Entry #551244, added on 11-24-07 @ 4:58 am EST
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| The Bay Road Legacy Chapter 3 Today is the Day | Entry #551244 |
THE BAY ROAD LEGACY
Chapter Three
Today Is The Day
Thursday morning arrived bright and clear, a beautiful warm day without a cloud in the sky. The air smelled sweet and fresh. We were finally going to begin a new life in a new home and experience as a family all that life could bring. I think I sensed an easing of the tension that mother had been experiencing. She was almost anxious now to get back out to the farm. The movers would be bringing the last of our furnishings, she would be getting a new stove, and our expected company would have a place to sleep. Yes I thought, today is the day.
I was looking forward to learning how to operate a tractor and who knows what else. My brother was of course still complaining about being forced into farm life, and really wanted no part of it. My sister and her son Greg were going to do just fine, and she was looking at the job want ads in the local paper as we drove out to the farm. Greg slept peacefully, not even aware that his life too would change. As we drove out Bay Road, we spotted the furniture truck from home just up the road ahead of us. Father drew close, and beeped as we went past, waiving for them to follow us, so they would not miss the house. The trip out Bay Rd. seemed to be a bit shorter than in days past.
We pulled into the driveway, followed by MacDonald’s moving truck and soon everyone was busy helping to unload the boxes of clothing, and pots and pans and furniture from home. Just before noon, Mr. Roberts the farm manager came by to see how we were doing, and told me that my driving lesson would have to wait a few days as the tractor needed a new oil pump.
The large Sears truck pulled into the driveway, and quickly unloaded the roll-around cots, and then set about moving in the new stove. Surprise! The house did not have the wiring necessary to operate an electric stove! Mr. Roberts was still in the yard when the discovery was made, and quickly agreed to have an electrician come out and do the wiring that very day. The Sears men and the movers dismantled the old farm stove and labored at moving it out into the milk room behind the kitchen. Mother worked at a fast pace to locate one box in particular that had been brought up that morning. There, amidst the pots and pans, was salvation. An electric coffee pot and a two burner electric hot plate. Both would work on the old wiring. Soon mother was able to call a stop to the activity and serve a real lunch of fresh coffee and a bowl of tomato soup, warmed on the hot plate, and a sandwich. A kitchen table left behind by the last residents had been cleaned and polished and chairs found in the rear of the house would serve well. Nothing fancy, just enough to be like home.
Throughout the after noon, the work of emptying boxes and putting things in their right place went on. It was decided that even though my brother and I were to have our own rooms, the bunk beds would be set up singly in one room for the time being, and the opposite room would be the guest room with the cots opened and made up there. To dispel our disappointment, we were reminded that it was for Uncle Jimmy to have a place upstairs. That made it all seem okay.
By late afternoon, the movers had left, hoping to get back to the Boston area before midnight. The Sears men had gone, leaving the stove standing just inside the back door. We were still waiting on the electrician, and mother was growing very concerned. My sister had finished putting the bed together for her son in the small upstairs room that was to become his, and had finally located all of her boxes and personal items in the dwindling stacks of boxes left by the movers. She scooped up Greg and brought him upstairs in her arms, with great hope of showing him his new room and expecting that he might just curl up and take a nap.
We all watched as she brought him into the now cleaned room, which held a painted rocking chair and large crib, and small painted chest of drawers. Greg had been underfoot all day, and was certainly tired enough to have fallen asleep, but as we watched, when Joan entered the room with her son, he immediately began to cry. Not just “I’m tired” tears, but screaming, have a tantrum tears. Okay, we will just wait and try again later. She was sure that he would fall asleep on the couch in the living room as he had done several times, and she would try again later to settle him into his new room.
By five PM it was obvious that no electrician would arrive to connect the stove but again to mother that was only a small inconvenience. She would find a way to cook another meal on the hot plate, if that were necessary. Father had other ideas, and offered to take us all to a local ice cream shop that had the best burgers and ice cream in the area. I don’t think he was up to another cup of soup or sandwich.
