2. The Incubator ... THE FARM IN PINE VILLAGE

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.

1. The Discovery ... THE FARM IN PINE VILLAGE

This novel is dedicated to my dear friend Eleanor Yeager Stewart, who helped me realize that the worlds of our childhood were never somewhere else but always right within us. Here is part of my childhood world—almost exactly the way it was!

The tall foxtail of July waved like ornamental grasses above him. Across the road to the northeast stood the school with the grades and the high school all in one building made mostly of metal. Two long, angling sidewalks approached the two sets of doors spaced along the south front of the red-roofed one-story school. The white paint on the exterior walls made dusty spots on the fingertips when it was touched, and the scrubby evergreens along the foundation gave off a pleasant mid-summer scent. Straight to the north, dappled shadows played across the porch of Beulah Jones’ house surrounded by old maples. The drive to the parking lot between the school and the gymnasium curved past sawed-off poles spaced to deter traffic from entering the playground. Behind the gym was a fringe of trees bordering Pine Creek. Had he been taller, he might have seen Beulah in the vegetable garden tucked behind her home. She wore a straw hat and pretty gloves made for gardening. Her white hair curled stylishly beneath the hat’s broad brim. She seemed perfectly at ease bending over her tomatoes and hunkering down to pull the weeds among her onions.

The sky was the pale blue shade of a hazy summer. Rows of cumulus clouds floated slowly toward the east—so slowly that their motion was almost undetectable. Now and then, the rasping crescendo of a cicada in the nearby catalpa tree caught his attention before the sound trailed away. His mother, Ida, was hoeing industriously in her large garden. Plenty of hoeing was needed in July, for the ground had hardened under the baking sunshine and firmly gripped the roots of the weeds that were shooting upward and outward at an alarming rate each day. Unlike Beulah, his mother wore no hat. The tight curls of her “perm” glistened black while she threw her sun-reddened shoulders into the work of hacking away at the pigweed and the lamb’s quarters.

He couldn’t see his mother, either, even though she was only thirty feet away. He couldn’t see the houses of Pine Village in an arc from the north to the west. His mother’s garden on the south side of State Route 26 and the playground on the north side defined the east edge of the town. The cozy homes nestled securely among the shade trees. Robins sailed down from the low branches to pull worms from the lawns, and katydids droned pleasantly in the foliage. Occasionally, pickups with curving fenders and livestock panels around the beds ambled along the highway. Horses in the narrow meadow behind Jim Eberle’s house whinnied happily.

He saw only the nodding brushes of the foxtail all around him and a spot of blue sky and white cloud above. Ida had stamped her sandaled feet in the thick growth of foxtail until she had hollowed out a “playpen” for little Robert, who had just turned two. The weeds were impenetrable there in shade of the lone catalpa on the south edge of the garden, and she knew that Robert could go nowhere. He sat with his feet almost together and his dimpled knees to either side. He indolently played with the long stems that his mother had trod.

Suddenly, the weeds parted and eyes stared at Robert. His blue eyes must have registered just as much surprise as he saw in the blue eyes that looked back at him. To get his mother’s attention, Robert shouted. She dropped her hoe and came running as fast as she could between the rows of potatoes. Soon, her face with the glasses almost slipping off her nose peered down from the circle of sky above Robert.

“It’s a kitty!” she exclaimed, reaching downward and scooping up the ivory-colored kitten, which mewed, much to Robert’s delight. The fur was scarcely any lighter than Robert’s hair, for he was a towhead. Ida set down the kitten only long enough to lift Robert in one arm while she reached for the kitten again with her free hand. Taking long strides so that Robert wouldn’t get too heavy, Ida rushed toward the house. When she reached the gate that leaned from the corner of the old smokehouse, her steps were easier in the mowed grass on the other side. She swung open the screened door of the breezeway between the smokehouse, now a storage room, and the kitchen. She was glad to set Robert down while she kept a firm hold on the kitten.

