Chapter Four, Curtis Avenue, “In a Manner of Speaking”

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When I found this picture, I just knew it was my old home on Curtis Avenue in old Alhambra, California. The curb and driving strip is where I used to sit and play a lot, along with the other kids in the neighborhood.. The post in the driving strip is where Billy ran his bicycle into me, instead of the post.

I read somewhere that when a child begins to talk, he or she has made a choice. It is a very hard choice to either connect with the world, (the world outside of the mind) or stay inside the wild mind, where the imagination is pure, limitless, and ideas are boundless. There is no end to the possibilities for Inside the wild mind, there is no language to hear “no”. There is no language to edit or correct. The internal world is full of adventure and ideas, of colors, tastes, smells and textures all mixed together, where anything can be everything, and nothingness can be the universe and more.

When a child chooses to connect to others with the main tool, speech, he is essentially relinquishing this amazing adventure. He “leaves the nursery” so to speak. The nursery disappears for the duration of his life. The payoff is connection with humanity: safety, intimacy. The drawback: imagination and creativity are altered with the word “no”, with the idea of limits, and with a life-long search for that which was lost before memory began – unbounded creativity. It is the creativity that once existed in easy flow, but which is now elusive. The friendly beast in the nursery finally disappears, because as the child will come to sadly understand, there are no beasts really. For the way I see it, when a child speaks, he is choosing to join the community of man, and leave behind pure wonder.

I am sure this existential conflict was haunting me as I sat on the curb once again. The escapades of the morning at Bess and Henry’s house had left me tired, hungry and grumpy. When I awoke from a nap that afternoon, I felt lethargic, dark and angry.

I wound up that late afternoon sitting on the curb in front of my house, elbows on my knees, chin in my hands, pondering Freddy’s house. July was in full blaze and the late afternoon heat radiated off of the street onto my legs and knees. I felt my face getting hotter and hotter, and I began looking up and down the street for any sign of activity. The air was still and silent – not a bird chirped, not a car sputtered. Freddy was nowhere to be seen. The afternoon was quiet and slumbered in the heat of the sun.

I picked up a stick and began poking at an ant hill pushing through a crack in between the street and the curb. Even the ants moved slowly and lazily. As I looked up from the ants, I saw Billy, my playmate, up the street driving down the sidewalk on his new red tricycle. He had started away up the street where his house was, but I could see him moving past one house, then another. He’d pedal a few steps, then the tricycle would turn over. He’d get up, brush himself off, get back on the trike, then drive right smack into a neighbor’s retaining wall with the same results.

Billy tried again. This time that tricycle took on a mind of its own. It hit the wall, rolled backwards, and crashed into the prickly juniper bushes on the driving strip. The trike toppled over, dumping Billy sideways right into the dry brown bushes there, leaving Billy a heap in the hot prickly junipers. So, Billy, fully determined, stood up, dusted the dirt and dry juniper stickers off of himself, got right back on that tricycle, and made his way down the sidewalk in his zig-zag, trial and error method, towards me.

When Billy got near me, a triumphant smile clearly written across his sweet little sweaty face, he lost complete control of the tricycle again, which, careening out of control, lurching this way and that, finally came to halt when it crashed into me. I looked up at my friend with the wispy blonde hair wafting across his sky blue eyes, sweat rolling down his face creating light rivulets in the dirt. He sat on his trike just looking at me.

At that moment, the pressures of the morning, growing up, and feeling grumpy, all hit at once and I leapt to my feet and yelled at the top of my voice: “Billy! You go to hell Billy! You go to hell!”

Oh my goodness, I couldn’t believe the words came out of me. It was as if the sky opened up and gave me everything Mimi and Bess had ever wanted to hear, with a great big wonderful “Here it is!” The words were big, and powerful, and fierce. I could see by the look on Billy’s face that the words had had a very big effect. He began to cry. But having felt the full power and glory of words, crashing and shouting out of my mouth, I began to draw in another big breath, with the intent of blowing out some of those great sounds again, when suddenly, my grandmother Mimi took me by the arm.

“Don’t you ever say those words again! Mercies Cynthia!” She shook me a little. I had never heard her speak so sternly. I listened really close when she said it again, this time her face close to mine while she spoke very very slowly and very clearly: “Don’t you ever, ever say those words ever, ever again! Do you hear me?”
“Uh huh Mimi but -“
“Do – you – hear – me?”

