One morning, as was his routine, Mike was gathering eggs for Grandma. It was as he searched the regular nesting places for eggs that he realized he hadn’t checked the smaller A-frame house for a couple of days. “Grandma will skin me alive if she finds out!” he shuddered. Hearing a ruckus in the coop, he hurried to it, knelt down, unlatched the hutch door and was almost knocked down by the rush of fowls and feathers jettisoning from the hatch!
“What in the world?” As the dust and feathers cleared he looked inside. Peering into the darkness, he detected movement at the opposite end. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it, a BIG Bull snake, and the biggest he’d ever seen!
Oddly, the snake seemed in distress. Studying the situation, Mike saw the problem; the snake had swallowed an egg whole and was attempting to back out the way he’d come in. Unfortunately, with the egg lodged in his neck, escape was impossible. Mike sprang to his feet, turned and scurried to the other end of the henhouse. There he spied the remaining five feet of the snake as it wriggled and wiggled, recoiled and curled, struggling to retreat from the coop. But it couldn’t budge an inch and keep its treasured egg.
“I’ve got to get Grandpa!” Mike thought. He ran toward the farmhouse for help screaming for all he was worth, “Grandpa! Grandpa, come quick! There’s a snake in the henhouse! Hurry!”
Grandpa and Grandma had just finished their breakfast. As they casually sipped their coffee while laying out plans for the day, Mike’s call to arms penetrated the walls of the house. Instinctively, his gangly Grandpa leapt to his feet, fetched his hat, ran to the woodstove, grabbed his axe, and scrambled out the kitchen door.
Spotting Mike flying toward him, he yelled “Where is he?”
“At the first henhouse!” Mike yelled.
As they headed back toward the A-frame, Grandpa asked, “Is he inside?”
Wide-eyed, Mike wasn’t sure how to answer, so, catching his breath, he blurted, “Just come and see! He’s swallowed an egg.”
Arriving at the back of the henhouse, they stopped in their tracks. Quickly appraising the situation, Grandpa drew back and paused. With one hand on his hip, he rested the axe on his foot, cocked his hat back, and began scratching his head in amazement. After a moment, he smiled and exclaimed “Well, I’ll be. That feller is sure stuck. You see thar? That house has sunk down on him a little and is a squeezin’ him.” Then he let out a laugh.
Setting the axe aside, Grandpa motioned to Mike to help him. “Now, you grab that corner thar and lift it up and we’ll see if we can help him out.” Bending over, he grabbed the snake’s body right next to the edge of the wooden base. Then, with the other hand, together, he and Mike lifted the A-frame house up enough to pull the rest of the snake out. Dangling the writhing reptile into the air, he laughed again, then looked the snake in the eye and said, “Big feller, you got yourself in quite a pickle.” Then, turning to Mike, he said, “’Bout scared you to death I reckon!” Looking over to the henhouse, he picked up the axe and, with snake in hand, disappeared into the catalpa grove. The snake was never seen again . . . and neither was the egg.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © November 2017
The metal stairs groaned with each halting step. They sounded like the rusty hinges on an old coffin. The boys cautiously approached the entrance. Eerie music seeped out from under the thick black curtains flagging in the breeze. Those curtains were all that stood between the real world and the macabre one ahead of them.
The “Barker” had convinced these adolescents that the Hollywood characters were as real as their roles in the movies but assured them that they wouldn’t touch the boys. Then, taking their change, he pointed them toward the gangway and stuffed the tickets in their hands. The admission fee was 50¢ each for an adventure they might never forget. Cocking his straw hat off his forehead, the man turned and scanned the crowd for more customers . . . or suckers. The boys were having second thoughts. What lay on the other side of that partition?
Earlier in the week cousins Bill and Mike had planned to hit the State Fair like a tsunami . . . that is, if Bill’s dad, Uncle Al, would take them. Most of the summer, they’d saved up for just such an event by mowing lawns, running errands, collecting refunds on discarded pop bottles, and whatever else they could find to do for money. Mike had $5 and Billy had $7 and Friday was free day for school kids! They were ready.
Monday trudged by into Tuesday. Wednesday slithered in and out and still no word from Bill or his Dad. Thursday, Mike meandered home after school thinking he’d never hear now. It was too late. Walking in the door of the house, Mom spoke in her usual cheery voice, “Hi, how was your day?”
He paused as he put down his books. “Pretty normal, I guess.” In a disappointed tone, he continued, “We didn’t get much homework from Mr. Eilerts. He wants us to enjoy Fair Day and write a paper on our experiences.” He shrugged a little and commented, “Haven’t heard from Billy so I guess we won’t be going tomorrow.”
Sympathizing, she said, “I’m sorry. I have to work tomorrow or I’d take you both. Daddy will be leaving early or he would have helped, too.”
“Oh, it’s OK, Mom. I’ve been plenty of times before. It’s just . . . well, me and Billy were going alone and,” boosting his voice with pent-up enthusiasm, “Man, would that be fun!”
Mom nodded and turned back to the pot on the stove. “It will work out one way or another,” she commented. “Be patient. And just think, next year you boys can drive yourselves.” For Mike, driving wasn’t an option he would have warmly considered at the time. His last attempt behind the wheel landed him and his older brother in a ditch. He turned and headed for the front room.
Just then, the phone rang. Mom called out, “Honey, can you answer that? My hands are messy.”
“Sure.” He headed for the phone and picking up the receiver said, “Hello?”
“Hey, Mikey! Guess what?” It was Cousin Bill! Mike’s heart pounded with excitement.
“What? Are we going?”
“You bet! Dad forgot about it, said he has to meet with some guy about a job and run some errands.”
Hesitating, Mike wondered how that was good news. Apprehensively, he continued, “So . . . are we going or not?”
Bill, almost shouting, replied, “Well, yeah! We’ll get you about 9 in the morning and he’ll drop us off around 10 at the front gate. Then pick us up at 2 around the pavilion. It’s gonna be a blast!”
“Oh, wow!” was about all Mike could say. Visions of the Bumper cars, the Roller Coaster and Round-up flashed in his head. Beaming, he exclaimed, “Cool! See you tomorrow,” and slammed down the phone.
“We’re going, Mom!” he said gleefully.
Turning, she offered a loving smile and said, “See? You just needed to be patient.”
