Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Old House on a Hill

It is gone now, that old house on the hill, but I remember it well. There were tragic events there and more pleasant ones.

I remember my first sweetheart. I use to get flowers off Mama's flower bush and cram them into my lunch poke (sack, bag) and give them to her on the bus. We never talked at school, just on the bus. Her dad was the bus driver. I remember she was the only one who beat me in handwriting competition. I might have won except I had been outside playing and got some sweat and dirt on the paper. I am glad I lost though.

My sister and I use to have us a playhouse under the front of the big high porch. There was a dug out area where we could stack up rocks and generally get dirty. Someone said later that there were snakes under there. Guess we had protecting angels watching over us. It was there that we made an Indian tee pee out of canes and cardboard boxes. We also tried to sell green beans down by the road.

Our outhouse was on the other end of the garden. Early one winter morning while the ground was frozen I was making my dash there when my foot slipped and I fell hitting my chin on the ground. I guess I had my tongue out for I bit a hole through it. The scar is still there.

It was at this old house where I chased a rooster through the woods and under the house until I caught it. All because Mama wanted to have chicken for supper. It was the story of that chase that got me an A in English and was probably my first effort at creative writing.

My tricycle broke there. It was a big fine machine that I could ride on two wheels when I wanted to. The big kids sat on it and broke it. I still remember it sitting in the yard all broken down. I never got another one. I had an old bicycle later but it was a hand-me-down and did not have brakes. I just coasted to a stop or hit something.

A truck driver lost control and died there when he came down the hill beside the house and crossed the busy highway in front of the house. I remember the blood.

The 'goat man' use to camp across the road. He pulled a wagon with a bunch of goats. We could smell when he arrived and when he left.

My brother practiced the guitar with a neighbor. My other brother found some blasting caps and put them in the heater. I got stung by red wasps and cut my foot on a broken coke bottle.

It's a shame children don't remember better. Oh yeah, Mom and Dad seemed in love then and Grandma Goins came to visit. She played army trucks with me.


  1. Oh, the memories this brought to mind. I often long for those carefree days again. I loved this story and I could read them all day. You should do a book about your childhood.

  2. I incorperate many little bits from my childhood in my books. I want those times remembered by a few at least. A total book might be hard for me for I would also remember boiling cotton on that cold January when my skin broke open from the cold. Every pound of cotton we salvaged went toward another bag of beans. It was our first year on the farm as sharecroppers.