Boy was Mimi mad. Here, I had said something really powerful and probably really smart, just like everyone wanted me to do, and like everyone else was doing, and Mimi was telling me never, ever to say the words again. I began to fight back.

“Billy – Billy – he – -” I fought for the words to describe the picture in my mind. “But he -“ I waved my free arm in his direction.
“I want you to say ‘I’m sorry’ right now. Right now!”
“No!” I said assertively. After all, why should I apologize to Billy when he had crashed his tricycle into me.
Mimi looked at me as if she was going to make me say I was sorry. But my lips were sealed up tight. Nobody was going to get another sound out of me.

My grandmother kept hold of my arm and led me over to Billy who looked a lot sorrier than I did. He said “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” But I saw it differently.

“Billy is trying to learn how to ride his tricycle.” Mimi began. “He didn’t run into you on purpose. It was an accident. Now, please tell Billy you are sorry.”

“No.” was my answer.

“Well then.” Mimi took me by the arm and began marching me towards the front door.

“Where are we going?”

“We are going inside.”

“Why?”

“To wash your mouth out with soap, of course.”

“What’s that?” All the words the grown ups ever wanted to hear were flowing out of my mouth all of a sudden, and nobody cared.

“It’s when I put soap in your mouth because of the bad words you just said to Billy.”

“What bad words?”

“Never mind.”

“What bad words? What are bad words Mimi?”

“I just said never mind. I don’t want to hear another word from you. You have talked quite enough for today.”

Mimi marched me across the lawn, up onto the front porch, through the front door, down the hall, and into the yellow bathroom.

I sat down on the toilet seat while Mimi picked up the bar of lemon yellow soap. She began, ceremoniously, with a little knife, to carve shavings off the delicate soap, and put the shavings where I could see them, right by where I sat. They didn’t look so awful to me. I smelled the shreds of soap, and they smelled delicious.“Mimi began talking to me about the soap, but by that time, I was wishing she’d just get on with it. I opened up my mouth wide and sat there waiting for my first taste of the luscious smelling lemony soap. Mimi put a shred on a spoon, and zoomed it into my mouth, which I closed in anticipation of the delight. I quickly swallowed its contents.

The roaring fire hit my throat first, then flamed up into my eyes, and out my nose. Large groups of bubbles floated up and out of my nostrils and mouth. Then, my stomach began cringing and gagging. In one second everything exploded with the same force I had said those words with. But now with pain – intense, brutal pain. Acrid flames licked my eyes, my nose, my throat, and then, my stomach, with the day’s contents, now all over the bathroom. Doubled over in agony, I coughed and snorted and choked and cried and threw up over and over again.

My words and everything else suddenly swirled into a new and painful world that I knew I was not going to want to visit again. I had spoken, and had wound up in pain.
I made a choice.
I re-entered my vast, limitless, internal world where all was quiet, safe, and comforting.

Curtis Avenue, July, 1950

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Chapter Three – Curtis Avenue, Speech, Part II

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This house is almost exactly like Bess and Henry’s house on Curtis Avenue, Alhambra, California, June, 1950

I awoke the next morning, the sun streaming through my bedroom window, and a gentle breeze puffing the white poplin curtains in and out. I looked quietly about the room puzzled, because I had fallen asleep in Mimi’s bed the night before, to the sounds of Mr. Brown’s deep rumbling voice, telling his version of the previous afternoon’s events, and awakened in my room with the billowing curtains.

The low voices of the adults hummed almost into a frenzy, and the morning was filled with the talk about the events of the day before. They still wondered how Freddy had fallen asleep on the bumper of the Brown’s family car. Then, upon seeing me in the kitchen, the topic suddenly changed from Freddy, to me, and my talking or rather, lack of it.

Whereas mornings were filled with the voices of the grownups, and the fragrance of coffee, this morning was filled with talk of my talk, or, rather the absence of my talking.  There were plenty of questions, to which I had no answers, so, I either shook or nodded my head, or, shrugged my shoulders and said “Uh?”  Occasionally I would make a few vowel  sounds, but no matter what sounds I made, they were not pleasing the grownups.  When I finished my cereal, Mimi hurriedly helped me dress so we could go to Bess’s house for morning tea. I thought that was a splendid idea, and soon I was wearing a light little pink summer dress with butterflies, and sandals. Going to Bess’s house was a very special occasion indeed.

