sunset

Precious Memories

I remember my Grandpa Tallman growing Indian corn. The stalks were straight and tall, the kernels smooth and perfectly aligned. Every ear had a pattern of its own, each with a different mixture of earthy tones. It was beautiful -- soothing -- like watching a sunset; the colors like autumn leaves -- yellows, golds, reds, oranges, and browns so deep they almost looked purple.

I don't know what Indian corn is good for -- I don't remember ever eating any of it -- but when I was small and walked down the furrows and looked up at it growing toward the sun, I felt like I was in Heaven.

A couple of years after our parents divorced, if my memory is correct, was the first time my older sister and I went to stay overnight with our dad and his new wife. It was on a Saturday. They lived in Boise at the time, and had paved roads and a concrete sidewalk in front of their house. They also had something else we didn't have...a toy car that was so big you could sit inside it. It had a steering wheel and peddles and its own set of toy keys.

Now, the only thing that I'd ever peddled was the honing cycle up at the ranch. It looked sort of like a bicycle, had a similar shaped seat and two peddles, but was stationary. No wheels. You get the picture. Though it gave me plenty of practice peddling, all that did, of course, was turn the big round whetstone on the front of it. The only place I could travel was in my mind. At the ranch that was fine; I was already someplace. I could look out across the hay field and see the sage-covered mountains on the other side of the creek, far across the narrow valley. And if I wanted to go somewhere real, I'd go out to the corral and saddle up something that moved. But, hey! These folks had sidewalks!

The coolest thing about the little car was, the faster you peddled, the faster it went. I thought it was the greatest thing since hotcakes. Trouble was, it didn't belong to me. It belonged to my five-year-old step-sister, who was none too wild about me riding in it. She told me so in no uncertain terms...several times, in fact, before her mother came out to see what all the ruckus was about. That was the end of my peddle-car days, but it was great while it lasted.

That evening our folks got a baby-sitter and went out. The baby-sitter was a lot of fun. She put my two little step-brothers to bed and then played games with us, colored pictures with us, and let us smoke her cigarettes. She wasn't a very good colorer, couldn't even stay inside the lines, but she could sure tell a good ghost story. We turned out all the lights, too. It was real scary. Then she had us make some prank phone calls. I'd never done that before, either. I remember thinking how neat all those glowing cigarettes looked in the dark. That's about the time my sister flung her arm out and burned me on the bridge of my nose with her cigarette. Next morning we told my dad and step-mom that I got the burn when I ran into the open door on the oil stove. I think they believed us. Life was simple in the Fifties.

It's hard to remember much about my dad's side of the family. I didn't see the Tallman's very often after the summer of 1953, when my folks divorced. The things I do remember are good things. The smell of Grandma's house on Everett Street: The dining room smelled like fresh-cut flowers; the bathroom like Jergen's lotion. The basement smelled a bit like mildew. In the morning, when there was nothing in the oven, the kitchen smelled like banana's. It was a real treat to have Rice Krispies with sliced bananas on top for breakfast. We never had that at home. Grandma would pour us a small glass of Hi-C orange drink, then pull out the wooden cutting-board from underneath the kitchen counter, sit us atop high stools, and let us eat our breakfast there. Looking back, I suppose Grandma was trying to protect her cherrywood dining table and shiny hardwood floor in the dining room. I was one of those four-year-olds who usually spilled my drink.

My big sister lived with our dad's folks there in Caldwell, Idaho, while she was in first grade. She slept with Aunt Ruthie in her room. I got to go over a couple of times and stay all night. When I was there, Connie and I slept on the fold-out divan and formed shadowed animal shapes on the wall with our hands. I made a pretty good rabbit, but that was about the extent of my finger puppet talent.

Once or twice I got to walk part way to Lincoln School with Connie. She dropped me off at the house of some fat woman who had a bunch of other preschoolers there. We colored pictures, then went outside and played London Bridges Falling Down and danced the hokey-pokey on her front lawn. She fed us a sandwich and then told us we all had to take a nap while she read us a story. The other kids had a little throw rug that their parents had brought for them to lie down on. Since I didn't, she made me lay down on her hardwood floor. And I do mean HARD wood. I wasn't used to naps and couldn't go to sleep. I got up a time or two. She was pretty upset about that. I had to lay there until the other kids woke up, but imagine she was awfully tired of reading by then. I figured the fat lady told my grandfolks not bring me over anymore, because they took me back home to my mother soon afterward.

At home I pretty much did whatever I wanted. There was no one around to make me take a nap. Dad never got home from work until way after dark and Mom was sick in bed. She couldn't even get up to get my big sister ready for school, which is why Connie lived with Grandma and Grandpa Tallman that year.

The last time I saw Grandpa, he told me that they wanted to keep me, too, but I was just too small. He cried when he said that, and gave me a bear hug that lasted until his tears subsided and mine began.

I was sorry that bothered him so late in his life. That was a long time past, when I was four and long before my grandfolks moved out to Ridgeview, Oregon, and began to dairy.

The house on the farm smelled a lot different than the one in town. Mostly it smelled like hot popcorn mingled with Ajax cleanser and floor wax. When the milking was through, you could smell a trace of grain and milk, but not for long. Grandma was meticulous about the house; it was rose-colored flagstone and had just one level. One summer we two girls stayed a week with my dad, who lived up the road from them about a hundred yards. We spent a lot of time at Grandma and Grandpa Tallman's that week. I fed carrot-tops to the calves. Unfortunately for me, I was standing on a damp ditch bank at the time and got the dickens shocked out of me on the electric fence. That was the same week that my foot slipped through the cattle-guard and I sprained my knee. (That's what you get for having small feet and skinny legs, and for not paying attention. *smile*) It swelled up so quickly that the other kids had to go get an adult to pull my leg out.

Dad wrapped it with an elastic Ace bandage, but got it too tight. When my leg started turning purple, Grandma loosened the bandage for me. Dad said he didn't know it was going to swell so much, and anybody could have made that mistake. But I thought it bordered on malpractice and was convinced that Grandma Tallman was the better doctor.

Wish I could say that I no longer have skinny legs and small feet, but that's not the case. I'm still not wild about going to the doctor, either. I guess some things never change.

Top of Page | Home