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Episode Five
MORE LIKE A SAILOR
The month of October sailed swiftly by as we worked diligently to become assimilated into our new home. Becoming a functioning member of a new household is a tremendous blessing and a formidable task! Early on, my brother and I were versed in a few ground rules. First and foremost, we were cautioned to steer a wide birth around my uncle’s leather-bound Testament. Among Uncle Gus’s many treasures was one of the first collections of scripture printed in the Colonies. Back in 1724, Johann Christoph Sauer, the Kasebier family, and a number of other pilgrims from the Church of The Brethren, arrived in Philadelphia from back home in Germany. They’d barely gotten their land-legs when the little band of believers found themselves at odds with the local parishioners, because of the brethren’s infuriating adherence to Christ’s principles of nonviolence, and their exasperating advocacy for the country’s longsuffering Native Americans. Mercy and tolerance may be fine for Christ, but they chafe polite society.
Around 1738, Brother Johann gets this care package from Germany, and in this shipment is a dandy printing outfit. Well, Mr. Sauer goes to printing flyers and biblical scripture in German, and ticks off the local printer. Ol’ Ben Franklin, a pretty competent printer himself, was not amused by the sudden competition, particularly from what he considered the alarmingly virulent German portion of Pennsylvania’s populace, but he was way too busy entertaining the ladies, and drafting Declarations, and flyin’ kites and such, to pursue his objections with his usual gusto, so Mr. Sauer’s print shop flourished.
Uncle Gus’s prized volume occupied a place of reverence on top of his roll top desk, for use during our times of study and devotion, and we kids were under strict orders not to molest the hoary old manuscript, on pain of death and dismemberment. If a lightning bolt didn’t dispatch us, Uncle Gus would!
Despite this terrible temptation, we gradually settled into a routine and found ways of becoming productive members of our new extended family. Christoph bonded quickly with Klouse and was invited to accompany him to the shop and observe the art of shoe making. Christoph has always been good with his hands, and in a short time he’d developed into a remarkably competent cobbler.
Mother assisted the women of the house with myriad household duties and applied herself liberally toward assisting Irving’s wife, Kathleen with the tutelage of the children. Father soon settled into his usual routine of rising each morning at four o’clock. Most mornings he and Uncle Gus were on their second pot of coffee before the rest of us had begun to stir. Gus was acting ramrod of the operation, and Father settled in handily as his assistant. The two of them would discuss the day’s activities and then assign each of us our tailboard as we arrived for breakfast.
I began each day by rolling out at six o’clock and assisting with morning chores. Breakfast was at seven, followed by four hours of home schooling. Lunch break was at twelve sharp, and I finished up my workday with four or five hours of what Irving liked to call, the duties of a muleskinners apprentice. The bulk of those duties consisted of cleaning stalls. If you’re not familiar with cleaning mule stalls, count your blessings! I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, it’s a thankless and never-ending task that deals mainly with the removal of animal excrement!
Most of my daily work routine centered on the subject of mules, and I was knee-deep in the subject the majority of the time. Muleskinner is the term used to describe the driver, trainer, or handler, who provides direction to the mules. This task is greatly exacerbated by the mule’s natural inclination to provide their own direction.
The ranch maintained a remuda of twenty to twenty-five mares or female horses and a cantankerous band of half a dozen male donkeys, or jacks. Crossbreeding the female horses with the male donkeys produced mules. On a good year the mares produce fifteen to twenty mules that are then trained and marketed the following year. Well-trained mules are always in high demand and bring high dollar when properly marketed. Between fence mending, pasture improvements, birthing, grooming, training, marketing, and my all-time favorite, stall cleaning, caring for the mules is a never-ending chore.
November seventeenth marked the tenth anniversary of my birth. The day was much like any other until we’d completed our workday and finished dinner. After dinner we were all summoned to the huge fireplace at the south end of the dining room. The grownups quickly commandeered the few chairs and us kids joined excitedly in an unappreciated skirmish as we all competed rowdily for the throw pillows. Eventually Klouse casually applied his knuckle to the top of several craniums, and we formed ranks peacefully on the floor. Calm being established, Uncle Gus hoisted a cast-iron Dutch oven from the coals, removed the black, coal-covered lid, and began serving up steaming hot apple dumplings. Irving made a mad dash for the springhouse, tying his old record-breaking time of two and a half minutes and returning with a pewter pitcher of thick cream that had been skimmed from the morning’s milk. Apple dumplings with thick cream, in front of a crackling fire, life doesn’t get better than that.
