Letters from Hillside Farm

by Jerry Apps

  The next pitch was a fastball right down the middle. The Forest Grove pitcher didn’t know it, but the fastball is Amos’s favorite pitch. He pulled back the bat and swung. “Crack!” That ball went sailing higher and higher, toward the big woods behind the outfield. One of Forest Grove School’s outfielders ran as fast as he could toward where he figured the ball would fall. He had only a few feet left to go and he’d be in the woods, and nobody can catch a ball in the woods. Then the outfielder stopped, held up his hands, and caught the ball. “You’re out!” yelled the Forest Grove teacher.

  Grandma, you should have seen the look on Amos’s face. He figured he had hit a home run for sure. He threw down his bat and stomped off the field. I could hear him cussing, and I hoped Miss Harvey heard him, too. If you get caught swearing at our school, Miss Harvey lays down the law, which usually means sweeping out the boy’s outhouse for a couple months.

  Rachel was up next. She hit a little dribbler that rolled far enough so she had time to get on first.

  “Tying run on first,” yelled Grandma Woodward. I noticed she had walked over to where Amos was sitting with his head in his hands and was talking to him.

  Amy struck out our next player. We had one chance left. Rachel yelled from first base for me to bat. Amos was beside himself. He said something, but I didn’t hear it because I was busy stepping up to the plate to face the cute pitcher from Forest Grove School who never smiled, never frowned, never said a word, just pitched. One fast pitch after the other.

  By this time everyone on both teams knew about my bad leg, and most everyone must have been wondering why Rachel picked me to bat. I knew that unless I hit a home run, I would be thrown out at first.

  I limped up to home plate and waved the bat a couple times. I had no more than gathered my thoughts when I heard the ball slam into the catcher’s hands.

  “Strike one,” the Forest Grove teacher yelled.

  The next time I was ready when I stepped up to the plate. Another fastball. I hit it a little on the side, and it climbed high enough, but it dropped foul. Strike two.

  “You can do it, Georgie,” yelled Annie. Grandma, you know I don’t let anybody call me Georgie except Annie and my mother, and then only on rare occasions.

  I thought maybe Amos had the right idea when he picked up some dirt and rubbed it between his fingers before grabbing the bat, so I did the same, but the only thing that happened was I got dust in my nose and I sneezed.

  “God bless you,” said the Forest Grove teacher.

  I rubbed my dirty hand across my nose, picked up the bat, and limped up to the plate. I could see drops of sweat on the pitcher’s forehead. She wound up and let go with another one of her fastballs, probably the fastest ball she had pitched all day. If she struck me out they would win the game just like they did last year. Our school would never hear the last of it. We couldn’t let Forest Grove School win the spelling bee and the ball game.

  I closed my eyes and swung with everything I had, and the bat hit the ball. I opened my eyes to see the ball going higher and higher and heading for the woods. The question was, had I hit it hard enough for a home run, or would one of their outfield speedsters catch it? Two outfielders were racing toward where they figured it would fall.

  Grandma, that ball fell a good twenty feet into the woods.

  “Home run!” yelled our team and everyone on the side rooting for us. “Home run! Our team wins. Our team wins!”

  I can’t remember when I’ve felt more proud. I limped around the bases as fast as I could, making sure I stepped on each one. Our entire team stood waiting for me at home plate so they could pat me on the back or shake my hand—all except Amos Woodward. He just stood there sneering. Amos almost spoiled what was a near perfect day.

  Your grandson,

  George

  Dear George,

  Thank you so much for your long and detailed letter about the ball game. I felt I was right there with you at the game.

  I’m sorry Amos Woodward is still a problem for you. From what you said about the spelling bee, it sounds like his Pa is really hard on him. I’m sure that’s part of the reason he thinks he has to pick on somebody else. I think he is angry about his life. Do you think that is so?

  I’m impressed that even with your bum leg you were able to hit a home run. My father always said to me, “Do the best you can with what you’ve got,” and you are surely doing that. Just because you can’t run doesn’t mean you can’t do other things. You’ve proved that.

