7. The Sixth Grade ... THE FARM EAST OF PINE VILLAGE

Charles’ teacher in the sixth grade was Mrs. Downy, but Mrs. Russell had taken her place by the time Robert was ready to begin his last year in the grade school of Pine Village. (Robert perceived the seventh and eighth grades as radically different because the students in those grades changed rooms to be taught different subjects.) Mrs. Elma Russell had been a classmate of Charles and Robert’s father.

Although her stature was slight, Mrs. Russell exerted an influence that was gigantic. She was one of the teachers that shaped the yielding clay of Robert’s perceptions. Mrs. Russell’s businesslike approach brooked no nonsense. Her smile meant she was pleased with the progress of the class. She smiled throughout the weeks that Robert’s class built a medieval castle.

A long table such as those in the cafeteria was placed by the east wall of the classroom, and the students were given the assignment to research and construct a castle resembling those of Europe in the Middle Ages. Mrs. Russell divided the class into teams, with each team responsible for completing one facet of the project. The team of which Robert was a member was to complete a backdrop. Wallpaper with the white side out was taped to the wall behind the table, and Robert’s team created a landscape in the appropriate scale for the cardboard castle buildings, which stood some two feet tall. The backdrop measured five feet tall by eight feet wide.

While his classmates laid out baileys and built walls and battlements, crenellated towers, and a rectangular keep, Robert sketched serfs working in fields and knights on horseback. Measurements were all there was of mathematics, but other subjects were fully incorporated in the project. Students gave oral reports on the history of medieval Europe, and they wrote papers about life in the Middle Ages. As the castle took shape day by day, the class’ sense of accomplishment grew.

During Robert’s time in Mrs. Russell’s class, his great uncle Marshall C. Rhode passed away. Robert’s father and his father’s first cousin Jay helped Marshall’s brother Charlie (Jay’s father) to prepare for an auction. On a cold day that threatened rain, the auctioneer’s repetitive tenor voice echoed down the valley from Marshall’s large house on the hill. While it wasn’t a castle, Marshall’s house was palatial for a farming community. It was a plain, two-story L-shaped home with fourteen rooms.

Joe was standing beside Ida when she said in an undertone, “I’m going to bid on the clock.”

Joe’s mouth fell open, and he stared at Ida. “What do we want with an old clock like that?” he asked.

“I like it,” Ida replied.

Joe closed his mouth. Ida stood determined in her boots, long blue winter coat with the big buttons, scarf tied over her hair, and pointy glasses: the picture of a farm wife in the 1960s.

The bidding turned to the so-called “mantel clock.” It was an old one: a Seth Thomas built in the early 1840s. The rectangular wooden box stood some two feet tall. The top glass over the face was intact, as was the bottom reverse-painted glass depicting a bouquet of flowers. The mechanism had to be wound each day and was powered by heavy weights that the act of winding caused to be lifted along the sides of the box on the inside. Gravity pulling on the weights did the rest, and a pendulum kept everything moving.

“Let’s start the bidding at fifty dollars,” cried the auctioneer. “Who will give me fifty dollars for the mantel clock?”

Catching an almost invisible gesture in the crowd, one of the auctioneer’s assistants yelped.

“Fifty, fifty, fifty, I have fifty, fifty, fifty,” the auctioneer began trilling. “Fifty-five, who will give me fifty-five, fifty-five, fifty-five?”

Ida nodded while Joe stared resolutely forward. A cold wind blew.

“Now sixty, now sixty,” the auctioneer warbled, warming to the contest. He pushed his cowboy hat back farther and leaned forward.

The auctioneer’s helper yelped again.

Eyes in the crowd went roaming in all directions to identify who was bidding.

Ida nodded, bringing the bid to sixty-five.

Joe whispered, “That’s a high price for an old clock.”

“It’s not polite to whisper,” Ida calmly explained.

“Now seventy, seventy, seventy,” sang the auctioneer, whose helper yelped almost immediately.

Ida recognized the dealer in antiques that she was bidding against. Joe was hoping she wouldn’t nod, but she did.

“Now eighty, now eighty, now eighty,” chirped the auctioneer. Within seconds, the assistant yelped again.