That night, Mike wrestled under the bed covers imagining the day to come. Sleep finally overtook him. The night hours whisked by as the bright rays of morning sunlight peeked through the window. Realizing it was late, Mike jumped to his feet, threw on his clothes, stuffed the hoarded stash of coins and bills into his front jean pockets, bounced down the stairwell and headed for the kitchen. Mom was setting his plate on the table.
“Good morning! You just about overslept, you know. Now sit down and eat.” She placed the steaming hot pancakes and eggs in front of him and continued, “Uncle Albert just called. He’ll be here in about ten minutes. Got your money?”
“You bet!” he said, cramming the food down his throat.
“How much are you taking?” she asked, with a glint in her eye.
“Five dollars! And it’s free day!”
“Well, you’re a rich man. And here I’d kept a couple dollars in my coin purse to get you through the gate. I guess you don’t need that now” she said laughingly. Then, pulling them from her coin purse, she slid them across the table. “Have fun! Love you.”
Mike grabbed the cash, shoved them in his pockets, wolfed down the rest of his breakfast, hugged his Mom and ran toward the front door. And just in time. Uncle Al was pulling into the driveway honking the horn. Mike shot out the front porch door, skipped the steps, and hit the ground running. Jumping in the back seat with Bill, they sped off to the fair.
As Uncle Albert pulled the car up to the front gate, he reminded the boys about being in front of the pavilion at 2 o’clock and then scooted them out. The boys slammed the car door and wiggled their way into the crowd.
The events of the morning were a complete blur as the two rode all their favorite rides. Adventure was the name of the game but the Tilt-A-Whirl made them somewhat queasy. Before getting on, they’d loaded up on corny dogs, cotton candy and chocolate malts. They skipped the Farris Wheel. It was way too tame. Seeking new thrills, our juveniles ambled into the sideshow area.
The funhouse and house of mirrors were old hat, and the bearded lady at the Freak Show weirded them out just by the billing. As they wandered along, they watched people at the ring toss, the Duck Shooting Gallery and Penny Arcade. One guy maneuvering a silver ring with a metal claw was diverting, but they still needed something more.
That’s when they saw it, The Monster Hall of Fame! In the midst of the noisy carnival clamor, Bill and Mike stopped as if star-struck. The sideshow semi-trailer had been fitted as a walk-thru museum featuring the scariest of them all: the Mummy, the Wolf Man, Frankenstein's Monster and Dracula!
Mesmerized, they inched toward the ticket booth. Mike pushed his hand into his pocket. He had about a dollar left. Whatever they did next had to be good. He looked over to Bill. “What do you think?”
Bill looked at his cash. “Well, why not?” Then he paused, “You know, they could be fakes. Not the real guys. What do you think?”
Not about to show his fear, he looked at Bill and said, “Ah, let’s go! . . . You first.” And up the steps of the gangway they went.
Second thoughts were cast aside as Bill flung the curtains open and stepped out of the bright sunshine into the dark inner sanctum. Mike followed in close pursuit. The curtains closed behind them enveloping them in blackness. They paused, allowing their eyes to adjust.
Pressing forward into the unknown darkness, the music subsided. Groans emerged just a few yards ahead. Slowly, they moved down the sloping sheet metal gang plank. The walkway was only wide enough to proceed in single file. The groans grew less believable as they approached the first “exhibit.”
A couple more steps and a dim light flashed on. Suddenly, a dirty rag wrapped hand jabbed through some steels bars in a feeble attempt to grab one of the travelers. Startled, they veered sideways. It was a mummy, but not the Mummy, and a poor imitation at that.
The momentary surprise subsided as they looked down toward a figure seated on a make-shift stool in the corner outside the cell. There, in a heap before them, was a dummy dressed as the Wolf Man. It was obviously a fake show. Phony costuming and fakery transformed Mike’s astonishment into annoyance. In a low voice, he whispered to Bill just inches away, “What a bunch of phony bologna!”
Bill was equally disgusted. “Yeah, what a waste of money!”
They turned left at the would-be Wolf Man and headed down the dimly lit corridor. As they walked, more confidently now, manufactured spider webs traced their faces accompanied by recorded creaky sounds, wolf howls, and banshee cries.
Bill muttered, “Oh, brother.” Boldly, he marched on, picking up the pace. Mike followed in suit allowing the inches between them to expand into feet, but something didn’t feel right. He felt a presence, but couldn’t identify it in the darkness.
Listening more intently, there seemed to be a shuffling sound coming from behind him and closing in. Shrouded by darkness, he glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the Wolf Man had joined their solemn parade. It wasn’t a dummy at all, but a guy dressed in costume. He was inching toward the boys, providing a throaty huff and puff down Mike’s neck.
The warm breaths increased as the werewolf pressed closer. Mike was becoming agitated. He thought, “This guy is pushing the limits! Boy, if I could only stomp his foot or something.” Then, an idea flashed through his brain.
Looking ahead, he could make out one last costumed character, a guy in a black cape. Light leaking through the Exit illuminated the final bend. He saw his chance. Leaning forward, he whispered in Bill’s ear, “When I say run, RUN!”
Perplexed, Bill responded, “What? . . . Why?”
By now the werewolf had Mike pretty peeved. He hissed back, “Just do it! We have a tag-along and I’m ditching him, so get ready.”
“OK!”
The Wolf Man kept in stride, step for step, just inches from Mike’s back. He felt a nudge on the back of his head. It must have been the mask the man wore. It was probably bumping into his hair. That did it!
The trio had reached the last corner. The warm autumn breeze allowed daylight to break through the Exit curtains on their left. That was Mike’s cue. “RUN!” he shouted, and, mustering his courage, he turned, grabbed the Wolf Man’s rubber masked nose between his fingers and gave it a firm yank! The mask stretched and snapped into the face of the faker with a resounding “Whhhaaack!”
Breaking out of character, the hairy nuisance let out a hearty “Oooowww!” Without even a glance at the caped creature, the boys accelerated into full gallop, and shot out the Exit door. Like shells from a cannon, they exploded into the daylight, barely grazed the top of the exit ramp, flew over the Exit steps and went airborne, hitting the ground running a couple yards past the metal gangway.
Howls and curses echoed from inside the sideshow trailer followed by an angry, “You kids come back here!” Panting, the boys disappeared into the crowd. Glancing back to make sure no one was in hot pursuit, Mike puffed, “All clear. We can stop running.”
