Far from the Old Folks at Home

I'd just received an Email from the brother of perhaps my first friend outside the family. Lynn Dill was just a tot -- and I wasn't much bigger.His brother, Luverne, is long gone, but I remember the day as first graders in North Dakota, he and I trotted all the way across town -- it must have been all of a half mile from one side to the other-- with hopes of seeing Joyce Reynolds, a lovely little first grader, too.

Tired and worn, we got to the Reynolds home just in time to see the family pulling out of their driveway. Our long hike produced only a timid smile and a wave. And then we trudged all the way home.

Funny how memory snapshots last nearly 80 years, and I can't remember what we had for dinner last night.

Mugs rode the running board. . .

Our family stayed in Mott (pop. 1032, and dwindling) until Dad moved us all -- Mamma, my sister,two brohers and my dog, Mugs -- all the way to Albuquerque where my father knew a university was available. He culdn't have afforded to send us away to school and my oldest brother was just reaching enrollment age.

Dad was a rural mail carrier, and the mail had to go through come rain, thunder, or blizzard -- all of which came with regularity. He also was called away many a night to drive the only doctor in town to patients miles away on the snow-clogged prairie.

While others had to resort to horse-drawn sleighs, Dad built himself a snowmobile -- nothing like the slick little snow skimmers today. He took his Model T Ford, put iron skis on the front axle, while two rear axles had tractor tread like a tank out of the war. He constructed an asbestos-sided cab where he put in a little wood stove to defreeze his lunch.

I know because once he took my sister Lois and me on the 54-mile route on a bright but bitterly cold day. Our sandwiches were frozen solid, even though Dad had invented a heater for the car. We went on riding like a roller-coaster ride over the hills and valleys of snow.

The gas tank fell off . . .


Then the gas tank fell off the car. That's right. It took perhaps a minute for Dad to find the tank was gone. With what gas was left in the carburetor, he quickly U-turned, found the tank, remounted it, and away we go over the drifting snw.

A sack of coffee beans had broken open.We kids weren't allowed to drink coffee, but Dad let us feed on the beans. Patrons alomg the way were always nice to Dad and wouldn't mind if a few coffee beans were misssing from their mail.

Mugs, the dog, didn't ride the mail with us, but he rode in a box on the fender of our Chevrolet in the winter of 1933 on our way to New Mexico. How he survived the cold, I don't know. Alas, he didn't survive the streets of Albuquerque. He got hit on 'Central Avenue in front of the library. What a dog's life he had endured.

In today's Email from Lynn, he said they'd had to go to the cellar when the whistle atop the big water tank warned that twisters were crossing the prairie nearby. No one was hurt but the barn was smashed on George Hardmeyer's farm.

What could we do in California? I haven't seen a cellar in a home since I left New Mexico in 1945. Back in Mott, the Kokomos had one two doors and a vacant lot from our house. It was never used for any twisters in our days, but I remember how wonderfully cool it was -- sitting there with the fruit all canned for the winter, like squirrels do.

Cock - a - doodle - Doooooo!

Mrs. Kokomo's yard stirs other memories not so nostalgic. Sister Lois felt she couldn't emerge from our outdoor toilet, because a frisky little calf was straying around. As her manly little brother, I ran to the rescue and chased the calf down past the Kokomos.

Just then, a crowing rooster cockle-doodle-dooed over the coop fence and landed on my noggin. He tried to kill me, and he was well along in the process of trying to peck my head open. Mrs. Kokomo ran out and pulled the rooster off.

Later that day, Mrs. Kokomo invited me over, with my bandaged head, to see the rooster roasted and left on the back stoop to cool.

Two empty lots between the Kokomos and Grandma Batty's house served as a playground, a mock battlefield, a wild-onion patch, and everything else for kids.
It was time when endurance feats were popular. Lindbergh had flown the Atlantic.Flagpole sitters got their pictures in the paper. The neighborhood kids decided to see how long they could keep a kite in the air.

It took lots of preparation: Constructing the kite, getting the string needed, tying old rags on for a tail. Besides that, we put cots up, hauled blankets out, bottled water -- you name it. We were prepared to stay as long as the kite flew. . . days, maybe a week.

That's all I remember about it, except that we never got the kite into the air.

Oh, I could go on about North Dakota, but I don't want to overstay my welcome today, if you've reached this far. By the way, I'm upset because I understand visitors are only allowed "300 charactrs" to post comments.

That hardly gives you room to say, "Knock it off, Paul."



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