“I believe it’s time to stop,” Joe mumbled.

“I believe it’s time to bid again,” Ida said with the undaunted gallantry of a knight in the lists during a joust.

Exasperated, Joe muttered, “Oh, what do we want such an old clock for?”

“Try not to end on a preposition,” Ida said, nodding.

“Eighty-five, eighty-five, eighty-five, I have eighty-five, who will give me ninety, ninety, ninety?” the auctioneer yodeled. All eyes were on the antiques dealer, who finally shook his head.

“I have eighty-five, ninety? ninety? ninety? going once, going twice, SOLD to the little lady in the blue coat!”

“Let’s put the clock in the car, and I’ll show you why I like it,” Ida said to Joe, who tagged along after her as if he were a whipped puppy.

Once the clock was resting in the back seat, Ida carefully opened the glass door, reached into the bottom of the clock, and lifted a sheaf of papers.

“Here’s why I like the clock,” Ida said, smiling at Joe.

From 1806 until 1827, Joe’s Quaker ancestors had farmed along Caesar’s Creek, where their Quaker meetinghouse stood, and had attended “monthly meeting” in Waynesville, Ohio. In 1826 and 1827, they migrated to Indiana. The clock had been purchased only a decade and a half after the move. A family story told that Jonathan Rhode, who tried farming in Arkansas before returning to Indiana, had brought a mantel clock back to Indiana with him. The bundle of papers in the bottom of the Seth Thomas that Ida had bought for the exorbitant sum of eighty-five dollars included the handwritten tax receipts from Caesar’s Creek.

“This is your family’s history right here,” Ida beamed. “Nobody knew that these papers were in the bottom of the clock.”

“Well,” Joe grinned sheepishly, “I guess you knew what you were doing.”

“Oh, Joe, I always know what I’m doing,” Ida said in mock indignation.

At the end of the auction, a sleety drizzle began. People took the last of their prizes to their cars and trucks, and, soon, the grounds were largely deserted. The windows of the big house seemed to stare mournfully upon the emptiness.

Robert was staring at a broken dressing table that nobody wanted. It had been painted white, but the paint was chipping off. The heavy mirror had splintered the back of one of the supports and was detached, lying on top of the table with its single drawer. The legs were loose and wobbly. Tiny beads of rain covered the mirror and were reflected in it.

Joe read Robert’s mind. “Do you want that old table?” he asked Robert.

“I could refinish it, fix it up, and use it as my desk,” Robert said with a big smile.

Joe looked at Ida.

She said, “If that’s what he wants to do, let him take it.”

Joe lifted the dressing table and made room for it in the back of the GMC pickup.

Later, with advice from Aunt Margaret, who routinely restored furniture, Robert removed all traces of the white paint, sanded all the surfaces until they were smooth as glass, stained the piece a dark walnut, tightened the legs, and glued the splintered area. The day when he hung the mirror again was a victory. Many years later, it would bring a high price at another auction. Meanwhile, Robert sat at the desk every day and dreamed of becoming a writer.

That spring, a senior accomplished a dream of his. The Lafayette Journal and Courier for March the 26th in 1966 reported, “Central Catholic High School and Pine Village boys won the two top awards in the 14th Lafayette Regional Science Fair at Purdue University Saturday. Thomas Eberts, 16, a Central Catholic High School junior, won a trip to the International Science Fair at Dallas in May with his exhibit on ‘The Role of Testosterone in Red Cell Formation.’ Also winning an expense-paid trip to the International was Ted M. Willer, 17, a Pine Village junior, with his work on ‘Plasma Jet Studies of Re-entry Materials.’ In addition, Willer was named to receive a Navy Science Cruiser award. Sometime next summer, Willer will be a guest of the Navy on a tour of naval facilities, probably at Norfolk, Va.” The newspaper erred; Ted was a senior. Robert had stood in awe before Ted’s display at the local science fair. Ted went on to place third internationally.

From medieval castles to space exploration, the sixth-grade year impressed itself deeply in Robert’s memory.  

