Experiencing Nature in Warren County, Indiana 5

Where I grew up (Pine Village, Indiana), the black loam of the flat farmland stretched to the horizon’s cobalt line encircling the viewer. The dome of the sky cupped the life below. Few trees interrupted the view of clouds, of sunrises, of sunsets. Toward the back of our farm, nearly a mile long, a hedge had managed to hold on in a fencerow. Buffeted by the blizzards of winter and the winds of early spring, the Osage orange trees looked splintered and forlorn, their spiky limbs reaching down as if to grab the earth to keep from being blown away. For many years, a family of foxes lived among the hedge apples.

A Fox in Winter

Engraving by Henry Wolf (1852–1916)

In Harper’s New Monthly Magazine

December 1884

When disking the earth, I occasionally glimpsed a red fox skipping home, its fluffy tail, almost as big as its body, flying behind and its dark legs flashing like a gentleman’s tall boots during Great Britain’s Regency Era. The white of its cheeks and chin only emphasized the fox’s slight grin, amused at its own cleverness, probably. In moments, the fox vanished amid the tangle of weeds wrapped around the trunks of the venerable Osage orange trees.

Once on an ominous night in the spring, I shook Spot’s leash, and he came running to go for a walk beyond the fenced yard. Spot was my family’s fox terrier, and a much admired dog was he! When he enjoyed an activity, he more than enjoyed it: he loved it! … and he adored going for a walk!

Spot and I set out toward the north past the security of the house, barn, and outbuildings. We took the well-beaten path that the tractors took beside the fields. The wind came in long exhalations that could be heard far off before it could be felt. The air was chilled but not frozen, as it had been in the recent winter. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw small gray clouds scudding overhead. They appeared to be so low that I could touch them, but such was merely an illusion.

Now and then, Spot tugged on the leash, and I quickened my pace to keep up with him. He was having the time of his life, turning his head from side to side, sampling the smorgasbord of smells low to the ground. After a time, we reached the back of the farm. Spot wanted to explore the hedgerow, so I followed him as he trotted toward the gnarled trees.

Suddenly, we heard a growl. “Fox,” I immediately thought. Instinctively, I grabbed Spot around his belly and lifted him to my chest. As the moon broke from behind clouds, I saw the ghostly white of the fox’s face staring in our direction. I backed slowly away. The fox began taking slow steps toward us. Just then, I heard a yipping and yelping that could only be from kits. Sure enough, four pups came tumbling out of the weeds to prance around the legs of their mother!

I kept backing up until I was in the center of the freshly plowed field. Keeping my balance was tricky, as the clods were tilted wherever the plowshares had left them. Growling continually, the mother fox had followed us to a distance of perhaps thirty feet from her den. Abruptly, she whipped around and ran back among the trees, her cubs leaping and tumbling about her in what they perhaps perceived as a game.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Walking back to the house, I traversed a considerable distance before I thought it was safe to put Spot back on the ground. I complimented him because he had refrained from barking throughout the entire encounter with the fox family. I suppose that my hugging him tightly to my body had persuaded him that we were in a potentially dangerous situation, and his instincts likely convinced him that he was better off to remain silent. I think that, had he barked, he might have incited the fox somehow, and I was glad that he had kept his mouth shut.    

Vehicles I Remember: 1963 Chevrolet (Last Installment in This Series)

Around 1966, my parents thought they needed a car with fewer miles than their 1957 Chevrolet had. They turned to the Dowdens, who were selling a 1963 white Chevrolet Bel Air. A generation earlier, Milton Dowden had been a sign painter in town; his son, Milton L., who went by “Milt,” could hang wallpaper better than anyone! Milt’s wife, Elsie, had given my mother a recipe for sour milk drop cookies that my mother included among her favorite desserts. My father and mother respected—and liked—the Dowdens very much. I recall almost no deliberation about the automobile; my parents bought it right away.

The 1963 Chevrolet Bel Air, an IH 560 Tractor,

Brothers Ready for School, and a Fox Terrier

My mother and father enjoyed the 63 Chevy more than I did. The aesthetics of the design did not appeal to me. There was something about the look and feel of the ceiling fabric that turned me off. The color was light aqua. The material felt like plastic, and it had a pattern of tiny circular holes. What can I say? After experiencing the interior of the 57 Chevrolet, the 63 seemed cheap inside. The seat covers also struck me as anything but luxurious. Even the exterior lines of the vehicle made me feel that Chevrolet had lowered its design standards. We were riding in a thin horizontal box with a roof and windows that projected above the box. The lack of chrome and the plain round taillights seemed to proclaim that everything about the car was cheapened to the lowest denominator.

As far as I remember, 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. My family rode in its cheapness from place to place for many years. The white car reminded me of sour milk: that is, sour milk by itself, not as an ingredient in Elsie Dowden’s delicious cookies!

At the end of its life, the car faded into obscurity, replaced by a 1966 Pontiac Catalina that my parents and I loved. Typical of the Chevrolet was its unremarkable demise; I cannot remember what became of it.

