Our Brother Willard A Short Story by Treva Sharp Straw Hats We had one whole summer of freedom and joyful play before our Brother Willard learned to walk. Our mother said that we reminded her of gypsies. We left our straw hats (our father brought home new straw hats for us every spring) in the pasture where the cows ate them. There was not a trace left when our mother sent us back to the pasture to look for our hats. The cows had eaten our hats — band and all. Our hats being eaten, the sun bleached my brother’s fair hair to white while it turned my brown hair from brown to red. Our father did not bring home more hats. It was not alone that we were poor people; our father was disappointed that we had not kept our hats a little longer. Animals We had to play in the pasture. Animals played, grazed, and lived in a pasture. We always played that we were animals: we lived in the pasture. Our aunt had sent us an animal book for Christmas. Animals Of The World was the content, if not the name, of our book. As we raced over our whole hill, two hollows and two half-hills, we became different animals to fit the lay of the land. Down by our pond, we were elephants. We wished desperately that we had some kind of hose to use for a trunk so that we might spray ourselves as elephants do in bathing. If we had had a hose to use as a trunk we should certainly have sprayed ourselves, no matter that it was spring and still cold. Since we could not manage any kind of trunk, we had to be content to fling our arms about in imitation of elephant trunks and imagine ourselves bathed and sprayed in the pond. Up on the side of our hill we became giraffe and grazed from the tops of the sassafras saplings, holding our hands behind our backs as we bit off the young buds and new leaves. We must not use our hands, that would spoil the game: giraffe have no hands. Being animals that we had never seen, except in a book, called for all our imagination. Just what did an elephant or a giraffe think on all occasions gave us many problems. We were sure that we knew what horses thought at all times. We were horses every day of our lives. Our greatest frustration came from not being horses in the flesh. It was difficult to nip grass without the proper lips and teeth. Clover was easy, clover was delicious, but grass did not taste so good and grass was difficult to nip. Corn was impossible, except in sweet corn season, and even then, we would get slapped if we tried to eat corn off the cob, in horse fashion, — without hands. Enid Our mother was mostly indulgent about our wild games. She was a little shocked that her daughter desired to be a horse (she thought it not too bad for a boy), “Why don’t you go play with Enid?” she would suggest to me. Our mother would smile when she saw Enid and I playing with dolls, weaving garlands of clover, or when she heard, “You be the mother and I’ll be the little girl.” I liked Enid well enough, but I thought that Enid was a little crazy. Enid liked to lay up on the tool shelf in the woodshed and moan that she was ill. When it came my turn to be ill — I would not moan. I had moaned, many times, with high fevers and earaches. I knew that pain was not funny. I did not want to moan — not even in play. I did not enjoy Enid’s company. I would play, but without enthusiasm. I enjoyed my brother. My Next-To-Me Brother My brother and I were so attuned that a new game would start without words. Someone would start chewing in the ruminant manner, then, “I am a camel.” Instantly we had to eat briars. Didn’t the book say that camels ate briars? Rusty Nails It had to happen. There were thorns as well as briars, and though almost never around our house (our father did not throw nails around, nor discard boards with nails in them) there was the fearsome rusty nail. When my brother or I stepped on a nail or got a thorn in a foot, our mother would pick the cruel thing out and make the wound bleed good. This was torture but we knew that it had to be done. We had then to sit for hours soaking the injured foot in hot salt water. If, after all this and a bandage, the wound turned red — we had to wear a poultice, night and day, until no red remained. We would watch hopefully when our bandage was being changed and wait impatiently for our mother to say that the foot was going to be all right. Our mother knew when a foot was going to be all right the way she knew when there would be mushrooms to pick. When our mother said the foot was going to be all right, we forgot the sore foot and went back to our games. Burrs Sometimes, our mother had to take her sewing scissors and cut the cockle burrs from our hair. When we made baskets of the burrs, we would get to throwing burrs at each other. In spite of agile dodging, each would get a burr or two. When we went to our mother with burrs matted in our hair, she would threaten to whip us. She would knock us around a bit with a slapping motion as she looked for her scissors. What could we do? Burrs are uncomfortable in ones hair. Cutting was the only way. After she had cut the burrs from our hair, she would say, “Now, go look in the mirror at the shaggy nicks in your hair. You looked bad enough without nicks in your hair.” We would go look. We would be ashamed. Nicks in the hair was as ugly as could be. We would be sorry but we would forget the minute we were in the pasture again. We were too full of green and summer. Dutch Bites Our father had allowed us, under his instruction, and at the times that he permitted us, to play with, and around, our horses and mules. Knowing that nothing could keep us out of the stalls, he instructed us. I had been bitten (I had two rows of purple-horse-tooth-marks, top and bottom, on my right arm) because I had tried to touch a foal, a new born horse, before our father had given his permission. Our father had said, “Now if you go near that mare or try to touch that foal, that mare will kill you. If you get into that box stall — that mare will stomp you to death.” We knew that our dear sweet Dutch would kill us. Our father did not use that tone unless he meant every word that he was saying. He was not fooling. We could picture ourselves stomped out flat by our Dutch’s big hoofs. I did not get into the stall. I just tried to reach across the manger. The foal was suckling. His little tail was within my reach. His little tail looked not at all like a horse’s tail. His little tail looked like the longest, silkiest bottle brush in the world. I thought his little tail looked like a Christmas Tree. If only I could just touch his little tail. She bit me. Our dear sweet Old Dutch bit me. I cried. It hurt. Horses bite real hard when