A Guy comes calling

It was very awkward when boyfriends came to call at the house on the hill. Daddy laid down the law to us girls, "It's either boys or school. You can't have both."

A couple of the girls chose boys. Grace, however, chose school and earned the rank of salutatorian of her graduating class. A year or so after graduation, she came to work in the superintendent's office in the same school. There she became acquainted with the new teachers, a couple of which were young men.

A number of our nieces and nephews, Bobbie and I had these young men as teachers. I remember in particular our music teacher, Mr. Mousier's visit to the house on the hill. Mr. Moushier was French and spoke with an accent. I was a bit taken aback by him and was amazed that he would visit our humble home.

Mr. Moushier's visit was on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I'm sure Grace spent a lot of time and energy preparing for his visit, cleaning, rearranging furniture, preparing drinks, and perhaps even arranging for Rrean and Lloyd to be there. On this particular Sunday afternoon, Rrean, our sister, and her husband, Lloyd, and their two children, Jennie and Phillip indeed were there.

Jennie was eight or ten, a few years younger than Bobbie and Phil was just old enough to make life miserable for girls playing house. I had advanced to the ripe old age of fourteen or fifteen, much too old to play with dolls.

Upstairs, was the ideal place for playing house. There was plenty of room to set up two or more pretend homes. There were plenty of old clothes to dress up in and dolls aplenty for babies. This afternoon, the play house was at the end of the long room far from the stair way, pretty much directly over the downstairs living room. Bobbie, Jennie and Phil were playing up there and were relatively quiet.

Mr. Moushier arrived right on time. Of course it was nothing but proper for him to sit and chat a while before he and Grace went for a drive. A few minutes into the visit, Phil decided that he had had enough of playing house and decided to have some real fun. Phil was a little on the chubby side, with very short brown hair and the most beautiful mischievous brown eyes you would ever see. Both girls were nearing the end of their doll playing days, beside being a little large for their age.

One of the girls had chosen a discarded hand bag in which to store her baby doll clothes. The bag was a long, black, patent leather purse. Without warning, Phil grabbed the purse, stuck it under his arm, and began running toward the stairs. The purse was so long it stuck out the front and back of his chubby frame. With a scream from the girls and much giggling from Phil, he began to run the length of the house to the stair way. The girls grabbed their naked dolls and ran after him.

Now the house on the hill was by no means insulated, sound proof, or too sturdy for that matter. The house itself jumped and danced with every booming step of the fierce race upstairs. At best there were only two layers of flooring separating the stampede upstairs and the quiet conversation below. In fact, when the running began the conversation stopped.

Not willing to be seen or heard while Mr. Moushier was there, I sat quietly in the kitchen window out of sight. As soon as the running began, I knew where it would end. The doll players knew nothing of the distinguished guest downstairs. I had a strange premonition that Phil would head straight for the living room. Immediately I jumped up to intercept the on coming wild gang.

Still not willing to reveal my presence, I mouthed, "Stop, stop!" Phil came on. I waved my arms and mouthed, "No, no!" But, Phil came on with the girls in hot pursuit.

Phil made a sharp right bringing them all into the living room forming a nice formation in front of the sofa. There they were, Phil with the long black patent leather purse, Bobbie, not in her Sunday best with a naked doll hanging on her arm and Jennie clutching her doll with surprise in those beautiful brown eyes and a smile and giggle that would melt your heart. Then, silence, really dead silence.

Finally, Mr. Moushier spoke in his beautiful accent, "Are we playing dolls?"

Without a word the startled band turned and retraced their steps all the way back to the play house upstairs at relatively the same speed and intensity. I returned to my seat in the kitchen window. The quiet conversation continued in the living room. Only after Grace and Mr. Moushier left for their drive did we burst into laughter. I can't remember Mr. Moushier returning for a second visit.

You could be yourself in the house on the hill. No one judged your speech, your actions, your ideas, your dreams or aspirations. Strangers and family alike were treated with dignity. With so much going on, it was hard to keep the house clean or attractive, but the things that mattered were clean. Food, clothes and beds topped the list. The things that mattered were respected, your integrity, your dreams, your word. The things that mattered most were given free rein, love, laughter, and solace.

Spring at the House on the Hill

Bobbie, Patsy and I were among the first off the school bus on this cool spring afternoon. The sun was already sinking in the west, taking with it much of the day's warmth. Yet, Bobbie, my sister just two years younger, Patsy, our niece, and I had enough time to get in an hour or so of volleyball. The sagging clothes line in the side yard would do for a net. The volley ball was anything from a child's rubber ball to a half deflated basketball. But, we played with zeal using the skills we learned in PE classes at school.

A wire clothes line had been wrapped around the stately trunk of an old cotton wood in the corner of the yard. It had been there so long the cotton wood had embraced it partially closing its self around it. The wire loped across the yard to a t-pole that seemed to bow to the steadfast cottonwood. The clothes line was propped up at intervals by poles leaning in unison. Grass grew around the great cottonwood, tall, dark, green, cold and unfriendly. The cool March wind assisted the tall green grass in cheering us on. Only when the sun slipped below the western horizon did the chill drive us inside to the warmth of the wood stove in Mama's kitchen.