Within a few minutes, Klouse had licked clean his bowl of dumplings and dashed from the room. He returned moments later, grinning like a possum and toting a canvas sack. I was evidently the only one not in on this surprise, and the entire family beamed with excitement. They all sang a German birthday ditty as Klouse handed me the mystery sack. I held the sack closed for a moment, embarrassed by being suddenly the center of attention, and then I dumped its contents out on the floor and gazed excitedly at a brand new pair of black, polished leather, cowboy boots. “Try ‘em on!” Klouse prompted enthusiastically! “Those don’t look like a muleskinner’s boots to me.”
Father smiled and handed me a pair of wool stockings that Mother had darned for the occasion, and I sprawled on the floor and fought feverishly to remove a knot from the sinew laces of the old Brogans that had served as my only footwear since leaving Germany. I slipped into my new socks amidst howls of laughter, while the other kids held their noses and rolled on the floor, feigning agony and laughing hysterically.
I tugged at each boot until it slipped snugly into place, tucked in my trouser legs, and headed out boldly with the expectation of sauntering rakishly across the room. Needless to say, the response was immediate and unrestrained when my first step rendered me spraddle-legged in a big heap on the floor! Struggling quickly to my feet and feigning indifference to the deafening jocularity, I fought for balance and headed out again. The high tops were initially bothersome and it was some time before I grew accustomed to the dizzying altitude afforded by the two-inch, under slung heels, but persistence paid off, and eventually I was able to negotiate the room with a jaunty gait reminiscent of a hatchling colt! “Well gees Louise!” exclaimed Irving, shaking his head and feigning annoyance, “Those are supposed to be farm hand boots, and you walk more like a sailor than ever!”
OBIE
Episode Six
AN EXCITING PROSPECT
The last Saturday of the month was to feature a harvest festival in town. There was to be a clambake that Uncle Gus was looking forward to, horse-shoe-pitching contests, and a big barn dance. The whole family joined in and made a day of it. By the time the dance began late that evening, the old folks had just about had their fill of food, frolic, and foolishness. They’d had all the fun they could stand. They were full of clams and fritters and longed for home and hearth. Irving and Kathleen decided to stay for the square dancing, and the rest of the family was headed home. I was pretty tired myself, but I was desperate to try out my new boots on the dance floor, and as I turned hesitantly to follow my folks, I locked eyes with the prettiest little red-haired girl that I’d ever seen. She and several other young ladies were eyeing me coyly from across the dance floor, and their combined effect was more than sufficient to impair the best judgment of any naive ten-year-old, new boots and all. After several minutes of protest, Mother succumbed to my pleadings and agreed to let me stay for the dance and come home later with Irving and Kathleen.
The rest of the family headed home, and I bought a mug of cider and an extravagantly buttered ear of corn on the cob and sat down on the edge of the loft, dangling my legs and grinning ear to ear! Enthusiastic doesn’t begin to describe my state. I was exhilarated to the point of apoplexy! After finishing my refreshments, I licked my fingers, sleeve-groomed my nose, and took my place alongside the other expectant onlookers, in hopes of an opportunity to join in the fun. I didn’t have long to wait. After a few minutes, the four young ladies whom I’d observed earlier began working their way around the floor, sizing up and critiquing the crowd of would-be dance partners. One by one they’d scrutinize the humiliated observers and point out their shortcomings, much as though they were comparing plucked poultry on market day. “What about this one?” One would ask, and the others would offer criticisms, “too short, too thin, or too eager!”
The most vocal, and unquestioned leader of the pack was, of course, the little red-haired girl. She had the reddest hair, the thickest freckles, and the most luxurious get-along that I’d ever seen, and as she approached, I held my breath and felt for all the world, like the black sheep in a lamb-judging contest.
