Along the Back Roads of Yesterday

by Oris George

  Henry milked Daisy. I milked Ruth.

  “Watch this,” I called to Henry. Two cats assumed their customary positions behind Ruth. I squirted a stream of milk at them. They caught the milk in their mouths, then licked their front paws and cleaned their faces.

  Henry finished milking Daisy and placed the three-legged milk stool next to the wall. As he walked by me carrying a bucket half-full of milk, I said, “Hey, manure head, look at this.”

  “What?”

  “This.” I squirted a stream of milk catching him right in the kisser. With the back of his right hand, he tried to wipe the milk off his face.

  “You sorry piece of crap!” He dumped his bucket of warm milk in my face and streaked for the door.

  I darn near fell off the milk stool. Scrambling to my feet, I tried to clear warm sticky milk out of my eyes.

  Holding a half-full bucket of warm milk, I took off after Henry. As he reached the door, I sloshed my bucket of milk down his neck.

  He stopped—he turned around—he glared at me. His face grew redder than an overripe summer tomato. Out of his mouth rushed words so foul they gave off a powerful stench.

  “What’s the matter, ya little sissy?” I said. “Can’t ya handle a little warm milk?”

  For several seconds, we stood glaring at each other. The red drained from his face. I laughed. Then he laughed.

  I turned the cows into the corral.

  At the watering trough, we washed milk off our faces. Henry called me a twelve-letter word.

  “Come on, Henry. Let’s go to the house and heat water for a bath.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  I built a fire in the cookstove while Henry filled Mom’s copper wash boiler with water.

  “You started this crap,” Henry said. “So, I get a bath first.”

  “Okay with me.”

  While the water was heating, we stripped off our cruddy shirts and jeans. Clad only in our shorts, we sat on a bench on the back porch. (Henry grumbled and complained.) The water finally reached a boil.

  “It’s too hot in this kitchen to take a bath,” I said. “Let’s put the tub on the back porch.” The kitchen door opened onto the porch which was screened on three sides. A screened door opened off the porch to the backyard and driveway.

  (No bathroom or running water in our house—we always used one of Mom’s wash tubs for a bathtub.)

  I dumped three buckets of hot water into the tub. Henry added cold water until he was satisfied the water wasn’t too hot or too cold for his ‘tenderness’. He removed his shorts and stepped into the tub. He stood naked as a proverbial jaybird.

  We heard a car pull into the yard.

  “Oh, crap.” Henry said.

  Faster than a screaming bullet, I stepped back into the kitchen and shut and locked the door. Henry jumped out of the tub. His feet were wet. He slipped. He fell. The kitchen door was locked. He had no way to escape. No way was I going to unlock that door. Henry panicked.

  “Open that #+^*% door,” he shouted. “I’m gonna kill you.” He called me a fifteen-letter word.

  “If you say ‘pretty please’, I’ll open the door.” He continued to cuss.

  I heard a car door slam. Henry heard it.

  In his birthday suit—with no place to hide—someone coming up the walk to open the screen door, for once in his sheltered ‘city-boy’ life, Henry had no control of the situation. “Purty please open the door,” he begged.

  I opened the door. (He didn’t even say ‘thank you’ as he streaked across the kitchen and found safety in the broom closet.)

  Our neighbor, Mrs. Cathcart, opened the screen door.

  “How are you, Mrs. Cathcart?” I asked innocently.

  “I’m well. Thank you,” she said, and looked at the galvanized tub full of water. Her eyes followed the wet footprints across the porch floor.

  “Is your mother here?”

  “No, Ma’am. My parents are gone for a few days.”

  “Well then, tell her I stopped by, and have her call me.” She peered at the wet footprints and tub of water as she turned and went back out the door to her car.

  “You can come out now, sissy,” I said.

  Henry opened the closet door a crack to see if it was safe to come out. (He didn’t trust me.) “One of these days, I’m gonna drive a rusty nail through your stupid head.” He was still hot under the collar. (He didn’t have clothes on, so he had no collar.)

  By the time we finished our baths, dressed and emptied the bath water, Henry was laughing.

