Letters from Hillside Farm

by Jerry Apps

  Amos’s team got a couple of runs before they were out and it was our turn to bat again. Rachel pointed to me and said I should bat first this inning. I grabbed the bat, held it like I learned to do in Ohio, took a couple of practice swings, and stood up to home plate (which is just a flat piece of wood from the woodshed). I thought to myself, this guy doesn’t scare me with his glares and threats. Deep inside though, I’m scared of Amos. He’s bigger than I am and can throw harder than any other kid in school.

  The first pitch sailed past my nose, missing me by only a couple inches. I tried not to let Amos know that it bothered me, but it did. I wasn’t sure I could move fast enough if he decided to throw a ball at my head.

  The next pitch flew right across the plate. I swung, but I caught only a piece of it. Even so, the ball flew over the second baseman’s head and fell in centerfield. I started out for first base, forgetting about my bad leg for a minute. I hadn’t taken three steps when I fell in a heap, giving the second baseman plenty of time to throw me out. I got up and limped off the field.

  Grandma, everyone laughed at me. Amos pointed his long finger at me and said, “See why you’re not on my team? You’re no good. You can’t even make it to first base, even when you get a lucky hit.”

  I was afraid that Rachel would toss me off the team, but she didn’t say anything, and the game went on. I stood off to the side. Nobody wanted to talk to me. About ten minutes before the end of noon break, the game was tied 4 to 4, and it was my team’s turn to bat. Rachel was up first, and she hit a high ball that the center fielder caught. The next player struck out. Rachel motioned at me to step up and bat.

  All I could think to say was, “You mean me?”

  “Yes, you. We need a hit.”

  I grabbed the bat and limped up to the plate. My leg was throbbing.

  When I took my place at home plate, Amos looked right at me and said, “Well, if it isn’t Limpy Struckmeyer. Gonna fall down on the way to first base again? Or are you gonna stand there and let me hit you in the head?” I wish our teacher had been outside to hear him. Maybe she would have told him to shut his mouth.

  I felt like dropping the bat and running into the schoolhouse. But I stood my ground, something Pa has drummed into me. He always says that when you face a tough situation, you should look it right in the eye. And that’s what I did. It helped that Rachel stood up for me and told Amos to stop teasing me. Sometimes Amos listens to Rachel.

  Amos whistled a fastball past me that I should have let go, but I took a mighty swing at it, almost falling down in the process. I must have twisted my leg, and now it hurts even to stand on it, let alone walk.

  The next pitch was fast and right across the plate. I had my eye on the dirty gray softball from the moment it left Amos’s hand, and I was ready. I knew I hit the ball squarely the minute my bat made contact. Rather than start for first base, I watched the ball go higher, higher until it flew over the schoolyard fence and landed in the middle of the dirt road that runs past our school.

  Can you believe it, Grandma? I hit a home run. I still had to make my way around the bases, and I did, hobbling to first, limping on to second, then on to third, and making it home just in time. Our team won, and I had made the difference with my home run. This was the best I have felt since moving to Wisconsin. But then Amos came up to me, looked me right in the eye, and told me that I’ll never hit another home run and he’ll make sure of it. Then he said, “No limpy city kid is gonna make fun of me.”

  I didn’t say anything as I hobbled away. Some of my teammates walked with me to the schoolhouse. A couple of the kids even patted me on the back.

  Grandma, I think Amos hates me more than ever. I don’t know what to do. When I told Pa about Amos, all he said was that I should behave myself and stay out of trouble. But he also says I should stand up for what’s right. What do you think I should do?

  Love,

  George

  Dear George,

  It’s too bad you are still having problems with Amos Woodward. I’ve been thinking about what you could do to make things better. One thing you might try when he says something mean is to stare straight at him and then walk away. If he thinks what he is saying doesn’t bother you (even though I know it really does), he might leave you alone.