they bite. But I cried more because I had meant no harm than because I had, already, a deep bruised red, four rows of teeth marks on my arm. I did not tell my parents until my mother saw. The marks of my transgression were impossible to hide. “You’re lucky that she did not break your arm.” my parents gave me no sympathy. I wore those purple marks for almost a year. Riding The Foal Our father never had to break a horse or a mule to the saddle. “If you get onto that mule’s back and ruin its back — I will beat you to death.” our father would say. We did not doubt that our father would beat us to death, so — we did not climb onto the back of our darling, our baby, our playfellow. We knew that the day would come when our father would say, “Now, you,” indicating my brother, “You, may get onto Jimmy’s back and ride.” Then, turning to me, “You, not yet. You wait a little longer.” I was a few pounds heavier than my brother though no taller. “That boy was born tall,” or “That boy was born running,” our mother would say of my brother who was as tall as I though almost three years younger. He could certainly run as fast as I, though I could run longer. I knew that the day would come when our father would say, “Now, you may get onto Jimmy’s back and ride.” and he would be pointing at me. I’ve never known a greater privilege. Our sweet Jimmy would never remember when he was not a saddle mule. Jimmy loved us especially. Jimmy was the most loving of all our horses and mules. We would hang onto Jimmy’s neck and kiss him in the soft fur that grew along the sides of his long mules face. The fur around Jimmy’s mouth was softer than velvet. Combing Jimmy We were allowed to use the combs and brushes that our father used on the horses — if we put them back in their exact places. There were days when we combed and brushed the day away. If we had been hired grooms, we would have felt overworked. If we got started combing and brushing on a rainy day when our work horses were home, our faithful mares with the long shiny hairs on their heavy ankles, our mother would have to call us more than once to lunch. We would beg our mother to find ribbons that we could braid into the manes that we had combed until they shone. We would imagine horse shows where we could win prizes. We were sure that our not-quite-pure-bred mares were the most beautiful horses in the world. Nellie Our horses and mules loved us. We were attentive, gentle, loving, and we knew what we were doing. “Hoo there, Nelly, hoo,” we would say, in the best groom manner, as we walked behind our Nelly. Our Nelly was nervous and inclined to kick. We knew that we had to tell her what we were doing before we made any new moves. As long as she was informed, it would be all right — and it was. Our longing to be horses came from our feeling that the horses were superior. We longed to be covered with fur or hair of such color, such sheen, such beauty. Our hair did not shine like Nelly’s hair, not even when it was freshly combed with water. Imagine being bright yellow, like Nelly, trimmed with a black mane and tail, or the rich mahogany of our Dutch with wavy black mane and tail. We longed for a tail. How could any creature move about in style without a tail. We pranced about in imitation of horses, but it was no good: We had no style because we had no tail. Imagine being so sweet and good that one always smelled good. Even when they came in dead tired and sweaty from the fields — they smelled good. We wished that we had a fragrance like that. Horses were so sweet and good that even their dung smelled good. We could see that everything about a horse was good. A horse had not one bad feature. A horse would not hurt a person unless it had been spoiled by a bad person. A horse would not step on a person unless there was no other place to step. We had seen a picture of horses in a battle scene. We knew that the wild eyed anxiety shown on the horses’ faces was caused by the dead and dying on the ground. The horses, at the risk of their own lives, would not step on the men, not even the dead men, but there was no other place to step: so, the horses were out of their minds from this violation of their nature. We felt sorry for the horses in the picture. We felt sorry for the wounded and dying men too, but the horses were being forced to go against their nature. We thought that not all the men had gone against their nature. The Hakes When we thought of war, we thought of the Hakes. We would not mind having a war with the Hakes. If we had warhorses and an army, we would ride the Hakes down and leave them dead and dying. When we were on the road to our grandfather’s house, the Hakes would come out and push us around in the road. There were four of them to us two, and all of them boys. We could not believe that we had stood our ground and walked the public road as was our right, but somehow we got through them and on our way. We took to cutting through the fields, there was a path part of the way, in order to avoid the Hakes. We knew that we needed to get a little older and stronger. Nellie Gray My brother would weep when our mother sang the Stephen Foster song about Nelly Gray. Our mother would have to explain to my brother that she was not singing about our horse Nelly. That our horse was Nelly Bay and that she was singing about a person, a woman, named Nelly Gray. My brother would talk through his tears, “I don’t want anyone to take our Nelly away.” My brother and I were deeply attached to our horses, but we practiced the HORSE SENSE that our father had taught us. We were young jockeys, baby grooms, we never would have done what our brother Willard did. Of course, Willard was still a baby, maybe Willard would learn. Willard Willard could not yet walk — but he could creep like lightning and he had a talent for going unnoticed. We never noticed what Willard was doing until it was too late. Surely, Willard did not like being a baby. Willard did not choose to be held, not even by his mother. Willard always wanted to be down. Willard would squirm and fuss until our mother would let him down: once down, Willard went exploring. One late afternoon, our father was showing us something of great interest to all of us. Our mother was completely entranced with his account and my brother and I were all ears because he was explaining some new harness that he had bought and he was showing us how it fit and how fine it looked on Nelly. Meantime, Willard got down. Willard crept over to where the rainwater came down off of the barn. Our soil was yellow clay but the rainwater had washed the clay out from this spot leaving a few gallons of shiny glacial sand. Willard