joseph engraver
11-10-2025, 12:53 PM
PART TWO OF THE FARM
School
By the time I was old enough to start school I was a tough little farm boy that in a fight could take it, and dish it out as well.
Bob, who was the youngest of Andrew’s sons, went to school with me and made no bones about telling his friends that I was a liar, a bastard and a God dammed piss-a-bed and a crybaby. I would listen to the taunts of my classmates and be brought to tears, Fights came and went, and I spent many hours on a tall stool facing the corner wearing the dunce’s tall red hat.
Despite my personal skirmishes, I liked school and was a bright student. I quickly learned to read, write, and won the spelling bee. Then the teacher discovered that I was the only one in my class left-handed, the teacher was determined to correct my wrong handed deficiency. And another shame was placed on my shoulders; I was made to feel that I did not fit. I guess that was when I started to hate God
A pencil was put in my right hand and a penny was then placed upon the top of my wrist, then I was told to write that way. If the penny fell off I would get rapped on the wrist with a wooden ruler. Eventually I learned to write right-handed, until the day fate intervened.
Some of the school boys had put a long wooden plank against the schoolhouse wall and were seeing how far up it they could run. They dared me to go up it. I took off running and got part way when they kicked the plank out from underneath me. Down I went, *** over tea kettle, landing with a thump, the plank following. It landed on my right arm and broke it in two while my classmates laughed. When I returned to school with my arm in a cast the teacher relented and let me write with my left hand.
In the summer when school was out, I used to pick berries near an old hermit’s house. His name was Chet; he was a strange and quiet man who lived close by the farm in a house that he had built of milled pine boards and tarpaper.
Once in a while when he needed money or a good meal or tobacco he would stop at the farmhouse to do odd chores. He had dirty brown bib overalls, a bushy gray beard with tobacco stains, an old felt hat and high top lace boots, chewed tobacco, smelled moldy. He told me that he was hiding from his past and I should not expect any help from God, as God was a myth.
It was during my last year living on the farm that a girl was found dead, raped, strangled and discarded naked in a snow bank near Chet’s place. Of course everyone suspected Chet. I know Chet didn’t do it, and the murderer was never found.
All my life I have had dreams about this.
I dream of girls buried under stone fences that were the boundaries of Andrew’s barn. I’d dream that I am flying and can see Andrew hiding like a white tiger behind a stone wall; I can see a young girl walking on the pathway. I can see that he is naked, then he sees me and looks up at me, smiles and says “watch and enjoy” I fly to the safety of the hay loft and awake in a puddle of urine
In the late summer I would be sent with a bucket to pick blueberries and blackberries at the edges of the large swamps behind Chet’s home, that’s how we became friends. He had had mountains of books, newspapers, and old booze bottles in his tar paper home. We spent many hours talking, for he was lonely and I was a good listener. He told me he was hiding from his wife who lived in Boston. He showed me how to play chess, and one time told me that when he was walking past Beaver Lake he could hear the catfish meowing.
I believed him and the next day I told my schoolmates that catfish could meow. What I know for sure is that Chet never slapped, cursed or molested me or told me that I was God damned.
I managed to get myself lost in the woods two times, once while picking blueberries behind Chet’s and once in the swamps behind the farm. The second time was really scary. It was close to Christmas and the ice crusted snow was deep on the ground.
Bob decided he was going into what was called the lower swamps to cut Christmas trees to sell in town. I was to be his helper and drag the felled trees to the sledge. The sledge was a sled-like affair but much sturdier its primary purpose was to haul fieldstones, fire wood, lumber, and ice blocks. Dolly and Molly were harnessed up to it. Bob and I dressed for cold weather. With Gee’s, Haws and the jingle of bells, we set off to the dark swamp. When we finally arrived, Bob started felling fragrant blue spruces with his hand saw. I with my hatchet would clip the lower branches and drag the soon to be Christmas trees to the sledge. It was cold, but the work kept me warm.
Close to midday something spooked the horses. They started snorting and pawing the ground then they whirled around and headed out. The sledge overturned and 3000 pounds of horsepower snapped the singletree of the sledge like a matchstick. Then they were gone, disappearing into the snow and cold in seconds. Bob came running, and after looking at the damaged sledge said, “You stay here, and don’t move. I’m going to find the horses and then come back.”