  I’m glad you’re feeling proud of yourself. It’s important to do that once in a while, especially when other things aren’t going so well.

  Love,

  Grandma S.

  May 21, 1938

  Saturday

  Dear Grandma,

  Ginger knows all kinds of tricks. He stands on his hind legs, waving his front legs in the air. He can even stand on a box on just his front legs. And he’s so gentle that Annie rides him all over the place. I’m trying to teach Depot some tricks as well, but all that interests him is playing. I must say, both Annie and I have lots of fun playing with that little dog. One of his favorite games is having Annie chase him. He runs around in a big circle, barking his puppy bark. Then Annie runs after him, and then he runs after Annie. Grandma, you are right: it sure is fun to have both a pony and a puppy.

  The other day when I was working with Ginger, Pa reminded me that the pony is a lot older than the puppy. “You’ve got to take it a little easy with Ginger,” Pa said. “Remember, he’s not a spring chicken anymore.” (By that Pa meant Ginger is old.)

  I mentioned to Pa my idea of having a circus, and he didn’t say no. So now I’m trying to figure out just what my circus will be about. With my bad leg, I can’t do any running, but I’ve been practicing swinging on a rope from one big beam in the barn to another, sort of like the circus acrobats did. My arms are strong, and with a little more practice I should have this trick ready. Ginger has some good tricks to show off, too. And I think I can put together a reasonable menagerie with some of the animals around the farm, both tame and wild.

  I’m really looking forward to doing the circus. It should be lots of fun. I’d sure like you to see it.

  Your grandson,

  George

  May 23, 1938

  Monday

  Dear Grandma,

  After school today I helped Grandma Woodward with her garden. She called Ma on the party line telephone and wondered if I could bring over the team of horses, level off her garden with the smoothing drag, and help her plant. Pa said it would be all right, if I was careful. He helped me load one section of the spike-toothed smoothing drag on the stone boat. I stood on the stone boat, holding tight to the leather lines that control the horses. With Maud and Tony walking in front of me, carrying their heads high and swishing their long tails to drive away the flies that make life miserable for animals this time of year, I felt like a Roman gladiator must have felt driving a chariot with a team prancing in front. I was feeling good about being asked to do some work for a neighbor with the horses, even if it was only leveling off a little garden spot with the smoothing drag.

  Grandma Woodward seemed glad to see me come into the yard with the team.

  I asked her to hold the lines while I unloaded the drag from the stone boat. Soon I had the team hitched to the drag, and within just a few minutes, Grandma Woodward’s garden spot was as smooth as a beach at the lake.

  I tied the team to a fence post and asked, “What next?” Grandma Woodward said next we must mark the rows. She has a homemade wooden marker that I figure has been around nearly as long as Grandma Woodward. It makes two little furrows in the soil when you pull it across the garden, which I did, back and forth, until her entire plot was a series of little furrows stretching from one end to the other.

  While I was working, she told me how much she appreciated my help. Then she said, “My grandson, Amos, is a good boy, too. But his pa keeps him so busy working that he doesn’t have time t
o come over and help me.”

  Whenever she brings up Amos, I don’t know what to say. Sometimes I wonder if we are talking about the same kid. From my perspective, he is mostly mean and doesn’t care about other people at all.

  Then we talked about the ball game against Forest Grove School. She said I was some kind of hero for hitting the winning home run. I said I just got lucky, because they have a really good pitcher. She said it was more than luck and that it is too bad I have a gimpy leg, as I could be a really good ball player. I thanked her and said that I appreciated that she had come and cheered for us.

  Now that the garden plot was ready, Grandma Woodward picked up her box of garden seeds from next to her rocking chair and said we should start with the peas.

  She showed me how to use a hoe to make the furrow a little deeper and then place the pea seeds in the furrow, one after the other and only a couple inches apart. Then she showed me how to cover the seeds and firm the soil with my shoe. “Got to have a firm seedbed,” she said.