had found him a find. Will was creating sand worlds of his own. None noticed Willard. Now donkeys and mules have a sense of humor. Mules do lots of things for fun. Horses are noble, honorable, gallant, and brave but horses are serious: mules are full of fun. Horses run away only if frightened out of their senses: mules run away to hear the wagon rattle. While Willard was playing in the sand, while our father was holding our attention with the harness on Nelly, while our mother listened to our father — the mules got bored and started to play. Jack And Jimmy For fun, just for fun, the fun of chasing something, our Jack and our Jimmy started some calves to running. The calves started running around the barn with Jack and Jimmy close on their heels. Jack and Jimmy could run many times faster than the calves. They did not want to catch the calves, nor to overrun the calves, nor to stomp the calves: Jack and Jimmy wanted to chase the calves for fun, so they ran just fast enough to keep the calves running. Around the barn came the calves, running fast for calves, with Jack and Jimmy pegging along at their heels. As they rounded the corner — there was Willard — right in their path, sitting right under their hoofs. Hip. The first calf cleared Willard. Hip. The second calf cleared Willard. Hip. The third calf cleared Willard. Hip. Hip! Both Jack and Jimmy cleared Willard. My brother and I declared, later, that Jack and Jimmy had looked amused though the calves had looked surprised. Our father stared in unbelief: he could not move. My brother and I could not close our mouths, much less move; we just stared with open mouths. Our mother looked like a statue with both arms raised. They were coming around again. Would our brother, again, be the hurdle in this unbelievable steeplechase? Our mother was the first to come unfrozen. She ran and snatched her baby boy just before they came to the corner again. No one spoke. It took time for us to thaw out. One by one we started moving, stiffly, like frozen bees. Not one word was spoken. We cast our eyes down. We exhaled in relief. Our mother had gone into the house with Willard tucked under her arm. My brother and I became interested in nothing. We did not look at each other. Our father started putting the harness away with elaborate care. Bread And Butter “When you’ve finished your bread and butter, would you like to go see if we have any mail?” Our mother baked bread almost every day. The bread was light and sweet with a golden crust that she always buttered or greased with bacon drippings if she had no butter. Today, we had butter. Our mother had buttered the thick slices of fresh warm bread. There is hardly a better taste on earth than good fresh bread. We could not think of one thing until we had eaten our bread and butter. I felt as strong as a very small horse when I picked up the shafts of the little cart that our father had made for us. Our Cart We had waited a long time for the cart. First, our father had to have wheels, good wheels. Where could he get good wheels? He could buy a worn-out baby carriage at a farm sale. He might find suitable wheels on the city dump when he went to Washington with our grandfather to pay taxes. Our cart wheels had come from the Washington dump. Just as though those wheels were waiting for us — there they were on a discarded baby carriage. Our father got the wheels and we got our cart. The wheels on our cart were so strong, they rolled on such fine bearings, that our cart was as light as a racing sulky, which was just as our father had planned. Our father had said that we would take turns being the horse — but it turned out that I was always the horse. Perhaps being a little older caused me to take the lead in pulling the cart, or it may be that my desire to be a horse was so intense that I took every chance to be the horse and pull the cart. My brother was not so heavy as I, both he and the cart were as nothing, so — it may be that it was easier for me to pull him than for him to pull me. Why ever, I was the horse. Going To Get The Mail We were rolling as fast as I could run down our lane. Our lane had no deep ruts to slow our speed. Our lane was shale. When the New Roads had been cut through our hills, it had become necessary to cut us a lane (the Old Road had passed right in front of our house) and it was pure luck (the next shale was a mile away) that our lane was made of thin layers of sandstone. If we could dig out a piece of this shaley earth, when we were playing mud pies, we called it layer cake. I hoped that I would never fall: the shale would be rough on knees; too, if I fell, the cart would run over me. I did not fall though we were going so fast when I turned into the New Road that my brother had to hold on tight. It was lucky that our cart seat sat so low between the wheels that our cart never turned over. My brother was able to hold on. As I swung left out of our lane into the cut clay of the New Road, I could feel that all was well. Like any horse, I would know if I lost my rider. We had so much momentum that it was not necessary to pull on the cart until I was a third of the way up the first hill, the steep hill, the long hill, the hill of which we owned almost a half. Our Pond It was always cool, almost damp, as we crossed the culvert that drained our pond into Angus’ pasture. The end of our pond was a good spot. On Angus’ side grew elderberries, while on our side grew willows. There were, at all times, frogs, turtles, dragonflies, muskrat, and our ducks to watch. Baby ducks could not come to the pond. Our mother said that the turtles would grab their feet and pull them under to drown them and eat them. We had not seen any turtle do this foul deed but our mother said that they would do it. The Hen’s Ducks The saddest sight that we had seen at the pond was the poor old hen that had hatched out duck eggs. When the ducks were big enough to be allowed at the pond, when our mother allowed the mother hen and her ducks to be out, the ducks had run as fast as they could waddle, and jumped into the pond, had floated and paddled away into their natural element like so many fluffy yellow swans. The poor mother hen, being sure that her children would drown, had run up and down the side of the pond squalling out warnings at the top of her hen voice. She had squawked until she lost her voice, she had lost her appetite; she had started losing her feathers. Our mother had shut her up in a solitary coop where she could not see the ducklings that were causing her such grief until she forgot that she had hatched out children. Our mother said that the ducks did not need her, now, and that