24. The Spelling Bee and Halloween ... THE FARM IN PINE VILLAGE

Robert was wary about starting the second grade. He was accustomed to Mrs. Hail. When he entered the school on the first day that fall semester and saw Mrs. Hail welcoming a new class into her room, he felt somewhat abandoned, although he knew that passing from one grade to the next was the way the system worked. Now he would have Mrs. Arvin, who was older than Mrs. Hail and who sometimes wore a face of what he took for severity.

After a time, Robert adjusted to Mrs. Arvin’s classroom manner and began to appreciate her methods. For Mrs. Arvin, the answers had to be strictly correct. Give her the correct answers, and she was your greatest supporter!

The year unfolded gradually, as did all the years back then. Time seemed to be in no hurry. Each minute was round and full of promise. One of Mrs. Arvin’s pedagogical strategies was to conduct spelling bees during the second half of the lunch period when the weather was so inclement that the students could not go outside for recess. Robert came to look forward to the spelling bees so much that he hoped for rain. On the drizzly days of autumn, he raced back to school after eating lunch at his home across the street so that he could take part in the contests.

The students chose up sides, and Robert felt proud to be one of the first chosen because he was considered a good speller. He tried as hard as he could not to let down his team. He correctly spelled such words as “separate”: S E P A R A T E. One day, Mrs. Arvin gave him “receive,” and he correctly spelled R E C E I V E. Another day, Mrs. Arvin said, “Robert, spell ‘definite.’” He said, “D E F I N I T E.”

On one rainy noon, Robert wolfed down the lunch of chili and grilled cheese sandwich that his mother had prepared and ran back across State Route 26 to the school building. His class had already chosen sides and had already begun the spelling bee. The moment Robert walked through the door, Mrs. Arvin said, “Robert, while you were gone, Susan chose you to be on her team, and it is your turn. Spell ‘twenty-three.’” Robert felt relieved to be given such an easy example. He took his place with Susan’s group, which was standing in front of the chalkboard, and he said, “T W E N T Y - T R E E.” Mrs. Arvin said, “That is incorrect. Robert, you may sit down.” With the blood rushing to his face, Robert stumbled toward his desk and took his seat. Susan was staring at him accusingly. Mrs. Arvin gave the opposing team “twenty-three,” and Alan spelled it correctly. Robert was too embarrassed to ask why his spelling was wrong, but the questioning look on his face must have revealed his bewilderment. Robert felt certain he had given the correct spelling. Mrs. Arvin said, “Robert, you omitted the h in ‘three.’” Although he knew how to spell “three”—and although he thought he had spelled it correctly—he could remember the sound of his own voice skipping from the t to the r without saying the h.

Robert had failed his team, and his chagrin was palpable. He felt his face grow redder and redder. Perspiration dripped down his neck. He had felt so confident, only to have erred and to have disappointed his team. He realized that, in the future, he could not allow himself to experience the luxury of confidence unless he had first taken every precaution to ensure correctness. One of those precautions was to take his time. He had rushed into the classroom, had immediately been given a word to spell, and had hurried to spell it. In the future, he would take a deep breath, concentrate with a steely steadiness, and not speak until he was sure that he could speak correctly. The lesson was one of the most important lessons he would ever learn.

As Halloween approached, Mrs. Arvin hung a cardboard skeleton on her classroom door. The bones of the arms and legs could swivel and hold various positions. The skeleton was taller than the children in Mrs. Arvin’s class. Halloween fell on a Tuesday, and, for an undisclosed reason, Mrs. Arvin had to be gone during the final period that day. Glen Bisel’s daughter, who was a high school student, took over the class. Mrs. Arvin had provided her with a stack of paper from the purple ditto machine in the main office. The pages retained the pungent but not unpleasant smell of the ink. They bore the outlines of a jack-o-lantern. The children were asked to color the pumpkin.

Robert and his classmates took out their crayons and set to work. While Robert preferred to create his own pictures, he enjoyed art of any kind, including coloring within the lines already laid down for him. He carefully shaded his pumpkin to make it as three-dimensional as possible. Beyond the windows, the skies were heavy with gray clouds scudding eastward and threatening rain. The students worked diligently at their drawings and gave their substitute teacher no trouble.

