Footloose in America: Dixie to New England

by Bud Kenny

  “What’s the matter boys? A little too much fiesta last night?”

  Pedro babbled something in Spanish. Chooey looked up at me and said, “Pedro said your stomach pills didn’t work for him.”

  “What stomach pills?”

  After Chooey translated, Pedro reached over and picked up a plastic medicine bottle from the middle of the table. When the Watts left town, we took care of their Golden Retriever, Kobe. He was an old arthritic dog. The bottle in Pedro’s hand was Kobe’s arthritis medicine. I said, “He took some of those?”

  Pedro held up three fingers. Chooey said, “He took two before he went to bed. Then another one an hour later. But it didn’t do him any good.”

  “Those are Kobe’s pills.”

  Chooey’s face lit up. “What? Dog pills?”

  He busted out laughing as he pounded the table. It took him a few moments to compose himself enough to tell the other two what I said. Pedro jumped to his feet and pointed at the bottle. “Kobe?”

  I put my arm around his shoulders. “Si, amigo. Dog pills. Chooey, tell him they make Kobe bark.”

  From then on, every time I saw Pedro, he’d bark at me. My friend, the barking Mexican.

  When we traveled, a lot of our meals were prepared in a pressure cooker. A small one with a knob that wobbled on the lid and sounded like a steam engine when it was cooking. On the road, we eat a lot of brown rice and nothing cooks rice faster.

  The boys were intrigued with it. The first time Chooey walked in and found the cooker chugging he stopped, then quickly backed out the door. “What is that? A bomb?”

  My wife laughed. “It could be.”

  She explained how it cooked rice, beans, meat and just about anything else faster and healthier. “Want me to show you how to use it?”

  “We don’t cook like that. That’s not Mexican way.”

  However, nearly every time they heard that knob wobbling, they’d would come in and watch us use it. Jose was particularly impressed with how fast it cooked rice. Patricia said, “Want me to show you how to use it?”

  “No. I see how.”

  A couple of days after Pedro took the dog pills, Patricia and I drove to Batavia to shop, then dine at a great little Chinese buffet. We got home about an hour before sunset, and when we walked into the kitchen it was obvious something big had happened.

  Around the table, as if in a daze, stood Chooey, Jose and Pedro. On the table was the pressure cooker, lid off with cooked rice splattered everywhere. All three of them wore sleeveless undershirts, and their faces, shoulders and necks were bright red and shiny. One of Jose’s eyes was swelled shut, and each of them had a hang-dog expression.

  Patricia exclaimed, “Oh my God!”

  None of them said anything as my wife slowly stalked around them saying, “What did you guys do?”

  They were like three little boys braced for a lecture from mom. No one said a word as Patricia set her bags down and slowly turned Jose toward her. “Chooey, what happened?”

  “We used the pressure cooker.” Dread dripped from his voice.

  “I see you used the pressure cooker. But what happened?”

  It was obvious Chooey had practiced what he would tell her. “We did just like you do. We put one part rice and two parts water in, and then we put on the top and the knob. Five minutes after the knob started moving we took it off the stove, but we couldn’t get the lid off. I thought maybe I put it on crooked. So we all grabbed hold and pulled on it. It blew open like a bomb.”

  “Are you telling me you took it directly off the stove and forced it open? You didn’t wait for the pressure to go down?”

  Chooey said, “Huh?”

  “Holy Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it’s amazing one of you didn’t get killed!” Patricia turned Jose toward me so I could see his scalded skin and swollen eye. “Honey, they’ve all got second degree burns. We need to get you guys to the hospital.”

  “We’re okay. We took care of it.”

  “Chooey, these are bad burns. They’re going to blister and may get infected. Look at your brother’s eye. That has got to hurt.”

  Jose piped up. “It’s okay. Chooey fix.”

  “We know in Mexico.” Chooey picked a plastic bowl off the table and handed it to Patricia. “Egg. That’s the Mexican way.”

  “Feel good.” Pedro said.

