Mrs. Hahn, our ninety-four-year-old neighbor with snow white hair and silver rimmed spectacles, can't weigh ninety pounds soaking wet. She wears black shoes with short, thick heels and shoe strings, like the Notre Dame nuns at SS. Peter and Paul Catholic grade school wear. Her nylon stockings are just like the type little girls wear. You can't see through them. She walks bent over, looking like a question mark with a pair of legs. The old lady has four young ladies who room and board with her. According to Mother, those four are "just the ticket for an old lady with very little money." And they're just the ticket for me, too. Especially one. Marcy. She's as pretty as a movie star and talks to me a lot. I intended to make a May Day basket for her this year, fill it with candy, and leave it on Mrs. Hahn's rear steps. Delivery must be performed on the Q.T. That's maybe why it's lots of fun. "If you're going to make a May Day basket for Marcy, you'd better make three more for the other girls, or they'll feel left out," advised Mother. Did I really write “advised?”
"I don't care about them as much," I said.
"Well, young man, I do."
Mother won out. Naturally. Because she's the bank. So, I made four baskets and filled them with candy Mother paid for.
Marcy has a boyfriend whom I thought was stupid. Mainly because he’s Marcy’s boyfriend. He owns a 1939 Packard 120 fire engine red coupe with whitewall tires and chrome hubcaps with red and black centers. On a sunny day, the bumpers shine so brilliantly, they hurt my eyes if I look at them too long. It's the prettiest car in town. Added to that, its engine hums like Eva Compton's Singer sewing machine she operates with a foot pedal that she calls a treadle.
Yesterday, Mrs. Hahn made her weekday daily shuffle to one of our corner grocery stores. I was sitting on the front steps. Suddenly, she stopped, slowly turned to me, and took a long time to ask in her crackly voice, "You're Gordon, aren't you?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm Gordy."
"I'm going to need some help with catching chickens this afternoon since I want to can some meat for winter. Would you be willing to catch them for me?"
"When?" I asked.
"When what?"
"When do you want me to help you?"
Her head shook. I figured she was rocking her brain so she'd remember. "Oh, that," she finally said. "After lunch."
Because she paid me ten cents the last time, I said almost too quickly, "I'll be ready."
So, shortly after Consolidated paper company's noon whistle blew, I made and ate a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, drank a glass of milk, chawed on an apple, and then went over to Mrs. Hahn's and sat on her rear steps. Waiting a long time, I thought she must've forgotten. So, I stood, intending to go home, hop on my Schwinn, and see what my friends were up to.
"Oh, there you are. I thought you forgot." It was the crackly voice. "Why don't you roll that big stump near that wood chair one of my girls set out so I can sit and do the chopping."
Chopping. Because I helped her before, I knew chickens with their heads chopped off could run in circles and figure eights and into things before finally flopping over and eventually lying still. "How can they run around with their heads cut off?" I asked her. "Their brains are in their heads, aren't they?"
"I don't know," she said. "That's the way of chickens."
I swore I'd never again help her dump the dead ones into a large pot with boiling water to more easily pull out their feathers. The hot, wet feathers stunk to high heaven, and I darned near puked a hundred times.
Yesterday, I bet I chased a dozen squawking and flapping birds before Mrs. Hahn said, "That's enough."
I was pooped. Chasing chickens even in an enclosed area isn't easy nor is it fun. Especially after the live ones watched what Mrs. Hahn did to their friends.
Just then, Marcy and her boyfriend arrived in his Packard 120 coupe. "Oh, that is so nice of you to help Mrs. Hahn," Marcy said to me. She turned to her boyfriend. "After Gordy's finished, let's go to the A&W and take him with us?"
"I'm finished," I announced.
"He gets sick from the boiling," said Mrs. Hahn in her crackly voice, offering me a dime. Normally, I would've taken it but since Marcy was there, I said, "No thank you, Mrs. Hahn. I did the work for free."
"Oh, isn't he the young prince," Marcy said to her boyfriend.
Her slick hair boyfriend didn't look very happy but he said to me, "If you're ready, let's go."
And guess what? He ordered a fifteen-cent root beer float with two scoops of vanilla ice cream for me. I guess he isn't so stupid, after all, because not only did he buy me a double-scooped root beer float, I got to ride in the back seat of the prettiest car in town.
"I don't care about them as much," I said.
"Well, young man, I do."
Mother won out. Naturally. Because she's the bank. So, I made four baskets and filled them with candy Mother paid for.
Marcy has a boyfriend whom I thought was stupid. Mainly because he’s Marcy’s boyfriend. He owns a 1939 Packard 120 fire engine red coupe with whitewall tires and chrome hubcaps with red and black centers. On a sunny day, the bumpers shine so brilliantly, they hurt my eyes if I look at them too long. It's the prettiest car in town. Added to that, its engine hums like Eva Compton's Singer sewing machine she operates with a foot pedal that she calls a treadle.
Yesterday, Mrs. Hahn made her weekday daily shuffle to one of our corner grocery stores. I was sitting on the front steps. Suddenly, she stopped, slowly turned to me, and took a long time to ask in her crackly voice, "You're Gordon, aren't you?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm Gordy."
"I'm going to need some help with catching chickens this afternoon since I want to can some meat for winter. Would you be willing to catch them for me?"
"When?" I asked.
"When what?"
"When do you want me to help you?"
Her head shook. I figured she was rocking her brain so she'd remember. "Oh, that," she finally said. "After lunch."
Because she paid me ten cents the last time, I said almost too quickly, "I'll be ready."
So, shortly after Consolidated paper company's noon whistle blew, I made and ate a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, drank a glass of milk, chawed on an apple, and then went over to Mrs. Hahn's and sat on her rear steps. Waiting a long time, I thought she must've forgotten. So, I stood, intending to go home, hop on my Schwinn, and see what my friends were up to.
"Oh, there you are. I thought you forgot." It was the crackly voice. "Why don't you roll that big stump near that wood chair one of my girls set out so I can sit and do the chopping."
Chopping. Because I helped her before, I knew chickens with their heads chopped off could run in circles and figure eights and into things before finally flopping over and eventually lying still. "How can they run around with their heads cut off?" I asked her. "Their brains are in their heads, aren't they?"
"I don't know," she said. "That's the way of chickens."
I swore I'd never again help her dump the dead ones into a large pot with boiling water to more easily pull out their feathers. The hot, wet feathers stunk to high heaven, and I darned near puked a hundred times.
Yesterday, I bet I chased a dozen squawking and flapping birds before Mrs. Hahn said, "That's enough."
I was pooped. Chasing chickens even in an enclosed area isn't easy nor is it fun. Especially after the live ones watched what Mrs. Hahn did to their friends.
Just then, Marcy and her boyfriend arrived in his Packard 120 coupe. "Oh, that is so nice of you to help Mrs. Hahn," Marcy said to me. She turned to her boyfriend. "After Gordy's finished, let's go to the A&W and take him with us?"
"I'm finished," I announced.
"He gets sick from the boiling," said Mrs. Hahn in her crackly voice, offering me a dime. Normally, I would've taken it but since Marcy was there, I said, "No thank you, Mrs. Hahn. I did the work for free."
"Oh, isn't he the young prince," Marcy said to her boyfriend.
Her slick hair boyfriend didn't look very happy but he said to me, "If you're ready, let's go."
And guess what? He ordered a fifteen-cent root beer float with two scoops of vanilla ice cream for me. I guess he isn't so stupid, after all, because not only did he buy me a double-scooped root beer float, I got to ride in the back seat of the prettiest car in town.
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