At the end of the period, Robert hurried home. He presented his mother with his jack-o-lantern drawing, which she appeared to appreciate. The evening became blustery. Now and then, the wind moaned. The weather was delivering the perfect atmospheric conditions for Halloween.

On the previous Saturday, after Robert and Charles’ piano lessons in Lafayette, Ida had shopped at the L. S. Ayres store, a branch of the big department store in Indianapolis. On display near the front doors were plastic Halloween masks.

“You boys, pick out your masks for trick-or-treating,” Ida had said.

The masks featured a fuzzy surface that felt almost like velvet when touched with the fingertips. Charles had selected a gray donkey mask, and Robert had chosen a brown dog mask.

When it was time to go trick-or-treating, Ida gave each of her sons an old sheet to wrap around the shoulders, concealing their identities. They had brown-paper grocery bags, which they had decorated with crayon pictures of bats, witches, and black cats. Joe drove them downtown and parked the car up the street from Grandma Rhode’s house.

Robert and Charles happily donned their new masks and wrapped the sheets tightly around themselves as the wind tried to whip the cloth away. They scurried to Grandma Rhode’s front door and knocked boisterously. When she saw them, she stood back in mock alarm and exclaimed, “Well, sir! Who might these animals be? I can hardly guess!”

“Did we fool you?” Charles asked laughingly, as both boys removed their masks.

“You most certainly did!” Grandma Rhode said.

“Trick or treat!” Robert joyfully shouted, holding forth his paper bag and waiting for the popcorn ball that he knew would be forthcoming.

Grandma Rhode and Great Aunt Margaret, who lived on opposite corners of an intersection, always got together to prepare popcorn balls for Halloween. They made the best! The balls were huge, the popcorn was tender, and the caramel was rich.

While Grandma Rhode placed a giant popcorn ball in each bag, Joe and she chatted about the weather and how they hoped the rain would hold off.

With Joe not far behind in the shadows, the boys next hammered their fists on Aunt Margaret’s door. A big smile spread across her face.

“What do we have here?” she asked. “I see a dog. He seems friendly enough. And here’s a donkey. He won’t kick, will he, Joe?”

“Trick or treat!” yelled Charles.

“I think you’re Charles, and you’re Robert. I see that you already have your popcorn balls from your grandmother, and I will give each of you another one.”

While the boys waited for Aunt Margaret to bring the sweets, the wind whistled around her house and dashed her bushes from side to side.

Robert made his popcorn balls last. He ate only one of them later that night and saved the other for another day. They were the greatest treats of his childhood days.

Joe took his sons to a few other houses in town—enough for each boy to gather four candy bars. Milky Way and Three Musketeers were Robert’s favorites.

The next day, as Robert went to school, he felt sorry that Halloween was over, but he looked forward to the lunch period. The clouds were spitting rain, and he thought it likely that Mrs. Arvin would hold a spelling bee.     

19. The Flu and the Visits ... THE FARM IN PINE VILLAGE

Robert’s class rehearsed a Christmas song to be performed during a school-wide convocation to occur just before school was dismissed for a few days during the holiday season. Robert struggled to find the correct pitches when he and his classmates were singing a wide variety of incorrect pitches. He worried about what the quality of the song would be on the day when the class had to sing it before the school.

He need not have worried. A day before the concert, Robert came down with the flu and had to stay home. He hated missing school almost more than he hated being sick. He felt he was letting down his classmates, but nothing could be done about the situation. He was sick, and that was that.

This, moreover, became a pattern for almost all of the six years of grade school. Robert would come down with the flu just before the school’s observance of Christmas, and he would miss the convocation. After the first few years of catching the flu, he began to dread the beginning of rehearsals of the school’s Christmas programs, for he knew he would become ill. And, like clockwork, he caught the flu bug at that same time year after year.

“No, you’re going to be well this year,” his mother would reassure Robert.

Shortly thereafter, the fever and the sneezing would begin.

“You’ll have to stay home,” his mother would have to admit.

Year after year …

When 1961 began, Joe took the boys to visit Jim Hooker. It was a short drive into town; if it had not been so cold, they could have walked. Jim accompanied them to his workshop in the small barn beside his house. Windows along the south and east walls met in the corner where the door was. Inside, heavy work tables stretched the length of both walls. The tables were laden with homespun wood carvings.