  “I’m bored clear to my ears. We gotta find something ta do,” Henry said. “We can’t sit here and swat mosquitoes all night. Let’s take your Dad’s truck and split for town. I’ll spring for a couple of burgers, and we’ll take in the show. Whatcha say?”

  “Can’t do that,” I said.

  “Why not? Your ol’ man won’t know. Come on, let’s go.”

  Off to town we went, bouncing along the county road, laughing like we owned good sense. I pulled into the parking lot at Murphy’s Poor Boy. Goldie Martin, a foxy red-headed carhop, took our order for two burgers, potato chips, and two Orange Crushes. As she walked away, she glanced back over her right shoulder at Henry.

  “Did you see the way she looked at me?” Henry said. “I think she likes me.”

  “Man, what’s wrong with you? She’s eighteen years old, almost old enough to be your mother. Besides, you won’t be fourteen for another two months. You’re one dumb horse’s rear end.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with me. I like foxy girls—they like me.”

  Parked next to Tony Gillespie’s new blue 1947 Dodge coupe, Dad’s old black pickup looked as out of place as a box turtle on Aunt Maude’s fancy lace tablecloth.

  Goldie was all smiles as she placed a loaded tray in the window of Tony’s car. Tony looked at Goldie, showed her his Frank Sinatra smile, and said, “You wanna go for a ride after you get off work?”

  “Sure thing. I get off at seven.”

  “See ya then,” Tony said.

  Henry leaned out the window. “Hey, Tony, how many miles ya got on that classy car now?”

  Tony looked at the speedometer and said, “569 miles.”

  Henry tried to keep the one-sided conversation going. He soon ran out of questions and anything to say.

  Goldie deposited our tray in the window and said, “Here you go. That’ll be one dollar and sixty cents.”

  Henry handed her two dollars and twenty-five cents. He said, “Keep the change.” She said a polite ‘thank-you’ and walked away. She waved at Tony as she went to wait on a car loaded with teenagers.

  A limp-fish look attached itself to Henry’s face as he watched her walk away.

  Man. She didn’t even give you the time of day,” I said.

  We parked the pickup on Seventh Street and walked two blocks to the Rialto Theater. The line to get into the movie, Duel in the Sun, stretched for half a block. Tickets cost a dollar and a half each—popcorn and a candy bar another twenty cents.

  Roy Rogers and Dale Evans were no longer our favorite movie actors. We grew up a lot that night. Jennifer Jones remained our favorite until Marilyn Monroe starred in The Seven Year Itch.

  After the show, Tony Gillespie and Goldie asked us if we wanted to drag Main. We followed them and seven other cars down Main Street to First Street and back to Fifteenth Street.

  On the way out of town, we stopped at Brickle’s Texaco filling station. Henry bought a Coke and a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes. I bought a Grape Nehi and a Hershey bar.

  We walked into the kitchen as the mantle clock in the hall struck midnight. I scratched a match on my pant leg and lit the kerosene lamp that sat in the middle of the kitchen table. Grandma Fletcher had come by and placed a cherry pie on the counter. While I cut the pie in half and dished it out on two plates, Henry brought a pitcher of milk from the icebox.

  Henry laughed and said, “Man. This is the life. We took your Dad’s pickup to town, had a burger, went to
the show, drug Main. Now we have all the cherry pie we can eat before we go to bed. Life can’t get any better than this.”

  Long before the sun thought about showing it’s face in the east, two roosters with their scratchy, choking crowing took turns announcing the coming day. Henry covered his head with a pillow and said, “Let’s drown those $*#% roosters. You can tell your Mom coyotes ate ’em and you can buy her an alarm clock.” (Henry wasn’t one to get up early.)

  We were finishing chores when Grandad walked into the barn. “Well, men,” he said. “How goes life this fine Saturrdee morning? Ain’t ya a wee bit late doin’ chores?”

  “Mr. Fletcher. I tried to get Oris up. He said his folks were gone and they’d not know what time he did chores.” (Henry was a master at telling a lie that would fit the moment.)

  “Henry, I didn’t know ya was here.”

  “Oris, yer Grandma sent me over here ta bring ya ta breakfast. You two over-grown pups hop in the car, and we’ll go see if there’s ’nough grub fer two hungry boys.”

  “My goodness,” Grandma said. “It’s good to see you two. Sit down and we’ll have breakfast. Oris, did you find the pie I left last evening?”

