If there was
one thing the whole brood of children liked to do, it was to visit our Uncle
George. He was our link to the country; and during those years West Warwick was
quite rural. We would pile into the car
occupying every inch of available space. Sometimes I would squeeze my
body on the ledge of the back seat window and watch the country roads from a
somewhat side perspective. There were
signs we were on the lookout for and one of them was a small unpretentious
bulletin board that announced Wrights Turkey Farm. That is where we turned down
the winding road to our uncle's house.
Once there
we sprang from the car like jumping jacks and headed for the apple tree. It had
branches close to the ground and was loaded with green, wormy apples, free for
the taking. How impressive. Then dad would call us into formation and we would
make our way to the side of the farm house. It was a two story house with the
mother-in-law living downstairs and our dear Uncle George and his wife Eva
living upstairs. The stairs were very rudimentary, unpolished, raw wood. Dad
would go first and had very heavy steps. All ten of us climbed the steps in
unison which made us children giggle. Our arrival was duly announced before we
knocked on that rustic, knotted door.
As soon as
we entered there was a blast of warm air coming from the black top stove. We
filled that little four room apartment to the brim like water in a teapot. Our
dad immediately suggested we go out and play and we bulleted out of the house
faster than he could finish the sentence.
There were hens,
and cows, and gardens with corn and string beans, and tomatoes, and everything
you saw in a grocery store, but unpackaged. I was fascinated by the hens laying
eggs in the hay and got to retrieve some to bring upstairs. The boys mostly
ran, playing tag, roughhousing, and seeking any adventure that had not been precisely
forbidden. We climbed the apple tree and ate more of those green apples than I
care to admit, usually resulting in a stomach ache. There were loads of rotten apples
on the ground and we had apple wars. We got delightfully, deliciously, unabashedly
dirty.
Upstairs
Aunty set about toasting white bead on the black top. To be a guest is such a
treat and that toasted bread was doled out to all of us and we received it with
great satisfaction. There was fresh milk, and we usually took our bounty to the
front porch to eat it. There was barely enough elbow room to stay indoors.
One cousin,
who was quite shy, would always be in the corner of the living room, stringing
on a guitar. It sounded like a warm up to me and I kept waiting for him to get
the main attraction. As far as I remember, he never did.
Bu the time
we left we were so tired out, we barely talked. We had the sweet
earthy smell of sweat all over us, the dirt and apple remnants adorned our body
and gave testimony to the wonderful time we had.