Bess and Henry were a very retired couple who had been a fixture in the neighborhood for decades.  They lived three houses down from us, and had been there since before Freddy moved in across the street. They were there long before my grandfather, Bernard Holle, built our home with my grandmother, Mimi.   They had been on board to serve tea, coffee, cakes and cookies for our community’s many parties and countless post-war reuions, and I am sure they had been there to help my grandmother in the first agonizing years after her husband’s sudden death from spinal meningitis.  They had lived on Curtis Avenue since before World War I when Henry had to leave his wife and young family behind to fight with the army in World War I.

While in the service, Henry had become a World War I hero. I knew that because often he would answer the door in full military dress and his coat would be full of gold leaves, colorful bars, and shiny medals. Later I learned that he had fought in Europe, and had almost died trying to save his platoon. Henry was a very friendly, jovial, kind man who, when I came to visit would pull out a big box of great toys for me to play with during the visit. While Mimi thought I should sit very still and visit with the adults, Henry thought better of it. Soon we were down on the floor linking wooden trains and tracks up together. I liked his idea much better.

His wife of many years, Bess, was a cheerful lady with light blue sparkling eyes and very white hair who made wonderful little cakes and cookies, and who always served them to me.  She would offer not just one cookie to me, but a platter, full of all different kinds of cookies where I could choose two out of the selection. There were cookies with strawberry jam, chocolate cookies, pink cookies, white cookies, brown and white cookies. It would take me forever to make a choice, with Bess sitting beside me on the couch, patiently holding the platter while I carefully looked at all the wondrous morsels.

Usually Bess and Mimi would chat while Henry and I played on the floor, but today was different. Instead of Bess and Mimi’s gentle voices talking between themselves, they sat on either side of me, on the couch. At first Mimi asked me to say thank you to Bess for the cookies. I looked at Bess engratiatingly I’m sure, opened up my mouth and uttered my usual monosyllabic utterance of some sort. Bess smiled appreciatively, and then looked at me expectantly.

“Say thank you to Bess for the cookies Dear.” Mimi asked again. Again I tried, but the same sound of thanks came out of my mouth. Again, Bess awaited for my answer. I looked up at her, and then, puzzled,  I turned the other way and looked up at Mimi.

“Do you like the cookies?” Bess asked.

“Uh huh” I answered back, hoping that would do the trick.

“Cynthia, say yes. Can you say yes?” Mimi asked with a mixture of consternation and hope in her eyes –  a certain expectancy. So I muttered something close to a yes, pointed to the toys, muttered something, and tried to slide off the couch to get the toys.

Mimi would have none of it.  She became emphatic, pulling me back into the couch. “Cynthia, say yes. Can you say yes?” she asked with a mixture of consternation and hope in her eyes. So I gave it all I had and muttered something close to a yes, pointed to the toys, muttered something more, and again tried to slide off the couch to get the toys.

“First you say yes, and then you can play with the toys.”

I looked up at Mimi, took in the entire room, considered my plan and began again, with Mimi’s grasp almost keeping up with me.

Just as the power struggle was about to hit full swing,  Henry proclaimed: “The child will talk when she is ready to talk, and not a moment before.” He smiled at me, a twinkle in his blue eyes, took my hand, pulled me off of the couch and opened up the toy box.

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Chapter Two – Curtis Avenue, Speech, Part I

Speech, Part I

Tree-lined Street Rare Original Photograph Alhambra, CA

Tree-lined Street Rare Original Photograph Alhambra, CA

Alhambra, California, Summer, 1949

In the late 1940s and early 1950s, the city of Alhambra California was a sleepy little town adjacent to Los Angeles, attached to its southwest corner. At least this is what I think I remember. Maybe it’s what I really want to remember.

For example, if you start at the bustling Santa Anita Race Track in Arcadia, and drive west on Baldwin Ave, through Arcadia, crossing Duarte Avenue, then heading through Temple City, crossing Las Tunas Ave, still staying on Baldwin Avenue, you are going in the right direction. When you come to Garvey Blvd., you turn right, and keep driving. There are a couple of more turns onto narrow streets, and little avenues. When you see a quaint little yellow store, sitting at an angle to a bend in the road that looks like a corner, you are entering the quiet town of Alhambra, California, where I was born.

