Where Buzzards Roosted in Trees

A buzzard painting by my dad.

Seemingly, my dad and I had little in common. He wasn’t a parent who spent one-on-one time with his children, but he worked hard at hard jobs providing for his family and keeping our home place in good order. Rarely did I see my dad doing nothing or sitting still for long periods. He wasn't that kind of person. His key interests included exploring the countryside, oil painting, woodcarving and writing. His cousin labeled my dad an Indiana Jones type. I agreed.

 

A couple of things Dad and I did have in common included writing stories and a fondness for the turkey buzzard (or turkey vulture). I can’t help but admire this odd-looking, amazing bird. I appreciate the nasty but crucial job they do.

When I bought my 35mm camera in the 1970s, my dad told me about a bluff with a possible photographing opportunity, where buzzards roosted in the trees that grew along the steep cliffs. When the sun rose, the buzzards would awaken, stretch to dry and warm their wings before lifting from the trees to do their day job as Nature’s Biohazard Carrion Cleaner-Uppers. They ate decaying animals! 

One early morning, before light, we traveled down a gravel road, a driveway and then into a pasture heading for a cliff. We parked near our destination and waited for daylight by listening to the noisy and wonderful predawn fauna. A glow, in the eastern sky, became our signal, and we headed for the edge of the bluff to get ready. When daylight allowed us to see the buzzards in their morning routine, there were none. The trees that seemed to grow out of jagged rock stood—empty. There was no awakening. No stretching of black wings readying for lift off. No red heads to photograph. And there were no noisy pounding wings beating the air to fly from the cliffs in search of breakfast.

Although disappointment filled me, my dad seldom lingered in disappointment. He said we’d try again another day. My photography opt now changed. I took pictures from the bluff’s edge, but also sidled down the sloped cliffside by clinging on to saplings along the way while capturing images of fields and water in a valley below.  

Bookends carved by Dad.

We went back to my parents’ house with that promise to do it again, but we never did.

I’ll insert those pictures with this post… when I find them. 

 

Laura Ingalls Wilder: The Masters Hotel - Burr Oak, Iowa

I am a fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Almanzo and their daughter Rose Wilder Lane. My interest in little Laura and little Almanzo began in grade school when a teacher read one of the Little House books to our class. I was hooked! Little did I know at the time that when my parents moved our family back to Missouri, from Illinois, that Laura and Almanzo's Mansfield home would not be far away.

Recently, I  found a couple of pictures from a trip to Iowa and a hotel that Laura's parents managed when she was a child. Their stay was for only a year according to the Masters Hotel website. Because most tourist places are currently closed due to the Coronavirus pandemic, I thought I would share!

Traveling through Iowa  

It has been a few years since I dragged my adult daughter along on a trip to Iowa and the town of Burr Oak. Before I share our short visit there, I need to talk about traveling through Iowa. Of course, I knew that Iowa grew corn because I had ridden in the backseat of a car at the age of 18 to an Iowa based wedding, but I was not prepared for driving through the state of Iowa during a prime growing season of corn. On each side of the highway, corn stood tall, thick and in perfect rows. I had never experienced claustrophobia aggravated by corn until that trip.

When there were breaks in the cornfields, we were allowed glimpses of beautiful farms with houses.

Now back to the trip.

On the Road

The trip from Southern Missouri to Burr Oak, Iowa was not a day trip for me. It was necessary to stop in a small city with a name I don't remember and at a two story "motel" with a name I also don't remember, to spend the night. Before we left home, I found on the internet a possible place to stop, but did not make reservations since I wasn't sure we'd end up there. It was an easy location, just off the highway we were traveling. In those days, I used Mapquest printout pages to assist me in traveling.

The minute we entered the building (NOT pictured above), I didn't like the dirty feel or the smell. No problem! We couldn't stay there anyway. The place was booked up with road construction workers who were living there until they finished the construction on the highway we'd just exited. This is one of those "God things" that I love, where he watches over me and gives me blessings without my asking. I had no way to check the internet from my phone for another place to stay. I'm pretty certain it was the era of my flip phone (still have it in its original box). So I did the next best thing! I asked the clerk if she could recommend a nice place in or near that city. She recommended a beautiful inn (place in photo above) that was built in a country setting. Our room with two comfortable beds was super lovely and clean!