there was no sense in her making herself sick over her strange children. We felt as sorry as possible for the poor agitated hen. No human could see that poor hen running up and down, running into the edge of the pond, beating the water with her poor helpless wings, wetting her poor wettable hen’s feathers, squalling wildly, looking all ways with wild eyes, and not feel all the pity that a heart can hold. We were thankful that our mother knew what to do to make her forget the sorrow that motherhood had brought. We asked our mother if the hen would have died. Our mother said that she might have died. The Top Of The Hill Just before the top of the hill, I had to pull on the shafts but my brother as not heavy. We always rested at the top of this hill and looked back across our hollow, across our pond in our first hollow, to see if we could see our mother in the door, in the yard, or in our garden. We were little children. We wanted to see our mother. Too, we had to gather courage before we plunged down the other side of this hill, so we lingered where we could see all of our home. All of our house, all of our garden, our chicken house, our fruit trees, our barn and our darling mules, Jack and Jimmy playing in our backyard. We looked down into the hollow in front of us. We did not say, “I hate to go but I have to go, so here I go.” We were too scared for children’s rhymes. That rhyme was for play, for jumping out of the barn loft. No rhyme could get us through this next hollow. Lemuel’s Woods It was dark down there, even on the sunniest day, not as dark as Lemuel’s Woods but shady, covered with shadows. There were trees on three sides of the hollow and the side of this hill on the fourth side. The only sunlight came in the afternoon, and this only in summer when the sun traveled to set in the Northwest. But still, it was not as dark a Lemuel’s Woods. My brother was so afraid of Lemuel’s Woods that he would not enter the edge. I was afraid, too, but I would not tell my brother. It was so black in Lemuel’s Woods that one would need a lantern in the daytime. We knew why Lemuel’s Woods was so black. We had heard our father say, “No trees have ever been cut out of Lemuel’s Woods: That is virgin forest.” When our mother read Hiawatha, or Evangeline, or The Courtship of Miles Standish — we knew how it was: It was like Lemuel’s Woods. We would stand by the edge of Lemuel’s Woods. We would go as far as where our little spring branch entered the woods, but there, on a mossy little mound, we would stand. “Go on, there is nothing in there.” I would say to my brother. I knew that I spoke the truth. I knew that there was nothing in there. “You go first,” my brother would say. I would not go first. He would not go first. We had never been into Lemuel’s Woods. But we had to go through this next hollow. It was on the way to our mailbox. We had to go through that hollow. I cannot say that I gathered courage. I did not feel strong nor brave. I do not know how I managed to start. I just know that after a while of dread, of looking deep down where I knew that I had to go — I would go. Once started down the hill, I had to run very fast so that the cart would not overrun me. This hill had deep ruts to break the speed of the cart (our land was the only shale for a mile around) but this hill was steeper than our lane so that I had the same necessity not to fall and to run very fast to stay in front of the cart. It was cool and dark at the bottom of the hill. Light could come only from the right. The light lay glassy on the stagnant pond that was supposed to drain through the culvert under our feet. The trickle from the culvert met with little spring branches and became the stream that fed our pond. When they built the New Roads through our hills, they had placed this culvert too high, causing the water to be deeper than it would normally be. The deepened water had killed some trees. Buzzards Now there were dead and leafless trees sticking up out of a sluggish, glassy pond. The tops of the dead trees served as a roost for great, dull-gray birds with long red faces ending in viciously curved beaks: a buzzards roost. A buzzard’s roost. I would not look. I had never looked after the first time. I did not want to see them again. “Don’t look at them!” I yelled back at my brother. I was running as fast as I could. Why did he have to stare at anything that frightened him? I was almost sure that it was not good to let anything know how frightening it was. If those buzzards knew how scared we were, they might come down from there and eat us — no matter that we were not dead. I knew that buzzards eat only dead meat, but they might not have found any dead meat and would settle for us. I had seen them floating high with their eye on the ground, their noses sniffing for something dead. Was that why their noses had grown so long? All that sniffing? They looked fat and prosperous, though there was no beauty in their black feathers. I wondered why the black feathers of crows and blackbirds were so pretty while the black feathers of these great ones looked so dusty and gray. They were sure of themselves. Their eyes followed us like judges. They were as secure as millionaires: no one wanted to eat their meat, no hunter would shoot them. They ate their fill of some poor dead creature and then they sat. They ate again and then — they sat some more: no wonder they looked so fat. They loved death. They lived on death. They would roost only in dead trees. There would always be plenty for them. We could not have explained why they were so fearsome to us but we could see that they watched our liveliness with patient curiosity. We thought that they were thinking “We’ll get them later.” Our mother and our father knew that the buzzards used these trees as a roost: if there had been any danger from them — our mother would not have allowed us to come this way. Our fear was unreasonable and we knew that it was unreasonable. If any living creature had ever been attacked by buzzards we would have heard about it. Our father, our grandfather, Old Jeff or Old Thom would have talked of it. We were sure that it had never happened. Old Thom knew everything. Old Thom would have warned our parents. But what was that hanging down over their necks — entrails that they had not finished? I would not look closely enough to see. I could not slacken my speed. I must run at this extreme all the way up this next hill. Luckily, this next hill was a short one and the buzzards were soon out of sight. It was always the same, as soon as we were over the crest I would stop to rest — I was out of breath. While I caught my breath, dawdling in