  They had cracked open half a dozen eggs and separated the yokes. Then they smeared the raw whites on their skin, including Jose’s eyelid. When we walked in they were standing still so it could dry.

  “If we do it right away, it don’t hurt.” Chooey said. “Leave it on for two days and it will be okay.”

  He was right. None of them blistered or peeled, and Jose’s swelled eye was nearly normal the next morning. Five days later, none of them even had a red mark. Lends a whole new meaning to the question, “How does it feel to have egg on your face?”

  Our plan was to leave the farm a few days after Memorial Day. But the third week of May, I hurt my back when I bent over to pick up a piece of trim. It just went out on me. I have broken my back twice and neither time did it feel as bad as when it went out at the Watt Farm. It took a few trips to the chiropractor and three weeks to get over it.

  So it was mid--June before my back was strong enough to get Della’s feet ready for the road. On the summer solstice, we moved out of the house and into the cherry orchard down by the pond. We camped there for ten days, which gave us a chance to get used to the new tent, spruce up the cart and finish a few projects around the farm house.

  During that time, the Watts had a going away party for us at the market. And a couple of friends had us over for dinner. But we knew the farewell the boys had planned would be the best. It was at our campsite with a bonfire, lots of Mexican food, plenty of beer, some singing and a bit of dancing. It was a grand time.

  The next day, we loaded up the cart then hiked up to the barn to get Della. It was a third of a mile from our camp, and by the time we had her cleaned up and got some last minute stuff taken care of, it was past noon. The boys had already eaten lunch and were in the orchard before we walked back to our campsite to hitch up Della.

  When we rounded the bend on the orchard road near our camp, in unison Patricia and I said, “Where’s the cart?”

  For a few fleeting moments, I really was worried, but then I came to my senses. “I’d say the Mexicans stole Loco Gringo’s cart.”

  It was not hard to find. When the eight of them pushed the cart back into the orchard, they left behind a trail in the grass between the cherry and apple groves. When we got close I could hear giggling among the trees. Their trail turned into a row of Empires and there was the cart. Chooey was in it with his feet propped up on the dash, beer in his hand and little boy blush on his face. “You missing something?”

  Suddenly, Pedro leaped out from under a tree and dashed toward the cart shafts. Behind him was Jose, swatting him on the butt with an apple switch. Pedro jumped between the shafts and grabbed them like he was going to pull the cart. Chooey yelled, “Hey Gringo! How about I trade you these two ass’ for that good looking mule?”

  “I never trade down.”

  They had two ice chests stashed under the trees. “Hey Butt, have a beer?”

  “Nope. Got to go.”

  I didn’t know if that hurt Pedro’s feelings or not. But while we harnessed Della and said our goodbyes, I noticed he was gone. I said nothing about it, because there was more than enough emotion in that orchard right then. Patricia and Chooey were really a mess. Chooey said, “We say goodbye in the trees. It’s best here.”

  We had just emerged from the cherry grove and stepped onto the orchard road, when I heard from behind me, “Hey Butt!”

  I turned around to see Pedro step out from under a tree. He had both thumbs up, a big grin on his face and tears in his eyes. “I see you at my house in Mexico. Okay?”

  Then with his right hand, he held up his first two fingers. “Peace, brother!”

  The boys hea
ded for work. Pedro is the tall blond.

  CHAPTER 17

  WHERE THEY CALLED HER PATTY

  MY WIFE WANTS TO BE called “Patricia.” Not Pat. Certainly not Patty!

  “I grew up with ‘Fatty Patty.’ I hate it!”

  Nope. I give her all three syllables. Patricia!

  “Patty? Is that you?”

  The “No Patty” rule doesn’t apply if you’re from her childhood.

  “It’s Rita!”

  Patricia squealed. “I knew it when I saw that smile.”

  They collided into each other’s arms in the middle of the road. Like little girls at summer camp, these two middle-aged women jumped up and down, while they hugged and giggled. My wife stopped, held Rita at arm’s length and said, through happy tears, “It may have been forty years, but that smile hasn’t changed.”