Jim stood back with his coat open enough for him to rest his thumbs under his red suspenders. He grinned with pride while Robert and Charles stared in wonder at Jim’s creations.

Robert felt he could spend all day looking at the carvings and not grow bored. They were intricately detailed yet not photographically real. Each displayed an element of Jim’s fanciful imagination. There were miniature wagons with working wheels that were pulled by twenty teams of mules. A few of his earlier renditions of the theme had mules that were more or less alike, but his later versions featured mules that were all different, with some glancing to one side and with others switching their tails.

Many Conestoga wagons stood among the carvings. They were covered in canvas and pulled by oxen yoked together. Teams and teams of draft horses were hitched to a variety of farm wagons.

Robert did not want to possess a carving as a toy. He understood that these were works of art not to be played with and to be treasured for their beauty. They revealed the talent and the skill and the genius of their creator.

While the boys ogled the mules, horses, oxen, and wagons, their father talked with Jim about the news from around town. Robert paid no attention to their conversation; he studied the carvings with rapt admiration. Although he remembered seeing them when he was younger, he felt he was seeing them for the first time. He had arrived at an age when he could appreciate the deft movements of Jim’s carving tools recorded in the wood of the figures.

Next, Joe took the boys to see their great aunt Margaret. With a big smile, she invited them to step inside her warm kitchen. The air was balmy with the fragrance of raisin cookies, which she was baking in her black iron oven. A coal oil lamp that had been converted to electricity hung on the wall above an antique table. The light bulb within the glass chimney gleamed brightly because a mirror-like reflector fanned out behind it. The light hurt Robert’s eyes, but, as long as he kept his back to it, there was no problem. He enjoyed looking out the windows and seeing the well-manicured houses across the street. Traces of snow clung to their eaves. One large house was Dutch Colonial and featured a gambrel roof with dormers.

Aunt Margaret offered everyone a cookie as big as a saucer. She leaned forward to hand Robert his cookie. He thought her happy face above her starched apron resembled her cookies. Here and there were little wrinkles embroidering her countenance, and her eyes gleamed in the same way that the raisins sparkled in the bright light from the coal oil lamp!

“The meat should be ready in Otterbein,” Joe said. “In the next day or two, I’ll drive over to pick it up, and I’ll bring you the cuts you wanted.”

“Just this morning, I was wondering what I was going to cook this week,” Aunt Margaret said. “I had about made up my mind to walk up to Terrell’s Market to buy some pork chops, but I’m glad I put it off. Come see my Christmas cactus.”

Aunt Margaret led the group into her living room. In the south window on a fern stand was an enormous Christmas cactus with many magenta blooms.

“It was the fullest just before Christmas,” Aunt Margaret said, “but it’s still giving a good show.”

The notched branches hung in all directions. The plant was larger than a bushel basket. The blossoms were white near their centers, but the rich magenta hue was what caught Robert’s eye.

“You certainly have good luck with your Christmas cactus,” Joe said.

“I don’t know why it does so well there,” Aunt Margaret said, “but it seems to like that window. All I have to do is to remember to water it.”

“I’m considering driving up to Claude Martindale’s to see if he has any apples left. Ida wants to bake a pie.”

“If he has any, could you get me a dozen?” Aunt Margaret asked. “Did I ever tell you what Claude did when we were children? We attended the same one-room school out there not far from Marshall Rhode’s house. Claude got the idea to tie a kernel of corn to a piece of string. It was warm outside, and the window was open. When the teacher wasn’t looking, he threw the kernel out the window and held onto the string. There were chickens all around the school. He would tug a little on the string and tug a little more on the string. Before long, he had the kernel up on the window sill. Right then, a big fat chicken that was trying to get the corn flew up, grabbed hold of the sill with its talons, and squawked. At first, everyone was so startled that nobody said anything, then the children were so tickled that they laughed and laughed. The teacher made Claude stand in the corner.”

Robert and Charles chuckled along with Aunt Margaret.

“Well, I suppose we should be going,” Joe said.

