For hours
each day, Robert played with the kitten he had named Fuzz. Robert tantalizingly
pulled a long piece of yarn, and Fuzz pounced on it, over and over. Robert sat
with his pudgy knees out. His feet hurt too much to stand. Once, he overheard
his mother speaking in worried tones to his father about how Robert was
becoming too big to carry and that, at two years of age, he should be walking. After
all, he was tall enough to see over the edge of the kitchen table! Ida thought
Robert would not understand what she was saying. In her diary, she had
expressed her fear that Robert was not as bright as his older brother, Charles.
“Robert doesn’t say much,” she wrote. She acknowledged that, at the same age,
Charles had been quite talkative.
But Robert did comprehend what she was saying, and
he knew that, inevitably, he would be taken to Dr. Virgil Scheurich in Oxford,
the town five miles to the north of Pine Village. During the consultation, Dr.
Scheurich advised Ida and Joe to consult with a doctor in Lafayette who had
enjoyed success with youngsters who could not walk.
Within a
few days, Robert and his parents were seated in the office of the doctor, who
said, “Why, his arches are as flat as pancakes! He needs corrective shoes with
arch supports.” Right then and there, Joe drove to the B & W Shoe Company
on the east side of the square. Proprietor Mr. Marion R. Baker took
measurements of Robert’s feet and wrote an order for the shoes. Charles
likewise was to receive a pair.
Several
days later, when Mr. Baker ensured that the boys’ shoes fit them, Robert took
his first walk in the style of black shoes with arch supports that he would
wear until he entered college. (He continued to wear a pair when he performed
as a member of the Indiana University Marching Hundred.) As a toddler, Robert
found that he could walk without the same degree of pain that he had been
feeling. With wide eyes, he looked up at his father, as if to say, “It’s a
miracle!” Soon thereafter, Robert was walking routinely, and his parents did
not have to carry him.
What of
Robert’s reluctance to speak? Again, there were conversations in undertones
between his parents. They decided to take him to a Lafayette clinic
specializing in speech defects. He was tested, but so was his brother. Charles’
answers were to serve as a comparison. After the testing, the expert sat down
with Ida and Joe. He began by saying, “There is nothing wrong with Robert’s
intelligence. He recognizes more words than his brother knows—probably because
Robert has been listening carefully. Robert’s reticence originates in his
having a palate that is a bit higher than normal; for this reason, he says
‘wabbit,’ instead of ‘rabbit.’ You can help him to say his r’s by asking him to say ‘er’ first, then the rest of the word.
‘Er’-abbit, for ‘rabbit,’ or ‘Er’-obert, for ‘Robert.’ Avoid correcting him for
mispronunciation; that makes him afraid to speak.”
Ida and Joe
took the specialist’s advice to heart, and, little by little, Robert began
talking without hesitation. At first, his “er” was drawn out, but, gradually,
it shortened. Eventually, he was uttering the proper sound of the r at the beginning of words such as
“reading.” He always felt a trifle self-conscious of the r sound whenever it fell at the beginning of a word, and that
feeling never left him.
All too
soon, Robert celebrated his third birthday. That Thursday, Ida invited his
grandmother, named Kosie Rhode, and his great aunt, named Margaret Goddard, to the noon
meal, called “dinner.” Everyone gathered around the five-leg drop-leaf table
covered with an oilcloth in the kitchen. There was barely room for the six
people to pull up their chairs. The windows and doors were open to permit the
faint breezes of late July to waft through the hot room. On the table were
platters of steaming roasting ears, fresh yeast rolls. Big bowls were filled
with fluffy mashed potatoes and glistening green beans fresh from the garden.