  We were on our way into Driving Park, on the outskirts of Avon, New York, when we encountered Rita. Patricia was born in the Bronx, but she grew up in Up-State. When they lived in Avon, her big sister’s best friend was Rita King. It’d been four decades since Patricia had seen her.

  “Patty, I’d know you anywhere!”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Really! Who else would walk into Avon with a mule and a man?”

  Patricia lived in Avon during her first two years as a teenager. Back then, Driving Park was called “Avon Downs.” It was a popular track for harness racing, and it was Patty’s favorite place–not because of the races–it was the horses that she loved.

  Avon Downs was in the Genesee River Valley on the west edge of town. The village, and Patty’s house, were up on the hill a couple of miles from the race track. When she could get away, Patty would hike or bike to see the horses.

  “It was best when they weren’t having races,” Patricia said. “Because then I could get closer to the horses. Sometimes, they even let me go in the barns.”

  My wife told me that as we were setting up camp under a big oak tree in the middle of what used to be Avon Downs. The grandstands were gone, as were the rows of white horse barns and other buildings from back in Patty’s day. But the track was still there, and we camped in the middle of it.

  Patricia was in the tent pumping up our air bed when I asked, “Did they ever take you for a ride?”

  “Are you kidding? I would have passed out if anyone ever asked me. It was a thrill just to touch one.” The whoosh of the air pump stopped. A tone of nostalgia was in Patricia’s voice. “I remember how I’d wander around the barns and think there was no better place in the world. It wasn’t the barns, or the place, it was the horses. I used to think life couldn’t get any better than that–living with horses.”

  For a few moments, in the center of Avon Downs, there was silence. Then my wife stuck her head out the tent door. “And now I get to spend every moment of every day with you and Della. My dream came true. It really doesn’t get any better than this.”

  The half mile track was still used for training. On the west side of the oval was a long, modern, red barn with forty box-stalls. To the east of the track was a park with baseball diamonds, basketball courts, horseshoe pits, volleyball nets, a playground and places for picnics. And there were restrooms with showers that we were welcome to use.

  Morning at the park began around 5:30 a.m. with hoof beats on the track. When I stuck my head out of the tent, the air was silver and thick. The fog was too heavy to see the horse, driver or sulky (Horse folks call them “bikes”). But I could hear the percussion of trotting hoofs and squeaks from the bikes as they bounced around the track.

  Before this journey, my wife was the one who always got up and made the coffee. But once we hit the road, it was I who fixed the morning brew. Probably because before coffee ever got started the mule had to be fed, or there would be no peace in camp. Every morning she would paw the ground until she got her grain. I don’t care where we were, or what was happening, Della had best be fed first.

  But that morning, in the middle of the track, she ignored me. At first I thought she was sick. So I walked over and put my arm around her neck. “Hey Sis, are you okay? Want some breakfast?”

  Right then, Della did something that I don’t remember her ever having done before, but now she does it nearly every morning. She bent her head down, leaned her eye against my chest and began to rub. Not a rough rub like she was trying to push me away or scratch some itch. She was gentle and affectionate. It felt like a hug.

  While I poured Patricia her first cup of coffee, I told her about the hug from Della. Before she took a sip my wife said, “She sure does love you. I can’t blame her. What a great life you have provided for us.”

  The fog was beginning to lift, and under its fringe you could see the horses, drivers and bikes. For a few minutes, neither of us said anything as we watched them fly around the track. Then I turned toward Patricia and tried to imagine what it was like to be her right then. This had been one of Patty’s favorite places in the whole world, and now we were camped in the middle of it.

  Right then she looked up me with a smile and tears. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

  The village of Avon was up on the ridge above the track and the Genesse Valley. From the town square was a tremendous view of the lush river bottoms. It was in that square that Patty’s dad played Santa Claus. Next to the veteran’s memorial, the village set up a throne where Bob Myers sat and listened to the wishes of the little kids in town.