the shafts, dragging my toes in the clay dust of the ruts, my brother looked back toward the buzzards. Did he expect them to follow us? “They are half asleep. They don’t know where we’ve gone.” I would assure him, “They can’t see us from here.” Mushrooms After a while, my brother might say, “Do you think there are mushrooms today?” At the top of the next hill, we could see the cut-over thicket where we so often found mushrooms. “Mom did not give us a bag.” How did our mother know when there would be mushrooms? Our mother could feel the air, look out at the sky, note how it had rained, how recently it had rained, and from these notes she could tell if there would be mushrooms to gather. Some days, she would send us back when we had already been to the mailbox. She would hand us a bag saying, “If you go look, I’ll bet there will be mushrooms.” Almost always, we would fill our bag with Fat Morels, the only mushrooms that we knew how to pick. Old Thom knew how to pick and eat many kinds of mushrooms, but then, Old Thom knew everything. Quicksand There was one more hollow before we came to our mailbox. This was a sweet little hollow where the ground was always wet. Just a little more water would have made mud, but there was mud only when it rained. This was underground water: the water stayed just a few feet below the surface soil. Off there to the left was where the water came from. There, just under the ground, it could be traced because the oats above it were a brighter green. We knew a spot where a lot of water, deep underground, made a quicksand hole. The quicksand hole was on the New Road about half a mile past Thom’s house. All the Old Timers were laughing at the Feds and the County Road Department for building the New Road over the quicksand hole. But the quicksand hole lay right upon the section line and the New Roads had been laid out to follow the section lines. Every summer the county hauled stones and dumped many loads of stones into the quicksand hole. The stones would sink until it seemed that they could sink no more — then they would rebuild the road over the quicksand hole. In six months the road would start to quiver. Farmers would not drive their horses over the quivering road. Farmers had seen quicksand before. The horses would balk if any were so foolish as to drive their horses onto the quivering road: the horses knew better than to step into quicksand. Wagons would start driving around the quicksand hole and the county would have to fill the hole with stones again. Old Jeff and Old Thom would take their pipes from their mouths to laugh. The Old Roads had followed the ridges of the hills where there was most often shale for the wheels to turn on. Shale was nature’s pavement. There could hardly be a better road than shale. Too, almost nothing would grow on shale, dogwood, dewberries, a few weeds, soup beans, in the better spots, and herbs, like pennyroyal: The Old Roads had not wasted the land. The Bottomless Hole “I’ll bet there’s quicksand down there,” my brother would say of The Bottomless Hole just beyond our mailbox. The Bottomless Hole was right beside the cut-over thicket where we picked mushrooms. Just across the Old Road from our mushroom thicket was this hole-in-the-earth so bottomless that the New Road had to be built around it. “Calls for a suspension bridge,” Old Jeff had laughed, “who’s going to pay for the suspension bridge?” The big planners had not admitted that they could be outwitted by a quicksand hole but they admitted defeat when they realized the bottomlessness of the Bottomless Hole. The Bottomless Hole started out bottomless and got deeper as it progressed. The Old Road had skirted The Bottomless Hole respectfully. The Old Road curved right around the edge of the hole: the New Road was not so well planned, they had to cut the New Road into the side of the hill that rose from the Bottomless Hole. When we were picking mushrooms, we would cross the Old Road and look down into The Bottomless Hole. We sometimes found a few mushrooms just across The Old Road. No mushrooms could get us to try climbing down into the hole: we would not climb down there, we could not keep upright, we had to hold onto a tree to look down. How could we get out again? Someone had brought a few logs out from the hole. They had used ropes and pulleys. We had watched them one day from far back. We wanted no part of The Bottomless Hole. Shortcake We looked for mushrooms from habit, though without much hope, because our mother had not given us a bag. More than habit, we wanted to eat mushrooms. When we brought home mushrooms, our mother would stop everything and cook them for us. We did not have to wait until suppertime. Our father did not care for mushrooms. Just the opposite, when we picked dewberries or wild strawberries — we always waited until suppertime. Our mother would make a shortcake. The shortcake would be a work of art served with fresh cream. Our father enjoyed the shortcake so much, our mother would make a point that we had picked the berries, while we sat stuffing ourselves with shortcake in a glow of virtue. We were not quite so virtuous. We were stuffing ourselves with berries the second time: we had eaten all we could hold while we picked the berries. We would pick and eat, pick and eat: then, dutifully pick some for in our little pails. We knew how many it took to make a shortcake. We would look, and measure with our hands on the outside of the pail. The Mail There were no mushrooms, we knew there wouldn’t be: our mother could tell. From our mailbox there would be a farm magazine and one or more of those letters that no one waits for. Sometimes, fairly often, there would be a fat letter that we knew came from some of our mother’s family. There would be news in that letter. News from another state. It might be from the aunt who sent us a package for Christmas. My brother held the mail with great care as he clung to the cart over the same hills on our way home. When there were mushrooms, he would have all that he could to hold and stay on the cart. Today, he had only the mail to hold and he held it with great care. No one had to tell us that our mail was important. We had seen our parents open the mail. Goodness knew what great news might be in that letter. We would certainly hear some of it. Willard Is Lost At the top of the high hill of which we owned almost a half, we stopped to rest and to look across our first hollow to see if we could see our mother. There she was — but she was walking rapidly, with her skirts flying like they had before. We got an urgent feeling and started right down the hill to get home as soon as we could. When