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In my home town, there existed an old orchard of apple and pear trees. It had been years since anyone had cared enough to take time and do the grooming. The grass grew wildly from two to three feet high and pruning was nonexistent. Yet with no attention, there were still some trees that produced an abundance of fruit. My favorite tree was the sugar pears which ripened in early August. I always looked forward to August.....the sugar pears and my mother's delicious up-side-down cakes. In the early morning while dew was still on the grass, I would slip into the orchard and get a supply that would last me a week. I used to tie my jack-pants' legs at the ankles with shoe strings, and filled them with pears. Lawrence, the owner and a good friend of my dad's, spent much of his time leisurely sitting and enjoying his shady maple tree. My route home took me right past his resting area and the only hope of not being detected would be if he had fallen asleep. He was a very nice, gentle type person who spoke very soft and slow. He was always concerned about others, and never lost a chance to ask questions about our family. First he would ask me about my brother Tony, then Frank and lastly, Jim. By the time he had exhausted his questioning, sweat was running down my forehead and I was ready for a rest. The weight of the pears pulled down on the shoulder straps of my bib overalls which made them feel like I was holding a fifty pound barbell. It's obvious now, it must have been a treat for Lawrence to lose a few pears--to look at me in those bulging, balloon-like pants and watch me sweat my guilt. The questions seemed to have no end and go on for over an hour. After chatting, I would say good-bye, and waddled like a suited astronaut down the street. Lawrence must have laughed until he cried, watching me make my way home. The pressure of standing there answering questions while stewing in my own guilt became so great; after that, I discontinued my raids on the old orchard. A few years later, Lawrence admitted to me, he knew about the pears and told me to get as many as I wanted. It took several years before I ever wanted a sugar pear again; but when I finally went to get some, the trees had been cut down for a housing project. My home town was a lay-back community of mostly understanding adults who seldom over-reacted when the local children got into mischief. They allowed problems to work themselves out rather than scream and yell about them. At the same time, our parents and neighbors kept a close eye on our activities and communications between them were close and friendly. I guess the old saying, "Boys will be boys" was the commonly used phrase. My home town was located in the foot hills of north central West Virginia. Our school in Barrackville had a total enrollment, grades one through twelve, of about 200 students. We were known as the Barrackville Bisons. The teachers knew each of us, and gave individual attention, making every student feel real special. Most of the students went to college and those who did not, got employment in the local coal mines and factories. To demonstrate how special our little town really was: forty years latter, those same students remain congenial and pleasant as the day we graduated. They had become engineers, lawyers, inspectors, school teachers, foremen and war heroes. Our forty-year graduation anniversary was special and loving for all who came. Our little town was notorious for its aggressive sports teams and over the years had produced many rivals with other small schools of similar size. From this rural setting came many fine athletes who were granted athletic scholarships in a college of their choice. My older brother Tony played baseball for the Chicago Cubs Organization and attended college in North Carolina. The stream that flowed through our town was called Buffalo Creek. It contained an abundance of small mouth bass, cat fish and suckers. If I was not playing baseball, you could most likely find me knee deep in the middle of the stream. Fishing completely blocked out the rest of the world. When in the stream, "It was think like a fish, swim like a fish and eat like a fish." I had fishing in the Buffalo down to a refined science. I used the technique of "catch and release" most of the time, and enjoyed catching them another day. As I was saying our town was small, rural, and quiet. Everyone knew each other, and seldom was anything hidden, meaning no skeletons in the closets. If you needed a ride to and from the large city metropolis of Fairmont, you hitchhiked without fear of getting stabbed, shot or raped. The three mile drive to Fairmont was a winding two lane, asphalt road, and seldom did anyone drive faster than 25 mph. My interest were so locally oriented, I did not apply for my driving license until I was 17 and was about ready to enter college. Presently on Halloween, going ‘trick-or-treating' involves being accompanied by an adult; in a prescribed area; a one hour time period; checking for razor blades, needles and poisons in the treats. How times have changed! Growing up in my little town, Halloween was a great time. My neighbor Rod and I used to start two weeks before