilege to any child, for each page held the magic of a child’s dreams, hopes that someday those toys would leap from the page and find a way to be in their hands.  But there it lay in smoke and glowing sparks with all its promises. 

With a rusted and burnt coat hanger, Robert snagged it and pulled it to our feet.  Oh, to live and hope again for those treasures! We flipped through the gift-laden pages, gasping in delight and joy. This, this one!! See! Oh, there’s one like Santa gave you!  Page after page, quickly then even more so, we fanned those pages giggling.  All our wishes, maybe for another Christmas!

Then, disaster turned Catalog from sparkling embers to a full fire.  Jesus! Help us!

We did what any four- and five-year child would do. Robert used the coat hanger to flip the fiery catalog out away from us, into the brown garden.

Glowing then flaming, it landed smack dab in the middle of the sacred ground, bursting and sending flames.  Fire crawled up the tomato vines toward the round red globes. They exploded, yup, they exploded! Red goo burst and splattered! We jumped and laughed, so glorious, so spectacular!

The fire became a snake, a red snake that curled around green beans. It grasped the corn stalks and wormed its way up to the tassels where they were fourth-of-July fireworks!  We watched with joy, and then it became horror. The fire was embedded in the center and was working its ways to the edges.

Screaming. That’s what we did. Lots of screaming.  What? Where? We are in biiiig trouble!

Robert was an expert in big trouble, he knew it well, being a five-year-old. But, me? What did I, a four-year-old, know about big trouble? He took off to the garage with me in tow. Robert scurried to a place he knew well, the work bench. There was a hole he had made over time, one that could be hidden by buckets and paint cans.  He scooted over just enough for a little girl with a skinny butt just big enough to fit. Our butts were now warm, but the rest of us shivered in fear.

The fire engine siren rang, at first blocks away and then in the garden.  Voices, we heard shouting and more shouting.

Over there, it started over there…Hey, hey…cut the stalks down…bastards, don’t you see that…water, we need more water…grab the hose by the porch…WATCH…it’s heading to the propane tank…dammit! Didn’t hear what I said...That man’s shed, hose it down…Grab that…

The neighbors were there. Every person in the whole town was there.  Some brought buckets and filled from their own houses.  One to another, one to another, they threw water onto the spots that still burned.

We peered through a hole under the work bench. Even Grandma was there with Mom, both watching the fire as it was extinguished. Grandma had that kind of clenched mouth look that meant she was, well, she was, I don’t know what.  But Mom? Mom looked scared, even though her fists were clenched.

One of the men held up the remaining pieces of Monkey Ward catalog and showed it to Mom, who immediately saw what had happened. Her face crumpled with tears. Where are they?  Has anyone see Robert and Susie? 

Neighbors scattered, each heading to places they knew where we would, could be. We were never shy about invading our neighbors’ yards, garages, outhouses, their back porches, bushes, trees, even churches.  Nothing was holy, nothing was sacred, nothing was just theirs. After all, this town had been our kingdom

They called our names, shouted out our names, screamed out our names.

I rested my forehead on my knees and started weeping.  Robert cried in hiccups. We had no where to go, to hide. We’re gonna have t’ leave forever.  

Robert nodded. We can catch the train when it goes through town. They  were kinda slow, and we can jump on one and hide.  I nodded.  But we both knew we were doomed.

Dad’s truck rumbled, we heard the door slam and wrapped his big arms around Mom.  The blackened catalog crumbled into his hands, and he knew immediately what had happened.

That half smile he had when he wasn’t exactly mad showed on his mouth. Robert always hid in that same spot, so Dad walked straight to the garage, pulled the barrier apart, then pulled us out. He scooped us up and carried us to Mom.

I don’t remember much after that.  One moment we were in the kitchen, the next in the tub, and then Grandma was toweling us dry.  We ate hot dogs and corn, and then were in bed. We were worn to a rag.

I heard Dad reminding Grandma about some of his stupid adventures.

Grandma harrumphed and Dad hawed.  Mom said some words we never heard her say before.

Doing something so magnificent is exhausting.

Gift, Freely Given

Bud and Helen's house

Heat surrounded and invaded the house as July dragged on and on.  Windows were thrown open, front and back doors begging for some sort of breeze, but all was denied. Cicadas screamed a non-stop song, as if they were complaining to God Himself. 


Laundry had hung limp and still damp since morning. Cats flattened themselves on grass in the shade with the largest canopy. There was no joy to be found, none whatsoever.  