I remember driving to the old home in Alhambra on Saturday mornings with my father, who diligently helped my grandmother with the yard and repairs, even after we had all moved away.  I loved watching the newer houses of the early fifties give way to the old established traditional homes that I remembered, while the lathe and plaster construction finally effaced into the old Spanish architecture that had been in Alhambra almost a century.

As you first entered into Alhambra, an old, long, low general store, made of adobe with lapis blue tiled arches sat on the corner, surrounded by palm and oak trees, would introduce the town – its feeling, ambience, elan, if you will. Alhambra was an old town, a town that had formed itself close to, and around the old, unrestored San Gabriel mission of the seventeenth century. Little narrow streets drifted outwards from the little store and the mission. Lush oak, palm, and pine trees lined the cozy streets, and formed a canopy over the street, so one felt like they were in a magical tunnel of shiny emeralds, while the sun peeked through tiny openings in the branches and thick leaves.

Curtis Avenue, where I lived, was a narrow, cozy winding street made of old concrete, the kind with rocks in it. Even in the late forties the streets were so old that the concrete was bleached white by eras of baking sun, and stones poked through the road like random cobbles. In the summer, black rubbery tar oozed in the cracks, feeling warm and gooshy. I knew all of this because I was very young, and very close to the earth. Not a whole lot escaped my attention from my eyes down to the earth – about three feet. There was a lot going on down there on the ground, on the gentle front lawns, in the flower beds, sidewalks and curbs.

The curb on Curtis Avenue was my favorite spot. I remember sitting on the curb, looking down at the rocky cement, the black spongy designs in the road, the ants going about their business, the occasional cat meandering up and down the hot sidewalk, and then rolling in its dust and warmth. I felt alone and happy and free, just sitting there – watching everything, elbows on my knees, chin in my palms.

So it wasn’t out of the ordinary when, one mid afternoon, I watched Freddy’s father drive up the street, and turn the car left, into the driveway across the street. In the hot sun, the trees cast deep cool shadows across the driveway, and over the car. I sat there with my elbows on my knees, looking across the street in hopes to see Freddy. Freddy was the young boy who lived there, and sometimes he’d come out and play with me. He was nice and funny and fun. Maybe Freddy was in first or second grade. He had blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and he always carried his light brown teddy bear with him.

It also didn’t seem strange when Freddy came out of his front door with his teddy bear, and came over and sat beside me. He had a couple of cookies, one was for him, and one for me. We sat awhile, throwing pebbles into the street. He mumbled some things I couldn’t understand and sort of waited. Nothing seemed strange about Freddy saying he was hot, and going back to his shady driveway, where he sat on the rear bumper of the family car eating his cookie and holding his teddy bear.

And,  nothing seemed out of the ordinary when Freddie leaned over sideways, curled up and fell asleep on the broad back bumper of the big black oblong family car. When his dad came out of the house, got into the car, backed it out of the driveway, and meandered down the street with Freddy fast asleep on the bumper, nothing about that seemed odd either.  After all, I was new to the world, and everything was up for grabs. I watched the car, and Freddy, fast asleep, slowly disappear down the shady street.

After Freddy disappeared, I sat on the curb, looking up and down the street in hopes of seeing my friend Billy, who usually was up from his nap and playing by this time, when suddenly, the entire world erupted in action. Freddy’s mother ran out of the front door of his house calling “Freddy! Freddy! Freddy! Has anyone seen Freddy?!”  She was frantic. She ran over to the driveway and picked up Freddy’s teddy bear who had not made it to the excursion on the bumper. “Has anyone seen Freddy!” His mother held his teddy bear. She began to cry. She ran across the street and stood over me weeping and saying things to me. I looked up at her as I remembered Freddy sitting, then sleeping on the bumper of the car as the car slowly drove down the street, but I couldn’t talk yet, and the vision of Freddy’s slumber, moved in my mind’s eye as I pointed down the street. Because that’s the most I could do, point and remember.

At that moment my grandmother appeared by me, and so did my mother and my father who had just arrived home from work. Freddy’s mother was crying, and I had a crowd of huge tall people towering over me, asking me loud, fast questions all at the same time, while I calmly remembered Freddy, happily sleeping while the car slowly vanished down Curtis Avenue. I looked up at the fortress again, Freddy clearly in my mind, and calmly pointed down the street.