  When WWII broke out, he enlisted in the Army and was trained to ride with the 101st Cavalry. Bob from the Bronx had never been on a horse in his life, and they gave him a blind one. Patty’s dad didn’t know it was blind until the horse ran into a brick wall with him on it. Bob never had to ride in combat. The cavalry mechanized before then.

  By the end of the war, Bob Myers had been awarded two silver stars, a purple heart and a citation from President Truman. Later he got a letter of appreciation from President Eisenhower. During the latter part of the war he was involved in developing the technology for night vision. Patricia didn’t know any of this until after his death. When they lived in Avon, all Patty knew was that her daddy was a traveling salesman.

  Across the village square were St. Agnes Catholic Church and school. It was a big complex of old red brick buildings. Patty’s family went to mass and she attended the fifth and sixth grades there. I had just taken a picture of Patricia standing in front of the school, when she said, “Did I ever tell you about my dog, ‘Chance’?”

  “No.”

  “She was the first thing I ever won, and I won her right in there.” Patricia was pointing to one of the buildings. “I was in the fifth grade and they had a festival. For thirty-five cents you could buy a chance for a drawing. The prize was a black and white, six week old puppy–a mutt. I named her Chance.”

  Patricia laughed. “My mom and dad weren’t too happy about it. But that was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I had my own dog. We had family dogs before. But Chance was my very own dog.”

  The population of Avon was almost three thousand, and it had a nice hometown feel to it. Patricia said, “It’s been forty years, but I’d have to say the town still looks the same–especially around the square.”

  Some of the homes and buildings were Victorian. Others would have been modern in the 1920’s and 30’s. Before the Civil War, Avon was a resort destination. Water from a nearby mineral spring was piped into bathhouses and promoted for its healing abilities. Avon no longer has a bathing industry. Cool Whip is made there now.

  Patty lived on Lacy Street in a two-story, white clapboard house with a front porch, yard and trees. “What a great house! I loved it. We had wonderful neighbors. There were the O’Brien’s. I’ll never forget Brian O’Brien. And the Marschkeys, and Quackenbushes. It was such a sad day when we moved away from here. I’ll never forget it.”

  Patricia and I were pushing our bikes along the sidewalk on Lacy, headed for Main Street, when she said, “Dad got transferred to Illinois. None of us w
anted to go. That day me, my sister, Rita, my mom and all our friends, the whole neighborhood was crying. We loved it here.”

  Right then, my wife sniffed back some tears. “But there was nothing we could do about it. So we all got in the car and drove off with everybody crying. Then my dad stopped on Main Street in front of a house. I don’t know which one. It wasn’t anybody that I knew. Anyway, he turned around to me and said, ‘This is as far as Chance goes. We can’t take her with us. I gave her to these people.’”

  Patricia stopped walking. Her face was red and wet. The tears were about to be sobs. I took her in my arms and she cried. “I think that’s the meanest thing anyone ever did to me. He hadn’t told me, my mom, nobody. He just took Chance out of my arms and carried her up to the front door. I never saw her again.”

  Later in camp, as my wife cooked dinner she said, “I don’t remember much else about the trip to Illinois. Except that when we unpacked at our new house I couldn’t find my rock and fossil collection. I had it in two boxes. When I asked if anybody had seen it, Dad said he left them in the driveway in Avon. He told me I could find more.”

  Patricia spooned stir-fry onto my plate. “My feelings for Dad were never quite the same after that. I still loved him, but I didn’t look up to him like I did before.”

  The next morning, while we stuffed the tent in its bag, my wife said, “The last time I left Avon a lot of me stayed here. But not this time.”

  Then Patricia reached over, pulled my face to her and kissed me. “No sir! This time I’m not leaving anything behind.”

  Before Patricia’s family moved to Avon, they spent two years in Marcellus in New York’s finger lakes region. It was a small village about ten miles southwest of Syracuse, and Patty was nine when they moved into the house on Bradley Street.

  “That’s it right there. Look!”