Bud and Helen lay around on the same grass and neither cats nor humans found relief under drooping leaves. 

Helen at age 5 and Bud at age 3; Helen was always tall.

He stared through patches of leaves and asked of God: Why, oh why did you create such torture?  

Helen said nothing so innocent: Damn it! Haven't You done enough today? Shit, we need some wind. Dammit! Some snow, even.  Shit!

Despite the torture that only July can give, down came skipping their cousin, Margaret, from her house high up on a hill. Wind blows up there. We sit in a sink hole of flames and she skips. Damn her. Helen grimaced and lay back to await the cuteness that was Margaret's all alone.

"I got a new dress! Papa bought it for me! From the Sears and Roebuck catalog! It cost 50 cents, 50 cents! Why, that could buy two dresses for you, Helen."  

Margaret twirled and the skirt swung out, a pink deliciousness.  "See what it can do when I swing around!"

"I can see your panties. You got a hole in 'em.  What did you do? Poop through that hole??" Helen spit out, staring up at the wafting skirt. "I can see your butt through it. That hole is so huge, a mosquito could fly into it and bite your butt at least a dozen times. Then you'd have red bites and you'd scratch at 'em all the time." Helen smiled outwardly. Inwardly, Helen used her newly found rich cussing words. "Why, you'd be awake all night!" 

The thought filled Helen with indescribable glee.

Margaret twirled, trying to see her butt and her skirt floated around. When she felt there was no hole, she sniffed with all the superiority only a cousin named Margaret could summon. "You're joking me. I'm gonna tell Papa and he'll send my brothers to beat you up.  Beat you up bad!" 

Bud and Helen smirked, this time openly as Margaret turned to stomp home. Ma opened the screen door and called out, "You two come get these and feed the lambs. And make sure you fill the water tank. Poor things, in the heat."  She held two nipple bottles."

Bud

Bud dragged himself up, but Margaret raced to the bottles first. "See, I beat you. I'm faster than you. You're just lazy, too lazy to run." She held the bottles up over her head, trophies of her superiority. "Ha!" She skipped to the pen, where two orphaned lambs waited.

Bud trudged behind her and Helen placed one foot after the other. Dust billowed up around her, then dropped with finality. What a bitch. Even the dust can't take it. 

Margaret giggled, holding a bottle in each hand. "See! I can feed them both at the same time! You can fill the water tank!  I have to finish feeding them!" She smiled her dripping honey smile and turned away.

Helen swore a stream of new words and they both walked away, quite happy they did not have to stand in the sun.  Bud exclaimed, "I got me an idea..."

Moments later, Bud emerged from the privy with a steaming log about the size of a cigar, all wrapped up in a page from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. It was a page of cute dresses for 50 cents each. Helen tore zinnias and tied a bow around the cigar-sized feces and waited.

Margaret skipped back. "See, the lambs like me! They drank the whole bottles. I'll come down and do this again!"

Helen held out the wrapped excrement. "Here. We made this for you. You always help us, and we wanted to give this to you!" Take it, you goddamn girl in your 50 cent dress!

From Pike County, Illinois

Margaret squealed in delight. "For me? And it's all wrapped up!" She reached for it.


Bud carefully laid it on her palm. Then he and Helen waited.

Margaret did exactly as they knew she would. She screamed, dropped her gift in horror, then ran crying the entire way home. They could hear her.

Helen smiled at Bud and Bud smiled at Helen. "Well, then." The scream died in the distance. "That was a hell of a thing."

They picked up buckets by the pump and filled them to pour into the water tank.  Time and time again, water was poured until filling the tank almost to the rim. There was still water in the buckets. Then they did what any child would do on a God-awful hot day. 

Dumping buckets of water, throwing buckets of water, squealing as water trickled down ,pouring over their heads, cooling them down--it seemed to be the best thing to do.  As they listened to Margaret, the air became noticeably cooler. 


My apologies for profanity used in this post. Aunt Helen (as part of her character's persona) has begun to swear/curse. The death of Bud and Helen's father in 1932 affected them both in different ways. My father became moody and depressed, while Aunt Helen developed inward dialogue, which at times became verbal.

Facing Down Demons

Ray City History

Peace or not, Lewis and his comrades brought back ghosts of war when Armistice Day, November 11th, on the 11th hour, at the 11th minute, 1918, proclaimed the Great War, the War to End All Wars, had ended. 