I waited there till almost dark. I was sure Bob was not coming back for I thought he hated me. I thought that he was leaving me to be killed by a mountain lion or a black bear which I was sure had caused the team to run away.
When these ideas took hold of my fear I took off running out into the deep swamp holding onto my hatchet and running for my life. I didn’t have the sense enough to follow the horse’s tracks. I just ran out into the swamp, the snow up to my thighs filling my rubber boots as I slogged on. I found the old logging road and following it I came out of the woods after dark, about six miles from the farm. I saw a house light and went there to knock on the door. Exhausted and freezing and still holding my hatchet I told the people who I was and where I lived. They instantly knew the Guinessos for they were on the same telephone party line. Two longs and one short was the telephone ring. It was decided I would spend the night there. They fed me and put me in a clean bed where I slept like a baby, wet the bed like a baby and woke in the morning wanting to go home to my Aunt Lillian, never considering that I had caused so much anguish and trouble, at the farm .They cursed me saying “Id be a damned site better off if the little bastard had become bear meat. I told the stupid fool to stay put. He kept us up to past eleven.”
I still wonder if Bob and Andrew ever looked for me that night.
The curse of my bed-wetting and the smell of urine caused me to be moved out of Auntie’s room and up into the unused ballroom. The war to end all wars was going on and Carl was in it. Andy and Bob were too young and worked the farm. By now our feuds had passed and I had a full set of chores – one was to fill the wood box behind the kitchen stove. The wood was cut into 18-inch lengths, split, and then stored inside to dry. Everyday before school I would stack the wood box and then cut kindling wood with my hatchet.
The farm had a large wood yard that consisted of whole logs, cut wood, split wood and a contraption made from a Model T Ford that had been converted into a sawing machine. A large chopping block was also there with an axe embedded in it. The saw rig had a huge whirling blade and tilting table. The cutting of the firewood was hard and dangerous. I took an active part in the cutting because of an accident.
Normally the cutting was done by Andy, Bob and the hired man Earl. One evening they were getting ready to start the saw, and I was sitting on the woodpile watching. Bob had finished putting gas in the tank and connected the dry cells. He told Earl to crank it up. Earl inserted the crank into the slot below the radiator. Bob adjusted the spark and the choke. He said ‘OK’ and Earl gave the crank a twist. The motor coughed and backfired with a loud bang. The crank flew out of Earl’s hand then made a backward whirl, the handle hit Earl’s wrist, fracturing it. He rolled on the ground in pain. Bob helped him to the house where my aunt wrapped a strip of cloth around his swollen wrist. As a consequence it became my job that day to remove the cut wood away from the saw blade and stack it in neat rows for drying while Earl helped one handed to run the saw rig.
I can still hear the engine, see the leather belt start to turn as the clutch was released, the saw blade begin to move. Soon you could no longer see the teeth, just the whirling, howling, disc of silver slicing air while the motor roared. Bob and Earl would lift a log onto the table, each push against it with his hip, and the saw would whine, and bark and sawdust would fly into my face as I squinted to keep the stuff out of my eyes. A chunk of hardwood would fall under the open saw. I would reach down under the blade and pull the chunk out then put it on the pile.
On the farm every so often chickens were selected for killing. Auntie would say “Joey, go into the yard and catch two fat red hens for tonight’s supper.” I would take some grain into the yard, scatter it, and then with small pieces of bent hay wire, hook a chicken’s leg and pull, catching the bird by its foot, gather it in my arms and go quickly back to my auntie and ask if it was a good one. “This is one is going to be nice and tender and juicy, Joey,” she said as she chopped its head off. The head less the bird was thrown into the pile of sawdust, flapping and kicking, sometimes running around its blood spurting out until its heart stopped. Meanwhile, the head lay with its eyes wide open, its surprised yellow beak opening and closing, its red tongue going up and down. Then the eyes would close.
Living on the farm taught me quite a bit about the needs of life and how life was created. I saw cows bred and give birth; puppies born and nursed; piglets raised and then stuck, bled and then butchered.