It was a rough afternoon and evening for everyone. When the grownups realized that Freddy wasn’t anywhere to be found (of course not, he was on the back bumper, sleeping) they started saying scary things that could have happened to him.

“He could have been kidnapped!”  his mother sobbed, hugging her little boy’s teddy bear.

“Somebody could have picked him up!’   somebody started crying.

It was then my grandmother removed me from the front room into the kitchen where I ate dinner alone. I remember the evening sun coming in low, through the window pane, casting it’s long geometrical rays across the red slate floor, the sound of my father trying to console Freddy’s mother amidst her sobs, her other son, Robert, and daughter, Joan also trying to help, and more neighbors knocking on the door, being greeted by my mother and grandmother.  There were few telephones in those days, at least in our neighborhood, so everyone had to sit and wait and hope and wait some more.

The sun set, the voices quieted, I think I heard praying as I began to drift off to sleep in my grandmother’s four-poster bed. Then, eventually, through my dreams, I heard the doorbell ring, and then a chorus of “Freddy! Freddy! Freddy! You’re back!” There were choruses of laughter and tears, followed by another story, then more laughter.

Before I fell asleep, I heard the father’s low voice telling and retelling the whole story, with Freddy interrupting to tell his side of the story, and then, everyone laughing about the day’s adventure.    It was a soft sound, a night sound, and a very happy sound, as I once again remembered my friend Freddy, curled up on the rear fender of the car, as he slowly vanished down the tree-lined street, sound asleep.

Alhambra, California, 1950

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Part One: “Earth” Chapter One: Curtis Avenue, “Soil” by c.c. wolfe

                                                                                                                                                                                 

“Soil”

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Herald File Photo

Plainsview Texas,  Early home

Looking Back:   Early home razed in 1964

A local landmark and one of the community’s oldest homes, at First and Ash, was unceremoniously dismantled in early 1964. Built about 1900 with lumber brought from Amarillo by horse-drawn wagons, the six-room structure served being used as an apartment house before it was razed.

My Plainsview, March 19, 2004  . . .

THE LONG coarse prairie grass lay in sweeping gold  ropes at angles that ran up the shallow hillsides. Azure sky shined deep and hollow, then dropped in one dramatic horizontal line against the yellow of the mid-day horizon. The black train rocked in a gentle rhythm as I stared out the window especially at the grass, the long grasses of the plains. I felt safe and secure as I lay my head on her shoulder. Her arm went lovingly around me and with her other hand, she opened a little book that had been poised on her lap. There we had my little brown teddy bear, my blanket still with its pink satin bow safety pinned to the crocheted ecru stitches, and the books. She opened the new pages slowly and tenderly and with mystery and reverence in her voice, began “Once upon a time . . .”

WE arrived in my grandmother’s hometown of Plainsview, Texas after departing Union station in downtown Los Angeles. The uniformed concierge at the station, busily and very formally gathered our suitcases into a large square that sat on the hot, planked platform. “Yes Mrs. Holle. Here they are Mrs. Holle. I hope you enjoy your visit Mrs. Holle.” And then, “Thank you Mrs. Holle.” With a courteous little bow, head slightly turned in recognition of my statuesque, fashionable grandmother, draped in her mink stole with matching hat and eel skin gloves. My grandmother placed several large coins in his hand in a simple gesture that was barely noticeable. Her leathered fingers graced his palm and the coins momentarily appeared there, then mysteriously disappeared. The hot sun beat relentlessly down upon the simple landing, but my grandmother appeared elegant, resolute, and completely cool.

I wondered what it meant, the glitter, the bow. I didn’t ask because I couldn’t talk yet but my new mind had a way of recording things in great detail, especially the coins, and they way they sparkled, and, the look on the man’s face as she, my grandmother departed the platform, my hand in hers.

Soon enough we stood on the wide wooden front porch framed with slatted railing. Large chrystal windows rambled along the length of the home, and the roof’s overhang filled the porch with shade that cooled us in the searing late summer sun. A modest dirt road, right in front of the porch, meandered down aways to my right. I stood facing the road with my grandmother and saw the huge brown barn surrounded with the same tall coarse grass I had noticed earlier while on the train. Beyond the barn there were no trees, no real shrubbery, and the coarse yellow grass flowed over flat land, over small hills, and far away into the deep blue. The summer was 1949, and I was two years old.

