11. The Perm ... THE FARM EAST OF PINE VILLAGE

As Robert had foreseen, Joe bought the Chevrolet Bel Air from the Dowdens. To Robert’s way of thinking, everything about the car was cheap. The aqua ceiling fabric felt like plastic, and it had a pattern of tiny circular holes. After experiencing the interior of the 57 Chevrolet, the 63 seemed cheap inside. The seat covers were not luxurious. Even the exterior lines of the vehicle made Robert feel that Chevrolet had lowered its standards. Robert felt that he was riding in a thin horizontal cardboard box. The lack of chrome and the plain round taillights proclaimed that everything about the car had been cheapened to the lowest denominator, yet the car was dependable. It did not languish for long periods of time in Glen Bisel’s shop; rather, it ran and ran in its bland, undistinguished way. Joe’s family rode in its cheapness from place to place for many years.

Ida drove the Bel Air to Bessie Eberly’s house when it was time for Bessie to give Ida a perm. While Bessie was transforming Ida’s straight hair into tight curls, Ida said, “I think we’re going to move.”

Bessie fumbled her comb, she was so surprised!

“Move! Where to?” Bessie managed to blurt out, fixing a concerned gaze on Ida in the mirror that both faced.

“Well, that’s just it,” Ida said. “We probably will move to Lizzie Williams’ house.”

“Here, in town?” Bessie questioned, her look becoming stern.

“No,” Ida laughed. “Her house out east of town.”

Bessie said, “You mean where the Davises lived.”

“That’s right,” Ida confirmed.

“I’m sure it’s a nice house, but why would you want to move there?” Bessie asked.

“Because we can’t move to Uncle Marshall’s house, which is falling in—” Ida began to explain.

Bessie interrupted, “—Anna and Marshall Rhode’s place?”

“That’s right,” Ida said again. “That’s a nice big house, but the roof has leaked so much that Joe thinks it would cost a fortune to fix everything. He says it should be bulldozed.”

“That’s a shame!” Bessie commented. “Such a big house! But why do you want to move at all?”

“Oh, I see what you were asking,” Ida remarked. “Well, the town has wanted additional revenue, and, at that meeting last week, somebody suggested annexing land around the town to increase the tax base.”

“Yes,” Bessie said encouragingly, once again busy with her comb.

“Joe said that he doesn’t want to pay the high taxes that would be assessed on his hundred and twenty-five acres. He thinks we should move right away.”

“But the town hasn’t annexed his farm, has it?”

“Oh, no!” Ida exclaimed. “That probably couldn’t happen for a year or two, even if the town managed to approve it, and there’s no proof that the town would want to annex good farm land anywhere around the perimeter.”

“But Joe is worried that the town might make that decision someday,” Bessie concluded.

“You know something?” Ida asked.

“What?” Bessie asked.

“I think it will be hard for Joe to move.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He has lived his whole life here. He grew up in the house where Cecil Gray lives, and he has raised his family in the house where we live now, which was part of his grandfather Tom Cobb’s land. I think Joe will feel homesick.”

Bessie laughed! “But Lizzie’s farm is only two miles east of here! It’s not like Joe would be moving to Canada!”

Ida laughed. “You’re right, but Joe is like his mother. They have to follow a routine, and they can’t endure change. I think when Joe is out there two miles away, he’ll feel as if he were in another country.”

Lizzie wanted Joe’s family to farm the old Williams place, so she sold the land to Joe.

When Joe, Ida, Charles, and Robert first pulled into the driveway of what would eventually become their new home, they hardly knew what to think. Charles appeared apathetic, Joe uneasy, Ida confident, Robert thrilled! Out there on the flat land that had once been marsh, the ancient trees around the house formed an oasis in the midst of a desert of black loam stretching toward the horizon in all directions. The maples were gnarled and bent from the constant wind that could roar from west to east during blizzards. A scraggly group of Osage orange trees huddled near a rusty wire fence. Outbuildings of gray, splintery wood leaned in crazy directions. While the others explored the house, Robert walked through the tall weeds to the west until he came to a slough, wet with cattails. The scent of tadpole water arose from the sedge grass. He could see so far away, and, everywhere he looked, the sky was filled with dark gray clouds reflecting the even darker earth, which was wild and lonely.

Robert pushed on through the tangled weeds catching at his feet. He came to a weathered shed where, in his father’s boyhood, Joe Williams had stored his Reeves steam engine, threshing machine, and water wagon. Robert’s great uncle Charley Cobb had worked as the Williamses’ engineer. Charley had died long before Robert was born. While Robert stood near the fallen doors of the shed, he thought how his grandmother’s brother had stood in the same place, oilcan in hand. Robert thought how closely the past pressed in upon him.