In the center was a mound of fried chicken. Sweet iced tea was poured over
crackling ice cubes in the glasses with weighted bottoms that were used only
for special occasions. Using a wooden mold, Ida had made a big block of butter
from the fresh milk of the Holstein cows, and the yellow brick was topped with
the shape of a rose. Beside it stood dishes filled with Ida’s crabapple jelly
and wild grape jelly. The conversation flowed freely, with beloved Great Aunt
Margaret telling stories from her childhood so humorous that laughter
repeatedly burst forth. She had the gift of making any story amusing. Grandma
Rhode listened intently and smiled prettily. Great Aunt Margaret’s first
husband had been Grandma Rhode’s brother, who passed away many years earlier.
Margaret’s second husband had been the veterinarian in town, and he, too, had
gone to his reward. Grandma Rhode and her husband, Seymour Alfred Rhode, had
divorced, and he lived in Indianapolis.
Dessert was
an angel food cake with pink peppermint icing, which became Robert’s favorite
cake, requested for his birthday year after year thereafter. Not long before
the 25th of July, Robert had learned a stunt of which he was very proud. He
would begin on all fours then lift one leg into the air. He would then waddle
as quickly as he could on both hands and one foot while keeping the other foot
as high as he could. He wanted to show Great Aunt Margaret and Grandma Rhode
his newly acquired skill, so, after dinner, his mother moved her rocking chair
to one side, thereby opening just enough floor space for Robert to demonstrate
his acrobatic talent.
“Look at
him go!” Great Aunt Margaret exclaimed. After taking a few rolling and
rollicking steps on two hands and a foot, Robert stood up and accepted the
gracious praise of his great aunt and grandmother. The company retired to the
living room, but, finding it too hot for comfort, everyone gratefully sat down
on the front porch, which faced the north and was less steamy than anywhere
else. The adults took the metal chairs and the swing that hung from the
ceiling, while Robert and Charles sat on the cool concrete floor. Family
stories poured forth—tales of long ago that Robert and Charles absorbed and
would remember years hence.
After
Robert turned four, he began to feel as if everything were even more memorable
than before. His life on the farm in Pine Village seemed permanent and secure.
One morning, he awakened to the touch of something lightweight and soft
brushing his face.
“Peep,
peep, peep,” went the something.
Robert
slowly opened his eyes. He saw his mother’s smiling face above an indistinct
yellow blur. He focused on the blur. Just then, it moved.
“Peep,
peep,” the blur said.
Robert
focused more closely. The outlines of a duckling taking its first steps on the
edge of the covers that Robert had pulled across his chin became clear.
“Careful!”
Ida urged, as Robert abruptly slid upward to free his arms. “Don’t squeeze him!
Hold him in the palm of your hand.”
Robert’s
mother had a large Farm Master incubator, in which she hatched ducklings,
goslings, and some of the chicks that Joe raised in his chicken business.
Robert’s father purchased the majority of his chicks from Henderson Poultry in
Oxford.
“He just
hatched,” Ida said, while Robert held the downy yellow duckling in the palms of
his hands. Its bright eyes sparkled. Its orange bill curved upward in what
appeared to be a smile. “Come see the others,” said Ida, taking the duckling
from Robert’s outstretched arms.
Robert
followed his mother to the breezeway where the incubator stood. An early summer
breeze carried the not unpleasant scent of eggs hatching in the warmth of the
brown wooden box on green painted legs. Ida unlatched the door with its slender
glass window on one side of the box and let it swing downward on its hinges.
She slid the tray forward. Among the eggs on the tray were several that were
pipping: that is, the bills of the ducklings inside were breaking away the
shell on one end, so that the ducklings could emerge from the eggs. Robert
stared in wonder at the tiny bills pushing at the inner lining where bits of
the outer shell had fallen away. One damp duckling was all the way free and was
drying while resting from her effort to escape.
Ida soon
slid the tray back into position and swung the latch around. She had removed
the damp duckling, which she gently set in the same bushel basket where she had
placed the happy creature that had awakened Robert. Even though the morning was
warm, a red heat lamp hanging by its black cord from a hook in the ceiling was
suspended not far above the basket, which was lined with newspapers.
“Peep,
peep, peep,” said Robert’s duckling. “Peep, peep,” replied its slightly damp,
tired nest mate.