Half laughing, Bill blurted, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”
Catching his breath, Mike retorted, “That guy was a real pest! I mean, breathing down my neck like that, so I twisted his nose. I might have undone his costume I suppose . . . but he deserved it!” The boys burst into laughter and headed for the pavilion to meet up with Bill’s Dad.
It had been a grand, memorable day, and they would never look at the State Fair Sideshows in the same way again.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © October 2017
With potholder in hand, Grandma ladled the last of the thickening sand plum jelly into the small Mason jar. The red-amber syrup steamed as it filled the glass container. Mike’s mouth watered in anticipation. There was nothing better than that sweet nectar spread across a warm slice of her fresh baked bread.
She was a small roundish woman of few words; kind but firm and what she said was gospel! Lovingly placing her weathered hands on his small shoulders, she aimed him at the backdoor. Giving him a gentle shove, she quipped, “Now you skedaddle. Grandpa will be finishing milking in a while and I need to fix supper. I’ll call when it’s ready.” Smiling, he ambled out the door onto the porch. Calling after him, she continued, “And don’t forget, your Mom and Dad are coming out tonight.” That would end his summer vacation. He’d be starting the 6th grade in a week or so. He shuddered at the thought.
The slap of the closing screen door reinforced his “Ok, Grandma!” The noise of the door and his shoes on the porch planks unsettled Teddy, the small golden brown terrier who lived under the porch. Tottering out on his short legs, he stuck his wet nose up in Mike’s direction, panted a pant, and gruffed a happy “Ruff!” His dark brown eyes glistened in the late afternoon sun. Turning back to the opening, he shook his body, rearranged his fur, wagged his fluffy tail, and yelped once more as if to say, “Just checking. Now, go about your business.” And with that, he returned to his shady resting spot down under.
Mike jumped from the porch landing in the pathway below. Pausing, he looked left, then right and thought, “Now, which way to go. I can head toward the outhouse or I can check for eggs in the hen house.” He pondered his next move carefully, considering every option. “I know,” he thought, “I’ll explore the west woods. I’ve never done that!” With that, he exited out the front gate into the barnyard.
Turning south, he tromped toward the grove at the top of the hill. As he walked, he adjusted the bib of his overalls and knocked the sand out of his pant cuffs. Passing the woodshed and the saw cradle, he reviewed his week on the farm. It had been a long one. He’d helped Grandpa with milking in the mornings and slopping the hogs up on that same hill. Then, he’d carried logs for the cook stove, cleared old walnuts from under the front tree, gathered eggs both morning and evening, and even gone sand plum picking with Grandma. While she got the good ones cooking, he helped her cull out the bad ones and occasionally stirred the pot for her. By nightfall he was one weary waif.
As he reached the crest of the hill, he turned westward toward the woods. In the waking hours of each morning he’d stand at the edge of the garden listening to the dawn chorus ushering in a new day. Just as the first rays of morning light hit that bank of trees he would hear the quail call. Their song would echo back and forth through the trees sparking a whimsical sense of mystery and fantasy in the boy. They’d sing “Bob White . . . Bob White . . . I’m Bob White!”
The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow along the top of the tree line. Passing abandoned farm implements and rusty old trucks, he came upon a convenient entrance. He hesitated. He’d never been in this section of the woods and wasn’t sure what awaited him. But curiosity won out.
Squeezing between fence posts, he stepped around barbed wire to embark on his adventure. The only sounds to be heard were the crunch and crackle of leaves under his steps. Slowly, he made his way through the first fifty feet of trees and underbrush. As he moved, darkness gradually encompassed him. He paused to take it all in. The woods seemed steeped in tranquility.
Ahead he could see stray rays of sunlight piercing through the dense foliage. They beckoned him onward. Pressing forward, the darkness began to recede. Presently, he came upon a clearing. Leaves from previous seasons covered the ground like a thick mantle. There was no hint of any previous explorer. He thought, “I might be the first person to ever walk here.”
Moving toward the center of the clearing, the tree branches and leaves formed a vaulted cathedral-like canopy. Each edge appeared gilded in a kaleidoscope of colors; oranges, greens, browns, crimsons and golds. The woodland floor was textured with a blended palette of burnt sienna and raw umber with striking white-gold highlights. The tree trunks were mere silhouettes casting lengthening shadows whose finger-like branches reached out for him as the sun continued its descent. This wooded sanctuary seemed to foster a golden glow as if he had entered an undisturbed mystical fairyland.
Then, an eerie stillness seemed to engulf him. Imagination took over as he pondered the whereabouts of trolls, elves and fairies. Thoughts of hidden treasure or an undiscovered cabin hiding a mad ogre grazed his mind. The crunching sound of leaves amplified his fears within this golden chamber. Delving deeper into the woodland, an ominous foreboding invaded him. Something had definitely disturbed the stillness. He felt, momentarily, as if he were being watched. Surveying the area he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Mustering his courage, each step diminished his apprehensions as the aura of lights, darks, colors, and sounds enfolded him. The serenity and beauty of his newly discovered “secret place” mesmerized him.
Suddenly, he felt a firm thump on his right shoulder. He stood frozen. His skin seemed to crawl as fear flooded in. His heart raced as his breath halted. “Who . . . who’s there?” he thought, but dare he make a sound? Slowly, cautiously, he ventured to peek over his shoulder. There was no one there, only trees. He felt a perplexing trepidation. “I DID feel something against my shoulder,” he reasoned.
Returning a forward gaze, his eyes set upon an elusive shadow. Fear gripped him . . . but wait. The dark figure glided gracefully through the lower limbs of the trees and, then, with a single flap of its broad wings, evaporated into the distance. It was a large barred owl beginning its evening flight through the twilight. Mike let out a huge sigh of relief as he watched the creature soar into the evening light.
It was a moment of awakening for our young wayfarer. As he wandered back toward the farmhouse Teddy bounded from the bushes to escort him back. At first he didn’t notice his four-legged friend. The majestic beauty of one of God’s creatures had enchanted him. It was as if the touch of the owl’s wing was urging him to embrace a new season. It was a nudge into autumn. Bending down, Mike patted the perky pooch and, together, they meandered back to the house.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © September 2017
The morning sun rose over the catalpa grove as the overall-clad boy finished scattering the grain. Opening the hen house doors, the flock scrambled out into the open yard like starving beggars grappling for any stray morsel of food in sight.