Burr Oak

The next morning we headed out and finally reached Burr Oak, Iowa. I wish that I had driven around Burr Oak and photographed it, but I did not.

There was a visitor center with items you could purchase for souvenirs.

The Masters Hotel

The Masters Hotel sat across the street from the visitor center. The hotel was operated by Charles and Caroline Ingalls (Pa and Ma) after leaving Walnut Grove. Pa did more of the managing and Ma did the cooking. Laura is reported to have been nine years old at the time. Her sister Grace was born in Burr Oak. Read about her birth here. In my photo below, you can see a window air conditioner. Photos on their website do not show the window unit. I conclude they switched to a central air system.

The Masters Hotel was its own museum. We took a step back in time and with a guide toured the hotel. It's been years since we took that trip, but I remember the kitchen's location was in the basement. I believe the Ingall's bedroom was located there, as well. Something else that stuck in my memory was a bedroom on the top floor, a tiny room, smaller than most of today's walk-in closets. Our guide told us that the room was often used to bunk several men overnight. It was hard to wrap my head around that at least two men would sleep on the tiny cot like beds while other men slept side-by-side on the floor. The hotel got their money's worth!

The day was beautiful. The hotel was alive with history. Our guide helped us imagine life then and the people who passed through the Master's Hotel. 

Have you read any of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books? Have you visited any of the historic home sites? 

Little House on the Prairie Museum - Kansas

If you know me at all, then you might remember how much I loved reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books as a child. Who am I kidding, I still read them. I'm a huge fan of all things Laura Ingalls Wilder and her daughter Rose. Since I live near-ish Mansfield, Missouri, I have visited that home site many times since my children were in elementary school. I have visited yearly, sometimes once, sometimes twice a year. 

I didn't mean to (yes I did), but I got my daughter hooked!  Dr. Lovely daughter is a voracious reader and one summer as a child, while we were perusing a flea market, she picked up one of the Little House books and asked me if it was a good book.

My heart jumped to my throat. Could this be true? Was she really asking me this question? At that time, I didn't realize that Laura and Almanzo Wilder's Missouri homestead was under two hours away. Once I found out it was there, we took our children and visited the homesite and its museum. My daughter loved the first trip. My son not so much.

The other day, I was going through some of my old digital pictures and found pictures from two road trips in 2011. Dr. Lovely Daughter and I had traveled to Kansas to visit the Little House on the Prairie Museum. As close as Kansas is to Missouri, I had never been to Kansas or the Little House on the Prairie Museum. This was a day trip. Here are photos from that trip.

Before we saw the Little House on the Prairie site, we saw Independence, Kansas. I can't recall what this building is but I sure love the architecture. If anyone knows what the building is or was, let me know in the comments.

Then there was this road to the Kansas homestead and museum. 

Then a sign to let us know we had arrive. I'm not positive, but I don't think any of the buildings are original buildings to Laura's family. I believe, however, that the land was actually homesteaded by Ma and Pa Ingalls.

A schoolhouse and another building. To the right of them is a cabin built in late 1970's.  

Here's the cabin a little closer. 

A sign!

Inside the little cabin.

Inside the school on the property. 

I had to add this picture of an ugly tourist in the school room! Do not make fun of her. She hates her picture taken. She told me so.

 

Here is Dr. Lovely Daughter sitting on the front porch, looking out over the land that little Laura lived on. Well actually she was looking at the camera, but before that she was looking out over the land.

Visit their website for more information here. I have a couple of pictures from our Iowa trip where we traveled to see the hotel where Ma and Pa worked. I will write that for a future post. The Iowa trip was not a day trip. I might have gone corn sane a few times.

If you're interested and haven't read them here are posts regarding the Mansfield site: Laura Ingalls Wilder Gravesite, Laura Ingalls Wilder and more Pictures and Laura Ingalls Wilder Quilt Block Patterns.