Robert joined the others at the house. A long enclosed porch with a sloping floor ran the length of the structure. It was homey. Ida was saying that she would move the kitchen into a large room that could double as a family room and wall off part of the old kitchen to make a bathroom. Robert and Charles would have bedrooms to the southeast of what would be the new kitchen, and Joe and Ida would have the room to the northeast. The empty house felt forlorn. Robert found a blue glass medicine bottle from the 1800s that someone had set on a windowsill.

“Could I have it?” he asked his mother.

“Yes, you may have it,” she said.

For Robert, the bottle came to symbolize the home east of Pine Village.  

Nearly two years would elapse before Joe’s family could move to Lizzie Williams’ farm. During that time, Robert would pass from classroom to classroom as a member of the seventh grade class and matriculate to the eighth grade. Every evening, he looked at the dark blue bottle and thought of the murky pools, the wild winds, the twisted tree trunks, the statuesque herons, the mysterious great horned owls, the scurrying quail, the gliding pheasants, and the cantering foxes that he felt were tugging him away from the security of the village into the unknown countryside, as if leprechauns were working an enchantment to lure him there. He pictured the move as an exciting adventure awaiting him just beyond a theatrical scrim through which, for the time being, he could see but which would not be lifted for him to see clearly for some time to come.

  

Christmas

A child in the late 1950s, I was accustomed to Christmas presents that were fewer and less expensive than those received by children of the generation after mine. One of the best presents that Santa left for me was a collection of hand puppets. For years, I told stories with them. Those cuddly toys helped me become a writer later in life.

My Family Visiting Santa at Sears in the 1950s

But I am ahead of myself, for this blog is about the days leading up to Christmases when I was a kid. Each year, the music teacher at the school planned a program of celebration, and, as a piano student, I was expected to perform. Each year, in the week before the event, I fell ill with flu and stayed home. Throughout grade school, I was never well enough to attend the Christmas program. I was not shirking my responsibilities; I was just a flu target.

I always recovered a few days before Christmas. Every year, my parents zipped my brother and me into our parkas, bundled us into the back seat of the 1957 two-door Chevrolet Bel Air, and took us to see the Christmas lights in Pine Village and Oxford, Indiana. As I could get car sick in the back seat, I had to take precautions, secretly rolling down the window a little so as to obtain fresh air, but I always enjoyed seeing the lights. In those years in such small towns, the light displays were modest. Outdoor strings featured large bulbs in primary colors. Wrapped around a living pine tree, such lights filled my heart with delight. Often, we could see the family Christmas tree with smaller lights and lots of crinkly metallic tinsel just inside a bay window or a picture window. I still remember the year when the Oxford doctor outlined the roof and windows of his ranch-style house in blue lights. We marveled at the color, as we had previously seen only multiple-colored strands. Also, we had rarely run across a house with its architectural features outlined in that way.

A day or two closer to Christmas, my parents took my brother and me to the Masonic lodge rooms on the second story of an old building on State Route 55 in town. The stairs were in the back and were dimly illuminated. I found them scary, creaking at every step. When we entered the main hall, we found the huge pot-bellied stove radiating tropical heat, melting the frost on the tall windows. The chairs were pushed back around the walls, and we kids sat quietly, waiting for Santa. Soon, we heard him ho-ho-hoing. He burst upon the gathering to the applause of the adults. Quickly, he handed small toys and candy to the assembled children. I looked upon him with awe.

On Christmas Eve, my family visited the Methodist Church. I recall the flickering light of candles in the stained glass. The scent of evergreen wafted into the sanctuary. In the candlelight, everyone’s eyes appeared large and mysterious. The adults wore smiles but were quieter than they were at a typical service. In the hush, the minister invited the congregation to sing carols to the tune of the organ. Tears well up in my eyes when I recall my mother’s soprano voice singing good old Christmas songs while she stood beside me and held my hand in that church so long ago.

At home in bed that night and barely able to shut my eyes from anticipation, I was always surprised to discover that I had fallen asleep and that the sunshine of Christmas morning was streaming through the windows. Tossing the covers aside, I dashed into the living room to find that Santa had indeed visited our house and had left presents for my brother and me!

My father in his overalls had already done his chores on the farm and had shaken the snow from his boots. He sat in a chair beside the Christmas tree with his coffee cup in his hand. My mother had already served breakfast and helped us kids to open our gifts. My grandfather, who lived in Indianapolis, was on hand. His eyes sparkled with the joy and hope of the holiday. I wish I could help you see them all as I see them in my vivid memory, for they were wonderful people. Later that morning, my grandmother and my great aunt joined us for “dinner,” as the noon meal was called. And what a magnificent dinner it was, with yeast rolls, fresh butter from our dairy, ham, peas, carrots, corn, and every good thing that my mother had canned from her garden.

If only I could return to that close family circle again! The promise of the Christmas story is that, one day, I can, and I hope I will.