I sat in drowsy reverie on the stoop of the little shed that was now a chicken house. Around me the hens were scratching in the dirt, pecking at things they could see but that I could not. It might have been bugs. It might have been only things they imagined to be bugs.
It might have been small pebbles. Chickens eat pebbles because they don’t have teeth. The pebbles lodge in the chicken’s gizzard grinding whatever else the chicken swallows into digestible food. They get by with this arrangement and don’t miss having teeth.
The sun warmed me, and the balmy breeze cooled me. The massive blue Iowa sky above sheltered all. All was quiet, pleasant and peaceful. I thought it was normal. So did the chickens, at least as far as chickens think anything.
We were content.
It may seem odd that I had chickens inside town, but, in those days, Huxley was as much country as town. It was surrounded by cornfields, one of which bordered our backyard. Country consorted indiscriminately with town. I imagine that’s why no one objected to my flock of chickens.
In all, I had twelve chickens and one rooster. My Aunt Arlene gave them to me. I don’t remember why; maybe to remind me of a real farm. One of the chickens was a bantam. Besides being a banty, she was also missing the foot of one leg. It had frozen off the winter before.
I called her, Peggy – short for peg-leg. She was my favorite. She laid one egg every day, just like the other two-legged hens. I sold their daily production of twelve eggs to neighbors. During the school year I took their eggs to school, and sold them to the teachers.
It was my first business although I didn’t think of it
that way.
It wasn’t my first job, though. My first job was hoeing-out weeds from between the rows of corn on Clyde Black & Sons’ Hybrid Seed Corn farm. Uncle Bud got the job for me. The work only lasted for a few days because a whole bunch of other boys were doing the same thing. They were all several years older and faster than me. They made short work of the hoeing.
In that part of Iowa, the roads were laid out on a grid dividing the land into exactly one square mile blocks. Each row of corn was exactly one mile long. I worked in shadow most of the time because the corn stalks were a couple of feet taller than I was. In the earlier part of the growing cycle, tractor-pulled harrows took out the weeds. At some point the corn grew too tall for the harrows to take out weeds without taking out corn as well. We were armed with hoes adjusted to the close quarters by having about a foot and a half of the handle sawed-off.
I hacked earnestly away in the quiet dark of the of the corn and peat dust. It was hard sweaty work, but I didn’t mind because I was being handsomely paid @ 35 cents per hour.
Big money, I was getting rich.
It was over too soon, but - soon after the hoeing was finished, I got the chickens.
Later yet, around that same time, I came by another business.
The paperboy for Huxley had gotten himself fired. Customers complained that he carelessly threw their paper any-which-way in the general direction of their yard. Sometimes they got a soggy paper. Sometimes they couldn’t even find their paper. I’m not sure how I got the job. It’s likely Mom
arranged it.
Now I delivered the eggs and the Ames Daily Tribune
as well.
The papers were delivered to me by truck. The drop-off point was the Huxley Post Office, downtown. That sounds more urban than it was. There were only a few buildings in all of downtown. There was the candy store, really more of an early version of a convenience store, only the kids thought of it as the candy store. Across the street, just opposite the downtown park was the hardware store. The park featured a small white bandstand. Park, hardware store, and bandstand were all put to special use in a popular summertime Saturday event – movies!
The movies were brought down from the single theater in Ames, IA. They were projected from the bandstand onto the whitewashed concrete block wall of the hardware store.
The show started as soon as it was dark enough. I rode my bike, which I thought of as my pony, to every show. Usually, I stopped by the candy store for a tin of shoestring potatoes to munch while watching the movie. The movie I remember best was Bomba the Jungle Boy. Mounted on my pony (bike) I leaned against the bandstand for the entire show.
Come Monday morning, once more astride my trusty steed, I waited for the papers, this time leaning against the Post Office wall.
Down the gravel road I could see the dust kicked up by the delivery truck. There was a little unsteadiness in its approach. When the driver got out to hand me the papers, he seemed a little unsteady, too. Later, Mom told me about drunks, and the sort of dedicated drunks called alcoholics. I guess my delivery guy was an alcoholic.