“We’ll feed him some cream,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen and soon reappearing with a saucer in hand. There in the breezeway, she placed the saucer before the wobbly kitten and poured a little cream that she had drawn from the separator just that morning. It was a Marvel Gravity Dilution Cream Separator made by Superior Sheet Metal Works Company of Indianapolis, as a silvery plate on the dark blue three-legged can proclaimed. Even though Robert’s feet hurt, as they did whenever he stood, he hardly noticed the ache because he was so entranced with the kitten, which overcame its fear and flicked its little pink tongue into the fresh cream. “After he has drunk all he wants, you can pet him a little,” said Ida.

Silently, she and little Robert watched the kitten contentedly lapping the surface of the liquid. It drank almost every drop. Then Ida showed Robert how to pet the creature lightly so as not to hurt it.

“What shall we call him?” Ida asked Robert. Because the kitten was so soft, Robert said, “Fuzz.” Ida laughed. “That’s a good name for him!” she agreed.

At that moment, Robert’s father came to the porch on the opposite side of the kitchen from the breezeway. “Joe, come here,” Ida called to her husband. “Look what Robert found!”

In his dark blue overalls and short-sleeved shirt, bleached almost white, Joe hurried through the kitchen and out to the breezeway. He took off his seed corn cap and ran his hand over his balding head. His eyes twinkled and his face broke into a smile. “Well, where did you find a kitten?” he asked his wife.

“Robert found him,” Ida explained. “I heard Robert yell, and here was the kitten standing by Robert in the weeds. His name is Fuzz. Robert named him.”

“We’re going to keep him, are we?” Joe wanted to know.

“He’s Robert’s kitten,” Ida answered.

Robert looked up at his father’s merry eyes and his mother’s big smile. He could hardly believe his luck in getting to have such a miraculous thing as a soft, warm kitten, which had begun to purr under his careful touch. Robert would remember that day for the rest of his life.

My Friend Kiko (Last Installment in This Series)

Kiko chose my house. He had visited my neighbor’s home and had considered living there, but, ultimately, he preferred my place. On a spectacular spring morning, I held open the kitchen door while the orange and white cat padded confidently inside.

Kiko, Who Remained a Kitten Throughout a Long Life

Kiko was grown but still kittenish. He had a positive outlook toward everything, except moving, as I later discovered. He felt reassured that he had made the right decision in selecting me as his “owner.” He played and purred, purred and played, all day long, and, in the evenings, he snuggled in my lap for a snooze while I watched the news.

Whenever he stood by the kitchen door, I let him out. Whenever he wanted back in, he waited patiently on the small porch beyond the doorway until I chanced to see him there.

Kiko was a fierce hunter of snakes. Even though he was a small cat, he scaled my tall privacy fence each day and prowled the neighborhood searching for garter snakes. Whenever he caught one, he brought it back to my fenced yard. With the dead snake drooping from his mouth, he shinnied and clawed his way to the top of the boards. Then he always confronted a problem. As he squeezed through the gap between the arrow-shaped tops of two boards and sprang to the ground, the snake caught in the gap and slipped from his jaws. He looked up at his prize, pondered ways to retrieve it, stared to one side in puzzlement, and shook his head. Forgetting the loss of the snake, he skipped merrily onto the porch and tarried there. When I graciously opened the door and he strode into my house, I checked the fence, and—sure enough!—a deceased serpent festooned it! My duty was to dispose of the reptile before the neighbors saw it and wondered why I had draped it over the top of my fence.

Kiko was easy to care for and great fun! In return, he gave his fullest affection. How many times when I was sad did he spring to my lap and cheer me? How many days when I was busy did he startle me by skittering across the hardwood floor in a wild dash that made me laugh? He was my steadfast companion and friend.

My Oil Pastel Drawing of Kiko in a Wicker Chair

When I moved to a different house far away, Kiko reacted in a manner that I could never have predicted. When I set him on the floor of our new home, he trembled with fear. I turned to other tasks. I thought that he simply needed time to explore and to adjust on his own. After an hour or two, I could not find him.

