A Simpler Past

A respite from our Postmodern anxiety, occasionally I require a few recollections from a simpler past, anecdotes like these inherited from my grandparents, Ray and Louise, at the Arnholt Place, down in the Danville holler, sometime in the 30s.

Through a hole cut in the floor for heat, three brothers, my father, Dan, and uncles, Stanton and Wayne, scrawny little boys all in one bed and quarantined for measles, took turns peering from the upstairs to the downstairs. After a great commotion, Grandma Frye called up, “Meet your new baby sister.” Aunt Jane, red-faced, more from first breaths than bashfulness, looked up to them.

A few years earlier or later, Blubaugh cousins from Canton stopped by the farm on a Sunday drive. Finding no one home, all in good fun, they switched all the upstairs beds and dressers with all the downstairs chairs and tables. It didn’t take long as Ray and Louise owned nothing but each other, hard work, back taxes and a few sticks of furniture.

Downstairs in the kitchen, on most Saturday nights, Ray and Louise played Euchre with Ed and Sally Styers, hour after hour, for “Drink or Smell.” If you won a hand, you drank Granddad’s hard cider. If you lost, you only smelled the glass. Too much winning and cider would ensure your losing again.

Badminton

Reality collided with fantasy when I was five or six or seven. I was the oldest and for a while the only grandchild. In this account, do consider that there was a new cousin, Jimmy, on the scene who seemed to be getting far too much attention for a tedious baby. The transgression occurred at a picnic on the Gambier farm, maybe Mothers’ Day, between Sunday dinner, home-churned ice cream and the evening milking chores. Grandma, the center of all my love (And, of course, I was the object of all her doting.), sat on the front stoop watching the young couples play badminton.

With a racquet, I thwacked her on her head. (There it is; there’s no denying it now.) At the time, this seemed a perfectly reasonable attempt at play. On our new color TV, in Saturday morning cartoons, this violence was customary etiquette, a harmless greeting set to zany music. “Hello there! Good day to you, sir. A pleasure to meet you, Miss.” The racquet would be demolished; however, magically, not the noggin. Occasionally, lumps appeared, but these were efficiently tapped down with a mallet that all the characters carried for just such events. Each recipient got right back up again with a witty retort. Animated conversations continued unabated and without consequence.

Uncles helped Grandma to the couch. I recall an excessive amount of unnecessary yelling. I presume, at some point, I cried, though I was puzzled, confused over inquiries as to the why. In my first formal apology, even so small, I was acutely aware that my future within the family hinged upon an Act of Contrition. (I was new to the confessional, but I realized what transpired also had the potential of sin and so demanded a detailed explanation for Father Fortkamp as well an inordinate assignment of Our Fathers or Hail Marys. I had not fully memorized the longer Apostles Creed and dreaded this possibility.) Years later, an aunt informed me: apparently, there was a trip to Mercy Hospital and thirteen stitches.