With the rest of the pack following closely and grinning with anticipation, the little red-haired girl stepped up boldly, looked me over briefly, and then stared intently into my face. I stared at my feet for a moment, bracing for rejection and humiliation, and then swallowed hard and returned her gaze. “Dance?” she asked enthusiastically, and then offered a soft, thin, freckled hand. My head was swimming, my heart pounded, and I was dangerously light-headed from holding my breath! I grabbed her hand, we took our place in a newly formed square, bowed to our partner, and the fiddle began to play.
That little red-headed temptress whizzed tirelessly and elegantly around the room, frock flying and pigtails trailing, and I galloped happily at her side like a gangly pup, thoroughly enraptured, in a state of perfect bliss! We’d allemande right and allemande left and do-si-do around that barn for the better part of an hour! All at once, I became aware that my poor feet were throbbing madly in those new boots, and several of my toes were clearly in tremendous distress! Just then the little red-haired girl veered hard to starboard, and we promenaded through the back door of that old barn and out into the dark emptiness of the dimly moonlit corral beyond. A thousand breathtaking possibilities flooded my mind and weakened both my knees. And then, as I wrapped my arms around that warm, moist, gingham-clad form, and her sweet, cider-scented breath filled my nostrils, a milking stool came down on my head and the darkness took me in and swallowed me up!
Moments later the cool, wet, evening air rushed back into my lungs, the fowl taste of barnyard dirt filled my mouth, and a vaguely familiar voice inquired “Is that you Mr. Camp?” It was Lidge Timothy Kinney the third. “Well, I’m not certain of anything right at the moment,” I responded. “I believe it’s me.” “Are you alright?” “Well, the back of my head is leakin’ some, but I don’t think nothin’s busted.” “I don’t know about that,” said Lidge with a grimace. “This milkin’ stool is ruint!”
Lidge helped me to my feet and picked a piece of straw from my hair. Do you remember me?” he enquired. “You bet! You’re Lidge Timothy Kinney the III.” He flashed a big grin and stared at the ground in embarrassment. “You can call me Lidge,” he said. “Sure enough,” I responded. “Call me Obie.”
“Well, Lidge, did you happen to see what happened before the lights went out?” “Yes sir. I was over yonder seein’ a man about a horse when you and Maggie Mae come waltzin’ out, so I just sat there quiet like to see what ‘ud happen next. Next thing ya know, Maggie’s brother Teddy sneaks out of the shadows with that milkin’ stool and raises this big ol’ knot on your noggin. Then the two of ‘em starts rummaging through your pockets. Did they get your billfold?” He asked. “I don’t have pockets or a billfold.” I answered. “Did they take anything?” “I don’t think so. I spent my last nickel on a roasting ear and a cup of cider. Except for the skull fracture, I’m just as they found me.” “Well then,” says Lidge. “We’ll just consider this whole affair an unfortunate imposition.”
We cleaned me up and brushed me off, and Lidge put his hand on my shoulder. “How about another apple cider to wash down that mouthful of dirt,” enquired Lidge? “Sounds good to me,” I said. “This whole affair has left a bad taste in my mouth. Do you know those two?” “Yeah.” said Lidge disgustedly. “I know ‘em. That was Maggie Mae O’Meara and her pesky brother Ted. They live just down the hill from us. They’re always into something! She is pretty though,” said Lidge, grinning and eyeing me expectantly. “Pretty ornery,” I replied!
We finished our cider and reported back to Irving and Kathleen who were getting ready to leave. “Are you here by yourself?” I asked Lidge. “Yep! I walked here with some other kids from the neighborhood, but I figure they’re long gone.” Lidge readily accepted my offer of a ride home, and the four of us headed for the buckboard. Once in the buckboard, Irving hollered “Giddy-up!” and the mule headed out at a leisurely pace. Lidge and I sat dangling our legs off the tailgate and laughing till our sides ached about my short-lived love affair with little Maggie Mae.
As we approached the turnoff to the Irish settlement, Lidge pointed to a dilapidated old frame building with one broken window and a badly leaning steeple, “You see that dandy cathedral over yonder? That’s our church. Have you got plans for tomorrow?” “Just church,” I said. “Why don’t you come to church with my family and me,” asked Lidge, “and then spend the afternoon?”