Squawks and cackles filled the chicken yard as he stepped out of range of the squabbling fowls. It was a chaotic blanket of reddish-brown and yellowish white feathers. Mike enjoyed watching the frenzied feeders as they vied for dominance and their share of the food. That would soon end when “Red” appeared. A shiver went down the boy’s spine at the thought.
That Rhode Island Red rooster was big and mean. With his red comb, those fiery red eyes, a cocky strut, reddish-brown and black feathers, and his yellow legs equipped with 2 inch spurs, he was not a rooster to rouse. He always looked ready for a fight. This eight year old pushed those thoughts aside. It was time to gather the eggs while the hens were preoccupied with their breakfast.
He’d collected the last egg about the time that cranky cock appeared. Red was too busy pecking grain to give any thought to this potential intruder. Quietly, Mike slipped out the area unnoticed.
As he approached the farmhouse, Cousin Bill came running toward him all excited. “Hey, Mike! Give Grandma those eggs and come on.” Bill was a year younger than Mike and full of energy. If Bill had an idea, it was usually fun and a bit unconventional. They’d both gotten Grandma’s “switchin’s” for those kinds of notions more than once.
Puzzled, Mike responded “Why? What’s going on?”
With brightening eyes he exclaimed, “We heard Grandpa say the herd was in the south pasture up by the hog pen. And Billy’s up there!”
Billy! We hadn’t seen that kid goat since Uncle Louie brought him to the farm last spring. He was a little white ram that was fun to play with and to play tricks on. All the cousins had spent time teasing, touching and taunting that little feller. But Billy always took it in stride and rutted his head back at them as a way of affirmation, affection, or retaliation. Regardless, he was always entertaining for the clan.
Mike hurried to the kitchen, set the basket of eggs on the counter, and ran back out the door. By this time most of the other cousins were running up the hill toward the hog pen. He saw Bill at the yard gate prancing impatiently as he waited. Catching sight of Mike, Bill shouted “Come on. They’re getting ahead of us!”
Rejoining Bill, Mike chirped, “Let’s go!” and off they raced to catch up with the others.
The pasture was uphill about a quarter mile from the farm house. As the two boys ran, they passed the old grinding wheel for sharpening axes. Then came the metal wood shed, the belt-driven sawmill blade (about 4 feet in diameter), the old John Deere Model B tractor and a large pile of firewood. The boys had carried their share of arm loads to the house. Without electricity in the area, it kept the cook stove going year round for baking and warmth on those frigid winter nights.
Just past the woodpile were the Banty hens and roosters. They were about half the size of the Rhode Island Reds in height but twice as cranky as old Red ever thought of being. Grandma took care of their needs. Mike and Bill slipped past them without even a cheep from the brood.
Finally they approached the tree line where the old Model T’s retired. The boys had enjoyed numerous adventures there; chasing mice and lizards while pretending to be treasure hunters, but not today. The hog pen was just a bit further up the road on the other side of the trees and then the pasture. “Billy” was waiting.
As they passed between the trees the Hereford herd came into view, about 20 head. In the middle was a large white animal. At first the clutch of cousins were mystified. “What is that?” they wondered.
Then Sharon, the oldest girl proclaimed, “That’s Billy! Boy has he grown!”
The children carefully pressed against the barbed wire fence for a closer look. Whispers and giggles mingled as all stood in wonder at the transformation of their pet kid goat.
Munching on grass amongst the herd, Billy raised his head in response to the unfamiliar sounds. Recognizing his old playmates, he ambled toward the small congregation of admirers. He’d gained about 40 pounds and two feet in height along with a long pair of horns.
Reuniting with familiar faces, he gave out a “Baaaaaahhh” and cantered merrily toward the children. His tuft of beard swayed in the breeze as he loped. Hands reached through the wire to get their first touch of the white wayfarer. Mike and Bill just watched as the rest enjoyed the reunion.
Squeals from little piggy’s wafted across the air amongst the moos of the cattle. The two boys wandered toward the pen to get a closer look. Suddenly, frightful screams of alarm broke out from the cousins. As a playful antic, one of the boys had grabbed Billy’s horns and held his head against a fence post. Underestimating his new size and strength, Billy butted the child backward, reared on his hind legs and jumped the fence. Cousins fled in all directions.
With horns lowered like a white charger, Billy began challenging his presumed adversaries. Cousin Bill jumped up onto a fence railing at the pig pen and Mike rocketed back down the hill to the farm house. The other cousins scattered through the woods.
Billy targeted Mike and, with head down, came charging after him. Scrambling as fast as his little legs could carry him, he passed the cars, the Banty henhouse, dodged the tractors’ rear tires, and flew by the woodshed, constantly zigging and zagging to avoid those powerful prongs. It all was a blur. His frenzied pace combined with the occasional backward glance created an awkward sense of balance. Any misstep and he’d be gored by a goat.
The peaceful serenity of the country morning was shattered by yells for help as the duo crashed into the barnyard. Mike kept just a few steps ahead of those pointed horns. Billy jerked his head from side to side and jabbed his horns forward hoping to snag the boy’s backside.
With his attentions to the rear, Mike stumbled into the flock of now disconcerted hens . . . and collided with Red! That cock, on a good day, didn’t like to be interfered with let alone run over and kicked. He retaliated in kind. Out came the spurs and the flogging commenced.
Being stuck in the middle of the mayhem, Mike became frantic! On one side was a maniac goat rearing and rutting, and on the other was a rabid rooster with his hackles up ready for war. Wings wacked as claws and spurs spiked Mike’s legs. Hooves and horns bruised his backside. Squawks, screams, crows and bleats rose through the ruckus.
The commotion penetrated the farmhouse unnerving its guests. In moments the porch was filled with spectators. Aunts and Uncles clamored like a crowd at the Roman Coliseum when the lions were winning. Improperly appraising the situation, one of the uncles shouted, “Grab a stick!” (There was little time for Mike to search for a stick, being preoccupied with other things).
Finally, Dad and the gentle giant, Uncle Marion, stormed the front gate, chased off Red and harnessed the goat. Mother grabbed Mike and consoled him while inspecting for damages. There was little to none short of scars from damaged pride.
