Dame's Rocket - Click to Enlarge
An Innocent's Tale
This
morning, I started thinking about the farm across the creek where I was a
kid. It also had a south slope, that in some way seemed similar to me
now. Everything was bigger back then of course, the old-timers of the
Ozarks had only a slightly different concept of land ownership than the
Native Americans did; it’s only value was what you could produce on it.
For example, the family we used to buy eggs from, at twenty-five cents to
the dozen, delivered, had 800 acres.
The farm I was thinking about wasn’t quite that large, but from our house,
you could see the house and barn across the S. Jack’s Fork valley about a
mile. You could see that, and some of the fields, and if it was a clear
and quiet morning, you might hear the neighbor lady yodeling as she tended
their milk cows.
I used to think that this was fantastic that a human could make such
sounds, and that they would carry so far. Gene Autry used to yodel quite
a bit in those days, but that was on the radio. Who knew if his voice
would carry that far?
Anyway, this got me started thinking about those folks across the valley,
practically the only neighbors I knew until I was six or seven. They were
Bill and Goldie.
This was during a period when much of my life’s knowledge and experience
came from Donald Duck. Nobody in Duckburg was what you’d call “normal”,
not if “normal” meant being like Dick and Jane’s parents. (Dick and Jane
were such out-of-it, goody-two-shoes losers, compared to Donald Duck).
Bill and Goldie fit right into my world-view, because they were so much
like cartoon characters. Bill was a short fat little man, about the size
of Santa, to my mind. Like a cartoon character, he always wore the same
clothes: a battered old fedora that looked like he’d been born in it, bib
overalls with a red or blue bandanna hanging out of one back pocket, and
work shoes that usually had open wounds on the sides. During the winter,
or for a trip to town, he might get all dolled up by adding a blue
chambrey work shirt and socks. He always had a crooked pipe which he was
always relighting or refilling with Prince Albert tobacco, source of as
pungent a smoke as civilized man has ever known. Somehow, he managed to
always have the stubble of beard.
When my father would take me to Bill and Goldie’s I knew that I had to at
least feign an interest in whatever the men were doing, otherwise I might
wind up spending time with Goldie.
She was a nice enough old lady, I guess, but unlike Bill and all the other
cartoon characters, Goldie made it clear that she was very real due to her
tendency to hug small children to her bosom.
This in itself was a traumatic experience as Goldie’s bosom was vast and
all-encompassing and frankly not as inviting as the reader might at once
suppose. For if I once found myself plunged into it’s musky depths
where neither light nor oxygen ever penetrated, I was stuck there for as
long as she wanted to express her pleasure with me. It was her way of
congratulating one for being six. All of the women in my immediate family
smelled faintly of soap and flowers and cookies, whereas Goldie’s being was
saturated with cottonseed meal and dust and various cow-odors.
Goldie also wore the same thing every day: a dress made from feed sacks.
This wasn’t raw burlap, but a light cotton material with a small flower
pattern. The feed companies had learned that they could improve sales by
offering something for the housewife AS WELL AS the livestock. It was the
free software bundle of it’s day.
While I was still reeling from my near-death experience, Goldie would sit
me down at a kitchen table which usually held the dishes from at least one
earlier meal and a large yellow cat who seemed to make it his bed. There,
she would serve me much-too-sweet Kool-Aid and an equally over-sweetened
cake/candy substance.
You know how cartoon characters are always doing something completely
incredible? Impossible feats are just a part of their daily lives.
That’s what I always think of when I try to imagine how someone could put
so much sugar in something that a six-year-old would have trouble getting
it down.
Archives
The Reader's Handy Guide to all the Neil Shelton you can stand