  Next I planted radish seeds with carrot seeds mixed in. “I’ll pull the radishes when they are ready, and then the carrots will grow in their place. That way I can get two crops in one row,” Grandma Woodward told me.

  Next came beets, green beans, sweet corn, cucumbers, squash, and pumpkins. She saved three rows, two for potatoes and one for tomatoes. She said she already has tomato plants growing in the house and will wait a couple weeks before setting them out. “Might still have a frosty night, and that would kill the tomatoes for sure,” she said.

  Next we turned to planting potatoes. Pa has shown me how to cut the seed potatoes into smaller pieces, making sure there is an eye (a growing point) on every cut piece. I cut all of Grandma Woodward’s seed potatoes, dug holes with the hoe along the assigned garden rows, and put a piece of seed potato in each hole. Then I filled each one with soil and stamped it with my foot.

  All the while I was working, Grandma Woodward was making little markers that she stuck in the ground at the end of each row. They will remind her what crop is growing where.

  Gardens sure are a lot of work, Grandma. But it was fun to work with Grandma Woodward. She showed me just what to do and didn’t get upset when I didn’t do it just right. I told her that when I’m working with Pa, if I don’t do something right he sometimes yells at me. “Fathers are like that sometimes,” Grandma Woodward said. She laughed a little. I wondered if she was thinking about Amos’s father, who seems to yell at Amos a lot.

  It was quiet in Grandma Woodward’s garden. I heard a meadowlark call from the hayfield across the way. I really like the sound of the spring birds.

  Thanks for your last letter. I always like hearing from you. Pa and Ma like reading your letters, too. Pa would never say so, but sometimes I think he misses Ohio more than I do.

  Love,

  George

  Dear George,

  Grandma Woodward surely sounds like a nice person. I’m so pleased to hear that you’ve found some time to help her with her garden. Older people sometimes need a little extra help with things like putting in a garden. And do you know what? I’ll bet you are learning some things from Grandma Woodward as well, maybe without even knowing you are doing so.

  On my home farm, we always had a big vegetable garden. Here in Cleveland I can grow only a few things, like a short row of lettuce and a tomato plant or two that I plant next to the garage. From your good description it sounds like Grandma Woodward has lots of room for a garden. She’s fortunate.

  Keep the letters coming.

  Love,

  Grandma S.

  May 27, 1938

  Friday

  Dear Grandma,

  Today was our last day of school for the year, and what a fun day it was! Miss Harvey told us we didn’t have to come to school until noon today, and she sent notes home inviting our parents to come, too, for a picnic dinner.

  I don’t think I told you about the end-of-term exams. Because I’m in seventh grade, I had to take county exams in geography and arithmetic. I passed both of them with high grades. I did a lot of studying in my spare time. Miss Harvey said she has never had a seventh grade student fail the county tests, and she didn’t want me to be the first. I surely didn’t want to be the first one, either. I could just hear people in the neighborhood, especially Amos Woodward, shouting about how this limpy city kid from Ohio flunked seventh grade. But I didn’t fail, and now I’ll be going into eighth grade next year.

  Amos (I couldn’t believe it) and Rachel passed their eighth grade exams, and both are headed for Link Lake High School next fall. I say, good riddance to Amos Woodward, although I imagine the softball team will suffer some without him. I know we’ll miss Rachel. She’s a good ballplayer and treats everybody fairly. That’s more than you can say about Amos.

  When we got to the schoolhouse today, many of the students and their parents were already there. I saw Rachel, and I went over to congratulate her on passing the county exams. She said the same to me, even though I had taken exams in only two subjects, and she had taken examinations in every subject. Besides that, the eighth-graders had to take the county exams at the County Normal School in Willow River, where teachers go for training. Rachel said she took exams all day, one after the other, and it was about the worst thing she’s ever done. I told her high school will probably be easy after all that. She said she’s a little scared about going to high school, because the town kids and the country kids will be all mixed together. She’s heard that the town kids make fun of the country kids, calling them names like “hayseeds” and “hicks.” I told her I didn’t know anything about that; all I know is that city kids get teased when they go to a country school.