Laura Ingalls Wilder Gravesite

I had every intention of posting about an ice storm that occurred in my rural area (no, not today) since it's sooo hot here right now. It's not finished, so I will share pictures from my last visit to the Wilder sites in Mansfield, Missouri.

Not long ago, I made one of my two yearly treks to the Laura and Almanzo homes in Mansfield, Missouri. However, in this post I will share the photos of the cemetery where Almanzo, Laura and their daughter Rose are laid to rest.

I kind of like Cemeteries. They never freak me out except for one that I visited when trying to locate a relative. Normally, I feel peaceful. And I especially love it when graves are full of flowers and the gravesite of Laura and family members was beautifully decorated.

Cemetery where the Wilder family is buried.

Beautiful setting.

The Wilders have a chain draped around their grave sites and boxwood planted on two sides. Mr. and Mrs. Wilder is on the left (as you look at the screen and the arrow)and Rose Wilder Lane on the right. 

Laura and Almanzo's stone. Note that the grass is worn in front of

the gravestone.

Gifts from fans adorn the top of the Wilder stone. Some might find this disrespectful. I find it sweet and meaningful. Laura would have liked the gesture, I think.

Daughter, Rose Wilder Lane grave 

This is the back of Rose's stone. Fan gifts on top, too. 

As you may remember, Laura Ingalls Wilder was the first author that impacted my (reading) life. I still read her books when I'm stressed. The first book was read to me in a classroom. When I read one of Laura's books on my own, I was in fourth grade. After that, I decided to write Laura a letter to tell her how much I liked reading her books. I then found out she had already died. Although, I do love Laura, her daughter Rose is more interesting to me and a person that I would have like to have known. She was talented and spunky. I like spunky. Rose was ahead of her time in forging the way for women to work in careers of their choice. She wrote a boatload of articles for magazines and papers. 

That's it for now. I'll post other photos of the houses, museum and countryside in the future. 

-Teresa

Laura Ingalls Wilder's Quilt Block Patterns

For years I’ve visited the Laura and Almanzo Wilder Rocky Ridge Farm site in Mansfield MO, sometimes twice a year. When my children were young, we took them to visit and learn about Laura and her family. At that time, we visited the old museum and toured the farmhouse.

A new museum was built in 2016, a short distance from the farmhouse, but I still have fond memories of the old and tiny museum.

The farmhouse is wonderful. Almanzo Wilder built the kitchen countertops to accommodate Laura's short stature even though he wasn't that tall either.  

I made this pillow from an applique pattern purchased 
at the bookstore. The pillow is about 12x12 inches.
The lace you see is another pillow behind it. For 
the appliqué, I used the zig zag stitch on my sewing
machine. The stem and leaf detail I hand embroidered.

In the Little House books, Laura talks about not liking to sew when she had to make clothing, sheets for the beds, underwear, quilts and just about anything they needed.

I've sewn "stuff" since my junior high school years. Laura's creations have always interested me. (Some are shown in the Mansfield Museum.)Of course, I've used sewing machines to sew, but back then Laura sewed by hand. Later her pa gave her ma a sewing machine, but they were experts in sewing things by hand. Each time I leave the Wilder farm, I leave inspired to create.

Through the years, I decided to buy a couple of Laura's quilt block patterns from the bookstore. I continue to dream of producing quilts on a regular basis because they are useful and it's a useful skill. 

The first pattern I purchased was the bear's paw pattern either in the late 1990s or early 2000s for $1.00 from the bookstore. I must confess that I have not made anything from this one. 

Another time, I purchased a flower appliqué pattern that I've made a couple of pillows from (pictured above). One I gave to my sister and the other to my daughter. It’s a simple design and not much work, but I still think it’s pretty. I still have that pattern, just not sure where it is.

Last weekend, I visited the Laura Ingalls Wilder homes and gravesite again in Mansfield, MO. I bought another quilt block pattern, this time a nine patch for $2.50. 

If you're interested in Laura Ingalls Wilder, I will be posting more on that trip in the weeks to come. 

~Teresa

The Mary Tyler Moore in Me

During my high school years, a friend and I were looking through some of my childhood photos. He told me that he thought some of those pictures looked like the actress Mary Tyler Moore.

Like this one.