But, each major battle slaughtered hundreds of thousands young men, while survivors hoisted rucksacks, a rifles, and wool blankets and made their way back to home.

By 1918, 38 million people had been killed and wounded in WW1, making it the deadliest conflicts in world history thus far.  While men coming home safe and sound, their injuries were carried in their hearts and minds for their entire lives.

In his own rucksack Lewis also lugged war with its battles, screams, blood, and pain. Home. Home. I will find peace there.

But today, today Lewis walked away, to do another battle.

Marie had watched Lewis disappear in dark woods, rifle in hand, rucksack over his shoulder, and prayed that he would release some of pain that chased him.  Let him find peace here.  Peace here.  

Marie turned from trees, now dripping golden leaves and red.   

Up on Harper's Hill, Lewis set up a camp with supplies Marie had placed lovingly in the rucksack.  He climbed the highest tree, gazing out upon farmland, recalling trenches dug in farmland just like this.

Climbing down, then dropping onto damp grass, Lewis groaned.  He had been younger back then, joints didn't hurt then. 

He took off his boots, now drying with mud and forest debris. His boots in France had been lathered with blood at the end of each day. Hard crusted mud and blood over stiff boots crackled and fell off as each remaining infantryman scrubbed and then oiled leather.

source

"You dog-faced men! You gotta keep these cleaned and ready: rifle and boots.  Y'all will be face down, if'n you don't have these." Each night, while men huddled in freezing water in their own trenches, General Pershing's sergeants yelled this, knowing they would all go over, leaping out of trenches with terrible roars.

source

Trenches would be there, stretching out across open land, beyond the horizon, if I could see through smoke. 

Sweeping his hand across the rich farmland stretching out to the Big River,  Lewis recalled how the barbed wire would roll out mile after mile, covered with bits of clothing, how the helmets had been left where bodies had fallen. 

Screams stopped only when there were enough helmets, enough sacrifices.

If Lewis closed his eyes, he would see fragments of bodies scattered over French farm land.  Cows once grazed here, wheat grew in that field over there.  Someday, it'll all be plowed under and replanted.

Over there and there, that's where Max died and Tom lost a leg...behind his eyes, he envisioned their bodies yet. Max's laughter still echoed in his mind, and Tom writing to Katie, promising to be home soon. Bitter tears burned his eyes, but not like that mustard gas.  That got me, too.  Lungs.  

Trenches between battles

Be home soon.  Soldiers down the line wrote those same words, day after day. Lewis had no such expectations. There was no magic in the world or God's hand that could save any of them .

Pinterest 

Clutching his unloaded rifle in hands, with straps wound around his shoulder and elbow, Lewis dozed and awoke, dozed and awoke. Safe.  I will be safe. Up here on Harper's Hill.

Before children awoke with sleepy eyes, Marie had already baked two apple pies, peeled potatoes and kept them in a pot of cold water in the cellar. She had dusted the parlor, changed the sheets on their wedding bed, and only then she holler up the stairs. 

Wake up!  Time to get up!

A pot of hot oatmeal steamed on the oven, cream and butter was on the table, with sticky honey in a pint jar. All waited for sleepy girls.

"We have a lot of work today.  Your daddy'll be home tonight." I hope. Lord, please Lord, bring him home, leave his devils behind on Harper's Hill.

Minerva caught Marie’s eyes, and knew this meant that Mama and Minerva had chores to do while Rosie and Irma blew away dandelion fairies.

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Today was Chicken Day.  A God-awful day was chicken day.

Bubbling hot water bubbled in a wash tub over outside on their fire pit, ready to do its job.  Rosie and Irma locked Henry in the tool shed. “Make sure you lock it tight.  That dog would tear these apart.” 

Rosie and Irma squealed, chasing chickens around pen until they were out of breath and chickens worn, slowly picking at invisible corn.

Marie chose three plump hens, those whose eggs had become fewer and fewer, and handed two over to Minerva. “Hold these tight, yes, upside down.”

Tom Zsolt

With that, laying one chicken on a weathered stump used for just this, Marie brought a sharpened hatchet down on the first one, throwing it aside. Thwack! Thwack! 

It raced around, headless and bleeding; while, on the blood streaked grass, its eyes still blinked, its beak opening and shutting soundlessly.

Minerva, with eyes large and wide open, wordlessly handed the next chicken victim to Mama. Minerva had never been so close, been a witness to carnage.