“Cynthia”, my grandmother was now in a simple cotton summer dress and stylish ecru wedge open toed shoes. She took my hand, bent down and looked at me earnestly as we stood at the huge door.

“She’s old and cross sweetie. She doesn’t like children very much, so, just stay by me and hold my hand.” I wondered why a person could be cross, and how anyone could not like children. I wondered what very old meant. Then, my grandmother opened the large wooden front door and we walked solemnly into the house.

The entrance area was expansive with a big oak staircase descending down into it, or upwards into bright crevices, depending on how you’re looking at it. The big windows everywhere let all the light in which tumbled across the gleaming hardwood oak floors, sending rainbows on the walls and furniture. It bounced through the windows, and shown in long stretches of light yellow bars across the floor. If there was an absence of the overstuffed furniture of home, the draping crocheted and calicoes throws and slip covers made this room look open and welcoming.

At the end of the long refined but rustic room with the huge fireplace at the end of that, a gigantic rocking chair, sat among the rainbows and illumined bars. In the rocking chair sat a long, lanky shriveled lady. My grandmother held my hand tightly and with a pressure I was not used to. We walked swiftly and matter of factly up to the long old lady who not only sat in the enormous rocker, but who draped herself across it with her legs thrown over one arm, and her elbows resting on the other arm. She propped her head on her hands, palms pressed together which were under her right cheek. It was an awkward position at best, yet, the very old lady rocked back and forth contentedly, the rocker creeking to and fro, amidst the silence.

“Hello mother” the daughter said quietly and respectfully. The mother regarded her silently with a small quizzical smile, looking up at my grandmother and fixing her with an amused gaze. “Hello Anna.” Was her simple reply. Then she cooly observed me as I stood very close to my grandmother.

The very old lady regarded me wordlessly. There was no show of emotion. No happiness at seeing me. No particular scorn either. She simply looked me up and down. “This is?” Her voice crackled and trailed off into a question; then there was a long awkward pause. Her face was leathered and crinkled from eras in the harsh elements of the prairie, and the light blue eyes deep within the very brown skin peered up at my grandmother like two icy blue lights. “Cynthia. This is Cynthia, mother.”

“Oh yes, I see. Hello dear. Are you hungry? Do you want a cookie?” Her coolness immediately melted into warmth, as her thin lips turned up into a smile. “Children are always hungry aren’t they? Frank, oh, Frank –“ Her voice inflected upwards to a call.

At once a tall lanky man dressed in blue jeans, brown boots and red plaid shirt appeared through the open front doorway. When he took his straw hat off, I could see the salt and pepper gray hair and the same very light blue eyes of my grandmother, and her mother, that twinkled. When he saw my grandmother he laughed in recognition and their eyes met closely and held there for a moment. I stood between them, looking up.

“Anna. Anna, how are you?” His voice was low, confident and caring. Although he was old, even much older than my grandmother, he was agile, youthful, and his body moved quickly and flexibly across the floor as he reached for the plate of cookies. They stood there in the living room, in one of the bright squares.

“Yes. Good, thank you.” There were introductions, and the old lady who did’t like children seemed very friendly to me. “Frank, please take her out to see the cow and give her some milk to go with that cookie.” Mimi released my hand to Frank’s hard rough hand.

“Good Bye Cynthia” the mother said gently, and looked back up to her daughter, beaming. I looked after my grandmother as Frank led me out of the front entrance, across the porch and down the polished wooden steps of the family home. We walked along the road for a little while, and then crossed into the long grass as he told me about the cow I was about to meet. The grass was prickly and rough and tickled me up under my pink butterfly dress. “Let’s get some fresh milk from the cow,” Frank said jubilantly, blue eyes dancing.

We entered the dark cool barn from the bright blue goldenness of the prairie. Inside, the barn was cavernous and quiet. Small high windows allowed dusty rays of light to peek through high dark wood. I gazed up to see hay lofts stuffed with mountains of straw cascading to the floor, and above that loft, another one stretched, and above that, another one. I looked for the ceiling but could not see it, as the pungent odor of livestock manure mixed with the fragrance of freshly cut hay curing for the winter onslaught, and the feel of the soil under my feet, filled me with a knowing that this is from where I came.

Plainsview, July, 1949

 © “I’ll Meet You on Strawberry Drive” by c.c. wolfe,© by c.c. wolfe;  June 21, 2015; all rights reserved
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