A half a dozen pigs would be penned up in a corner of the barn; Andrew would enter with a long knife pointed like a spade. Bob and Earl would chase the squealing pigs into a corner, then catch a terrified pig by the leg, lift it up and expose its stomach. Then Andrew would thrust his knife into the heart. The bleeding pig would be turned loose to run. It might run for five minutes before it fell down, lifeless, and bloodless. The stabbing was quickly done, and sometimes there would be two or three crimson and white pigs running around screaming at the same time. It looked cruel but when the hams and bacon were smoked and hanging in the cellar the nightmarish scene was quickly forgotten.
I was five when my sister arrived at the farm. She was brought there by my mother. I cannot recall the first time I saw my mother or what she looked like, but I remember vividly the arrival at the farm of my half sister. Every one was cooing and looking at her. My mother was holding the baby, smiling at her. Walking beside her was a tall man wearing the Army uniform ,he was holding his service cap in one hand as my mother introduced him to Andrew, my Aunt Lillian and everyone there, while I stared in fascination at the uniform and a large birthmark on his left cheek. The baby was carried into the sunroom then placed in a new white wicker crib. Then I got to see her for the first time, wrapped in a soft pink blanket and wearing a little white knitted cap. Her fingers were tiny and pink and curled into fists. She smelled of rose water. She stayed for a long time, almost three years.
Not long after the arrival of my sister Helen came Sammy, and later several other bigger kids, but they only stayed for a summer.
Sammy and I and the bigger boys slept in the old ballroom. I on a cot wrapped in a quilt that had that scent of my urine impregnated into it, it was almost a rag but it was warm and smooth to the touch, I called it my cold blanket.
One night two of the older boys got into my bed and tried to have sex with me. I resisted until finally they got my arms twisted behind my back and pinned me face down. It hurt terribly and when one was finished he whispered “You tell on me and I will kill you, you little faggot” then he punched me.
After it was all over and I lay whimpering on my cot, the realization came to me that this must be how people got pregnant.
I had seen pregnant people, with their distended bellies. I imagined myself with a big belly and a baby coming out of my rectum. The more I thought of it the worse it got – until I got out of the bed, took my cold blanket, wrapped it around me, and went downstairs to hide in the woodpile. If I climbed up to the top of it I could crawl under the porch in the space where Lassie stayed at night.
I could smell the dirt, and then could smell Lassie as I dragged my blanket in with me. Now I could smell the puppies and Lassie licked my face, and I felt a bit better. I did not come out. I stayed there even though I heard them call for me. I did not come out for my chores. I only came out when I was so hungry I had to.
There were five or six other children living on the farm. Sammy was the smallest and would follow me everywhere. He was not smart and could not talk very well.
I was not afraid of Sammy but, Sammy was terrified of the big gray gander that was being raised for Christmas. It was a mean bird and would fly at anyone smaller than it, honking and hissing and beating you with its wings. It had frightened me also, so I got a stick and whacked it. After that it left me alone.
Sammy and I were near the peach trees when the goose saw us. It came running across the barnyard its black beak open, hissing at us, its red tong extended. Sammy got his self behind me. Together we charged, yelling as loud as we could, I hit it with my stick and chased the goose away. That’s how Sammy and I became best friends.
One of our diversions was to gather around the stalls and wait for Dolly or Molly to pee. We would wait for the lifting of her great tail. She would stiffen and a cascade of streaming urine would fall splattering any one too close.
Once the river dried she would pucker her vaginas lips, making us laugh with much glee. In the summer I would take the pair of horses to a spring down the dirt road for water. One day as I was leading the horses; I got myself too close to Molly and she accidentally stepped on my bare foot. I limped for a while and discovered that I could obtain a little sympathy from my pain. People would ask why I was limping and I would explain that Molly had stepped on my foot. They would feel sorry for me, so even after it no longer was painful, I continued to limp. One day I told Eva my secret, and she said, “Joey, you have to stop.”
“Why, Eva?” I wanted to know.
She said, “Because you will walk that way for the rest of your life.” So I stopped.
Chickens also provided Sammy and me with entertainment. The war was going strong and we heard on the radio about bombs, parachutes, airplanes, and snipers. Sammy and I would catch the chickens and tie a rock around their legs, carry them up to the highest point in the barn s loft and drop them with their wings flapping and fluttering.