we got to the top of our lane — our mother came toward us from the barn. “Run,” she said, “run look in the spring to see if Willard has fallen in. I’ve just looked all in the barn. I can’t find him.” Our mother’s neck looked swollen on the sides. Her face looked red. Her hands kept moving. Her eyes looked wild. We knew what was the trouble: He was gone again. We ran as fast as we could. Never mind that we had just been running. The urgency gave us fresh breath. We knew the downhill path so well that we did not have to look where we were running. We flew down the steps that our father had cut into the hill. Our father had to chop every step when the ice was on. Our hills were so steep that our hens had to be rescued when the ice was on. Our father had to chop his steps and scatter ashes for footing when some poor old hens slid down the steep hill behind our hen house. He carried them back up the hill to warmth and safety. They would have frozen to death down there in the cold dark night. Looking For Willard We looked in our horse trough first: we dreaded to look in our well. The water in our well was crystal clear. We could see the spring bubbling up in the bottom. He was not there. Our brother had not fallen into our well. We ran back up the hill. Our mother was weeping. Her face looked redder still. “Run to Thom’s house, see if they’ve seen him.” We ran. We ran past our garden. We ran past our chicken house. We ran along the ridge of our whole hill. Back by our peach trees, we picked up the Old Road. It was natural to follow the Old Road because the Old Road was the shortest way. It was easy to follow the Old Road because the grass did not hide it. There was a different kind of green growing in the old ruts where the wheels had turned. Blue grass would not grow in the ruts. Tongue grass, dandelions and other little weeds were all that would grow where the pioneer’s wheels had turned. Even Thom’s clover did not cover the Old Road. No matter what Thom planted — one could still see the Old Road. We ran along the Old Road as fast as we could run. We could see Thom”s house. We ran past Thom’s sweet-apple-tree. We ran past Thom’s straw stack. We were there. Thank Goodness Thom did not have an open well. We had heard Thom say that his well was deep. If our brother fell into Thom’s well — we would not be able to see him, but Thom had a cover over his well and a pump to bring the water up. We went to the back door. We could not see Thom — but Meg was there. “We are looking for our brother.” Meg turned from her cooking toward us and paused, then she said, “Is that kid gone again?” “Mom wants to know if you have seen him.” “No, run back to your mother, he is not here.” We ran back. Our mother was not in the house. Our mother was not in the barn. Our mother was down by the pond. Our mother was raking as far as she could reach into the pond with our garden rake. Didn’t she know that anyone could crawl right out of our pond. We fell into the pond almost every day. We got right up and out. We just said that we “got wet.” We thought nothing of falling into the pond. Our brother Willard could walk, now, and he could crawl like lightning. If he fell into the pond — he would crawl right out again. Angus’s Well “Run, look in Angus’ well. Then look among Grover’s cows in Grover’s pasture.” We were already on our way to Angus’ well. We had done all this before. We climbed through the fence into Angus’ pasture. We wished there was a stile, like in “Pig won’t get over the stile and I can’t get home tonight.” We wondered why none of our neighbors had stiles to cross the fences. Come to think of it, our father had not built a stile. We climbed through the fence but a stile would be faster. “We could run right up and run right down, if we had a stile.” My brother was getting tired. We ran as fast as we could the minute we were through the fence. Barney There was Barney picking up his ears at us, watching us with his velvet eyes. Angus’ mother had hitched Barney to the little red and silver sleigh that we had seen in Angus’ stables. We had heard that Barney wore silver bells when he pulled Angus’ mother in the sleigh. We wondered if Angus still had the silver bells and why he didn’t let Barney wear the bells when he drove Barney to town on Saturday nights. We watched to see Angus pass with Barney stepping high in the shafts. Angus rode very low behind Barney because his buggy had only two wheels. Angus had a special cap and a coat with a cape for driving. “Why does he have only two wheels?” we asked our mother. “Imported, from the East, maybe from Ireland or England,” was her answer. We did not know enough to ask another question. We had seen the four horses with black plumes nodding when Angus’ mother died. We had heard that the undertaker had a fine motor hearse but he used his black horses when some of us died in the hills. He did not want his motor hearse mired to the axel in that quicksand-hole. It was all the horses could do to make it over the slippery thawing clay. In between our deaths — they stayed in their warm stables. Too, they were fine carriage stock, not as heavy as our horses (they might have been imported) and it may be that the undertaker did not know how to have them shod. Our horses wore a heavy shoe most of the year. Angus’s Farm We looked first, into Angus’ horse trough. The same as at our well — we dreaded to look into the well. We had it to do, so — we looked into Angus’ well. We gazed deep into the water. Angus’ well was as clear as our own. He was not there. Our brother’s body was not in Angus’ well. Angus’ peacock was there beside the well. As urgent as things were, we had still to look among Grover’s cows; we had to look at the peacock. We wondered why he stomped around so proud. Surely it was not his wife that made him so proud. His wife was plainer than any of our hens. We waited: he might spread his tail. We felt that if we could look at his spread tail forever — it would not be enough. We had seen him in the very act of spreading his tail. We had seen his whole performance from a kind of dancing through the different stages of tail display to the full spread, when he just stood there, posed in his glory. Something told us that we were seeing one of the greater shows. We might see more, but nothing greater. This day, he would not spread his tail. He was not in the mood. He walked along picking at the grass, as common as a chicken and his wife walked a few steps behind looking more common than a chicken. We could not wait. But there was Angus: we could have looked at Angus forever. Angus stood so straight, we thought he must practice bowing his back