“Don’t stay away so long the next time,” Aunt Margaret chided in a joking fashion.

The boys and their father climbed back in their car for the short drive to Claude Martindale’s orchard in “Oklahoma,” the nickname for a group of houses near where there had been a railway that passed the elevator east of Pine Village. Claude wore his customary black cap that resembled those the newsboys of an earlier generation had worn. His blue denim coat hung loosely on his overalls.

“Yes, I still have some cooking apples in my cellar,” Claude said in reply to Joe’s question. While the boys stamped their feet to keep them warm, Joe waited until Claude reappeared with a basket under his arm.

“These are mostly winesaps,” Claude said, as he handed the half-full basket to Joe.

“Claude, there are many more here than I asked for,” Joe said.

Claude raised his hand and shook his head slightly. “I have more than I can use before they go bad,” he said.

“What do I owe you?” Joe asked.

“This late in the season, you owe me nothing,” Claude said. “Just tell Ida to bring me a slice of her pie.”

“Well, thank you most kindly,” Joe said. “I’ll make sure you get a piece of pie.”

Joe set the basket in the back seat. There would be plenty of apples to divide with Aunt Margaret and with Grandma Rhode, as well.

Joe, Charles, and Robert had enjoyed their visits. Robert had learned that people are makers. Jim Hooker made carvings, Aunt Margaret made cookies and Christmas cactus blossoms, and Claude Martindale made apple orchards and baskets of apples that appeared from his cellar.

  

5. The Holidays ... THE FARM IN PINE VILLAGE

After Charles returned from school one day, he and Robert were playing Blob when their mother announced that they were going to the Masonic Lodge to see Santa Claus that evening. Blob was a game that the boys had invented. In previews at the movie theater in the nearby town of Oxford, enough of the plot of the movie by the same name had been revealed to suggest the game, without necessitating a viewing of the horror film—which their mother would never have permitted, anyway.

One of the brothers was designated “the Blob.” He covered himself with an old blanket and huddled on the floor while the other brother hid. Then the Blob searched for the hidden brother. While he searched, he periodically knelt and rolled around on the floor while keeping the blanket over him. When he found the brother, his object was to cast the blanket over him while making horrifying snarling sounds. If he failed to get the blanket to fall over his brother, he had to crouch beneath the blanket and make muttering noises until his brother had a chance to hide again. The search repeated. If he was lucky enough to drop the blanket over his brother, the brother became the Blob, and the proverbial tables were turned.

With a visit to Santa Claus in the offing, the brothers soon found themselves having to dress in their Sunday best. Because temperatures were chilly, they had to don long underwear. Robert had trouble folding the bottom of the leg of the underwear and stuffing it inside his sock. After he had pulled on his woolen trousers, he had to put on his corrective shoes and tie their laces. His mother had repeatedly demonstrated how to form a loop and to hold it in one hand while doubling the other end through the loop so as to form a second loop. Robert could almost achieve that much, but, when he tried to pull the two loops tight, the end of the one he had doubled invariably slipped through the first loop. He was left with one loop, a loose knot, and a long strand of lace that he would trip over, if he were to leave things as they were.

On his own, Robert had learned to form one loop in one hand and a second loop in his other hand and to tie the two loops together. He assumed (incorrectly) that speed was important, so he practiced forming the loops as rapidly as possible. That way, he could tell his mother, “See? My way is just as fast.” Ida wanted him to tie his shoes the way she had shown him, and she made him try and try again. Finally, Robert’s father said, “Ida, he gets his shoes tied just as nicely his way as our way. Why not let him have his way?” Reluctantly, she consented. (Robert would tie his shoes his way for the rest of his life!)

On this occasion, Robert tied his shoes successfully. Next, his brother and he had to zip up their parkas, put on their stocking caps, slip the hoods of their parkas over the stocking caps, wrap their mufflers around their faces, and put on their gloves. Charles and their mother climbed into the back seat of the 1950 Chevrolet, and Robert and their father took the front seat. Robert always got “car sick” in the back, so he had to ride in the front. His mother thought it was a reasonable concession to put Robert in front.