I argued, but I saw it, too.

And this one.

This one, too.

But I didn't see it in this picture, still don't. All I see is an awkward girl morphing, lips growing fuller ( thanks, Mom!) and hair getting its red tint (thanks, Dad!).  

Mary Tyler Moore! One of my favorite actresses. No relation, no MTM talent, but perhaps a slight resemblance to a wonderful actress.

T.

When socioeconomic groups come together

If there is one thing, okay maybe two, that will bring socioeconomic groups together it might be sports teams and dollar stores.

In the town where I work (and live near), there is a new Dollar Tree! For months, Facebook buzzed with excitement over the new business. At one time, our town had its fair share of industry, for a rural area nearly forty miles from Missouri’s Queen City. 

I didn’t go to the opening of the new Dollar Tree, since I don’t like crowds, and I figured there would be crowds. However, one day after work I stopped by to purchase a greeting card. I bought two.

My big-spender purchase cost me one dollar plus tax. Even on that day, after the grand opening had passed, the parking lot was full. Inside, I was met with a well-organized, clean store and lots of people shopping, with carts. I recognized the patrons as a mix of those who had less money and those who had more than enough money. 

Customers were buying everything from food to school supplies. Most bought much more than I bought, but I’m careful with my dollars in the dollar store or I might be sorry. Dollar stores are a great tempter.

I'm super happy that we have a new business and that our community can come together over a dollar store. I only wish that one could buy a dollar tree from a dollar store. If I did buy that dollar tree, would I spend those dollars at the dollar store? That is the big question.

T.

Laura Ingalls Wilder Love

If you know me at all, you might remember how much I love the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. In grade school and while we lived in Illinois, I began reading the Little House books. Our teacher read to our class Little House in the Big Woods, and well, you know how it goes, I was hooked on the books. It was after I’d read my favorite of the books, The Long Winter, that I decided I would write the author a letter.  

Guess what? She had already passed away. I still feel a little bitter about that. 

I'm so pleased that I live near Laura's adult home in Mansfield, Missouri. I visit there at least once a year. So you might imagine my happiness when they announced last year (or it could have been the year before)that a new museum would be built. 

It is built.

It has opened. 

I have visited. 

The old museum was wonderful, but a bit small. The new museum is larger and has a few additional items that were not on display in the old museum. If you get to Missouri, travel to Mansfield, stop by the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum and visit her homes. 

You’ll get to see the farmhouse.

And the rock house that their daughter Rose built for her parents (my favorite). 

Sincerely,

A huge Laura Ingalls Wilder Fan since grade school!

Have you ever read the LIW books? Visited any of the Ingalls' home sites or Mansfield, MO? 

Now when I was a kid...

Soon we’ll be looking at another summer in the rearview mirror, waving goodbye either with gladness or tears. When I was a kid, the older adults said, “Now when I was a kid, things were different.” 

I'm now, not so suddenly, that person.

When I was a kid in the sixties, summers were different than what kids experience today. As a child, I played outdoors, my brother and I pretending we had a ranch, using tree branches for our horses. Our cattle were illusions of our minds. Leafy grasses became our currency. Often barefoot, we stayed outside all day, except for meals. When we moved to the city, for three years, we still played outside all day, but we had other kids to play with and bicycles to ride.

In the country, our bathroom was an outhouse, our bathtub--a washtub or a pan of warm water. I didn't know that air-conditioning existed. We slept most hot summer nights, upstairs. After church, summer Sundays were spent at my grandmother's house eating good food, making ice cream, swimming in the creek or river, and playing with cousins. 

My summers as a teenager were different than younger childhood. My brother and I no longer played together. We fought as siblings do. I thought about boys a lot. I read many books. One summer, I discovered the wonderful world of mythology through the traveling library from town.  I also discovered the classics written by authors like Jane Austin, John Steinbeck, and Kurt Vonnegut. I willingly disappeared into fantasy worlds. 

I taught myself to play the guitar. I played John Denver and Eagles songs. 

One summer, I discovered soap operas. They became my family and friends. I cried with the characters, fretted, fell in love and looked forward to seeing the characters each day. And "so were the days of our lives". 