  Henry couldn’t wait to run his mouth and said, “Yes, Ma’am. We were over at the pond until after dark.” The fib slid off his tongue so smooth even I almost believed him. “Mrs. Fletcher, you sure make a delicious cherry pie. It’s better than the ones my mother makes.”

  “Why thank you, Henry.”

  “Grandma,” I said. “Thanks for breakfast. It was lots better than the Puffed Wheat we’d o’ had at home.”

  Henry, always the one to be so polite he stunk, jumped up to help Grandma clear the table. While he was rinsing dishes, Grandad leaned over and whispered in my left ear, “Last night I saw yer Dad’s pickup parked on Seventh Street. How ya figure it got there?” He stood up, tossled my hair, and said, “You boys ready ta go home? I’m headed fer town. I’ll drop ya off ta yer place.”

  Grandad and Henry talked all the way home. I never said a word. All I could think about was what would happen when Dad and Mom got home.

  Grandad stopped at the barn. “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher, for the ride and breakfast.” Henry said. “Holler if you need us to help with anything today.” Grandad honked the horn and drove away.

  “Henry,” I said. “We’re in trouble. Grandad saw Dad’s pickup in town last night, and he knows we were late doing chores this morning.”

  “So what. You think he’ll tell your Dad? I don’t think so. Forget it. If your Dad does find out, we’ll think of something. I’m bored. What we gonna do today?”

  “I’ve got a box of .22 shells,” I said. “What say we go out behind the barn and do some target practice?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We scrounged up a bunch of tin cans and lined them up for targets. We flipped a quarter to see who got the first shot. Henry won. He said, “I’ll keep shootin’ ’til I miss. Then you shoot ’til you miss. Okay?”

  Henry was a good shot with a .22 rifle and he hit and rolled ten cans before he missed. He wouldn’t have missed then if the can wasn’t rolling down hill. I hit the first can and rolled it with 13 shots before I missed. In less than an hour, we were out of shells and decided to ride donkeys over to the pond.

  We rode along the dusty road in the gentle sunshine of a soft summer day. A flock of red-winged blackbirds, singing as they perched and hopped around in the cattails, added their contribution to a gentle, slow day. I tied Jim to a willow bush. Henry turned Blue loose. She didn’t need to be tied. She’d stay close to Jim.

  We skipped smooth rocks across the glass-like surface of the water. Henry said, “I think I’ll be a baseball pitcher.”

  “Make up your mind, man. Last week you were gonna be a lawyer.”

  “I think I’ll pitch for the New York Yankees. Babes like baseball players.”

  “I was beginning to worry about you. It’s almost noon and you ain’t mentioned a girl or girls yet. You sick or something?”

  Henry plopped down on the grass and lit a cigarette. He said, “If we left now, we could make it to your Grandad’s about dinner time.”

  As the morning slipped away, I forgot about Grandad seeing the pickup in town. Now, as I thought about it, for some reason, I wasn’t worried. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Grandad met us at the gate. He looked at his Rockford pocket watch and said, “It appears you two pups are lookin’ fer a free meal. If that’s the case, ya timed it ’bout right. Tie them donkeys ta the fence and git washed-up.”

  The comforting smell of fresh-baked bread drifted through the kitchen door.

  Henry wasn’t satisfied with washing his hands. He wasted another five minutes messing with his hair. “Hurry up, Henry,” I said. “Whatcha doing, trying to make yourself look pretty? It ain’t gonna work. You’re just plain ugly.” He slugged me on my right shoulder.

  “Now, boys,” Grandma said. “Come on in here and sit down, and I’ll fill your plates.”

  For Henry, eating was a serious business. After he inhaled the food Grandma had piled on his plate, he said, “Mrs. Fletcher, you are the best cook I know. Would you share your recipe for this tasty blueberry cobbler with my Mother? It’s the best blueberry cobbler I’ve ever had.”

  I almost ‘puked’ listening to him.

  “Why thank you, Henry. What a sweet thing to say. I’ll talk to your mother about the recipe.”

  I went into the pantry and wrote a note to Grandma. “Thank you for dinner. I love you.” I signed it ‘Oris’ and left it on the flour sack.