The boys were perspiring under their parkas, even after the short drive to the Masonic Lodge. The two-story building was on the south side of an alley that led westward from State Route 55 not far from the intersection of State Route 26. Some thirty years earlier, the first floor had served as Ray Ogborn’s garage and automotive repair shop. The boys’ grandmother Kosie had a brother, Charles Albert Cobb, nicknamed Charley or Cobbie, who died in 1931. His widow, Margaret Wagner, was the beloved family member that the boys and their parents called “Great Aunt Margaret.” She eventually had married the veterinarian, Doc Goddard, but he, too, died before the boys were born. Residents of the town continued to refer to her as Mrs. Margaret Goddard. Ray Ogborn had purchased the automotive business, but not the building, from Charley, so Great Aunt Margaret transferred ownership of the first floor to her sister Louise and Louise’s husband, Pete Thurman.

To reach the Masonic rooms on the second floor, the boys and their parents trudged down the dark alley. Robert kept turning his head from side to side so that he could see beyond the fake fur that surrounded the hood. Half dead vines shuddered in the cold breeze along the brick wall. Traces of snow highlighted the weeds along the foundation of the building across from the Masonic Lodge. The family passed through a doorway at the very back of the old building and started up the dimly illuminated stairs. Robert tripped more than once. Several of the steps creaked.

They entered the main hall. A huge potbelly stove stood in the center of the room. So much wood had been fed to it that it was glowing red in places and was radiating a tropical heat that melted the frost on the tall windows. Chairs were pushed back around the walls. The boys were thankful to remove their coats, but, even then, they were too hot. They waited patiently for Santa Claus. Well, they knew that this was not the real Santa. He came without being seen on Christmas Eve and left presents for the boys in their very own home. This Santa was a well-meaning member of the lodge. Soon, they heard him ho-ho-hoing. To the adults’ applause, he burst upon the gathering. He was wearing a flimsy Santa costume with a rather poor excuse for a cotton beard, but he was most certainly jolly! He handed small gifts and candy to all the children. The leader of the lodge said a few inspiring words about Christmas, and the event was over. The adults stood conversing with one another far longer than Robert’s patience could hold out, but he knew better than to tug on his mother’s sleeve. Eventually, Ida smiled down at Charles and Robert and asked, “Are you boys ready to go home?” They nodded politely.

On went the parkas, the stocking caps, the mufflers, and the gloves. Once the family was back inside the Chevrolet, Ida suggested that they see the Christmas lights. Joe drove around Pine Village, which took relatively little time, as the town was quite small. Next, he headed north on State Route 55 all the way to Oxford. The stores that year were carrying GE “ice bulbs,” which were pale blue Christmas lights that were shaped like globes and covered with “ice crystals,” as they were called, and Elvis’ recording of “Blue Christmas” had been playing on radio stations for two years. Even so, the family was surprised when Joe drove past Doc Scheurich’s ranch house in the woods just to the south of Oxford. All blue lights outlined the home! The blue was such a departure from the multi-colored bulbs that the boys and their parents were impressed.

Once the family was home, Joe played 45 RPM records on the Victrola, which resembled a piece of furniture and which had an honored place in the living room. Twin doors with ornamental ovals in the gleaming finish swung open to reveal a radio and record player, as well as a fabric-covered speaker, on the right and shelves for storing 45 records on the left. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” was a favorite!

Christmas Eve fell on Wednesday, and the family went to the Methodist Church for the evening service. Joe’s father, Seymour, had come from Indianapolis to spend the holiday with Joe, Ida, and the boys. Grandpa Rhode gave everyone a ride in his black 1951 Hudson Commodore 8 Sedan. The family disembarked from the comfortable car and took the stairs to the sanctuary. For the remainder of his life, Robert would retain a detailed memory of how holy the church appeared that night. Candles stood in the windowsills, and their flames reflected from the undulations in the stained glass. Real evergreen boughs surrounded them, and the scent of pine filled the room. People spoke softly as they took their seats along the pews. Mrs. Brutus, the organist, launched into “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Everyone stood and began to sing. Robert long remembered the twinkle in his father’s eyes and the sparkling light reflected in the glistening eyes of his mother, whom the song touched deeply.