It didn’t interfere with his job. He was always there on time.
I picked up a buddy on my first day of delivering.
He came bounding up from one of the houses near the beginning of my route, tongue lolling and tail wagging. We hit it off right away. He was a big dog. Some people on my route said he was
a Norwegian Elkhound.
I wouldn’t know. His coat was mostly black with a white ruff, and a tail that curved over his back. He followed me for the rest of my route. After we delivered all the papers, we followed the trail back. When we passed his house he broke off and went home.
Next day we did the same, and every day after that. I think he liked having a job. I never learned his name, but we were certainly in business together. Maybe he wanted the work because of some inherited memory from his wolf pack ancestors (every pack member has duties). He was good company. I don’t think his humans ever knew about his side-job in the newspaper business.
Meanwhile, my business was expanding. When former customers found out their neighbors were getting un-sodden papers placed properly inside their door, they renewed their subscriptions. The Ames Daily Tribune awarded me for bringing back their old customers and adding new ones. They increased my pay, and also gave me a camera as a bonus.
Then I got rheumatic fever.
Everything changed.
I guess the chickens were returned to Aunt Arlene. The paper route went to some other kid. The Norwegian Elkhound (if that’s what he was) went back to whatever he was doing before he got into the newspaper business. I don’t know what happened to the camera. I have no memory of ever using it.
Before I got rheumatic fever, I had scarlet fever, strep throat, measles, mumps, and nearly every childhood disease possible. Not all at once, but throughout my childhood.
I was born prematurely and spent some time in an incubator. One probable result of this early frailty was the long sickliness of my younger years. It’s likely also the reason my father, mother, brother, and sister, are all tall, and I am not. I remember the sicknesses, but not vividly. I remember happy days full of play and fun. I don’t think I deliberately blocked memories of sickness. They just weren’t very interesting. Still aren’t.
Anyway, back to the rheumatic fever.
I had no idea what this new illness was, but it put me in hospital for weeks, maybe months, I can’t remember how long. The hospital wasn’t so bad. Mom brought me books, colored pencils and drawing paper. I had a lot to do. Most of my drawings were of my favorite Disney characters. Mom saved some, the others I gave away to the nurses. They seemed to like them. I was busy.
After the hospital, I stayed busy with drawing and reading - this time in a hospital bed at home. Also, I had to continue a daily spoonful of a raspberry colored syrupy medicine.
The outside was just beyond my window, but I couldn’t go outside. I missed my bike and the open air. I imagined my bike missed me, too. We waited together for our reunion on the open road.
Waiting, waiting, and waiting.
Then, one day, it was over. I was free. Life returned to normal. I was out of bed and rolling once more. Happy days were here again. I still had to take the medicine, but that didn’t bother me much. All was quiet, pleasant, and peaceful – just like it’s supposed to be.
It stayed that way for a while.
Then my parents announced their intention to move
to Ohio.
What? No! Never! I won’t go. I floated a plan where I would stay behind with Uncle Bud and Aunt Arlene, and, maybe join the family in Ohio, later. . . perhaps. I don’t think Mom ever gave my plan any real consideration. She tried to console me with fantasies of all the new friends and exciting new adventures I would have in Ohio. Bah, humbug! I didn’t actually say that but I was thinking something along those lines. I knew Mom meant well.
I did not want to go.
We went.
Ohio struck me as a strange foreign land, as I feared it would. After a while I calmed down; still didn’t like it. As the years went by, I adjusted, a little, then, more and more.
Now, sixty-plus years later I recognize the many blessings I’ve had in Ohio: my son; my grandchildren; so many dear friends, romances, in-laws, business associates; and possibly too many interesting adventures – all as Mom said it would be.
How might my life have unfolded if I had grown-up in Iowa? Don’t know. Can’t know.
Even so, I sometimes still feel like an exile.
Some of the drawings Mom saved from my hospital days.