We arrived at the shop, and were seated in a large corner booth. A pleasant young lady arrived to take our order, and in the open spirit of friendliness asked “are you folks new in town”? Mother answered “Yes, we are moving into the old farm house on Bay Rd.” The young lady took our orders for burgers all around. “Good Luck”, she said, adding that no one had lived out at that place for a long time. “No one.” Have you moved in yet?” “No we have been trying to do that all week, and tonight will be our first night,” was mothers’ response. “Oh well, I’ll go get your burgers, and be right back,” said the girl as she hurried away from the table.
Soon we noticed that each of the employees at the shop were involved in conversation with our waitress, who obviously had pointed out the new folks in town. “What did she mean, Good Luck” asked mother. Oh nothing, she probably doesn’t know how nice it is now, was Fathers’ response. “Probably just being friendly and wishing us good luck, what else would she say, have bad luck”? It was obviously the way in which she had said it bothered mother.
The burgers and fries were great, and father insisted since he was treating that we all have an ice cream, for desert. I really did not have room, or the desire for ice cream, but as I said he insisted. Along with bigger is better, more also was better was in fathers thinking. We stayed and ate ice cream, and at just about the time that we were readying to leave the rain began to fall.
It was now growing dark, and in a distance we could hear thunder beginning to roll. The roads around town did not have street lighting and in the darkness and in the rain that fell even harder we drove toward Bay Road, we could see only flashes of the countryside lit by the lightning now advancing toward us. By the time that we pulled into the driveway, the house that we had left just a few hours earlier, had become an ominous vision as the flashes of lightning gave it an eerie and daunting appearance. “Let’s wait out here in the car until the storm blows by” said mother. “I don’t want to get all wet.” “Nonsense” said father. “ We could all afford to get a free shower. When we get in we can all dry off, and get a good nights sleep.”
Thunder storms in the city from which we had come always seemed to be short lived phenomena, arriving and departing in a matter of an hour or so, and being more of a bother than anything else. Here on the farm in far away upstate New York, the storm took on a new presence. It growled and cursed and threw fear into the inner parts of ones’ soul. The storm, rolling down the valley had a life and personality of its’ own.
We sat in the car until ten pm, not venturing one foot toward the old farm house that now sat and shuddered at every blast of thunder. Finally, in desperation we ran from the car to the house. Father pushed open the door to the kitchen and grabbed for the light switch to bring life to the room. Several flicks of the switch, and no light. He stumbled toward the table and tried the lamp that mother had placed on it only a few hours before. No luck. The electricity was out, probably hit by lightning. What to do next?
Father remembered having seen several old oil lamps in one of the rooms at the rear of the house. He ran back to the car, in the rain and found a flashlight under his seat. Armed with the flashlight he entered the rear section of the house and emerged a few moments later with two oil lamps. The flashlight gave up its’ glow just as father lit the first lamp and it began to fill the room with life. It cast shadows that danced on the walls and reflected off the window panes. The flashes of lightning and the glow of the old oil lamp were not a warm and inviting homecoming for this our first night on the farm.
From the upstairs we could hear strange noises as the wind rattled windows and rain fell hard upon the new metal siding and roof. At times it sounded like screams that came down from above. Mother suggested that until the electricity came back on we would all stay right where we were, in the kitchen, and sleep there if we had to. After tinkering with the second lamp, father was able to ignite it and now, we could see more clearly as we moved about in the kitchen. He made his way to the newly installed telephone, and as he tried to call the power company, learned that the phone line too had been disabled. “Well we will just have to make the best of it” said Father. “We don’t have to stay in the kitchen; we could at least go into the living room and sit comfortably.” Huddled together like a flock of wet sheep we made our way into the living room, with father leading and mother bringing up the rear, each holding an old flickering oil lamp.
The lamps were placed on top of the oversized fireplace mantel and we settled into the new chairs and onto the new couch. Greg, nestled against his mothers’ chest, slept with complete innocence, unaware of the storm the light or the first nights experience. “So this is how the early settlers lived, in the dark, no phone, nothing to watch or listen to, how awful it must have been” said mother. “No wonder they went to bed at dark and got up with the sun.” “On the other hand,” replied Father, “some people might think this was a perfectly romantic setting. It is all how you look at it.”