  You could also try looking him in right in the eye and saying “Stop it.” Don’t raise your voice, and try not to get angry. Let him believe that you are in control. Then turn and walk away.

  I know that sometimes you feel like yelling at Amos. That’s what he wants you do. Surprise him by not doing it. And no matter what you might hear some people say, don’t hit him. Not only will he have won the battle before it even starts because he got you to lose your temper, but one or both of you will get hurt. That’s never a good thing, no matter what.

  Above all, George, don’t let him make you feel bad. I know that can be hard, but even though you might limp a little, think about all the good things you can do. You can do really fine leather work. And you are becoming a fine writer as well. You described your softball game so well, I felt as if I was right there watching it. You should be proud of who you are. Remember what I said about President Theodore Roosevelt: he had some tough times when he was a boy, and look at what he accomplished.

  Rachel Williams is surely on your side. I’ll bet several of the other kids are, too. They might be keeping quiet because they are afraid of Amos.

  Let me know if any of these ideas work. I know it’s no fun when someone keeps picking on you.

  Much love,

  Grandma S.

  April 1, 1938

  Friday

  Dear Grandma

  When Pa came in for breakfast after doing the morning chores, he told Ma in a serious voice, “Emily, something awful has happened in the chicken house.” He said he thought a fox must have broken in last night, and she’d better have a look for herself. Ma was really upset, because she knows that a fox will steal any number of chickens. She pulled on her chore jacket, tied a scarf over her head, and hurried out to the chicken house.

  In a few minutes she was back in the kitchen with a strange look on her face. She said she had counted her chickens, and all fifty were there. Pa looked serious at first, but then he smiled and blurted out, “April fool!” It is April first, and Pa had pulled a good one on Ma—except she didn’t take it as a joke. Ma was really mad, and she told Pa he could fix his own breakfast and that would be an April fool joke on him.

  Pa said something about it being only a joke, but Ma didn’t want to hear anything about it. She was fuming. She said nobody should make jokes about her chickens, because without the eggs there would be no grocery money and no money for Christmas presents, either.

  Pa said he was sorry, but Ma said sorry wasn’t good enough. I don’t think the two of them talked to each other all day. So much for April Fool’s Day.

  Your grandson,

  George

  April 4, 1938

  Monday

  Dear Grandma,

  Your letter came today. Thank you for writing. I hope you’re right that if I don’t talk back to Amos and try to ignore him, he’ll quit picking on me. I’ve been trying to figure out why he hates me. All I did was hit a home run so his team lost. Since that day, Amos just snarls at me, like a mean dog that wants to bite. What do you do with a mean dog? I try to stay out of his way, but our school is too small for that.

  Rachel Williams is a good friend. She looks at what I can do instead of what I can’t do. I’m glad she gave me a chance to play softball. We’ve been playing every day, but I don’t get to play much, except to hit once in a while. My hitting has never been like it was that first day, maybe because I’m afraid of Amos and can’t concentrate. My running is as bad as ever. Whenever I try, I fall down. I feel terrible about that.

  Grandma, is there a way for me to move back to Ohio? I haven’t mentioned this to Pa and Ma, but I think about it all the time. If I left this terrible school and moved away from this farm wi
th all the chores, my life would be so much better. What do you think, Grandma?

  Love,

  George

  April 9, 1938

  Saturday

  Dear Grandma,

  Right after we finished breakfast this morning, our telephone rang. The telephone hangs on the wall in the kitchen, and Ma always answers it when it rings our ring, which isn’t very often. We are on a party line, which means that several people in our neighborhood are connected to the same telephone line. The only way you know when to answer the telephone is when you hear your own special ring. Ours is one long ring and three short rings. We can ring each other on our party line, but when we want to talk to people who aren’t on our party line, we have to ring up central, which is the telephone office in Link Lake. All calls from one party line to another go through central.