I discovered talking on the telephone with friends, while being careful of what I shared, since we were on a party line and had neighbors who gossiped. Our phone was attached to a wall in the kitchen--a rotary dial. I didn't know about cell phones, but did fantasize about "what if" we had a car phone, and I could talk to my friends on the way to town. By that time, we had added a full bath for five people, to our house.

In the summer, rural teenagers(in my area)dated or hung out in groups of friends and drove continuously around our "square" in town on Saturday nights. We ate hamburgers and drank cokes from Mr. Swiss or the Snack Shack. We watched movies at the town movie theater, but preferred the drive-in movie at the edge of town. Some kids sat on river banks drinking beer or wine, bought by older peers, while some kids smoke their cigarettes and other things.


Entertainment.

All summers, for most kids, were spent in church activities, ice cream socials and Vacation Bible School.

I enjoyed my summers, but always longed for school to begin again, since I craved the social life with my friends. 

Kids in my day were imaginative, read books and played hard physically, but that was my childhood. Kids are still imaginative and read. Every new generation forges their own childhood summer memories according to what is available to them and what they choose to do. Their memories will mean no less to them, than mine do to me. They will inevitably say to a younger generation,"Now when I was a kid...." 

Looking back on summer. 

One Beautiful Sound

We stood on the porch of the singing church that was filled beyond limit. The rest of the attendees flowed to the porch where we waited  in our Sunday dresses: my cousin, my friend and me. We waited for our names to be called because we were there to sing.  Church singings were the place to be on a Sunday afternoon with your family—back then.

The name we gave to our singing group escapes me, but we had one.  When our name was called, we clawed our way through the standing people on the porch,  the large group inside the foyer and scooted sideways down the aisle between folding chairs shoved at each end of the wooden pews. When we finally stepped up on the platform, at the front of the room, one tween and two teens faced a sea of staring faces. 

What seemed like hours was only seconds as we waited for the pianist to start the song we would sing: At the Cross. To help my nerves, my eyes searched the room for my Grandma Sadie who had a seat inside. Some people smiled at us, some glared and others carried blank expressions. Finally, my eyes touched her sweet face and smiling eyes. 

Afraid we would miss our musical cue, I jumped in singing a little too soon, a little out of key and my voice cracking under nervous pressure. When a new confidence exploded in our egos, our voices sang out, blending into one beautiful sound.

After the song ended, we enjoyed the crash of applause but hurried back down the aisle to escape. On the way out, people patted our shoulders and said things like “You need to sing again sometime.” And, “Girls, you've got talent.”

As I remember it, we never sang together again. Probably for the better. We might have become famous, and well—you know.

Smuggling and Giggles

The word smuggle makes me giggle. I have no idea why except some words do that for me. When Hillary Melton-Butcher from Positive Letters…inspirational stories…. featured the word “Smuggling” as her A-Z alphabet word posted here, I giggled. Then this story popped into my mind.

I have a weakness for most sugary candies. When my kids were young, every Easter I bought candy to fill their Easter baskets. Halloween, I would buy candy to hand out to the goblins. Christmas—well the same, I bought candy to fill the Christmas stockings.

My problem was that this task turned into an expensive venture when I would buy the candy and then smuggle the candy (out of the baskets--sometimes) the “Easter Bunny” had prepared or from the stash of candy I had hidden and eat it.

Then off to the store again I would go to buy candy, all over again. Thankfully, my metabolism was much better then.

One day, my (then) husband said to me after my run to the store to purchase more candy, “I thought you'd already bought candy for the baskets.”

I grinned and nodded, then rolled the half eaten Easter egg with a hardish shell and creamy white middle, to the inside of my cheek. “I ate most of it.”

He rolled his eyes and left the room.

A few years later, I decided that I wouldn’t buy ANY candy for ANY occasion until the day before I needed it. This works much better for my pocketbook, my waistline and my smuggling weakness.

And let's not forget the story of smuggling a box of sugar cubes from my friend’s basement so we could eat the entire box, but when we couldn’t, stored them elsewhere for future consumption. It didn’t really work out. Read The Sugar War, if you haven't, yet.

