So you want more stories from back in the olden days, huh? Tired of hearing about bees?
As I grew up We lived in a big house on a huge lot - 42 East 4th South, in Fillmore. Next door there was a smaller house, and beyond that was our corral where we kept the milk cow(s) and horses. My first memory is of the day we all piled into the station wagon and drove to that big house and we boys got to stake our claims to the bedrooms downstairs.
The Taylors lived in the smaller house at that time and Nolan Taylor was only a year older than I. Later they moved to a big old house that they sold to Oleve, my dad's second wife. Nolan was a nice kid and I liked hanging with him. But one day when we were still pre-school, we were playing in his yard and somehow I got a rope around his neck. I really don't remember how that happened. Maybe he put it there himself. Anyway, I had the end of the rope and I thought it would be cute to rope him like the cowboys do to calves. So I yanked on it and instead of coming closer he dug in his heels and started to choke. So then it became a power struggle and neither one of us wanted to give in, but he was choking this whole time. We wrastled around some and he grabbed a rake that was laying on the lawn - not a little lawn rake, a heavy garden rake - and he hefted it over his head and brought it down on my head, tines first. Now a 5-6 year old can't do a lot of damage like that, but they used to make tools like rakes pretty substantial, so it put a row of holes across the top of my head. Of course I bled like a stuck pig, so I headed for the warmth and comfort of home, and Nolan did the same, both of us bawling.
I was fine, but I did have a row of scars across my head. Last time I checked (20 years or so ago) they were getting faint, but could still be seen.
The funny thing about it is that when Oleve died, Nolan came to the funeral. I hadn't seen him in about 40 years and first thing he said to me was an apology for hitting me with that rake. Liz thinks it's weird, but that's what it's like in very small towns. Everyone remembers everything you ever did that was the least bit remarkable.
J Earl Ashurst J
4 comments:
Yay! I love these stories. I never even knew you had scars on top of your head.
You should use your blog as a way to write a history of sorts.
I want to be clear that I am not TIRED of hearing about bees. It's neat to get a picture of what you are doing with your time. But these older stories are a picture of a different time.
In my suburban neighborhood, the moms would have had a conference together, each admitting to the fault of her own child. Then the boys would be brought into the conference and Earl would be lectured on how we never put anything around someone's neck, and Nolan would have been lecuted on hitting. And the boys would have had to apologize to each other. And some logical consequence would have ensued. *sigh*
< some logical consequence would have ensued. >
The consequence was that we both remember a traumatic moment. What worse consequence could there be?
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