  “Not everybody teased you,” she said.

  “You and some of the little first- and second-graders were about the only ones who didn’t,” I said. She smiled.

  I went back to where Ma and Pa were standing, near a long table made out of planks and sawhorses that the school board had set up. That’s where Ma put the bowl of potato salad she had made—right next to all kinds of other bowls and pans and dishes of food. Ma also brought along sandwiches for us to eat and plates, glasses, knives, and forks.

  Miss Harvey welcomed everybody and told us to get in line for food. She said that since it was a special day for the eighth-graders, who are going on to high school next year, they and their parents should be the first in line.

  Ma, Pa, Annie, and I got in line behind one of the first-graders and his folks and started filling our plates. What a spread of food! There were baked beans, green Jell-O with sliced bananas on top, several kinds of potato salad (some with slices of boiled eggs on top), sauerkraut and wieners, fried chicken, sliced ham, deviled eggs, dill pickles, scalloped potatoes, and hamburger casserole. And on the far end of the table, near a huge bucket of lemonade with a dipper hanging on the side, were the desserts: apple, cherry, lemon, and blackberry pie. Chocolate, yellow, marble, and cherry cake. Sugar cookies, peanut butter cookies, and molasses cookies (I’ve never liked them, but Pa says molasses cookies are his favorite).

  By the time I got through the line, I could hardly carry my plate, it was so full. Grandma Woodward was in the line behind us, and while I was dipping some lemonade into my glass, she asked me if I forgot to eat yesterday. Then she smiled that big smile that pushes back the wrinkles in her face. I smiled back.

  At our school it’s a tradition that all the kids play softball against the fathers on the last day, and after we finished eating, that’s what we did. What a hoot. I don’t think most of the fathers had played ball since the last school picnic. But that sure didn’t keep them from trying.

  I was so proud of Pa. He just grabbed hold of the bat and walked right up to the plate, swinging it like he knew what he was doing. Know what, Grandma? It was the first time I’ve ever seen Pa play a game, any kind of game. He’s either working or he’s resting. I have never, ever seen him play ball before.

  Since our big ball game with Forest Grove
School, we’ve all kept right on playing every recess at noon. I’ve been working on my sinker and my riser (that’s what Miss Harvey calls my pitch that climbs). I told Pa that I’ve been pitching, but I don’t think it sunk in—until he stepped up to the plate, and there he was, facing me. He had the strangest look on his face.

  One of the little kids yelled, “Strike him out!” I don’t think the little guy knew that the batter was my Pa.

  I tossed one of my sinker balls. Pa took a mighty swing and hit the ball higher than any of the kids could have. But Rachel was right there to catch it, and Pa was out. He looked a little surprised as he sat down under a shade tree with the other fathers.

  Amos’s pa, Mr. Woodward, was up next. He’s a big burly fellow with a bald head, a black beard, and arms as big as oak trees. He has a reputation as a good ball player; before the game the other kids told me that the father’s team can always depend on Mr. Woodward to hit a home run when he steps up to the plate.

  “Amos told me about you, kid,” he said to me as he picked up the bat.

  I figured Amos had told his pa about my bad leg and that it was the reason I was the pitcher and not shagging fly balls in the outfield.

  “Let’s see what you got, kid,” Mr. Woodward said, slowly swinging the bat across the plate. That bat looked like a piece of kindling wood in Mr. Woodward’s big hands.

  I wound up like I was going to throw a fastball, and then I let go with my sinker. Mr. Woodward made a powerful swing at the ball and missed it entirely. He came near to falling down.

  “Say, Woodward, looks like there’s a hole in your bat,” one of the fathers yelled.

  Mr. Woodward muttered something I couldn’t hear—I suspect they were words that would send Miss Harvey into fits if one of her students had spoken them. Then Amos’s pa said it was just a lucky pitch.