  Ma told Pa the call was for him. As he listened to whoever was on the other end, a big grin spread across his face. Then he said thank you, hung up the receiver, and asked if I would like to ride into town with him. He wouldn’t say who had called, but he sure was grinning. He told me to pull on my jacket and meet him at the car.

  I started to ask Pa what all the hurry was about, but he was all wrapped up in his thoughts and told me I’d know soon enough. When we got to Link Lake, he pulled into the little parking lot at the train depot, which is just outside of the village. Now I was really confused. Why were we stopping here? We never stop at the Link Lake Depot when we go to Link Lake. The depot is a little one-story building that stands next to the railroad tracks that run through town. At each end of the building is a large sign that reads “Link Lake.” The depot is where the trains stop that travel east and west through Link Lake.

  I asked Pa why we were stopping at the train depot, and this time he said that I’d find out in a few minutes. Inside the little building, Pa walked up to a man behind a counter. He told the man his name and introduced me. The fellow is called the depot agent. He came out from behind the counter, shook both our hands, and said his name is Floyd Johnson. Then he said he had something special for us, and he motioned for us to follow him.

  We walked across the waiting room, past a bunch of empty chairs and a big woodstove. Mr. Johnson stopped at a small wooden crate sitting on the floor near the stove. The crate was maybe three feet square, with spaces between the boards on the sides. “Here’s your order, Mr. Struckmeyer,” the depot agent said to Pa. “Came on the morning train from Fond du Lac.” He released a latch and pulled open the door on one end of the crate. Pa said I should look inside. I got down on my knees and came face to face with a furry little brown puppy with a long nose and big brown eyes!

  I asked Pa, “Is this my puppy?”

  “It sure is,” Pa replied. “Cute little fellow, isn’t he?” He told me to let the pup sniff my hand. When I reached in my hand, the puppy licked it. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Pa told me to take the puppy out of the box so we all could have a look at him. I picked up the pup, and this time he licked my face. Pa said that the kennel owner wrote him that the puppy is a collie, and he was born on February 2. He weighs about fifteen pounds now, and he’ll grow to weigh as much as seventy-five pounds. The depot agent said this puppy is just about the finest one he’s ever seen.

  I put the puppy back in the crate, and Pa helped me put the crate on the back seat of our car. I kept looking back at him all the way home. I felt about as happy as I’ve been in a long time, Grandma. Then Pa asked what I planned to name him. I hadn’t even thought about whether the little collie pup had a name or if I’d get to name him. But a name quickly came to mind. I told Pa I’d like to name him Depot, because that’s where I first saw him. Pa said the name sounds a little unusual, but if it’s the name I want, then Depot shall be his name.

  Back at home I carried the crate into the kitchen and set it down in front of the kitchen stove where Ma was working. Ma smiled when she saw the puppy in the crate. I guess she knew how much I had wanted one.

  Little Annie was sitting on a stool next to the stove, watching Ma cook. She hopped off the stool and stood watching as I leaned over, opened the door on the crate, and took out my furry puppy. I told them, “His name is Depot.”

  Annie started giggling and asked if she could pet him. I held the puppy out for her. Depot licked her face, which made Annie giggle even more.

  Ma said Depot is a cute puppy. Then she reminded me that it will be my job to take care of him, to make sure he gets something to eat and drink and that he stays out of trouble. She went on for a bit about how puppies are known to get into all sorts of trouble. I told her I’ll watch him real good. And I will.

  This was just about the best day I’ve ever had, Grandma. You would really like Depot. He’s just the nicest little puppy.

  Your grandson,

  George

  April 10, 1938

  Sunday

  Dear Grandma,

  Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve had Depot for only one day, and already both he and I are in trouble. I forgot to fasten the latch on his crate when I went to bed last night. During the night he got out and roamed around the kitchen. He found a basket of Ma’s newly washed clothes, and did he have fun! He scattered shirts and underwear all over the place, from one end of the kitchen to the other. Was Ma ever mad. She said she’ll have to wash the clothes all over again and that it was my fault for not latching Depot’s crate.