Smuggling drugs, people and terrorists into any country is not cool, terribly wrong and criminal.

My type of smuggling gives me--yes, giggles.

 

Santa came to the Party

Getting dressed up to go anywhere was a pleasant experience and exciting for a little girl. Between Mom and Grandma Minnie, I was well supplied with beautiful dresses that often rivaled any imaginary princess.

It’s the Christmas season and my brother and I are excited to go to a party—a Christmas party.  We have high hopes that we might receive a present or candy at the party given by Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, good friends of my Grandparents.
 

When we arrive, I’m pleased to see a Christmas tree, but more than that, the niece and nephews of the Duncan's are there, too. During the evening, the adults laugh and talk. The children play. *Anna and I are matched well as playmates, as are our brothers, and there are yummy desserts to eat. I don’t think the party can get any better, but when our attention turns to a commotion at the front door--someone dressed in a red and white suit.

“Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas!” he shouts.

Santa! I look at my little brother sitting on the floor and his eyes have widened to a quarter's size. My stomach is doing flips, feeling both nervous and excited.


Santa sits in a chair. Then, one by one, Santa lifts each child to his knee and asks what we want for Christmas. When it's my turn, I too sit on his knee, feeling shy. He asks me the same question that he has asked those before me. It is after I tell Santa what I would like for Christmas that I look past his merry façade and realize Santa is Anna's dad.

As I climb down from his knee, I glance over at Anna who is smiling, but not looking at me. At that moment, I think two things. I hope that she doesn't recognize Santa as her dad, and I vow to keep this secret forever.

Fast forward to 2013, when Anna and I have reconnected on Facebook. I post the photo of Santa and me and share the secret I'd kept for so long. Anna, who ended up being a childhood friend, commented on the photo.
 
“Teresa, I knew it was my dad, but I hoped my younger brothers still believed.”
 
She had carried a secret about Santa, too.