the special Halloween Night. We would make pass after pass at the same houses. We had a combination of masks from years past. When they ask to see our faces, we gladly did so, because underneath we had painted our faces an ungodly black or white. Our stash grew so large a bushel basket would not hold it all. As for tricking, we left that up to the older kids in high school. If we found someone not treating adequately, in our opinion, we informed them the older kids were ‘tricking' and the treats began flowing like water. Christmas was a wonderful time for me. Being the last child born in my family, my dad treated like the baby and was very generous to me. Year after year Santa Claus came to our house and always remembered me. I would put milk and cookies under the Christmas tree for Santa and was allowed to leave the tree in house until mid-April. I loved Christmas time; the tree, presents, cookies, special treats, friends and the happiness it brought. When I was about seven, my brothers got together, knocked me to the floor and tried to force me to say I didn't believe in Santa. I cried so loud they could have heard me across town. I knew when I stopped believing, Santa would die and I would be left with a pair of socks, and if lucky, a tie to wear to church. You really couldn't blame them......I got lots of toys and they got the socks and ties. It was a very traumatic day for me and I swore I was going to tell daddy when he came home from work. It was quite obvious that was not a part of their plan and they began promising me all kinds of gratuities. They knew falling out of grace with dad would put them on hardships. Christmas toys were OK; however the fish fry on Christmas Eve was the highlight of the holiday. A entire array of different sea creatures were prepared: Whiting, sardines, smelts, eel, squid, and some which I could not identify. My dad cleaned and my mother prepared the fish. Although my mother didn't like the smell, she obliged my father who she loved with her whole heart. I recall friends would stop by to say hello and eat a piece of fish. I particularly remember Lewis Hall's visit as a good time and we all looked forward to seeing him. Lewis Hall was older than my brothers and had made several trips across the ocean during the war. As my brothers and I grew up, Lewis took us for rides in his car, and treated us to the circus each year. The circus was a fantastic treat. Lewis would have us wait behind the "Great Tent", pay his fare and then raise the tent cover to let us in free. This man had a heart of gold and over the years: he taught me English in high school, coached me basketball and football, got me a job taking care of the playground during the summer and helped me understand coaching. There was nothing Lewis would not do for you. I have always said, Lewis Hall is to Barrackville as, "Apple Pie and Chevrolet", is to America. Carol Micheal was another fine person who influenced me when I was young. He managed the No.7 baseball field for the Bethlehem Mines Corp., who provided it for the neighborhood to use. When I was twelve, during the summer months, I would get up before 6 AM and march my way to the ball field. My mornings were full of the greatest entertainment a young boy could ever want. I could take my tennis racket, fishing pole, seine, .22 rifle, golf clubs, long handled pick and my dog Boy. It would too wet to hit golf balls in the morning dew, so I shot at ground hogs across the creek. I never tried to hit them--I just tried to scare them by coming close. Fishing was next and was always fun to catch and release the small mouth bass. Now it was time to hit golf balls. Carol would come down to the lower end of the field and allow me to hit them into the backstop near home plate. He instructed me a little and then left me alone to practice. Later in the morning after he had cut grass, he would come down and watch me hit a few. After a few minutes of instructing, he took my club and hit a few of his own. Carol loved hitting a ball; whether it be a baseball, golf ball or tennis ball. He had beautiful hand-eye coordination and truly had refined the basics of proper timing. While I was hitting golf balls, Carol prepared the clay tennis courts for us to play a round or two. He was the perfect sports person: patient, coordinated with perfect timing, and a gift for explaining the finer points. Over the years, I have learned a few things which have made my life more enjoyable. I believe in Santa Claus; Grammaw got run over by a reindeer; the Easter Bunny; the Resurrection of Christ, the Immaculate Conception of Mary; Rock 'N Roll, and I believe in music. When someone says, "Elvis has just left the building," you can bank on it. I also believe that John Wayne should have been president and Clint Eastwood, Secretary of State. I don't want to leave out the Tooth Fairy, and Lewis Hall as Supreme Court Judge. Never stop loving my family, learn to believe and live in the pure and innocent World of Jackie Taz and stop trying to be so serious about life. It will go on with or without us. The main thing, have some fun along the way; life is to short to figure out why the chicken crossed the road. |
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