  Grandad had shouldered his shovel and gone to change irrigation water.

  As always, Henry was in a hurry. We mounted the donkeys and headed home. Henry heeled Jim, trying to get him to walk faster. (Jim knew more about young boys than young boys knew about donkeys.) He promptly lay down in the middle of the road. Henry shot over Jim’s head and landed on his belly in the gravel. He staggered to his feet and had some colorful descriptive words for Jim. (Good ol’ Jim ignored him.)

  Henry’s face began to acquire a deep shade of red—like a tomato.

  Jim had no intention of standing up. He sat on his haunches like a big dog.

  Henry pulled hard on the reins and said, “Git up, you stupid jackass.” Jim’s neck stretched. He didn’t budge.

  “Take his bridle off and leave him there,” I said.

  Henry yanked the bridle off. He swung up behind me. (We proceeded on down the road to the tune of many new cuss words Henry invented to suit the situation.)

  When we arrived at the barn, Jim was trotting right behind us. That crazy donkey didn’t want to be left behind so he trotted to catch up with Blue. Henry was still ‘ticked’.

  We turned the donkeys into the corral, and I said, “Henry, let’s go to the house and listen to the radio ’til time to do chores.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

  By chore time, the radio battery was growing weak. I knew Mom would be upset because we had run the battery down.

  After chores, we washed up and found something to eat.

  “Man, I’m bored,” Henry said. We gotta find something to do. Let’s wait ’til dark then take your ol’ man’s pickup and go to town for a while. I’ll spring for two Orange Crushes. We can drag Main a couple of times and be back before too late. Whatcha think?”

  “I don’t think so. Grandad said he saw Dad’s pickup in town last night, and he might tell Dad. If he sees the pickup in town again, I’ll be in deep trouble. Besides, my folks trust me to take care of things while they’re gone.”

  “Look at it this way. Did they tell you not to drive the pickup? You drive all over this ranch. What’s wrong with going to town?”

  “Dad’s never let me drive in town. The reason he taught me to drive in the first place is in case of an accident, I could drive to the hospital or something.”

  “Come on, man. Don’t be such a wimp. Nothin’s gonna happen. What are t
he chances of your Grandad being in town again tonight? It’s Saturday night. We’ll pick up two Orange Crushes at Murphy’s Poor Boy. Then we’ll drag Main Street. We can stop at Ott’s Candy Store and check out the foxy babes that work the soda fountain. Your ol’ man’ll never know.”

  “Okay. Let’s go,” I said.

  “You got a T-shirt I can borrow? I didn’t bring one with me.”

  We changed into white T-shirts and penny-loafers. Henry rolled a pack of Lucky Strikes in the left sleeve. He fussed a good five minutes with his hair, trying to get it perfect.

  “You gonna spend all night combing your hair? You might as well quit messin’ with it ’cause it still looks like a head o’ rotten cabbage.” I dodged the shoe he threw.

  About a mile outside of town, Henry said, “How about lettin’ me drive? Your Dad’ll not find out.” I pulled over to the side of the road, jumped out, and ran around the front of the pickup. Henry slid behind the steering wheel. “Here we go,” he said, as he ground the gears trying to shift into first.”

  The pickup parted the pleasant smell of new mown hay as we drove through the soft summer evening.

  Once inside the city limits, Henry honked at every car we met.

  The parking lot at Murphy’s Poor Boy was full of cars loaded with teenagers, and more teenagers standing around, guys and girls flirting from car-to-car or just yelling or visiting. Henry found a spot right at the front door. Sonny Hilton pulled in beside us. He hollered to Henry, “What you doin’ drivin’ that pickup?”

  Henry leaned out the window and said (loud enough for everyone to hear), “Oris’s dad won’t let him drive, but he lets me drive it.”

  “That’s good. You wanna follow me and we’ll drag Main?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Henry said. He started the pickup and backed out to follow Sonny.

  Henry honked, waved and whistled at every ‘girl’ on both sides of the street.

  We drug Main a couple of times, then followed Sonny. We parked on a side street and walked a block to Ott’s Candy Store. The place was packed with talking, laughing, noisy teenagers enjoying Saturday night. Tony waved us over to sit with him and Goldie.