Rosie and Irma watched from their apple tree, mouths in an O, big gasps with each chop. 

Marie grabbed now still hens and hung them by the clawed feet on the clothes line, tying the feet onto a bent wire.  “Pick these heads up, girls.  Help your sister!”  The heads were tossed to hogs, their snouts raised, smelling blood in the air.  Blood meant food, good or bad.  Just food.

Now all girls and Marie sat around an empty tub in the center, wondering What are we ‘sposed to do?  What?

Marie dipped each hen, now still and blood drained, into boiling water.  Once, twice, three times.  She tugged on a wing pinion, and when it could almost pull out, Marie gave Minerva a chicken.  Then one for herself, then one for Rosie and Irma.

“Pull the feathers out like this.  Put them in that empty tub, so we can use them to fill pillows.  Keep plucking them out, out and out, until they are all gone.” 

Marie grasped and then tugged feathers out by handfuls.  Pulling and tugging, Marie demonstrated to her girls what to do with dead chickens, headless chickens.

Minerva comprehended, copied Marie. Grab, pull, grab, twist, pull, that’s all you gotta do. Irma and Rosie gagged, grabbed feathers, and then gagged some more. 

Wisconsin History

When gagging headed toward puking, Marie sent them to collect firewood.  

Three naked chickens later, Marie carried carcasses into a clean kitchen, slapping them down into a deep sink.  

She held her breath, chopping off the "parson's nose" and wondering how anyone, anyone at all could eat this fatty tail glob.  

Processing chickens meant pulling out guts, gizzards, livers, hearts and washing the cavities out with salt water.  

It meant dismembering legs, wings, breasts, and all, then rinsing them in water. 

It meant rinsing until the water was clear of blood.

Scraping and scooping the offal into her dish pan, Marie carried it to the hogs. Blood, favorite food. 

Minerva, Rosie, and Irma eased into the kitchen, staring at Marie’s back in wonder. Who is this lady? 

“Go out back and scrub yourselves hard.  Clean nightgowns, put them on. Supper ‘l be ready soon.”

Marie floured and salted each piece, then carefully put them in an iron skillet, sizzling with hot lard.  Piece by piece.  Mashed potatoes somehow appeared, and sweet peas, too. Marie moved in a blur.

Her clean babies, wet hair still dripping, chewed and swallowed one chicken ravenously.  Legs, wishbone, and breast meat, all fried crisp and steaming hot, the result chicken-slaughter, weren't connected to all that went before. 

Visions of silent chickens running until hearts ran dry was now just a memory of afternoon work.

Then her babies were in bed, worn out emotionally and physically.  Marie kept frying two chickens, mashing more potatoes, and then creaming sweet peas.  Two apple pies sat on a clean kitchen table with tea towels draped over them.

Placing supper in a warm black iron stove, Marie inspected her clean kitchen before stepping out onto the kitchen porch. Only then, did Marie poured buckets of cold water, drenching her. Marie washed down, scraping and sudsing off smells of chicken and sweat.

Other buckets were pumped and full, waiting for Lewis, waiting to baptize him, waiting to heal a tired body.

Finally Marie eased her tired body down into her mother’s old rocker and waited.  A full moon hung by an invisible string right over her house.  A string, I can see it. Moonlight slanted over her house, over the trees, over her.

Trees leading to steep climbs and rises rustled and Lewis broke through.  Shoulders slumping, dirt smearing his face and clothes, Lewis struggled out into streaming moonlight. Tear tracks were erased by love beaming from a worn-out face.

 Lewis! Home! 

She did not race into his arms.  Instead Marie poured buckets and buckets of cold water down over him, rinsing him clean of mud and leaves.  Marie stripped him bare and took more buckets with soap, scrubbed him from matted hair to blistered feet. 

She gently dried him, dried him like he was a baby, whispering,"You're home now.  You're safe here."over and over. 

Marie pulled on clean clothes, combed his hair, and then enfolded him with a woman’s arms.  Lewis wrapped her with his own arms, sobbing into her hair.

Chicken, potatoes, all of her labors of love disappeared silently, completely. Then they crept into their bed, naked body to naked body.

I’ll clean the kitchen tomorrow.  It isn’t going anywhere.  But, Lewis is home.  He never left me, he came home.  To me.  Lewis came home…

World War 1 ended with signing of Armistice agreement on November 11, at 11:11 a.m., 1918.  It was a peace agreement, which did not insist or demand  the surrender of Germany.  Twenty years later, rise of Nazism with Hitler at the head began.  