I searched high and low, but there was no sign of Kiko. That night, I could hardly sleep. I racked my brain trying to think of a place where he could be hiding.

The next morning, I bent over the washing machine to check the connections and noticed a hole through the underside of the cabinets above the dryer. Aha! I opened the doors, and there was Kiko curled into a small ball inside the cabinet! When I removed him, he purred.

After spending his first night in a cabinet above the dryer, Kiko accepted his new home and never returned to the hiding place. He was his happy-go-lucky self again.

The only difference of opinion that he and I ever had was over whether he should be given a bath. I tried … once! My scratches healed after about a week.

Kiko lived a long life. Toward the end, his kidneys began to fail. I delayed euthanasia for as long as I felt I could in good conscience, but the end had to come. I cried a lot when I buried Kiko with his favorite toys. 

My Friend Prissy

When Prissy came into my life, I was not sure how well she would blend with Ramesses, my only other cat at the time. Prissy remained in a cage for a few hours while Ramesses growled at her. When he finally stalked off, I released Prissy so that she could explore her new home.

Her markings were striking: four white feet and a shiny black coat. At first, Prissy was aloof, but, soon enough, she adopted me as her friend. Every night, she leaped onto the bed and snuggled on the blanket that covered my feet. I felt her adjust her own feet beneath her several times before she was content that each paw was in the perfect place. Purring ensued, and I drifted off to sleep.

Prissy Posing for a Snapshot

But Prissy had an annoying habit. If, by accident, I had left a plastic bag anywhere on the floor of the bedroom, she made the bag her toy at precisely 2:00 a.m. As I was always sound asleep when the irritating game began, I do not know what her initial move was. I suspect she quietly jumped down from the bed to assure herself that there indeed was a plastic bag in the room. Next, she may have taken several steps away from the prey. I picture her turning to confront her quarry. She may have spent several minutes planning her attack. Suddenly, she ran and pounced! Smack, smack, smack! Her paws pummeled the plastic! And I was wide awake!

I always told myself, “Go back to sleep. It’s only Prissy with a plastic bag.” A few moments of stillness helped me to sink back toward dreamland, then smack, smack, smack! She was at it again! Viciously hammering the plastic and pushing the bag around the floor! Irked beyond measure, I flew from the bed, grabbed the bag, stuffed it in the wastebasket, climbed back in bed, jerked the blanket up to my chin, and tried to sleep. Tried. Tried. Tried. No go.

At 2:15 a.m., I sipped a cup of coffee in the kitchen while Prissy looked up at me with her friendly eyes. How could I long be mad at such a gorgeous cat?

I took seriously the warnings that cat collars should be of the breakaway style, so that cats could easily escape whenever the collars snagged on furniture or shrubs. Prissy wore a fashionable blue breakaway collar.

I lived in the city, and the cats were permitted in the back yard, which was surrounded by a privacy fence. One day, I discovered that the gate had been left open by mistake. Ramesses was in the house, but Prissy had been in the yard. I searched for her, but she was gone.

I sank into a frenzy of despair. I routinely scoured the neighborhood and shouted her name until I was a nuisance. I posted pictures of her. After two weeks, I had come to the realization that I probably would never see her again. I missed her terribly. Whenever I emptied the plastic bags after shopping, I thought of her.

Holding a cup of coffee, I was staring absent-mindedly through the kitchen window, and I saw Prissy limping up the driveway to the house. I flung down the cup and raced to her. I gathered her in my arms, and she purred. She had lost weight. Worst of all, one of her front legs was thrust through her breakaway collar, which had not broken away! She was forced to walk on three legs because she could not remove the other leg from the collar. I tore it from her and threw it in the trash. She was mightily relieved to have the use of all four legs again.

My Sumi-e Painting of Prissy

For years after almost losing Prissy, I treasured her. I gave her plastic bags to play with, but, before going to bed, I made sure they were out of reach. Prissy moved with me to a new home, and she adjusted well to her new surroundings. She was my constant companion and was never lost again.

Prissy lived to a ripe old age. Whenever I remember her, I think how much she gladdened my heart.