GOOD OLD DAYS

There is little that is funnier here than a group getting together and talking about the good old days as a child. That’s only because so many had similar experiences and stories. We had another cheesecake party today to celebrate another “in building” birthday. That is an easy excuse to get a small group together. No one ever knows where the conversation will go. The focus today was childhood fears and surprises.

It all started with the outhouse. Each had a unique experience. A common bond was the use of pages from the Montgomery Wards catalogue and/or corncobs. Cobs were better in the fall as they were softer and fresher. By the next summer they were dry and hard. We anxiously awaited new catalogues or the next crop of corn. One felt like the hole in the board was big enough to swallow them. They were actually. So many feared falling in, which of course lead to stories about that scene in “Slumdog Millionaire.” None would go there after dark. Too many stories of possible spiders biting you in “the you know where.” Chamber pots were no better. The first tinkle in the metal container sounded like thunder and you were sure you would wake everyone in the house. Then there were the morning times of stepping in or on the edge of the pot and walking through the contents to get the mop and clean up. Ahh! The good old days!

Indoor and outdoor water pumps were cool. Some had to go to out to the well before that modern convenience was invented and it moved in doors. It was fun just to pump it and let the water run and run until mom yelled to stop pumping before the well dried up. The outdoor well was great for water fights. Just fill the pail as full as you could carry it and chase a sibling, dog, cat or chicken. There was nothing like coming in the house tracking mud. No one lived in a home with anything more than patches of grass and lots of dirt. Mom was still mad that we tracked on her clean floors.

Everyone remembers the smell. It was like living in your own private stockyard. Then the day arrived when you were to learn to slaughter one animal or another. We all started with small animals. We raised rabbits for meat. We were often told the rabbit on the table was chicken. They couldn’t fool me if there was a leg on the table. That would be on large chicken leg. Dad took me to the dirt basement to teach how to kill and skin a rabbit. I was a nervous wreck. He prepared two and then it was my turn. Just kill them with a mallet to head, cut their throats and let the blood drain out. Çut the fur around the neck and feet, then split it down the middle and peal the fur off. I thought I was going to throw up. I had never gone in the basement when he was killing rabbits before, but one does not turn dad down. I grabbed the rabbit by the ears and dad held its body. I raised the mallet and brought it down on my right foot. I then did want any healthy nine-year-old boy would do. I screamed for mommy and ran out crying.

I grew up in the city but visited many a farm relative and experienced more than I wanted to. My mother preferred to purchase live chickens. We had a crate my little brother and I put on our Red Rider wagon and pulled the mile plus to the grocery store near dads work. We did this once a month. Mom would have the months worth of groceries in her basket and be ready to go home by the time dad got there from work and cashed his check. Then with our newly acquired live chickens and all the rest of the groceries some how piled on the wagon we walked home as a family with dad pulling the wagon and us boys balancing the things from falling off.

As we would get near home, the neighborhood children began to gather at the alley behind our house. Mom and dad would put everything away and mom grabbed the chickens by the neck and headed to the alley. All the kids gathered in a wide circle around her. Without saying a word, she held a chicken by the head in each hand and one at a time swung those birds around in a circle until their heads came off and the chicken began to, well a… run around like a chicken with its head cut off, which of course, it was. Mom would turn and walk back to the house until the chickens stopped running leaving .the kids to yell and scream as birds “attacked” them with blood squiring out the op of necks. They were joyfully terrified. I, of course, was humiliated. We were the only family on the block that bought live chicken. Apparently my mother didn’t know you could have the butcher chop them up for her and wrap them in brown paper so her kids didn’t have to sit around picking out pin feathers. But mom needed those feathers for feather pillows she made and feather blankets for our beds. They were nice until the tail of a feather slipped through the covering and stuck me in the ear. But they were warm and cuddly. Perfect for a snowy night.

Now don’t out early years sound wonderful. Give me plastic wrapped me and a microwave.