So began an early August summer day on Grandpa’s farm.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © August 2017
The wipers squeaked and squalled as they slid across the damp windshield. There wasn’t enough rain in this summer shower to make them glide freely, yet there was just enough moisture and dust to obscure my vision.
Placing the gear lever in reverse, I glanced at the driver-side mirror making sure all was clear. The wipers uttered a loud stuttering noise and dull thump as the windshield cleared. Rolling backward, I pressed the gas petal and glanced forward. All too late, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a parked vehicle in the passenger mirror. It was a huge rusty old farm truck with a missing headlight. Panicking, I slammed on the brake and . . . BOOM!
Jolting, I sprang into a sitting position! “WOW!! What was that?” I spouted in a half dreaming stammer. The thunder clap rumbled off into the distance. Rolling over to her side of the bed, my wife groaned a gentle “Go back to sleep, it’s just a rainstorm.”
I looked around the bedroom. Lightning multi-flashed like paparazzi at a celebrity ball. A brilliant crackling lightning bolt hit close to the house. I counted the seconds to determine the storms distance. Finally the thunder resounded. Groggily I commented, “Seven seconds. That’s about seven miles to center.” The lightning was as intense as the reverberating thunder. Focusing, my eyes caught the red LED glow of the clock on the nightstand. I thought, “Oh man, 3:35 in the morning!”
Returning to a reclining position, what may have been seconds felt like hours before I fell asleep, but this time it was no dream. Rather, it was a recollection of my younger days. My older brother Ron had shipped out with the troops for their tour in Viet Nam. Dad was at work and Mom was house cleaning. I was a fifteen year old rummaging around the back porch cabinets looking for some illusive item.
Moving things around on the shelf, I spied a vaguely familiar pasteboard box in the very back of the cabinet. Rearranging a few items, I freed the container from its confines. To my surprise and pleasure I’d found the remains of a gross of Ron’s M-80’s he’d purchased for last years’ Fourth celebration. Of the two boxes only a half gross box survived.
As I gazed upon the find, I felt like a beggar who’d uncovered a king’s ransom. Yet, this newly discovered treasure trove presented a rather awkward moral dilemma; should I push them back on the shelf or “borrow” a few? I mean, who would know if a few went missing. And they ARE in the family, just not mine personally. Besides, he’d never miss them.
My adolescent mind rationalized with my reasoning side. “It’s almost the 4th of July. You should see if they are still good.” Suddenly, my shoulder devil protagonist butted in, “I bet they aren’t as loud as they were when he was still here. You should try one. Ron won’t care.” Then my right shoulder angel appeared. Without hesitation he firmly stated, “They aren’t yours. It would be stealing. Put them back.” I knew he was right but my weaker side gave in and I commandeered a half dozen.
With the select six in my greedy grasp, I still struggled. “What will Mom say if she finds out?” But like all shoulder devil protagonists, justification for acquiring the ill-gotten booty only needed a simple nudge to win its’ case. Miraculously, a couple left over firework punks materialized.
The hook was set as was my mind. Clutching them in my fist, I exited out the back door and headed for the barn about 60 feet from the house. I entered the workshop and found dad’s brass blow torch. He always kept a few matches with it so I was set.
Walking out to the gravel drive in front of the barn door, I laid out my arsenal; six M-80’s, two punks and the small book of matches. I stuffed five of the mini-dynamite sticks in my front jean pocket, slid the second punk to one side away from the remaining incendiary and, grasping the other punk, removed a match from the book.
With match in hand, I recalled seeing some actor in a movie position the match between the cover and the sandpaper striker pad. Then, with one hand, he pressed the flammable sandwich together and quickly jerked out the match with the other hand. With the elements of friction and combustible materials, Poof! The match head exploded into glowing flame, just like in the movie!
Pleased with my newly perfected technique in flameography, I lit the punk. Smoke ascended momentarily like a smudge pot but soon revealed the hot orange glowing embers of the punk tip. Now for the detonation.
Approaching cautiously, I crouched before the solitary stub. The green twisted fuse glistened in the mid-morning light as it filtered through the overhanging trees. The red casing with black printing “M-80” begged enticingly for attention. Slowly, methodically, I glanced over my shoulder to plan my escape route for viewing distance. Returning my vision to the sole candidate, I cautiously extended the glowing punk tip toward the fuse.
At first nothing happened, no smoke, no sizzle, no nothing! I moved it closer. Instantly sparks flew. The wick was lit! I jumped into running stance, turned on my heels and bolted for the clearing a few feet away.
Arriving at my pre-planned viewing spot I turned and stared. A little smoke, a few sparks, a small flame, and then nothing. Standing stock still while holding my breath I gazed on and . . . BBOOOOOOMMMM!!
Windows rattled on neighboring houses, birds scatted in every directions, leaves waved, and, as the smoke cleared, I noticed all the sand within five feet of the detonation spot had vanished. The war zone was now like a silent tomb. The concussion made my ears ring like tornado sirens.
I remained motionless as if in shock for an undetermined amount of time. Suddenly the silence was broken with voices coming from behind. The ringing in my ears obscured any reasonable attempts at voice recognition. I turned and looked. There stood a couple of our next-door-neighbor’s children, Sammy, age 10 and Ruth Ann, age 13.
The arriving itinerant chorus proclaimed, “What are you doing?”
Still stunned, I proudly retorted “I just set off one of Ronnie’s M-80’s!”
Ruth Ann, eyes wide and glistening with excitement, squealed “Do another one!”
“Yeah!” echoed Sammy.
“Sure.” I replied, embracing my newly acquired celebrity status. Expertly, I instructed my audience, “We’ll need to step back a lot further. I was standing way to close and my ears are still ringing.”
With bolder confidence we retreated another twenty feet away from my current observation post. “There, this should do it.” I explained. “Now, wait here and I’ll light the next one.”
Cooperatively, they replied “OK.”
I trotted back to the detonation location and set up my next firework. As before, I measured my escape route from over my shoulder, extended the lit punk to the fuse and watched till it sizzled. As a spark flew, so did I. But I had a surprise waiting. My young admirers had been overcome by curiosity and, with my attentions elsewhere, I stumbled into Sam and Ruth. Chaos ensued!
“RUN!” I screamed.