“Hey,” I shouted out, “the rain is coming in down the fireplace, and it is beginning to run out on the floor.” Mother quickly grabbed an old news paper from a nearby box and put it in front of the fireplace, while Father tried to find a way to close the damper plate in the chimney. As he struggled to pull a large forged handle down, which he was sure would close the damper plate; two dead crows fell from the chimney onto the hearth. They had apparently become trapped in the chimney and instead of closing the damper; father had opened it allowing them to drop in quite unexpectedly.
No, this was not quite the way any of us could have envisioned our first night in our new home. Just how much worse it could get was not even in our thoughts. Father wrapped the crows in news paper and placed them in a box and removed them from the room. “You should wash your hands after touching them” said mother. “With what” asked father. No electricity means no water. No pumps to pump it to us.” No water meant no toilets, and that carried its’ own problems. It was well past two AM when the storm subsided. No one moved. The house grew strangely quiet and each of us fell deeply asleep, right there in the living room. Dirty, and exhausted, we were now more aware of the obstacles that faced us than we ever had been before.
Night passed and I recall awakening at about five AM, and seeing sunlight beginning to edge its’ way into the living room through the large French doors at the end of the room. Mother was already up, and I heard her moving about in the kitchen. I joined her there and she said that the electricity was on, and the water and I should go and try to get cleaned up before anyone else woke up. I could wash up at the sink in the old milk room and leave the door open to the kitchen.
Mother went about opening the French doors at the end of the living room, letting sunlight and fresh air rush in. Then she opened the large front door, propping it open with an old book. She told me that when I had finished washing up, she wanted me to go around and open every window and every door in the whole house. “We have seen just how dark and dismal this place can be, but we are a lot smarter than this old house, and were going to air it out and light it up and make it fresh and new all over again” she said, almost as though she had picked up a gauntlet and was ready to fight back. She said that we were not the only people who were up, as she had seen an old man going into the old dairy barn just a few moments earlier. She assumed that he was one of the farm hands who would be working around there that day. “When your done opening the windows I want you to get rid of that box with the dead crows in it. Dead birds are bad luck, and I don’t want any of that around” she said.
Soon everyone was up and about. The discussion centered on the previous evenings storm and how we had survived it. Father received a list of instructions on what he was to do, including calling the electrician and finding someone to clean out the old chimneys and making sure that the phone was working, and getting new batteries in the flashlight and make sure that there were flashlights in every room, and on and on and on. As determined as she had been before, to make this place our home, the loss of a good nights sleep had reinforced that determination. She was now meeting a challenge, and she perhaps clearly saw that challenge to be the house itself. She sent Father off to find someplace to buy some rolls or donuts for breakfast and some fresh milk. The milk that had been placed in the refrigerator was warm, having had no electricity for who knows how long.
Mother poured herself a cup of coffee, and opened the kitchen door and stepped out to sit in the early morning sunlight now just coming through the old oak trees that stood on the side of the house. She saw a rabbit run by and got up to follow it. As she walked from the house, she bent down to look at some overgrown bushes that were trying to survive. “Raspberries“, she shouted out “come and look, we have a whole bunch of raspberries growing right here.” For the next ten minutes we picked fresh berries and quickly filled a pan that she had retrieved from the kitchen. The berry patch would be high on mothers list of things to restore to life. In the days and weeks ahead mother would discover some squashes growing on the north side of the house, and some high bush blueberries down by the pump house. She would also discover the pure joy of stepping out in the early morning sunlight and breathing in the fresh air that was just outside her new home.
By seven AM father had returned with a box of donuts as ordered, and everyone had found their way into the kitchen and the fresh air blowing in from just outside the door. The farm manager drove into the driveway just as we were about to devour the fresh donuts. “Well, look at you folks, early morning and your all up and going already. I can see that old storm didn’t bother you folks at all,” was what he said as he greeted us on that first morning. “Did your electricity go out, is it back on now, how well did you sleep with all that noise?” He was full of questions and showed a genuine concern over the new tenants at the old farm house. “We found raspberries over there and picked some” said mother “I hope that’s alright.” Mrs. You can help yourself to whatever you like, it’s just fine. Don’t feel that you have to ask. If there is anything that I can do to help you out, just let me know and I’ll see what I can do.” “You could find that electrician that never came yesterday” said mother. “Shame on that old fool” was the mans reply. I’ll call him shortly, and see that he gets here today!”
