Over the River and Through the Woods

It would always come out of the blue, maybe when we were out shopping, or just hanging around the house on a Saturday afternoon. The question was “Who wants to go see Uncle George?”  The undulating chorus of yes would fill the silent spaces as we children anticipated the adventure of the country drive.

Dad at the wheel, mom beside him, proud of her rambunctious litter of offspring fiddling in the back seat was the backdrop of the impetuous decision.

I would sometimes squeeze in the back window ledge and watch the roads go from track housing and little strip malls to tree lined back roads with only a car here and there passing by. We all waited for a billboard of a large Turkey which announced the proximity of Wrights Turkey Farm. That was the turn off. Our little hearts were pitter pattering as the fun was being pulled closer to our restless feet.

Once there we bounded out of the car, like a deer running from a hunter. The first thing our eyes rested on was the old Apple tree. Proud it stood, green apples, dripping from its twisted boughs, like treasured offerings to the masses and we were certainly the masses.  The old apple tree gave us a helping hand with branches that swooped close to the ground.  We got a leg up and swarmed the tree like bees on a flower bush.  I do remember the thrill of free fruit for the taking, and worm holes that didn’t faze us in the least. I also remember the belly aches that would accompany our repast.

The house was unpretentious with tar shingles and a wide front porch. We approached the back door in tandem because our Uncle George lived upstairs with his family and his mother in law resided on the first floor.  My father would open the door and we would follow in tight procession. I particularly remember that my dad had heavy footsteps and each step he took on the unpolished wooden stair was matched in time and unison with our footsteps on the stair below. It must have sounded like a giant or an army was entering the humble abode of my fathers’ oldest brother.  When dad knocked a loud, white knuckled bang on the somewhat flimsy door, we all stopped, poised in mid air, at the stair we were landed on. Then came the warm greeting, the warm ‘come in, come in’, and we piled in like logs in a wood pile.

The house was very tiny and we entered right into the kitchen with a black top stove directly in front. There was a white Formica table top with a black strip around the edge. The was a small chip broken off the black line which I always noted. It had a drawer at one end for the silverware. I was very impressed by a built in drawer. The chairs were spindle with colorful chair pads. The young ones would go into the small parlor and sit around on the floor. Couches and chairs were reserved for the adults.  Cousin Bobby would almost always be sitting in the corner strumming on a guitar. He was a tall, shy fellow who had a timid smile, and spoke more with his guitar than his lips. Cousin Joey would come bounding in sometimes but most of the time he was out gallivanting. 

Jeannette was the only daughter and just plain beautiful with long dark wavy hair and a smile that could light up a room. 

Aunt Katherine would always light up the stove and start toasting white bread to pass around to everyone. It was to our eyes and our hearts a treat. We were welcomed, we were loved and we had “family”.

After the bread was eaten and maybe even some soda pop we left the confines of the little house to venture out into the faux farm. There was a hen house and some hens strutting about like they owned the place. There was a small garden, meticulously attended to, and there were cats and dogs of various breeds and ages. For us they were our country cousins and this was the country farm. We played hard, chased the chickens, checked out the eggs, pulled the dogs tails, and found fun where we could find it. The air was always so fresh and clung to your skin like the peel on an apple.  We played tag and when nature called there were always the woods and field right there.

When the adults had finished their jabbering we were rounded up and packed into the car. We were tired and pretty dirty and the ride home was always quieter than the ride there.  There would sometimes be moans about a belly ache which Miss Know it All, me, would attribute to the act of eating wormy apples.  All and all we were a content lot and looked forward to when we could again visit our Uncle George.