His sudden invitation caught me a little unprepared. I’d attended Catholic churches all my life, and although I held no animosity toward the Protestant faith, I’d never actually entertained any thoughts of attending Sunday worship with a good Baptist. As I pondered the possibilities, my first inclination was to politely decline. My mother’s response would be less than pleasant, and Dad would almost certainly have a stroke!
Then I remembered Lidge’s sisters. I’d thought about Mariah often since our brief encounter in the Kinney’s kitchen. I’d gone over the event in my head until the memory was inherent in my heart. When I close my eyes at night, I see Mariah’s.
As the buckboard pulled up at the Kinney place, Lidge slid to the ground, looked at me inquiringly, and asked, “See ya tomorrow?” “I’ll see ya in church,” I said, waving broadly at my new friend, and the mule broke into a dogtrot as we headed out for home.
A single candle flickered in the window as we pulled up at Camp house, but I breathed a huge sigh of relief as we entered the room and found everyone sound asleep. There would surely be consequences for returning so late from the festival, and a family discussion of tomorrow’s church plans was better left until I was rested and rehearsed.
As I entered my room a Fairy Diddle eyed me cautiously for a moment and then returned to licking his tiny pink paws and smoothing his prodigious whiskers. Christoph was snoring peacefully in his bunk, and the last remaining embers from the evening’s fire cast a hospitable glow across the room. I eased slowly into the oak rocker by the stove, hoping to avoid waking my brother with the chair’s characteristic squeak, and then gazed out the window at a familiar harvest moon. My first month on this strange new shore had been memorable and productive. I’d already been blessed with a comfortable new home and a remarkable new family, and today’s adventures had secured one new friend and offered exciting prospects for another. My heart was light, my hopes high, and my spirit fairly soared.
OBIE
Episode Seven
THE PATTY CREEK BAPTIST CHURCH
I overslept a little the following morning. When I did wake up, I lie under the covers for several minutes, recalling the events of the previous day and contemplating ways of nonchalantly approaching my folks in regard to my plans for church. I was cautiously optimistic their permission could be had, but it wouldn’t be cheap nor easy!
When I eventually stuck my head out from under the covers, Christoph, who was normally the late riser, was already dressed and gone. I slipped on my socks before stepping onto the cold, hardwood floor, and then sprinted for the chifforobe to collect my trousers and a flannel shirt. I could see my breath as I pulled on my work boots. The Franklin stove was stone cold. No use to loiter there! I completed the chores quickly and set my sights on the kitchen and a nice warm cook stove. With a little luck, I could thaw out my backside and sneak a piece of bacon too! As I passed the mudroom by the pantry, I met Christoph shivering in his drawers. Christoph had commandeered a kettle of hot water from the kitchen and was midway through the thirty second dousing, which in his mind passed for a sponge bath. With the exception of the semi-monthly occasion of an actual hot bath in the galvanized tub on the back porch, bathing was an unpleasant ritual that was performed only by necessity and under duress. Mother was a stickler for good hygiene, and even though there had been occasions when we were able to outrun Mother, Mother knew where we lived.
As soon as Christoph had met his obligation, I stripped down, grabbed a fresh warshcloth, and followed suit. That ordeal over with, I ran back to my room, donned my Sunday shirt and new boots, and headed back for the kitchen. As I passed the pantry, several of the younger children were paying their dues with what was left of the kettle of now lukewarm water. Being deep in thought, I lacked the attentiveness that the situation demanded. Suddenly a barrage of ringing wet warshcloths interrupted my meditation, lambasting me alongside the head and rendering me momentarily senseless. Despite the fact that this unprovoked assault momentarily fouled my normally sweet disposition, there was little I could do in retaliation. The precedent had long been established, and I should have been more alert. I was, nonetheless, seriously considering retribution when my attention was diverted suddenly by the smell of breakfast.
The women folk were hard at work as I entered the kitchen. Sunday breakfast was a big event and required plenty of time and preparation. Kathleen and Maggie rose at the crack of dawn in order to have the old cast-iron range fired up and the oven heated to a temperature sufficient to produce golden brown biscuits. Mother was mixing hotcake batter in a large blue bowl and Maggie was slicing bacon. Father and Uncle Gus were sitting near the fire sipping their coffee. “How was the square dance?” Father asked as I entered the room. Mother eyed me curiously and Father emphasized his inquiry with a look reminiscent of his parting glare as he left me at the festival the previous evening. “Pretty good.” I responded cautiously. “What time did you get home,” was his next query. “Pretty late.” I replied. “Pretty late I’d say!” exclaimed Mother and assaulted her batter with an increased vigor!