“My parachute just crashed on the battlefields of Holland,” I would scream at Sammy. This lasted until my Aunt found out.
The three-hole toilet also served as a fun house for us kids. We would make small paper boats, drop them down the holes. And then proceed to either drown the Japs in urine, or sink the Germans with our turd bombs.
I had started sneaking into the armory just to admire the model airplanes. I would stay there for long periods of time, holding them in my hand, flying them. There was an old black powder rifle with a big hammer on its side. I would lay it on the cot; **** the hammer and fly my airplane wing under it; pull the trigger and my anti-aircraft gun would shoot down a German Messersmit. One day I was in there horsing around when I discovered some shells. I finally found one that sort of fitted, loaded it into the gun’s chamber and lay down on the cot with my sniper rifle at the ready. I pointed it out the window overlooking the backyard. I took aim at the coon hound’s doghouse and waited for a Jap to appear, if he did, this sniper was going to be ready for him. It was a long wait and nothing moved. Finally I decided on a chicken that was peacefully pecking ants. I took aim, squeezed the trigger. The gun roared. My shoulder felt like the horse had kicked it. The window glass cracked, a round neat hole appeared in the center. The smell of gunpowder filled the room. The report of the rifle all but deafened me. My Aunt started yelling from down below in the pantry. She came up the stairs and caught me red-handed; grabbed me by my ear and took me down to the kitchen; got out Andrew’s razor strap and laid it on me. It hurt, but I knew I deserved it.
While I lived at the farm, two children were killed. One was my friend Sammy who got kicked in the head. It was Andrew that found him behind the horses with the bloody imprint of a horseshoe on the whole side of his head and face I was there when Andrew carried Sammy into the kitchen. I guess that is when I began to hate God. And I have always wondered if a gentle horse was guilty, the other child was killed when her grandfather ran her over with his truck while backing up. I was there to see my Aunt Lillian crying and Eva hear wailing as the little body was picked up from the dirt yard These were some of the memories that I took with me when Mother and Ernest came to take Helen and me away from the farm.
School
By the time I was old enough to start school I was a tough little farm boy that in a fight could take it, and dish it out as well.
Bob, who was the youngest of Andrew’s sons, went to school with me and made no bones about telling his friends that I was a liar, a bastard and a God dammed piss-a-bed and a crybaby. I would listen to the taunts of my classmates and be brought to tears, Fights came and went, and I spent many hours on a tall stool facing the corner wearing the dunce’s tall red hat.
Despite my personal skirmishes, I liked school and was a bright student. I quickly learned to read, write, and won the spelling bee. Then the teacher discovered that I was the only one in my class left-handed, the teacher was determined to correct my wrong handed deficiency. And another shame was placed on my shoulders; I was made to feel that I did not fit. I guess that was when I started to hate God
A pencil was put in my right hand and a penny was then placed upon the top of my wrist, then I was told to write that way. If the penny fell off I would get rapped on the wrist with a wooden ruler. Eventually I learned to write right-handed, until the day fate intervened.
Some of the school boys had put a long wooden plank against the schoolhouse wall and were seeing how far up it they could run. They dared me to go up it. I took off running and got part way when they kicked the plank out from underneath me. Down I went, *** over tea kettle, landing with a thump, the plank following. It landed on my right arm and broke it in two while my classmates laughed. When I returned to school with my arm in a cast the teacher relented and let me write with my left hand.
In the summer when school was out, I used to pick berries near an old hermit’s house. His name was Chet; he was a strange and quiet man who lived close by the farm in a house that he had built of milled pine boards and tarpaper.
Once in a while when he needed money or a good meal or tobacco he would stop at the farmhouse to do odd chores. He had dirty brown bib overalls, a bushy gray beard with tobacco stains, an old felt hat and high top lace boots, chewed tobacco, smelled moldy. He told me that he was hiding from his past and I should not expect any help from God, as God was a myth.
It was during my last year living on the farm that a girl was found dead, raped, strangled and discarded naked in a snow bank near Chet’s place. Of course everyone suspected Chet. I know Chet didn’t do it, and the murderer was never found.