  Grandma, I’m in trouble with Ma, and I deserve it, especially after I promised her that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen. I thought Pa would be after me, too, for not latching the crate properly, but he didn’t say anything. In fact, I caught him smiling a little when he saw what Depot had done to the clothes.

  Annie thought Depot was just having a little fun, and she said so. That sure didn’t help matters. Ma blurted out that my puppy better learn to have fun with something besides her clean clothes.

  I’ve got to remember to latch that crate at night.

  Something else happened today that I must tell you about. The railroad tracks are only about a half mile from our farm, and a train goes by in the morning and in the afternoon—I can hear the engineer blowing the steam engine’s whistle when the train crosses over country roads. Pa says the train runs from Fond du Lac to Marshfield, where it connects to other train lines.

  Well, this afternoon, while I was doing homework at the kitchen table, there came a knock on the door. I thought it was one of our neighbors coming calling—we haven’t met all of them yet, so I figured someone was stopping by to say hello. It didn’t occur to me that I hadn’t heard a car drive in.

  I pulled open the door, and there stood the skinniest, saddest looking man I’ve ever seen. His clothes were dirty and torn. His shoes looked about worn out, and he wore a dirty gray hat, which he took off when I opened the door. For a minute I didn’t know what to say, but then I did what Pa always says to do when someone knocks on the door: I invited him in.

  By now Pa, Ma, and Annie had come into the kitchen. We all stood there looking at this forlorn man, who was clearly down on his luck.

  In a near whisper, the man said he hadn’t eaten since yesterday and asked if we had a spare piece of bread. Right away Ma said that she would make him a sandwich.

  “I’ll work for it,” the man said. “I’m still strong. I can split some wood for you. Do whatever work needs doing.”

  Pa told him he didn’t have to work for it and that Sunday is a day of rest. He invited the man to have a seat and tell us a little bit about his situation. I think Pa figured from the fellow’s appearance that he’d been caught up in the Depression, had probably lost his job, and was riding the rails looking for whatever work he could find and begging for food. And Pa was right. The fellow had come from Chicago. He was laid off from his job more than six months ago and is working his way north riding the freight trains and trying to find work. He said his name is George, just like mine.

  He finished off the sandwich Ma put in front of him and drank a big glass of
milk. Ma asked him if he wanted more, and he quietly said that another sandwich would be wonderful.

  Before he left, Ma packed some bread and sausage in a bag. I saw her tuck in a few sugar cookies, too. The man stood at the door and thanked us again and again, and I think he had tears in his eyes. And then he was gone. I watched him walk slowly down our country road until he was out of sight.

  Pa shook his head and said that the Depression is a terrible thing. “That was a good man who sat at our table,” Pa said. “I wonder what will happen to him?”

  Pa didn’t have to remind us that we moved to Wisconsin because he lost his job in Ohio. We sure are a lot better off than this poor guy, who is sneaking rides on trains and spending a lot of time walking along country roads, begging for something to eat.

  Your grandson,

  George

  Dear George,

  What fun you must be having with a new puppy! Depot is a great name, and it fits him, too. You are a very clever fellow to come up with a name like that. In one of your earlier letters you seemed sad about living in Wisconsin. With your new little puppy as part of your family, things will surely look better for you.

  I know you and your little sister will have lots of fun with Depot, but remember that puppies are just like any other baby: you’ve got to look after them. Puppies especially like to chew on things, it’s their nature. And sometimes they chew on things they shouldn’t, like one of your Pa’s shoes.

  Puppies also can get into trouble with other animals, especially wild animals. They don’t know any better. Puppies are really curious. When I was a little girl, we had a puppy that waddled off and got in the chicken yard. I heard the little guy yipping after a big red rooster pecked him on the nose. He never bothered that old rooster again. I felt bad for the puppy, but it was kind of funny, too. Nothing tangled with our red rooster. He was king of the chicken yard.