This year honors the 100th year since the end of WW1.

Spoken and Unspoken

Buddy with Amy Peck, Grandmother Laura Peck (with her Bible) and Theodorus Peck.  My father Buddy hated this photo, hated the popular sailor suit for boys.

October 1932 was just three months after Pa died.  Buddy could count the days, almost hours, since his pa had died and now was buried in a plot not three miles from Grandma Laura’s house.

That would be 5,236 strides, which Bud counted each day as he ran and walked to his pa’s grave site. His whole world had become a gray green and the sky always dull gray. There was little laughter, his face almost was frozen in sorrow.

But today, Ma was canning for Grandma, putting away some beans and tomatoes.  We should have done this earlier. But... Theodorus had died in early July and gardens wasted away, but for a few plants. Back in the garden house, produce had been picked and cleaned.

So, Ma scrubbed the table and quart jars; Ma chopped beans, canned tomatoes with Helen by her side.  Grousing and muttering under her breath, Helen anticipated a slap at any moment, knowing Ma’s patience was mighty slim. 

Words flowed freely in Helen’s mind, however. She had developed a colorful collection of metaphors after Pa died, from cousins and neighbors for whom she cleaned house and did laundry to earn some coins for Ma.  With her sharp intellect, Helen allowed the glorious language cavort silently. She found a perverted form of happiness with this delightful language.

One of the biggest thoughts she had that day was Where the hell is Buddy? She smiled. 

He left me here in deep shit (Oh, it felt so good to think that word!) and, God damn it, he better haul his ass (another satisfying word) up here. Instead, Helen asked Ma casually, “Where is Buddy, Ma?  Isn’t he ‘sposed to help out today?”

Ma wiped her forehead with her soggy stained apron and sighed.  “Oh, I ‘spect he is still helping your grandma move furniture and reach up to high shelves.  Her bones are so crippled and she sure can’t take a chance to climb up to reach her china.” 

Amy also squeezed back the painful thoughts of the immense load placed on her by Theodorus’ death. Tears rolled quietly.  

Why oh why did you leave me, Dorus?  How could you have left me?  I don’t know what I am doing, how to do it!  Your ma is no help at all, not one bit.  I believe I have a fourth child and her name is Laura. Dear Lord, grant me Your wisdom…Amy prayed quietly wanting some sort of an answer, but expecting none.

Theodorus Peck in Michigan, photo taken by new bride, Amy Nichols Peck.

Helen sighed and smashed steaming tomatoes a bit more forcefully than was needed.  Take that, you red steaming pile of crap!

Amy Nichols Peck, bride

She hammered them once more.  Hell if I .... “Hmmmm” were the only sound spoken, but a flow of profanity streamed freely through her brain,  all focused on Buddy, none of them kind, none of them speak-able in front of Ma.

While Amy prayed and Helen did not, Buddy was moving rugs and chairs in Grandma Laura’s house. Willingly or unwillingly never had mattered.  

Do this, Buddy.  Move it over here.  Climb up and get that vase.  Dust and wash it. Climb up again. A mind-numbing day, and Buddy was locked into a rhythm dictated by Ma and Grandma.

 “Move that chair here, Buddy." 

I just moved it over there, old woman! Gee whiz! Can't you make up your shriveled brain?  

"Oh, my goodness!  Won’t you just look at all that dust!  Buddy, take that rug outside and beat it, won’t you, be a dear.”  Then Grandma Laura retired out to the porch and fanned herself.

Buddy remembered that rug, remembered it well.  He and Pa played on that rug and read books on that rug. That rug was where Pa in his coffin rested the night before his funeral.  

Buddy struggled with that heavy wool floor rug, grabbing it over both hands, and dragged it outside where a sheen of drab green enveloped Buddy.

With a deep groan, Buddy heaved it over the clothes line. Wire clothes line gave its own groan, and sagged until the edge of the rug brushed autumn grass. 

The first swat was ineffectual and Buddy swung again.  Why the hell am I doing this? Buddy was stunned that he thought that word, but it was somehow comforting. Damn! 

A second swat permitted some dust to fly.  Buddy looked at the floral design on the rug. Pa, we liked that rose.  You traced your finger here, there.  Pa, why did you stop doing that? Why did you stop?

Another swat gave dust a chance to break free from rose-bound flowers. Pa, if you were here, you could help me. You would help me. I'm not strong enough, Pa.  I can't do this by myself. I can't do hard work, what you did, all alone.

