Woe, the poor child

Children’s Protective Services would have intervened.

Why didn’t the neighbors – friends – anyone try to put a stop to it?

“What? You said to entertain ourselves and not to bother grown-ups unless there was blood and lots of it.”(USPD/Commons.wikimedia.org)

I was a deprived child.

Never given the opportunity – the Right (Ask any teenager) – to hit the mall on Black Friday. Nope. Never given any useful training in frantic shopping.

No sticky candy canes from elves ankle-deep in plastic snow or a chance to plead with Santas in worn, oddly damp, red suits. Only a handwritten list of “I’ll die if I don’t get this like everyone else” gift ideas gathered from TV and the Sears catalogue. And I never bought the story that if I left the list on the table Santa could read it with giant telescopes at the North Pole. Nope. Intentional parental sabotage.

Never a fancy new outfit for Christmas Eve church services. Left out of the excited lunch room brag sessions about purchases of velvet attire (with lace!) Dad always said our absence would leave room for all the people who only showed up at church on Christmas.

No weekend holiday parties. No caroling around the neighborhood.

A childhood of memories missed!

Every weekend. Every holiday. Every vacation, we drove away. No point in complaining.

It’s like we lived a dual lifestyle.

Always packed into the car – including the dog – and headed to the old farm.

The farm. For a long time without such comforts as electricity. We had running water, Dad would joke: “You have to run out and get it.”

Dad wanted to get as far away as possible from the telephone and the office. Couldn’t get much farther.

No doubt this stylish Hollywood ranch image is what classmates envisioned. We never said anything to encourage that…(USPD/Commons.wikimedia.org)

Oh, it was a hardship beyond imagination.

Fences had to be mended. (“Stop whining about cut fingers. You let go of that wire and it’ll whip back and git ya.”)

Wood gathered and chopped to size. (“So it’s wet. Pick it up. You’ll dry off before it does.”)

Tiny pine tree seedlings had to be planted by hand in frozen ground. Thousands of them. (No, that is not an exaggeration. Thousands.)

The floors were cold. Yes, there were times ice formed on the inside of the window panes.

But hot soup and simple cornbread never tasted so good or a house so warm at than at the end of the day.

And unlike kids stuck in the city, we could roast marshmallows anytime we wanted over the wood burning stove.

With hunting season over and snakes hibernating, there were acres and acres of fields and forest to roam. (“If you get lost, just go straight until you hit the fence line and follow it. Eventually you’ll get back to the house or just pay attention to surroundings so you can remember where you are. Just don’t cross the fence line as the moonshiners are probably busy for the holidays.”)

I swear this is the exact wallpaper from one of the farmhouses. Really. (1920/USPD/Commons.wikimedia.org)

While there were no neighbors nearby at all, we always stopped by to see those closest – of all shapes, sizes, and colors.

Some whose tired worn houses were very close to living outdoors. I remember visiting and politely sitting very still on a chair between pans catching leaks from the roof – in January.

Dad kept an eye on those. Especially elderly ones.

You’d be surprised how even in the mid ’60’s many older farm folks still hitched up mules to wagons each Saturday morning and drove to town. There were shady places with water troughs where the wagons would be tied upon arrival.

Dad routinely stopped by to see if he could offer them a ride, but the wagon ride to town seemed to be a pleasant time of meditation for them. Really, they didn’t want to depend on anyone else.

Besides, one 70-year-old man grinned with a twinkle in his eye, “Mules never have a problem getting back up the slick red clay hill and down the deep sandy roads in bad weather.” He was right about that. We’d have to borrow his mules more than once to pull our stuck car out of the mud car.

“When you said a country house, I was thinking a bit more French cottage. (USPD/Commons.wikimedia.org)

At night there was nothing to do. Complete radio silence. Complete darkness. Sounds, completely wild.

We’d sit outside and talk. About stuff. About stories and outer space. About the constellations in the sky.

During Christmas vacation nights , wrapped up like packages in wool coats, we’d loudly sing Christmas carols. My mom would scowl and say it was disrespectful to sing like that. (Like the neighbor miles away could possibly hear.) So we’d dig in even deeper and screech out songs like Spike Jones and the City Slicker’s “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth” or my ultra annoying imitation of Alvin and the Chipmunks. She’d just give up and go inside.

The stars at night were big and bright. Mom always liked Zane Grey novels. Be careful what you wish for, star bright. (USPD/Commons.wikimedia.org)

There under a vast night sky with glittering stars instead of store-bought decorations, Christmas never seemed more real.

Quiet gifts we given: self-reliance, kindness, appreciation, learning to not take things too seriously, and being able to laugh at yourself.

Feeling small in the dark, cold night.

Sometimes thought I heard the cattle lowing.

A shame to deprive anyone of all that.

Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge.

Production note: still attempting to practice Shavasana, so a long post ought to keep you busy for a while. Meanwhile I want to catch up on all your blogs this week. Thanks for stopping by and jingle on!

“Now if the fire will hold up for last griddle cake…” CPS would have a heart attack. (USPD/Commons.wikimedia.org)

 

 

 

 

 

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