An excerpt from the 1st draft of a memoir in progress One Sunday morning, I think it was during the spring or early summer, after going through the pre-church-rites, we loaded up in the 52 ford and headed off to hear the word. Dad backed the car around and headed down the creek gravel driveway and you could feel the gravel as the tires rolled over them. We made the left turn onto US 60 and the smoothness of the blacktop took the place of the popping gravel. I watched out the window as we passed Dickey Jones’s and then the Whaley’s and Old Mrs. Little’s store. I always liked it when I could talk dad into taking the old road that ran up around the hillside. It was not much of a road, just enough room for two cars to pass. It only went a mile or so before it reconnected with US 60 but it always turned out to be more exciting than staying on US 60 and going under the overpass, unless a train was rolling over it at the time. The railroad crossed above US 60 and ran alongside the old road and on a good morning, a train would jar the ground as it whisk past. If a train was lumbering down the track, the engineer would always hang his head out the window of the locomotive and wave to me as I was on my knees with my face pressed against the backseat window waving back to him. Between the old road and the railroad sat a bus. It had no tires or wheels and a family lived in that bus. Kudzu vined all around the bus and there was not a sprig of grass in the yard. A stovepipe stuck through the top of the bus and in the summer all of the windows would be down so any breezes could move through. The bus sat on the ground and the floor had rusted away so they had a dirt floor. When we would pass the bus, mom would say, “You know you and their oldest girl was born at the same time in the same hospital and there was a mix-up. I got the wrong baby. You belong to them.” That would make me so mad that I would cry and beg her to tell me I really belonged to her and dad. But on this Sunday, I had dried the tears by the time we pulled into the church parking lot. There were a few people milling around out front where there should have been a big crowd. Cars were pulling out and leaving and the door to the church was closed. Dad said, “You all stay in the car. I’ll go see what’s going on.” Dad opened the car door, walked to where a few men were standing talking in a whisper. He stood there a few minutes before walking back to the car. When he got in and had shut the door, he told mom, “The preacher run off with a woman, left his wife and kids, took the church money and the key to the door.” Mom said, “Well.” That was pretty much the end of us going to church. Dad would always take vacation during late July or early August. Since I was born on the 2nd of August, it seemed he took vacation for my birthday and that was pretty cool. My uncle Doc owned a farm down on the Licking River in Rowan County, just out of the town of Farmers. Most years we spent vacation at the camp on the river. Camping was always the best part of summer. For a couple of weeks before vacation, dad would spend evenings getting trot lines ready, replacing the rusty hooks and swivels and making up drop-lines. I was always in the middle of it wanting to help or to just feel the line and hooks. Dad would say, “Stay back or you’ll end up with a hook in your foot.” Me being me, I would stumble around trying to get close enough to help until I tripped or knocked over a box of hooks or sinkers. Boy, did I get yelled at. I would try to help pick up whatever I had dumped and that brought on more yelling and by the end, I would be sent to my room until I could listen. Mom and dad decided I was pigeon toed because I had tripped and knocked things over my entire life. I remember dad saying, “Them shoes we bought him from the second hand store done this to him. I knew looking at them that they were made for a cripple kid. Now look, they’ve turned his toes in so bad that he stumbles over his own feet.” Mom said, “What do you want me to do about it?” “I don’t reckon there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s done now.” Somehow, they found out about a shoe store in Lexington that ordered shoes for cripple kids and they made an appointment for me to get checked out. The two things I remember about that shoe store are that they had a talking tree and they ordered the ugliest shoes ever made to fix my feet. They must have been a hard pair of shoes to get in because it seemed to take all summer to get them. The day we went to Lexington to get them I dreaded it more than anything. The shoes the man had tried on me were awful looking and even an idiot could see they were for a cripple. While mom and dad talked to the man, I talked to the talking tree. The man laced up the shoes on my feet and had me walk around the store while everyone watched. If they helped, I didn’t feel it. The man said, “It takes time to straighten feet that crooked. He’ll need to wear them every day all day from the time he gets up until he goes to bed.” I was taking all of this in and thinking, that ain’t going to happen. I was a barefoot country boy and wearing shoes all day every day was out of the question. The man placed my old shoes in the box the new shoes came in and rang up the purchase and we left. I said bye to the talking tree as I went out the door. Once we were in the car, dad said, “You’re going to have to wear those shoes all the time. They cost almost a week’s pay and if they’re going to fix your feet, you have to wear them.” I didn’t say a word because I knew I wasn’t wearing them no matter what. Mom said, “Every time I catch you with them shoes off, you’ll get a whipping. You’ll wear them or have your ass beat red.” I still didn’t say anything. I just weighed out how long it would take to wear them down to where beating my butt wasn’t no longer worth the effort. It was a summer day and it poured the rain all the way from Lexington to Salt Lick. When we pulled in the driveway, the sun had reappeared and it was hot. The car splashed through the mud holes as we went up the driveway. Dad pulled up in front of the house and we went inside. It was too pretty to stay in and I wanted to go out and play. Mom said, “You keep then shoes on. If I look out and see you barefooted, I’ll be out with a switch.” I promised that I would keep them on no matter what. I stared out playing beside the big maple tree just the other side of the car. Somewhere along the way I caught a toad frog. There was only one thing for a boy to do with a toad frog, take it to water and watch it swim. Off I headed down the driveway to the biggest mud hole. It was long but not so wide and I put the frog on the edge of the water and off it went. I ran to the far end to catch it when it came out but it switched directions and was going to escape into the ditch if I didn’t do something fast. I ran through the mud hole chasing the frog and it made it into the ditch before I could grab it. There was only one thing to do; go in after it. I jumped in the ditch. It was filled with rain water. Long tufts of grass lay over in the ditch water and I was wading, feeling for the frog, grabbing at anything that could be my frog and just as I grabbed it, I looked up and here come mom with a switch. Before she made it to me, I yelled, I have them on! She was in no mood to talk. I’ll say one thing, a switching hurts anytime but when your britches are wet and stuck to your hide, a switching takes on a whole new degree of hurt. That was pretty much it for the cripple shoes straightening my feet out. They were soaked. Mom dried them out but the leather had shrunk and they no longer would go on my feet. I think every time mom got those shoes on her mind, my backside was reminded of how mad she was. I thought she was as wrong as could be because I had no idea the shoes would shrink and I did what I promised, I kept them on. M.D. Mynhier
Posted on: Sun, 14 Sep 2014 19:43:50 +0000