Country Afternoons

Chickens scurried as we burst from the station wagon, impatient after our long drive to our grandparents’ home in northwestern Connecticut. “Are we there yet?” had finally given way to an excited tingle in my tummy as I recognized the underpass, the sharp corner and then the dirt road bordered by a dark, pine forest. Seven rambunctious children were eager to explore, and we had one afternoon to do everything while the adults talked. Some of us would futilely give chase to the ever-elusive chickens, while others made a mad dash for the hammock strung between two gnarled apple trees, buzzing with bees. “I got it FIRST!” split the quiet scene, and a tussle inevitably ensued until something of greater interest was spied. Mom would remind us of our manners while wrangling her brood into the old bungalow.

Everything about the house was small and contained: low ceilings, cramped kitchen with the rooster canisters neatly lined up on the counter, shiny worn linoleum; but there was my grandmother, setting the table in the small dining room, sunlight streaming in a large picture window. Hazel Wilson Wildey was a tall, heavy-set woman clad in an apron over her faded, knee-length, cotton dress. Her house smelled of good, home cooking, and she had a kind smile. All of this registered in my child’s mind, but truthfully, the old house was merely a passing through place, and the obligatory hug against her ample bosom was the “toll” we paid as we inched towards freedom outdoors. Once past Grandma, we filed through the narrow passage to the small living room where Grandpa pretended to be asleep in his overstuffed chair near the side door. “Hello Grandpa!” we’d say, and fidget before we tried to tiptoe past. We were all a little scared of him because he was tough as leather and had a glass eye. Almost without fail, his arm would shoot out and whoever was closest was hauled onto his lap for a brief, toothless interrogation. Finally he’d release us and shoo us out the door to an exciting world beyond: the willow tree and old well with iron pump, a large hay barn down the road with a mow from which to jump, the horse pasture and dirt lane to an old cemetery, the railroad tracks and the Housatonic River. How could we possibly explore all of that in a few hours’ time?

We must’ve split off in different directions as it was nearly impossible for us to agree. I remember bravely putting pennies on the railroad track although we had no idea when the train was due. Someone put their ear to the rail to listen and wisely reported it was coming, while others tried to run the ties. Did we ever see it pass by? My memory of being frightened by the large Palomino must have obliterated any train memories. I had taken the short cut to the tracks across the horse pasture, noting that the horse seemed to be fully occupied grazing a long way away. Midway across, or so it seemed, the horse noticed me running and came at a gallop. I burst into tears and turned, on trembling legs to make a beeline for the fence, no matter the burdocks, horse "nuggets" or mud, spurred on by the heavy tread and snuffling following me. Did I catch sight of my parents and grandparents having a laugh as they watched me out the picture window? Quite possibly.

I remember peering down the well (although we were warned to stay away from it) and dropping stones in to hear them splash far below…and the enclosed secret world under the willow where I dreamed. The gentle movement of the many slender branches when there seemed to be no breeze, convinced me of fairies.

Once I got to ride in the ox cart while my older brother “drove” and my grandfather led his team down the dirt road. I remember deciding to explore the dark pine forest along the dirt road on my own, and scrambled up the embankment. None else had wanted to check out the spooky woods with me and I had a point to prove. Stepping into the shadows, I was scared at the difference: the cool air and sudden hush felt alien compared to my sunny, friendly maple and beech woods at home. Was it a crow that finally persuaded me to end my exploration, or did someone call me back? I hadn’t gone but a few feet in and was glad to step out of the dark world of the tall pines, back into the sunlight. My relief was only slightly dimmed by the skinned knee I got when I fell down the embankment.

No doubt we got called back in for Sunday dinner, with a stop in the tiny bathroom to “wash up.” My Scots-German grandmother’s meal was probably a roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans, followed by a pie or cake. We were crowded around her table, both leaves in, with not much room to pull back our chairs. In my mind’s eye it almost looks like a Norman Rockwell painting of “Sunday Dinner.”

We were permitted a little more outdoor play – “but don’t run off!” -- while the adults talked some more and Grandpa smoked a pipe. All too soon we were called back from our adventures to say our good-byes and pile back into the station wagon for our long ride home. Two of us were allowed to lie down in the way back of the car where we dozed and eventually heard the steady rhythm of the asphalt highway bringing us closer to our warm beds and dreams of the country.