“When I first got up this morning, I saw one of your workers going into the dairy barn,” said mother. “Does everyone get up early around here” she asked. “One of my workers? What did he look like?” asked Mr. Roberts. “Oh, just a nice old man with overalls on, walking right into that doorway over there” replied mother. Mr. Roberts looked a bit surprised, and then asked, “was he carrying anything in?” as though he were trying to figure who she meant. Mother thought for a moment, and replied “It looked like a big old rope”. Again Mr. Roberts paused for a moment, and looking a bit hesitant he responded, “Oh him, I know who you mean, he’s okay, he belongs here. He won’t bother you none Mrs. He is always around here.” “Would you like some coffee Mr. Roberts” asked Father. “Dot just made it”. Mother, did not wait for an answer and went to get another cup. Father walked off a bit with Mr. Roberts. When he and Father returned, Mr. Roberts turned his attention to my brother and I. “You see that old farm stand out by the road boys” pointing toward the last building that we had not already entered. “You boys might want to clean it out and open it up. With all the berries and other things growing around here, you could make some pocket change just selling to the people going on up to the lake.” I know a man that grows corn and he would give you a fair price and you could sell that too right here”, he said. Another adventure had unfolded before us.
After breakfast was done, we all returned to the chores at hand. Mother and Father were going to put up the curtain rods and the curtains, my sister was trying to bathe her son, and my brother and I took up the challenge of the farm stand. The small structure was indeed well built and located just far enough back from the road to allow for one or two cars to stop in front of it. We opened the side door and could see that it would be an all day task, to sweep out cob webs and dead insects and to remove years worth of clutter from the inside. A large drop down front on the building, opened it to the world, and allowed ample sunlight inside so that we could easily see what we were doing. There were many small plastic baskets that had obviously been used to sell berries, and there were even some salvageable paper bags in which we could deliver other items. There were several folding sign boards that could be placed along the roadside to advertise our produce and we even found an old tin box to use for holding all the money that we were beginning to visualize. My brother was thinking in terms of enough money to buy a bus ticket back to Boston, while my thoughts were quite different. The farm stand idea grew quickly and hours of cleaning and sweeping and preparation just flew by. By noon time we were ready for business, but still lacked the most important items, produce to sell.
Mother came down from the house, to let us know that lunch was ready, and told us she had a surprise for us if we would just stop and come on up to the house quickly. Taking a break seemed like a good idea, so we obeyed her request directly. When we walked into the kitchen, there before our eyes, neatly collected and waiting for market were three large baskets of freshly picked squashes, some cucumbers, and a dozen pint baskets of fresh berries. Mother, the miracle working Saint, had struck again. She had looked under the overgrowth in the old garden on the north side of the house and found the squashes and cucumbers and had also gone and picked the berries on her own. “After lunch” she said, “you boys can take all of this down to the stand and see if you can sell it”. Unbelievable, I thought. This farm life will be more than I had ever hoped for. Lunch went quickly and soon we were on our way taking all the goodies with us down to the stand. Mother set the pricing and came down with us to arrange the items so they would look good, and to make up the signs for the roadside.
Almost before the items were on the counter, a car pulled up with a very distinguished looking gentleman driving. He parked his car and walked up to the stand, and greeted us by saying how glad he was to see the old stand open again. He owned a cottage up at the lake and drove up every weekend to use it, and always made a point to stop at this stand. It had been a few years since it was opened and he really missed it he said. He always enjoyed talking with old Mr. Fowler, before going up to the lake. He said it was great to see us there and said he would miss the old man. “Too bad about him, he is sure missed around these parts” was his comment. “Will you boys have fresh corn to sell soon” he asked.