and he called his barn “The Stables.” We had been in Angus’ house at Christmas Time. One room of Angus’ house was as large as our whole house and Angus had two of those great rooms upstairs. Our mother had threatened to spank us if we did not stay off the stairway. There was a railing, all black and shiny, to run ones hand along. We could not stop running up and down the stairs. We could walk right in to the fireplaces, there were four of them, and there was a bench at one side of the fireplace, in case one wanted to sit right in the fire. We wished we had such a bench in the fire to dry our clothing on a wet day. We became aware that we were staring. We became aware, at the same time, that our mother would slap us if she were here. We thought we had better say something. “We are looking for our brother.” “Is that kid gone again?” We felt a strange something. Our neighbors used the same words exactly. We wanted to escape from the thought, “We have to look among the cows.” we said, and we ran back the way we had come. Grover’s Cows Back through the pasture, we climbed through the fence and ran up the hill to look among Grover’s cows. We turned in the middle of the hill into the little side road that curved around Angus’ woods. There — the cows. We were glad that we could not see him there. We dreaded to go among the cows to get him were he there. One day we had found him among the cows (he had just learned to walk), waddling from cow to cow with baby hands outstretched. The cows were smelling him with a gentle curiosity. Our mother after a moment of incredulous hesitation, had climbed the fence and snatched him from among the cows. We were glad that he was not there today. Willard Is Found We ran back to our mother. She had just found him. “He was asleep under the feedway.” He was wearing a horse’s halter. He had harnessed himself to play horse and had been overcome by baby sleep under the feedway.” We were glad that our mother was at ease. She looked almost as usual. We sat down on the doorstep to rest. Neither my brother nor I commented on our brother’s harness. We desired to be horses: our brother wanted to be a horse, too. Our brother Willard matured us rapidly. When our mother ask us to stay by Willard or to take Willard with us to play — we did not object. Somebody had to watch Willard. Our mother had to bake our bread and cook our meals. Our father had to have a hot meal at whatever time he came in from the fields. Our mother could not watch Willard every minute. Playing with the cart became a memory. If we ran with the cart — Willard could not keep up with us. Willard could not be the rider on the cart because he was too fat and clumsy to stay on the cart. We supposed that Willard was too fat because, in her anxiety, our mother had fed him too often. Willard was always eating. Our mother had seen us dump Willard and had forbidden us to put him on the cart. She said we could break his arms and we lived to far from the doctor. We could not do anything that might injure us because of that five miles between us and the doctor. When we picked berries, we kept a sharp eye out for snakes. Our father had taught us the difference between a harmless snake and a poisonous snake. He taught us that it was sure death to be bitten by a viper or a copperhead because of that five miles to the doctor. We were glad that we had no rattlesnakes. Rattlers were further west. We had heard about rattlers. We knew that our mother was right about breaking Willard’s arms. It just worked out that we ceased to play with the cart. Meg And Thom One Sunday Afternoon, our brother was three now, we went to spend the afternoon with Meg and Thom. Meg and Thom had asked us to come because they were making ice cream. We did not want to miss that. Thom had a special way — Thom did everything better — of making a custard and then freezing it in his freezer. Thom turned the freezer handle just so. Thom did everything — just so. Thom’s ice cream was so thick that one could hardly spoon it. Thom mixed strawberries into his ice cream and colored it a bright pink. The thick mountains of pink ice cream were more dazzling than our mother’s shortcakes. Thom noticed that Willard did not say anything. Thom said, “That boy should be talking.” Thom knew how to blow heat from a burn. Thom knew how to staunch blood. Thom knew how to pick herbs. Thom knew the uses of each herb. We thought that Thom knew everything. Once before Willard was born, Thom had used an infusion of watermelon seeds to help my brother. Thom taught our mother to simmer the lining of a chicken’s gizzard for my vomiting spells. I would drink the slightly bitter broth. Our mother knew how to bake an onion well done in its skin and squeeze the soft onion through a cloth for the drop of opium to be obtained. Our mother put this drop in our ear if we had an earache. Thom had not taught her this — her father had squeezed a soft-roast onion for her earaches. Before we went home, Thom took a look at Willard. He looked into Willard’s mouth. He looked under Willard’s tongue. He looked up Willard’s nose. “He is not tongue tied,” said Thom, “and there’s nothing wrong with his vocal cords.” Willard made signs and grunting sounds, which our mother understood. Thom went on, “He does not have a cleft palate.” Thom was frowning. “You’d better take him to the doctor to see if something is wrong, he ought to be talking by now.” Our mother looked worried as she always looked over Willard. Our parents discussed Willard all the way home. Taking Willard To The Doctor The day came to take Willard to the doctor. Our father came home early from the fields and harnessed our work horses to the surrey. Our father was cross because we did not have proper carriage horses, nor even light carriage harness for our mares. Our father would have enjoyed taking us to town if we looked as we ought to look. He would have been proud of a pair of bays like Barney. The surrey was now old-fashioned (lots of people had automobiles) but the surrey would have looked passable had we had the correct harness and a rested team of bays. Our father was cross because he knew that we looked funny. Our mother was not cross. Our mother was grateful and determined. Our mother could think of nothing but Willard. My brother-next-to-me did not say nor do anything, he was a well behaved little boy, but I was all wiggley from the excitement. We were important people. We were going to town. We were taking our brother Willard to the doctor. I posed this way and that, wondering how I would look better from my place in the surrey. The silk fringe made me feel elegant. Our horses were beautiful, and I