All my life I have had dreams about this.
I dream of girls buried under stone fences that were the boundaries of Andrew’s barn. I’d dream that I am flying and can see Andrew hiding like a white tiger behind a stone wall; I can see a young girl walking on the pathway. I can see that he is naked, then he sees me and looks up at me, smiles and says “watch and enjoy” I fly to the safety of the hay loft and awake in a puddle of urine
In the late summer I would be sent with a bucket to pick blueberries and blackberries at the edges of the large swamps behind Chet’s home, that’s how we became friends. He had had mountains of books, newspapers, and old booze bottles in his tar paper home. We spent many hours talking, for he was lonely and I was a good listener. He told me he was hiding from his wife who lived in Boston. He showed me how to play chess, and one time told me that when he was walking past Beaver Lake he could hear the catfish meowing.
I believed him and the next day I told my schoolmates that catfish could meow. What I know for sure is that Chet never slapped, cursed or molested me or told me that I was God damned.
I managed to get myself lost in the woods two times, once while picking blueberries behind Chet’s and once in the swamps behind the farm. The second time was really scary. It was close to Christmas and the ice crusted snow was deep on the ground.
Bob decided he was going into what was called the lower swamps to cut Christmas trees to sell in town. I was to be his helper and drag the felled trees to the sledge. The sledge was a sled-like affair but much sturdier its primary purpose was to haul fieldstones, fire wood, lumber, and ice blocks. Dolly and Molly were harnessed up to it. Bob and I dressed for cold weather. With Gee’s, Haws and the jingle of bells, we set off to the dark swamp. When we finally arrived, Bob started felling fragrant blue spruces with his hand saw. I with my hatchet would clip the lower branches and drag the soon to be Christmas trees to the sledge. It was cold, but the work kept me warm.
Close to midday something spooked the horses. They started snorting and pawing the ground then they whirled around and headed out. The sledge overturned and 3000 pounds of horsepower snapped the singletree of the sledge like a matchstick. Then they were gone, disappearing into the snow and cold in seconds. Bob came running, and after looking at the damaged sledge said, “You stay here, and don’t move. I’m going to find the horses and then come back.”
I waited there till almost dark. I was sure Bob was not coming back for I thought he hated me. I thought that he was leaving me to be killed by a mountain lion or a black bear which I was sure had caused the team to run away.
When these ideas took hold of my fear I took off running out into the deep swamp holding onto my hatchet and running for my life. I didn’t have the sense enough to follow the horse’s tracks. I just ran out into the swamp, the snow up to my thighs filling my rubber boots as I slogged on. I found the old logging road and following it I came out of the woods after dark, about six miles from the farm. I saw a house light and went there to knock on the door. Exhausted and freezing and still holding my hatchet I told the people who I was and where I lived. They instantly knew the Guinessos for they were on the same telephone party line. Two longs and one short was the telephone ring. It was decided I would spend the night there. They fed me and put me in a clean bed where I slept like a baby, wet the bed like a baby and woke in the morning wanting to go home to my Aunt Lillian, never considering that I had caused so much anguish and trouble, at the farm .They cursed me saying “Id be a damned site better off if the little bastard had become bear meat. I told the stupid fool to stay put. He kept us up to past eleven.”
I still wonder if Bob and Andrew ever looked for me that night.
The curse of my bed-wetting and the smell of urine caused me to be moved out of Auntie’s room and up into the unused ballroom. The war to end all wars was going on and Carl was in it. Andy and Bob were too young and worked the farm. By now our feuds had passed and I had a full set of chores – one was to fill the wood box behind the kitchen stove. The wood was cut into 18-inch lengths, split, and then stored inside to dry. Everyday before school I would stack the wood box and then cut kindling wood with my hatchet.
The farm had a large wood yard that consisted of whole logs, cut wood, split wood and a contraption made from a Model T Ford that had been converted into a sawing machine. A large chopping block was also there with an axe embedded in it. The saw rig had a huge whirling blade and tilting table. The cutting of the firewood was hard and dangerous. I took an active part in the cutting because of an accident.