Pa, I'm only nine years old. 

Swat swat swat, and Buddy paused to let his arms rest. 

"Pa, I hate you!" Buddy hit rose rug with all the strength he could summon. 

"I hate you!" Buddy kicked it ferociously.  It swung on the wire, back and forth, each time Buddy struck it.   

"You left me, you left Ma, you left everybody! I hate you!" Buddy sobbed uncontrollably and leaned over, resting hands on knees.

He kicked the rug beater out toward the outhouse.  I could throw this damn contraption into the hole.  I could say it was an accident. Knowing Ma the way he did, Buddy knew she would make him climb down into all the crap steeping in the dark.

Buddy began swinging erratically, with each cloud of dust he sobbed and wiped his nose.  I miss you so much, Pa.   

You coulda gone to see a doctor sooner and he woulda healed you. I know something coulda saved you! 

Why didn't you go?

"Why didn't you go to a doctor, Pa?" Buddy asked, quietly.  

He dropped Ma's rug dust-covered beater, himself dropping to dried grass, breathing raggedly.  He whispered, "I don't hate you, Pa.  I love you and you died.  If I could run over there where you lay in your box, in that dirt, and climb down there with you, I would. I would!" 

Rising to his feet, Buddy continued his job, his face now beet colored with each swing, and then muddy with sweat. Whatever he thought or said was eaten up by sheer exhaustion.

Laura Borrowman Peck , a young nubile woman, before marriage to Lewis B. Peck

That was when he heard, “Oh, Buddy!  You need to rest for a while.”

What?  Rest? Did that old woman actually say that?

Grandma Laura grasped his sweaty hand.  “Why don't you head to the cellar and bring us some cool cider?”

No need to ask twice, Buddy flew down to the dark chilly cellar and decanted a quart jar from the barrel, and replaced the plug. Grandma Laura sipped from the jar, appreciating tangy cider, then passed it to Buddy.  Between them, the jar was emptied in a short space of time.

Grandma Laura hiccupped, “Oh, my.  Please excuse me!” She patted her mouth with an embroidered hanky.  

“Why don’t we have more, Buddy?  It is a hot day, and you have been working so hard. This time, though, fill that large pitcher on the sideboard. I will find us some nice glasses, that will be more civilized. Then you can relax.  You are such an exemplary worker, and could use more liquid.”

Buddy made his way down the cellar steps, a bit wobbly, but he managed to fill and then carry heavy pitcher to the porch. 

Between the two of them, Grandma and Buddy emptied her antique pitcher, and leaned back in a relaxed state where all seemed glorious. 

“Buddy, let’s sing some songs!” Buddy nodded carefully, as his vision blurred when his head moved.  “Something cheerful, I think.  Hmm.”  

My Grandmother Amy Peck, with Gr-Grandmother Laura Peck. As always, Laura carried her Bible where ever she went.  Being president of the local temperance unit, Laura would grab any drunkard and recite Bible verses to him.  They would often cross the street to avoid her.

Then she cut loose with a well-known drinking song, then moving on to songs with jaw-dropping words.

Buddy stared at her in awe and newly found respect.  

Buddy felt a sudden, urgent need to leave and talk to his ma.  He called to her, as he staggered back to the garden house.  Amy emerged, and with a single sniff, discerned that a large amount of liquor had been drunk. 

She grabbed Buddy, yelling, “BUDDYWHATHAVEYOUBEENDOING?”  She wailed on Buddy, until Buddy threw up on her feet.

About that time, Amy could hear Grandma Laura’s reedy voice singing, Roll out the barrel.  Amy dropped Buddy and raced to Laura’s front porch where she was ripping into the second stanza. 

Helen gazed down at Buddy with his vomit covered face. “Dammit, you are one stinkin' bastard, you know that, dontcha.”

They both giggled and Helen sank down beside him.  Although Helen was blurred in Buddy's vision, Buddy slurred, "This is the best I've felt in a long time."

Buddy gazed up at a clear sky, and for a short bit of time, the sky was blue, grass green.  A bit wiggly, but his world felt good.

I had to search for swear words since I don't swear or know many words.  The lists of words is long, most of them referring to body parts and sex.  The list of words from the 1930s were not too different. No offense is intended here.

Dad told me this story long ago.  His sorrow was palpable still after seventy years. This event was probably the first time he allowed himself to actually mourn.