In a mad scramble we retreated to our new location. Just as we turned, “BBOOOOMMM!”
Again, the windows shook and leaves settled. The residual concussion swept our hair back. Then, once again, silence mastered the moment. I looked down at my protégés. Eyes were wide and mouths gaped as their jaws dropped. Even with our hands over our ears, the ringing continued.
Slowly, Sammy commented, “Wow! That was really loud.”
At this point, Ruth Ann turned to me with ebbing tears in her blue eyes and burbled a somber “Bye.” Then she scurried back to her house like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
Wisdom shouted “That’s all folks!” but where two boys reside . . . there’s only half a brain and it proclaimed “Just one more!”
As if a telepathic connection had occurred, Sammy and my eyes met. “One more?” I asked.
Unhesitatingly, he responded “Oh, yea! You bet!”
“OK, but let’s do it different this time.” I studied the topography, and distance. With all the data in, I threw caution to the wind and confidently stated, “I’ll light it here facing that direction and throw it behind me over my shoulder. It will fly that way and we will run this way.”
It seemed logical to his 10 year old brain. And with my newly gained vast knowledge and experience base of such things as these, I proceeded. I grasped the lit punk, searched my pocket for one of the four remaining mini-bombs and positioned it in my hand. Then, lit the fuse, tossed it with a hearty backward “over –the-shoulder” lunge and headed away from the presumed not-so-distant target area with lightning speed.
Thinking we’d adequately distanced ourselves, we simultaneously stopped and turned. But no sparks or smoke was in sight.
“Where’d it go?” Sammy asked.
“I don’t know” I replied, quickly scanning the horizon. “It must have gone out.”
As the words drifted innocently from my lips, we heard a sizzle and thud just inches from our feet. The “boomer” I had presumably launched to the target zone was intercepted by a nearby over-hanging tree branch and was returned post haste. We had become the detonation zone!
With no time to run we stood our ground, braced ourselves and . . . “KKKAAAA-BBBOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!
The tornado siren effect on our ears had been morphed into intense Air Raid Sirens! As the smoke and dust clear a sullen silence fell over the terrain. Even the ants and earthworms had run for cover.
A gentle breeze carried small bits of leave and debris away as the red casing fragments of the M-80 twirled at our feet. Wordlessly, Sammy, covered in smoke, sand and disgrace, turned and retreated to his house.
As for my overzealous shoulder devil protagonist, the tumbling red paper fragments were all that remained of him. It would be a long time before I would hold counsel with his insights. As for my right shoulder angel, he remained the silent gentleman. The lesson would be forever etched in my memory. And as for Mom, she was probably hunkered down in the cellar armed with her Bible praying that Armageddon would soon pass.
Dutifully, and bearing a measure of chagrin, I quietly returned the remaining ordinances to their rightful half-gross box in the back of the cupboard. Nothing was ever mentioned of the incident again. At least, that is, until now.
And so I half dream . . . smiling.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © July 2017
Motherhood is not just the result of having a baby. It is a life commitment in nurturing and self-sacrifice. The most vivid illustration of this came from a conversation I overheard at age 13. It was there I learned the depth of my Mother’s faith and love for me. Tough love.
My Dad was a mechanical genius. One Sunday morning after the worship service, Pastor Curtis W. approached him seeking his mechanical prowess. They arranged an evening conflab later in the week with tools handy.
The 12 mile car ride to their house was a common bi-weekly journey. Every landmark was etched in my brain as I gazed out the window. But they didn’t seem to hold my interest that evening. My thoughts were elsewhere.
Upon arrival, Dad and Curtis retreated to the garage. Mom and the pastor’s wife wandered off to the kitchen to chat. I remained in the living room. Left to my own devices, I began wandering through the house fiddling with things on the coffee table and eventually working my way through all the knick-knacks in other rooms. I eventually returned to the living room and flopped down on the couch. “What to do next?” I sighed.
My thoughts were interrupted. I heard my name mentioned in the dialogue wafting in from the kitchen. It was my Mom’s voice. She was telling Edna, Mrs. W., a story I’d never heard. I stopped my fidgeting, leaned toward the kitchen and began eavesdropping on their conversation.
“. . . well, we really liked Dr. Gill,” she commented “so we just decided to drive up here for Mike’s medical needs. Less traffic and all, you know.”
“I can imagine!” Edna was obviously absorbed by something.
That peaked my curiosity. I squirmed a bit and wondered, “What medical needs is she talking about?”
Mom continued “So we brought him here but with the seizures increasing they didn’t give us much hope. Based on his research, Dr. Gill didn’t think he would live past age twelve!”
“Oh, my!” Edna responded. “So, was it the headaches?”
My mind raced, “Headaches? What headaches?” I recalled headaches off and on in my younger years but I didn’t remember any seizures. I wasn’t even sure what a seizure was. I’d told Dad I had a bad headache once but he turned it into an excuse to get my hair cut. He stated, “We should get that hair of yours trimmed. It might make your headaches go away.” Then, it was off to the barber shop.
I listened more intently now not wanting to miss a word.
Edna pressed Mom for more information. “What was causing the seizures? Did they say?”
“Yes, they explained it. You see, after Mike was born, the three skull portions began growing. In normal conditions they are supposed to grow toward the top of the head filling in the soft spot. But his didn’t for some reason. The sides were growing toward the top of the head faster than the back one so they began pushing it down. Basically, it was cutting into his spinal cord at the base of his skull.”
Edna seemed spellbound. Mom continued. “The pain caused him to go into spasms. He’d throw his arms above his head, then, arch his back and begin screaming. It was horrifying!” Her voice cracked. “I felt totally helpless.” She paused.
With focused concern, Edna probed, “So, did you bring him in for more testing?”
“We did.”
“And . . .?”
“They called it improper cranial sacral alignment.”
Edna wasn’t familiar with the term. Her voice grew more earnest. “And is it treatable?”
Regaining her composure Mom said, “No, not really. But let me back up. When I was carrying Mike I somehow contracted hepatitis. So the week he was due I came in for his final checkup with that complaint. They admitted me to the hospital for treatment of the hepatitis. Whether that had anything to do with his condition, I don’t know. They didn’t say. Anyway, he was born that same week. It was after he was home a few months when the convulsions started.”
“Sooo . . . he’s how old now?” The clatter of dishes, spoons and cups rattled from the kitchen as the aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the house.