 

~~~

And before you question the wisdom of wearing the Santa mask, I will tell you that perhaps it was common in those days for some Santa's to wear masks or it might be that he wore one  because the risk of being identified was there. No matter  the reason, it didn't seem odd to me at the time.

 

*Name changed to protect the person's identity.

18

I’m eighteen and it’s early summer, steamy hot, and 1974. The Eagles are scheduled to perform at the state fairgrounds, an outside concert. I tell my boyfriend *Ricky, I want to go. He wants to go, too. His parents are out of town and he decides to “borrow” their pickup camper so we can be there the night before. Ricky’s best friend *Billy wants to go.

 

I’m the only one with a real job, so I contribute gas and buy some of the food. Billy also brings food. We arrive at the fairgrounds late afternoon where I see mostly pup tents, vans and people prepared to sleep under the stars. My boyfriend is nervous about using his parent’s camper and announces that we can’t use the camper bathroom; we cannot leave any evidence that we’ve used the camper. I’m not a happy camper about this decision.

The boys and I sit inside for a couple of hours talking until they decide to use the campground restrooms. I wait for them outside and watch hundreds of people morph into a thousand people, mostly under the age of thirty. Day is turning to night. Campfires light the grounds. When the boys return, we stay outside to talk and watch our new world unfold and the camp’s dynamics change.

“I’m going to the bathroom before it gets any darker,” I say. Neither boy offers to escort me. I go alone.

I find a path to walk on until it ends then change my course. I have to weave through people who are sitting and standing who seem high and happy. Some are clothed, some are naked. My upbringing tells me not to look, but of course, I do.

I walk into a thick haze of marijuana smoke that covers me and I cough. I hold my breath and realize that the building is still too far away and lift the lower half of my smock shirt to cover my nose and mouth. Now, my stomach is exposed which invites another problem, unwanted attention.

“Come here, baby,” one guy says.

“Where you goin’?” Another reaches for me.

I feel more annoyed than scared and let my shirt fall back down. I hold my breath again until I meet a group of people dancing around a campfire chanting something. For some reason, this scene reminds me of the book Lord of the Flies. I’m holding back my laugh when a man grabs my arm and motions for me to join them. I shake my head and pull away.

Ahead, I see the restroom and follow a skinny girl with long straight hair, wearing a tank top and jeans, into the women’s side. Once inside, the girl turns around and I see she’s a dude with a beard. I walk back outside again to see if I’m in the right place. I am. As stall doors open other men, as well as women, exit. I want to look like I’m ok with it, but I’m shocked. I hurry in and out vowing not to return to the restroom until morning.

Back at the camper, we go in and lock the door. I can’t sleep much because there’s lots of loud unrelated music playing and people noise. Around 1 a.m., I hear a scream and look out every window, but see nothing. A couple of hours later, the camp roar goes silent and I sleep for a couple of hours.

The next morning, the boys and I are up early. We eat our junk food and decide to visit the restroom. Most of the time, things seem to look better in the daylight, but this time it’s only different. Bodies still litter the landscape—lying flat and still. The fires are out, but leave behind glowing and blackened embers.

We need something to do and head for the concert area to claim a seat. Hours later we join thousands of people to listen to The Eagles in concert. It was worth it.

 

*Names changed.

Perfect Timing

by Teresa Powell Coltrin

My little brother is four. I am seven. I’m in our kitchen walking past my mom who’s been washing clothes all morning, in a ringer washer. I look out the screen door and push it open—slightly.  Flies are lined up on the screen waiting to come in, some fly up, but with perfect timing I close it before they do.

 “Stay in or out—the flies.” Mom reminds me again since I’d been running in and out, of the house, all morning.

Through the screen, I watch my brother jump off the low back porch to the grass and climb back on. He does this two more times. He has strapped around his belly, a holster. In the holster, he carries a shiny cap gun. He sees me, pulls it out of the holster and shoots. I’m not offended because he’s been shooting everything in his path all morning. He jumps off the porch again and disappears around the corner of the house.

It’s summer, mid morning and hot. I open the screen door again—wide this time. With my eyes squinting from the sun, I step out on the planked porch. I let go of the screen door and it slams behind me.

“Teresa, stop letting the door slam,” Mom says, emphasizing the syllables in my name. I hear impatience hovering in her quiet voice.

My brother jumps out of nowhere and shoots me again. “Play cowboys and Indians with me.”

I shake my head.

“Play with me.”

“No.”

He jumps off the porch and shoots the sky. I’m hot and walk back inside again, letting the door slam. “I’m thirsty.”  

 Mom frowns and stops what she’s doing. “Get a drink.”

I go to the water bucket on the table against the wall. We’re not allowed to yet, but my parents draw the water from the well outside the back door. They use a long metal cylinder attached to a rope and a pulley that is lowered into the deep well. The cylinder collects the water and after it is pulled up out of the well it is centered over the bucket and the water is released by pulling a lever at the top.

I stand on tiptoes to reach inside the bucket to grab the cold metal dipper full of water and lift it up and over. Familiarity helps me expect the cool crisp taste before it reaches my lips.  Later when we move to the city, I’ll discover how fresh our well water tasted compared to tap water. I try to steady the dipper and aim for my mouth, but it sloshes, spilling drops on my everyday dress and on the floor before I get to drink it. After I gulp down the water, I use the back of my hand to wipe my mouth and my dusty bare toes to wipe the floor, leaving a muddy streak where the water had been. I drop the dipper back in the bucket and walk to the screen door again.  This time, I remember to close the door carefully behind me.

When I step onto the porch, my brother shoots me again. “Play with me,” he yells.

I’m feeling annoyed, but say, “I’ll play cowboys and Indians if first you play dress up with me.”

My brother is thinking, probably remembering that dress up means dish towels tied on his head with a ribbon to simulate long girl hair. He shakes his head no. I’m thinking on how to convince him to play what I want to play. I hear a gunshot in the distance and watch my brother collapse to the porch floor, his little gun falling beside his body. I run to the door and scream that he’s been shot—that he’s dead. My mother shoves the screen door wide open and runs to her little boy lying on the porch. As I watch him, my arms become weak and tears have rushed to my eyes. Then I notice his mouth twitches slightly and becomes a grin. His eyes pop open. Then just as fast as he had fallen, he jumps to his feet.

Perfect timing for a four-year-old cowboy.