wondered who would see us. Our mother finally said to me, “Put your hand down and sit still.” I put my hand down until we were well on the way but when we were passing houses — I would pose again. Odon, Indiana We arrived in Odon. What style. What fine houses. What a town. I must keep my pose every minute because there were people and houses everywhere. Odon used to be Clarksburg before it got its name changed. I wondered why they had changed its name. I liked Clarksburg better. I repeated the rhyme to myself: Skeeter and Martin County, both gone away, Gone down to Clarksburg the whole day to stay. I had seen Skeeter. Skeeter was a funny looking old man. I wondered who Martin County had been, or was. Was Martin County Still alive? I would ask my mother, but not today. Today she was worried enough to slap me. Not today. In The Doctor’s Office We had to wait in the doctor’s office because he had not yet had his supper. The doctor made house calls all day, came home, had his supper, and then, saw office patients until all were seen. There were many black leather chairs, a great desk, bookcases all around the walls, and wonder of wonders, a brown leather sofa with big fat arms. I sat all over the sofa. I stroked its back. I stroked its arms. I thought of when its leather had been alive. It was bigger than a cow; perhaps it had been an elephant. I wanted to ask somebody but there was no one to ask. I was sure that my parents would not know. I managed to sit still after my father threatened to whip me. I wanted a whole life full of brown leather sofas. When the doctor came in — we were first because we had been waiting longer. Our mother brought our brother to the doctor and explained that he could not talk. She lowered her voice. There was an edge of tears, “He doesn’t even say mama.” I was quiet. My brother next-to-me did not even move. This was serious. “Well, let’s have a look.” the doctor was big and kind looking. He looked at our brother as though he liked babies, even aging babies who could not talk. The doctor took our brother right out of our mother’s arms. Our brother was now on the doctor’s lap. The doctor had a little gold bell that he rang, first on one side of our brother’s head and then on the other. No matter where the doctor held the little gold bell our brother turned and reached for the bell. The bell made a tiny musical sound; both my brother and I were wishing that we had the bell. Next, the doctor held his watch back of our brother’s ear so that he could not see the watch, each time our brother turned and reached for the watch. The doctor was smiling. He looked under our brother’s tongue. He looked at the roof of his mouth. He looked down his throat. He looked up his nose. “There is nothing wrong with this boy, he will talk when he gets ready to talk. They sometimes wait until they are sure they can use a whole sentence before they talk. Not usually, but sometimes.” The doctor was addressing our mother. Our mother was looking more easy than we could remember. She must have been worried about Willard for a long time. While the doctor was assuring our mother — Willard had taken hold of the gold chain that lay across the doctor’s stomach. There were keys at one end of the chain: Willard had the keys in his hands. Those fat baby fingers were fumbling the gold keys round and round. Willard had him a pretty, pretty. The doctor’s watch was heavy. The doctor felt his watch slipping. “I’ll say there is nothing wrong with this boy, he’s stealing my watch.” The doctor was laughing, but he was a little amazed. Our mother was a little embarrassed. She took Willard out of the doctor’s arms. The doctor bade us goodbye and “Good Luck with the boy.” “Let me know how soon the boy starts to talk.” Our parents bade the doctor “Goodbye.” and we were on the way home. It had taken the doctor only minutes to know that there was nothing wrong with Willard. Willard was just unusual. Willard Goes To School Willard was still unusual when he went to school. The teacher liked him, he was gentle and obedient, he got his lessons, he could sing like an angel, but the boys, even big boys who should have been ashamed to do so, picked on Willard because they sensed that he was unusual. My brother-next and I had a fight every day of our lives over Willard. Things became heartbreaking for Willard when he got injured in a fire. The tendons of one of his legs got burned. The leg pulled up to where it was more than and inch short. Willard had the most pitiful limp that one could imagine. He refused to use crutches. His limp was so pitiful that it looked ridiculous. From his Herculean efforts to walk, the cruel boys took to calling him Will Hard. Even his friends would call, “Come on here Will Hard!” while they waited for him to catch up to them. My brother-next and I fought that much harder: We now had two fights a day. I had my last fight over Willard when I was a senior in high school. A boy was teasing Willard, in the school bus, embarrassing Willard in front of a busload of children. He was calling Willard many hurtful names, saying that he couldn’t walk, calling him Will Hard. I simply told the boy that I would kill him. I said, “I’ll kill you right here in the school bus.” and I started choking him. I meant it. The driver heard me, and he took a hand with me and the boy. The driver said he would thrash us both. I had to let the boy go but there was no more teasing from that one. I won what was needed. One more round won for Willard. Willard stretched his burned leg so that he could walk without his pitiful limp. He seemed to walk normally. He was not thought of as crippled. He had only to be careful in stepping up and down, in dancing, or in running. Willard Goes To The Army Willard grew to be such a big handsome fellow that the United States Army spent three days trying to figure out how they could take him into the army, in spite of his deeply scarred leg. Willard was as proud as could be with those army doctors. “If you give me a tank — I can mow them down. I can do anything with a tractor or a truck, a tank, too, if you’ll give me one. But if anything happens to my tank, I can’t run very fast nor very far.” He told them just how it was. They decided not to take him. Willard came home defeated but proud. Who else had been considered for three days? They had wanted him. Willard courted and married the prettiest girl in the county. She is the best cook, the best housekeeper for miles around. Willard got his own business. Willard bought his own home. Willard lives in town (he likes to be near the post office.) ã Copyright

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