“He turned thirteen last October. He seldom complains of headaches.” Mom continued, “And he hasn’t had a seizure in years!”
Edna interjected, “Well, that’s a blessing but what now? I mean, he’s thirteen!” She sensed there was more to the story.
“Honestly, it’s in the Lord’s hands. But, here’s what happened. That first year we’d been praying but nothing seemed to be happening. I was attending a ladies Bible study at our previous church. Near the end of one of the studies Mike had one of his seizures so I took him outside. When the study was over, one of my friends approached me. She’d never witnessed one of his seizures before so she began asking specific questions about it. I explained his condition to her and what the doctors had said.”
“Well, go on.” Edna prodded.
“She was with the Salvation Army. But what I didn’t know was that she also knew Swedish massage. She convinced me to bring him over to her house once a week to work with him. So I began the following week.”
Edna was all ears. So was I.
Mom hesitated and then spoke. “The first visit was a traumatic one. She told me to create a shopping list and then deliver Mike to her. I was to go shopping for at least an hour while she worked on him. So, I handed him off, returned to the car and rolled down the window while I reviewed my shopping list. Then I heard his screams coming from the house. The pain for him must have been terrible. I couldn’t stand it! I drove away in tears.”
Her voice faltered momentarily. Then she continued, “This went on for weeks. It must have worked. The seizures seemed to decrease. They finally disappeared. My friend told me later that while she manipulated the bones she would call out to God and sing hymns. She was the answer to our prayers! We’ve taken him in for regular checkups since then. They no longer seem to be as concerned. Dr. Gill said there isn’t anything more they can do for him. I think it’s a miracle!”
The room went silent. Obviously, Edna was as stunned as I was. My adolescent boredom had been transformed to resolve. It now seemed I had a greater purpose in life.
My mother, her prayers, her sacrifice of tears, and her Savior have become a monument in my life. Her investment has given me 50 plus years to serve and glorify Him. And I seldom get headaches. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for caring friends. And thank you, Jesus.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © May 2017
The warm mid-day breeze moved the curtains above the kitchen sink. Spring was finally here. Mom opened the front door to create a draw through the house. The sweet fragrances of a budding springtime mingled with the aromas of her baking.
Returning to the kitchen, Mom turned toward the oven. Wrapping her hands with the edge of her apron, she gripped the handle, opened the door a smidgen, and bent over to peek. Daylight revealed the fresh loaf of bread inside. It still needed that golden glow on the crust. Closing the door, she thought “Just a few more minutes and I can call the boys in for lunch.”
But her thoughts were interrupted. Sounds of distant screams reverberated off the walls, lots of them. The commotion seemed to be coming from the front of the house and getting louder. It was too manic for playfulness. Hurrying to the door to investigate, she peered through the screen.
The High School baseball field was in clear view just a hundred yards or so from the porch. Earlier, this Saturday morning, some of the neighbor boys had arrived in hopes of burning off some pent-up baseball fever with her oldest son, Ron. She’d sent them out to play.
As she scanned the horizon, she observed a half dozen boys running in all direction. Two were hers. Fourteen-year-old Ron was scurrying toward the ball field as the neighbor boys scattered across the cityscape. Her youngest, Mike, was running straight for the house waving his arms frantically above his head. Growing more concerned, she wondered, “What are they doing?”
Her memory raced back to the boys gathering equipment. Being short several players for a true game, they’d settled for fielding practice. Grabbing a couple “Louisville Slugger” bats, some gloves and a ball, they set off to the ball field to “hit a few.”
Watching as they ambled into the distance, lighthearted chatter filled the air. Smiling, she returned to the kitchen to prepare for a hungry mob, later. All seemed normal.
And all was normal . . . for a while. As they walked across the school lawn, positions were assigned. Ron could hit about anything that crossed the plate. Next-door-neighbor Andy threw a mean curve ball. His younger brother Danny could play rover, being quick and agile anywhere on the field. Dwight volunteered to be catcher. The two youngest, little Sam and ten-year-old Mike (Ron’s brother) would be outfielders. Entering through the make-shift dugout, everyone took their places.
Andy warmed his arm up as Ron tested the bats. Then, standing in the batter’s box, he walloped a good set of Andy’s sizzling pitches. Dwight retrieved the occasional fouls and stray throws while Danny, Mike and Sam fielded flies.
Finally, Andy decided to try his hottest curve ball. As the breeze fluffed his blonde hair, he took his position, straightened his stance, signaled Dwight, wound up for the throw, and then fired the spherical missile at the batter. Calculating the speed, Ron tightened his grip on the stick. His senses shouted “NOW, HIT IT!”
Mind and muscles prompted reflexes. Taking a mighty swing, wood and leather collided with a “Smack” sending the ball soaring . . . but only to foul out over the left field backstop. All eyes were fixed on the ball as it disappeared into the adjoining neighbor’s backyard.
Ron called to the fielders, “I’ll go get it. Just stay put.” He made his way out through the dugout to the neighbor’s picket fence. Entering a side gate, he walked to where the ball had vanished behind an old tool shed. They searched around trees, through flowerbeds and under various obstacles, yet the lone ball was nowhere in sight. Finally, the other boys dropped their gloves and joined him.
Out of courtesy Danny knocked on the front door of the house, but apparently no one was home. Returning to the rest of the search squad, he began wandering through the cluttered yard. Dodging empty flower pots and lawn furniture, he began kicking through the tall grass in hopes of striking the lost ball.
Suddenly, Ron shouted, “Hey, I found it.” Relieved, the boys ran to him at the door of the old shed.
Seeing Ron’s empty hands, Andy scowled. “So, where is it?”
“It must have bounced off something and flew in here,” he replied. Pointing toward the floor just a few feet inside, he continued, “It’s over there on that pile of old rags.” With one foot inside, he leaned forward and grabbed the ball. Stepping out again, he began inspecting it for damage.
“Well, come on, let’s play ball,” called Danny.
Studying the darkened interior of the shed, Ron continued, “I wonder what’s under all those rags.” The noonday sun seemed to spotlight the pile, while the remaining contents sat shrouded in the darkness.
“Oh, who cares? Come on. Let’s go,” said Andy.