“Less than an hour until we need to leave for church,” Father observed suggestively. “Are you ready?” “About church,” I said hesitantly. Father and Mother both eyed me suspiciously. “I’ve been invited to attend church with the Kinney’s.” This comment was followed by a long, disquieting silence. Uncle Gus studied me curiously for a moment, and then smiled quietly into his cup while we both waited for the other shoe to drop. Mother stirred her batter slowly and deliberately and asked, “Do the Kinney’s attend the little Catholic church west of town?” “No Mother,” I replied casually. “The Kinney’s attend the little Baptist church down by Patty Creek.”
Well, it got unholy quiet now. My folks were both stupefied and speechless, and I just starred at the floor and strained my ears to hear if I was still breathin’. Eventually Uncle Gus broke the silence, “The Kinney’s are good Christian folks, and I know the pastor down at Patty Creek. That’s where Argyle attends services. I think it would be a good experience for the boy. Obadiah needs some new friends. He’d have fun with the Kinney kids, and it’ll be healthy for them to have a good influence like Obadiah.”
I wanted to hug Uncle Gus awful bad right then, but I just kept still and tried to sneak a peek at Dad. Dad took a big drink of coffee, smoothed his mustache, and then looked thoughtfully at Uncle Gus for a moment. “Well Mother,” he said. “We brought Obadiah thousands of miles to begin a new life. I guess it’s probably time we let him live it.” Mother wasn’t happy, but she just held her tongue and whipped that helpless batter to froth! That morning we had the lightest, fluffiest hotcakes you’ve ever seen! Everyone mentioned it. Little else was said.
Lidge was waiting for me out front when we pulled up at Patty Creek. It takes three or four stout rigs to haul all the Camps to Sunday meeting. By the time you get all eighteen of us decked out, dolled up, and seated, we’re a sight to behold. It’s downright inspirational! When Lidge saw the whole bunch of us pull up at the church, his eyes got big as saucers. He sprang to attention like he’d just seen ol’ George Warshington hisself! There are about fifty saintly souls in the Patty Creek congregation, give or take a few backslid pretenders, and every single soul of ‘em had their nose against the window. The whole place steamed up something fierce! They were all fired up and ready to share the Good News. You know those were some mighty disappointed Christians when I sashayed up all by my lonesome, and the rest of the regiment waved and headed out.
Lidge met me at the door all lit up like a lamp peddler, and shook my hand like he meant it, not one of those dainty finger squeezing jobs like you get from city folk. Lidge took a holt, got a good grip, and bore down! I knew right off that Lidge and I was pards. When we stepped into the church, I got the same treatment from the whole outfit. By the time I found a seat, I’d met the preacher and the entire congregation. I guess they don’t get to entertain many Catholics down at Patty Creek. I pretty well cornered the market.
As if that wasn’t blessing enough, there were just two seats left in the pew with the Kinney’s. Lidge took his place at the end of the row, and I, after considerable squirming, managed to squeeze in right between Lidge and Mariah. Mariah smiled coyly and patted me gingerly on the knee. It was early yet to know for sure and certain, but I was beginning to believe that becoming a Baptist might not be half bad.
They didn’t hold much stock in lots of pomp and circumstance like they do at a good Catholic shindig, but those Baptists sure do sing some rousing songs! The preacher knew the whole book by heart, and he preached Jesus crucified and risen, just like he’d seen the whole thing hisself. The festivities got louder and happier as time went on, till folks were shouting halleluiah, and the whole church was howling like a blustery March wind! The spirit filled that building till I couldn’t keep my seat. My throat swelled and I couldn’t catch my breath. Then Mariah took my hand in hers, the tears streamed down my face, and hand in hand we headed for the front. Those Baptists shouted, “Glory!” We kneeled before the Lord; the spirit moved, and two young souls were saved. Well, I don’t know how it happened, and my folk’s will have a cow! But I’m a member and a deacon at the Patty Creek General Baptist Church of God.
Shannon Thomas Casebeer
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