I do fondly recall Elsie Dowden’s cookies, however! Here is her recipe:

Elsie Dowden’s Sour Milk Drop Cookies

Ingredients

1 cup shortening (butter and lard combined)

2 cups brown sugar

2 eggs

1 cup sour milk (or buttermilk)

1 cup raisins, chopped

½ cup chopped walnuts

4 cups flour

1 tsp nutmeg

1 tsp vanilla

½ tsp salt

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder (heaping tsp)

Directions

Preheat oven to 375°. Cream shortening and sugar. Add beaten eggs. Dissolve baking soda in milk. Sift flour, heaping teaspoon of baking powder, salt, and nutmeg together. Mix all and add floured nuts and raisins. Drop from spoon onto buttered baking sheet. Bake for ten minutes or until the bottom edges begin to turn lightly brown.

  

My Friend Spot

Not long before Christmas when my brother and I were in grade school, our parents took us on a drive to a nearby town. The day was bitterly cold. When we parked at a house unknown to us, my brother and I wondered what was going on. A man whom we had never met before led us to an outbuilding. Inside was a pen filled with yelping fox terrier puppies. The liveliest of the bunch propped his front paws up high on the fencing and joyfully barked a good puppy bark at us. Our father lifted him from the pen and handed him to the breeder, who promptly put him in a cardboard box. “Maybe the box will help keep him warm,” the seller said as he accepted our father’s cash for the dog.

My brother and I crowded against the sides of the box placed between us in the back seat of the Chevrolet. Our mother turned toward us from the front seat and asked, “What are you going to call him?” I had just lifted the lid to peer in wonder at the puppy, and I saw a prominent black oval in the center of his white back. “Spot!” I yelled. Our mother immediately agreed, and he was Spot from that day forward.

On Spot’s first night with us, our mother lay on a couch in front of a heating stove in the kitchen of our farmhouse and kept the puppy next to her under the covers. She said he never whimpered for his littermates or mother. In the morning, he was raring to explore his new home. He was immediately one of us: a full member of our family, another son, another brother. Needless to say, Spot was the greatest Christmas present ever!

Our mother trained him to ask to go outside when needed, and he complied readily. He was so smart! He learned tricks the fastest of any dog in my experience. He shook a paw, he spoke on command, he played dead, and he rolled over, always with his characteristic enthusiasm. He was the happiest creature on earth, and one of the most energetic!

Spot and My Brother

My brother and I romped with Spot endlessly. When I look back on those times, how soon tears of cheerful memory sting my eyes! Spot shared the most jubilant years of my fun-filled childhood!

Spot had one habit that none of us appreciated: if the front gate to our yard were opened the least bit, Spot squeezed through and dashed downtown! Every time he escaped (and he escaped often), a mad chase ensued. My brother and I ran after him until our lungs were aching. Our father jumped in the car and drove after Spot with the driver door hanging open. Around the streets of the village we went, while Spot cut through yards, dove under hedges, and sped across sidewalks. We were so agitated that my brother and I were willing to throw ourselves forward to tackle Spot, and, whenever we tried to grab him, he would tuck his tail down and run the harder, with his back legs digging in and kicking him forward. All the while, he had the biggest grin on his face! He loved the game!

Each time, Spot eventually sensed that we were tuckered out. He declared himself the winner and cantered toward the car, slowing down just enough to leap gracefully over our father’s lap and into the passenger’s side. Gasping for breath, my brother and I would slowly seat ourselves in back and slump with such sore muscles!

During the chases, we usually kept Spot in view, but, occasionally, he ran too fast and lost us for a minute or two. Once, after he had been out of sight, he ran back to us with a gash on his side. Maybe a vehicle struck him slightly or maybe he caught his skin on something sharp. Anyway, we took him straight to the vet, who gave him a few stitches. That evening and for the next several days, we pampered him. He was already spoiled, but we treated him as if he were an injured king. Of course, he adored all the attention!

When we moved a few miles into the country, Spot encountered a gate that he could not slip through, but he gave no sign of feeling trapped. Besides, we hauled him everywhere in the car and the pickup truck. He was outside the yard with us more often than he was inside the yard of our new home.

Our mother insisted that Spot not sleep on the beds; his bed was a blanket beneath our parents’ bed. Whenever he was sure that our parents were sound asleep, he quietly came to my room and jumped up on my bed. I groggily pet him, and he snuggled down to a good night’s rest. Just before my father awakened to do his chores, Spot sneaked back to our parents’ room. As far as I know, our parents never knew that Spot slept on my bed for several hours each night.

Throughout his life, Spot never lost his youthful energy and enthusiasm. He hated to see my brother go away to college, and, two years later, he hated to see me do the same. His greatest joy was when we came home for breaks and holidays.

I still remember how shocked I felt when our father called me at college to say that Spot had gone rapidly downhill and had been put to his long sleep. My father’s voice cracked while telling me.

Spot’s death was the first of those that have come to my immediate family, and, as the first, his was particularly melancholy. The passing of many years since that mournful day has softened the sadness to a large degree. Now when I remember Spot, I recall merriment, elation, hilarity, and rejoicing. He made my early life most memorable.