Normally the cutting was done by Andy, Bob and the hired man Earl. One evening they were getting ready to start the saw, and I was sitting on the woodpile watching. Bob had finished putting gas in the tank and connected the dry cells. He told Earl to crank it up. Earl inserted the crank into the slot below the radiator. Bob adjusted the spark and the choke. He said ‘OK’ and Earl gave the crank a twist. The motor coughed and backfired with a loud bang. The crank flew out of Earl’s hand then made a backward whirl, the handle hit Earl’s wrist, fracturing it. He rolled on the ground in pain. Bob helped him to the house where my aunt wrapped a strip of cloth around his swollen wrist. As a consequence it became my job that day to remove the cut wood away from the saw blade and stack it in neat rows for drying while Earl helped one handed to run the saw rig.
I can still hear the engine, see the leather belt start to turn as the clutch was released, the saw blade begin to move. Soon you could no longer see the teeth, just the whirling, howling, disc of silver slicing air while the motor roared. Bob and Earl would lift a log onto the table, each push against it with his hip, and the saw would whine, and bark and sawdust would fly into my face as I squinted to keep the stuff out of my eyes. A chunk of hardwood would fall under the open saw. I would reach down under the blade and pull the chunk out then put it on the pile.
On the farm every so often chickens were selected for killing. Auntie would say “Joey, go into the yard and catch two fat red hens for tonight’s supper.” I would take some grain into the yard, scatter it, and then with small pieces of bent hay wire, hook a chicken’s leg and pull, catching the bird by its foot, gather it in my arms and go quickly back to my auntie and ask if it was a good one. “This is one is going to be nice and tender and juicy, Joey,” she said as she chopped its head off. The head less the bird was thrown into the pile of sawdust, flapping and kicking, sometimes running around its blood spurting out until its heart stopped. Meanwhile, the head lay with its eyes wide open, its surprised yellow beak opening and closing, its red tongue going up and down. Then the eyes would close.
Living on the farm taught me quite a bit about the needs of life and how life was created. I saw cows bred and give birth; puppies born and nursed; piglets raised and then stuck, bled and then butchered.
A half a dozen pigs would be penned up in a corner of the barn; Andrew would enter with a long knife pointed like a spade. Bob and Earl would chase the squealing pigs into a corner, then catch a terrified pig by the leg, lift it up and expose its stomach. Then Andrew would thrust his knife into the heart. The bleeding pig would be turned loose to run. It might run for five minutes before it fell down, lifeless, and bloodless. The stabbing was quickly done, and sometimes there would be two or three crimson and white pigs running around screaming at the same time. It looked cruel but when the hams and bacon were smoked and hanging in the cellar the nightmarish scene was quickly forgotten.
I was five when my sister arrived at the farm. She was brought there by my mother. I cannot recall the first time I saw my mother or what she looked like, but I remember vividly the arrival at the farm of my half sister. Every one was cooing and looking at her. My mother was holding the baby, smiling at her. Walking beside her was a tall man wearing the Army uniform ,he was holding his service cap in one hand as my mother introduced him to Andrew, my Aunt Lillian and everyone there, while I stared in fascination at the uniform and a large birthmark on his left cheek. The baby was carried into the sunroom then placed in a new white wicker crib. Then I got to see her for the first time, wrapped in a soft pink blanket and wearing a little white knitted cap. Her fingers were tiny and pink and curled into fists. She smelled of rose water. She stayed for a long time, almost three years.
Not long after the arrival of my sister Helen came Sammy, and later several other bigger kids, but they only stayed for a summer.
Sammy and I and the bigger boys slept in the old ballroom. I on a cot wrapped in a quilt that had that scent of my urine impregnated into it, it was almost a rag but it was warm and smooth to the touch, I called it my cold blanket.
One night two of the older boys got into my bed and tried to have sex with me. I resisted until finally they got my arms twisted behind my back and pinned me face down. It hurt terribly and when one was finished he whispered “You tell on me and I will kill you, you little faggot” then he punched me.
After it was all over and I lay whimpering on my cot, the realization came to me that this must be how people got pregnant.
I had seen pregnant people, with their distended bellies. I imagined myself with a big belly and a baby coming out of my rectum. The more I thought of it the worse it got – until I got out of the bed, took my cold blanket, wrapped it around me, and went downstairs to hide in the woodpile. If I climbed up to the top of it I could crawl under the porch in the space where Lassie stayed at night.