A pot of beans steamed on the back of the stove and the wonderful smell of cornbread filled the house. A large skillet of potatoes hissed as Mamma gently turned them and placed the lid back on the skillet.

Without turning she said, "You girls get the water and wood in before it gets dark. Now go on. Supper is about ready."

Ignoring Mama's request, Bobbie and I made a beeline for the back of the stove and the one cane bottom chair.

"Watch, you don't fall into the stove." Mama said with a little irritation in her voice. Bobbie beat me to the chair and I took a seat on the wood box.

Daddy followed us into the kitchen with the cool March wind preceding him. "Didn't ye Mammie tell you girls to bring in the wood?" he said.

I grabbed an empty bucket sitting on the low water table near the door and headed for the pump in the corner of the yard out by the barn lot. I knew Bobbie was watching me from the window and wouldn't be out until she saw me making my way back with the sloshing bucket of water. After many trips into the cold spring evening, the chores are finished and supper is ready. Bobbie and I take our place on the bench behind the table. Rachel and Grace sit in chairs at either end. Daddy is already in his regular place eating cornbread and milk from a small aluminum pan. Supper was hurriedly eaten while a pan of dish water heated on the woodstove. The fire was getting low and the kitchen cooling fast. Mama put away the few leftovers and lifted the pan of hot water onto a wooden board placed on the table to protect the oil cloth. She left the dish washing to Bobbie and me.

It was my turn to wash and Bobbie's turn to dry the dishes. The process was slow and lonely. We could hear the radio in the front room and the task of washing dishes became almost unbearable and terribly unfair. We could not imagine Rachel and Grace ever having washed a dish. The fussing and complaining added a little energy to the task and at last it is done. A ten minute job has taken at least thirty minutes.

The evening news has gone off and the question, "Who was that masked man?" signals the end of the Lone Ranger and radio entertainment for the night.

With the dishes finished, I opened the back door, and returned for the pan of dish water. There was no running water in the house on the hill. We disposed of dirty water by throwing it off the back porch. By now the dish water was cold and black from soot scrubbed off the bottoms of pans. Solidified grease circled the water line inside the dish pan. The front of my dress was wet, my feet were cold and Bobbie had suddenly turned on me. Just before I got to the door with the pan of water, she shut the door.

"Open the door." I screamed.

"Open it yourself." She yelled.

A shouting match developed quickly. Mama came in to settle it and emptied the water for me. With my job finished, I moved on to the warmth of the front room leaving Bobbie alone in the cold kitchen to finish drying the dishes. I could hear Bobbie crying and slamming dishes. Already I was sorry but the warmth of the room was heavenly and homework must be done.

By the time the dishes were finished, Daddy had already gone to bed. Low conversation, reading, sewing, and homework were taking place just a few feet from his bed. We often wondered just how much Daddy actually slept. A game or two of Chinese checkers followed the homework. When Daddy became restless and began to clear his throat, we knew it was bedtime. Rachel and Grace slept in the unheated bedroom. Bobbie and I slept in a bed in the opposite corner of the front room.

When the heating stove in the front room came down, that meant spring had arrived. Being a little cold natured, I wore a sweater or jacket until the days became warmer. It was unclear whose idea it was to take down the stove. I suspect it was Daddy's since he kept a close watch on the coal pile. There seemed to be a direct correlation between the depletion of the pile of black lumpy fuel and the onset of warm weather. If there was a little discrepancy, it was ignored by Daddy. He spent the spring days outside, planning and preparing soil and machines for a new crop. With spring came hope, a season of forgiveness, a chance to start over, an opportunity to correct mistakes, a new beginning.

A Dreadful Day

It was the kind of dreadful day

When no decent folk would dare to stray

Beyond their walls into the way,

But, pulled the shade and dared not peek

Beyond the opening of clay.

Although the hour was nearing noon,

Dark shadows fell in every room.

And should one glimpse the stormy sky

Three crosses dark against its breast,

Summoned only thoughts of gloom.

Why darkness here at peek of day?

Why stirring of this earth of clay?

Why spirits walking in the streets?

Why noise and rumbling at my feet?

And why no children out to play?

Upon one cross all wrath is waged.

The fierceness of all nature raged,

Lashing at his body torn,

Pounding at his bleeding head.,

Tearing at his hands and feet.

Only when the savior dies,

Does the Master clear the skies

Giving all the dark clouds flight.

He then stills the wind and rain.

And calms the heart of he who cries.

But, still no one dared to speak

Above a whisper or peradventure just to peek,

Beyond the door. For down the street

They carried him, wretched man with body torn,

To wait the resurrection morn

And with his fathers sleep.

Yet soon there dawned a brighter day.

Just three days hence. Not faraway,

The borrowed tomb a rumbling made.

The soldiers scattered, running past,

The women coming there to pray.

Inside the tomb, t'was plain to see,

His body gone, the grave clothes neat.

"Who," they asked, "would be so brave

To take the dead from out his grave,

And leave no clue as where to seek.

Perhaps the gardener at the gate,

Can tell me where my Lord was laid.

"Praise God! He lives, my savior, friend."

"I know him now. I knew him when

He gently called my name."

No more sorrow, trials sore.

No more wreath upon the door.

The Savior went to hell's great depth,

Conquering sorrow, pain and death,

Bringing joy for evermore.

AMEN