But no one budged. With curiosities peaked, they gathered around the darkened opening to see the pile and any other potential mysteries. Then Ron erupted, “Look! That rag moved . . . and I hear something.” The boys were all eyes and ears. Slowly, Ron reached for the top bundle.
Uneasy shivers crawled up Danny’s back. With hair raising on his neck he called, “Hey, let’s get out of here!”
Ron hesitated. Then, confidently, he continued reaching into the inner sanctum. “No, come on. Let’s see what it is,” he retorted.
Touching the top of the stack, he pulled out a rag. With their attentions drawn to the new found treasure, they hadn’t notice the increased rumble, buzz and hums emanating from the pile. Suddenly, a few large bees took flight. It was a nest of bumble bees!
Still unaware, Andy impatiently confirmed, “Ok. It’s just a rag. Can we go now?”
But before anyone could respond, the air filled with angry bees. Chaos ensued. The gang of boys ran yelling in all directions. In an effort to escape, one of the older boys knocked Sam down to the ground and shot out of the yard. Scrambling, Mike tripped over Sam. Jumping up, he pushed past Danny, attempting to evade the fierce denizens.
As if mesmerized, the bumble bees chased after Mike, in hot pursuit. Swinging his arms and hands furiously, he clambered past the other boys heading straight for home. No matter which way he zigged, zagged, or swatted, the bees remained locked on target.
Intense pain radiated through his neck and head as his attackers initiated their assault. Tears flowed as he screamed in desperation! One by one the black and yellow striped demons buried their stingers and pulled away.
As he sped closer to the house, Mom quickly appraised the situation. She rushed out the door, jumped off the porch and, using her apron as a whip, chased off the remaining attackers. Falling to her knees, she embraced her son, cradled his shaking body in her arms and carried him to the safety of home.
Offering consoling words, she wiped his tears while examining his injuries. Rapidly, she mixing a baking soda paste and applied it to the welts to draw out the venomous poisons. Then she applied towel-wrapped ice to reduce the swelling.
He’d received a dozen stings on the back of his head and neck. Strangely, the other boys escaped without injury. Rocking him on her lap, she offered him the first slice of freshly baked bread, now spread with butter and sugar. What had begun as a bumbling spring day was once again a tranquil, budding one.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © April 2017
There stood Maggie in the doorway. Hesitant, she flashed those big brown beautiful cow-eyes my way. Their liquid warmth sparkled with hungry anticipation. As our eyes met an unsettled foreboding came over me. I detected a hint of hellish fiery discontent in those sanguine dark pools.
Earlier in the fall my boss had introduced several young calving heifers into the existing one hundred head Holstein herd. The purpose: acclimate them to the milking process once they had calved. They were all pretty skittish at first but adjusted, all but Maggie. She took skittish to a new level. She was always the last one into the holding pen and always last into the milking stalls. Yet the taste of grain from the feeder seemed to quell her ambivalence.
The routine was simple: get them into the milking stalls, begin feeding, drop the back-out bar behind them if necessary, and raise the stainless steel milking cluster under their udder. This allowed them to adjust to the rhythmic sucking sounds of the milkers. That was it. All the heifers had become accustom to that routine during their pregnancy, except Maggie. And now she had delivered.
On this particular day, as was her custom, she entered the doorway, looked around the barn, eyed the empty stall in front of her and waited or backed out again. Then, a few minutes before the mature cows had finished milking, she slowly walked up to the feeder. Her black and white spotted figure barely cleared the short doorway header. She placed her head in the feeder box and began eating with one eye fixed on me. As I approached, her head bolted. Hurriedly, she back out of the stall as if a bee stung her nose.
Since she had calved, she had to be milked! My teenage mind conceived a plan. As she backed out the one door, I hopped the rail on the opposite side of the barn, ducked my head to miss the header, ran up from behind and chased her back in. Once there, she began feeding peacefully. Then, as the other cows finished their milking, I returned to remove their milkers. With stealth, I dropped the back-out bar behind her as I passed. She noticed but didn’t seem to mind. I thought I was home free but I was wrong. She had a plan too.
Not wishing to startle her, I walked up beside her and gently lifted the cluster under her. As she spied me she raised her hind left leg and, with lightning speed, kicked my arm sending the cluster flying. Thankfully the vacuum pump lines saved them from hitting the floor. They hung suspended in air. But the pain in my forearm fueled my anger. She tried to back from the stall again but the back-out bar her caught her rump. Surprised, she pressed forward into the feeder box and, feeling trapped, kicked out toward me again with greater angst! This called for drastic measures.
Earlier that spring, my boss showed me how to use “the Kickers” for stubborn cantankerous bovines. By now I had become well versed in the practice. With equal speed and a boiling temper, I grabbed the vise-like tool off the wall, scooted the step-stool to the railing, climbed the steps and forced them down over her hips. The side bars fit loosely in front of her young thighs. Gripping the swivel handle, I cranked them down as tight as I could. Unfortunately, there was still free play left in them giving my adversary some unintended freedom of movement.
I climbed down and retrieved the cluster still swinging from the lines. With a flurry, I placed them on her, then whisked my arms back as she attempted to kick me again. Having an under-developed smallish udder, the teat-cups lost air and slipped down as if to fall off. Reluctantly, I reached in and lifted them back into position. All seemed to be working as she let down her milk.
As the milk flow tapered off, I reached in to remove the cups and cluster. But as I leaned in, she kicked with all her might knocking the cluster and pump out of my hands and down into the accumulated manure below. They hit with a splash sending fecal matter everywhere. Then, shifting her weight, she knocked the back-out bar out of position. Shoving herself in reverse, she slammed the back-out bar up allowing a free retreat. She retreated through the entry chute and made her escape into the holding pen.
I was exasperated! Angry, I jumped the rail, ducked my head and flew through the low doorway. In my rage I misjudged its elevation. My capped head hit the door header with full force. Golden stars appeared in a sea of black. My last vision was the wooden fence post and railing not six feet away. Losing consciousness, I lunged forward catching the top of the post. Wrapping my arms around it, I clung tight as if my life depended on it.
I remained motionless with my head throbbing in pain and my ears ringing. I hung suspended above the barn floor for who knows how long. Slowly, my vision returned while the stars continued swirling in my pounding head.
Maggie had won this round. I would survive to fight another day. As a comforting thought, I imagined she would probably make good steaks.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © March, 2017