I could smell the dirt, and then could smell Lassie as I dragged my blanket in with me. Now I could smell the puppies and Lassie licked my face, and I felt a bit better. I did not come out. I stayed there even though I heard them call for me. I did not come out for my chores. I only came out when I was so hungry I had to.
There were five or six other children living on the farm. Sammy was the smallest and would follow me everywhere. He was not smart and could not talk very well.
I was not afraid of Sammy but, Sammy was terrified of the big gray gander that was being raised for Christmas. It was a mean bird and would fly at anyone smaller than it, honking and hissing and beating you with its wings. It had frightened me also, so I got a stick and whacked it. After that it left me alone.
Sammy and I were near the peach trees when the goose saw us. It came running across the barnyard its black beak open, hissing at us, its red tong extended. Sammy got his self behind me. Together we charged, yelling as loud as we could, I hit it with my stick and chased the goose away. That’s how Sammy and I became best friends.
One of our diversions was to gather around the stalls and wait for Dolly or Molly to pee. We would wait for the lifting of her great tail. She would stiffen and a cascade of streaming urine would fall splattering any one too close.
Once the river dried she would pucker her vaginas lips, making us laugh with much glee. In the summer I would take the pair of horses to a spring down the dirt road for water. One day as I was leading the horses; I got myself too close to Molly and she accidentally stepped on my bare foot. I limped for a while and discovered that I could obtain a little sympathy from my pain. People would ask why I was limping and I would explain that Molly had stepped on my foot. They would feel sorry for me, so even after it no longer was painful, I continued to limp. One day I told Eva my secret, and she said, “Joey, you have to stop.”
“Why, Eva?” I wanted to know.
She said, “Because you will walk that way for the rest of your life.” So I stopped.
Chickens also provided Sammy and me with entertainment. The war was going strong and we heard on the radio about bombs, parachutes, airplanes, and snipers. Sammy and I would catch the chickens and tie a rock around their legs, carry them up to the highest point in the barn s loft and drop them with their wings flapping and fluttering.
“My parachute just crashed on the battlefields of Holland,” I would scream at Sammy. This lasted until my Aunt found out.
The three-hole toilet also served as a fun house for us kids. We would make small paper boats, drop them down the holes. And then proceed to either drown the Japs in urine, or sink the Germans with our turd bombs.
I had started sneaking into the armory just to admire the model airplanes. I would stay there for long periods of time, holding them in my hand, flying them. There was an old black powder rifle with a big hammer on its side. I would lay it on the cot; **** the hammer and fly my airplane wing under it; pull the trigger and my anti-aircraft gun would shoot down a German Messersmit. One day I was in there horsing around when I discovered some shells. I finally found one that sort of fitted, loaded it into the gun’s chamber and lay down on the cot with my sniper rifle at the ready. I pointed it out the window overlooking the backyard. I took aim at the coon hound’s doghouse and waited for a Jap to appear, if he did, this sniper was going to be ready for him. It was a long wait and nothing moved. Finally I decided on a chicken that was peacefully pecking ants. I took aim, squeezed the trigger. The gun roared. My shoulder felt like the horse had kicked it. The window glass cracked, a round neat hole appeared in the center. The smell of gunpowder filled the room. The report of the rifle all but deafened me. My Aunt started yelling from down below in the pantry. She came up the stairs and caught me red-handed; grabbed me by my ear and took me down to the kitchen; got out Andrew’s razor strap and laid it on me. It hurt, but I knew I deserved it.
While I lived at the farm, two children were killed. One was my friend Sammy who got kicked in the head. It was Andrew that found him behind the horses with the bloody imprint of a horseshoe on the whole side of his head and face I was there when Andrew carried Sammy into the kitchen. I guess that is when I began to hate God. And I have always wondered if a gentle horse was guilty, the other child was killed when her grandfather ran her over with his truck while backing up. I was there to see my Aunt Lillian crying and Eva hear wailing as the little body was picked up from the dirt yard These were some of the memories that I took with me when Mother and Ernest came to take Helen and me away from the farm.