My quick instincts told me we would, and I told him it would be there next week. Well he was our first customer, and he selected several of the squashes and 2 baskets of berries. Just as he was paying for the items, we were very surprised to see an older woman running toward the stand from the opposite side of the road. She was waiving and appeared to know the customer. He stopped and setting down his items, he walked toward her to meet her. He gave her a big hug like old friends do, and just out of hearing range they talked for several minutes. The old woman, tugging on the gentleman’s arm brought him back to the stand.
“I have been watching you boys all morning,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Fowler, and I live across the street. I used to live here but not anymore. Do you boys know who this man is?” she asked. No we sure don’t was the response. Well this man is Mr. Robert Wagner, he is the Mayor of New York City now and he has been coming to this stand ever since he was your age. We were impressed, and all that came to my mind was Wagner, why that was my mothers name before she married. That was my aunts’ name, and my grandmother’s name. At that precise moment in time as if by some plan, mother appeared at the corner of the farm stand. We quickly told mother who was here, and pointed out Mrs. Fowler and everyone talked for a long time. Mother explained her family history to the Mayor and he related his to her. Yes, just maybe, there was a family connection. The Mayor gave Mrs. Fowler another hug, and was on his way to his cottage, and mother, left standing with Mrs. Fowler quickly invited her to up to the house for a visit. “Oh no,” was her response, “I just couldn’t. There are too many memories of that place, and I just will never go back in. Besides I can see just how busy you folks are and I certainly would not want to get in your way.” Mother insisted, but steadfastly Mrs. Fowler refused. In a moment, Mrs. Fowler was gone, back to her quiet small house on the other side of the road.
Well, I thought, wasn’t that something. We were not even open for business really, and already we have had the Mayor of New York, who may be related to my mother, who had picked the berries for him, not even suspecting who might buy them. All of a sudden we met our neighbor and knew that she had strong reasons for not going back to the house, and we also knew that she had been sitting in her little house all morning watching us, while we didn’t even know it. She did seem to be a little strange, even for an old lady, I thought.
Mother stayed at the stand for a few minutes, rearranging the items and just as she was about to go back up to the house, another car pulled into the stand. “Oh my God,” exclaimed mother. “Look at who this is. It is your uncle Jimmy, and he is not supposed to be here until tomorrow,” she said. Well the growing excitement of that afternoon was on a steady uphill pattern. First the Mayor, and we told Jimmy all about him, and now Jimmy and his wife. My heart was filled with the moment and the joy of it all. It was very difficult for my brother and I to stay at the little farm stand, while mother went back to the house and Jimmy drove up the driveway to begin his visit. Stay we did, and in about two hours time, all that was left of the squashes and cucumbers and berries was one lone box of the berries. That was it. We could close now and run up to visit with Jimmy and show him all around the farm.
On that first day in business we sold about twelve dollars worth of fresh produce, and as the summer went on we set up a plan to open the farm stand every Friday at nine AM until we sold everything. We purchased corn, from a minister in South Glens Falls that was by far the best and sweetest anywhere. We found out about a wholesale farm market and soon we were ordering and selling bushels of corn, squash, beans, peas, some melons, cucumbers, tomatoes, and just about everything that we could get, all of it being “native grown”. The farm stand could produce an easy eighty to one hundred dollars every week, and that was more than we would ever need. How odd it felt, to be in the farm business, without even being farmers.
Back at the house, Jimmy and his wife had been given the tour of the place and were enjoying a soda when we reported in. Now it was our time to show him the barns and the stables and everything else that we could think of to hold him as our captive best uncle ever. Just like mother, Jimmy was concerned over the healthy population of rats. He said he had an idea about rat control, and he would let us in on it later. We told him about the plan to poison the rats that mother was working on. That did not seem to him to be a good idea, because after a rat ate poison it would crawl off someplace and die, and would eventually rot and smell. No, he had a better idea.
It was now late afternoon and we re-entered the kitchen where, mother was visiting with my aunt Stella. She was very upset that the electrician had still not arrived to connect her new stove. Father had already called the property manager without any success, and it was getting close to supper time. Without a moment of hesitation, Jimmy asked where the stove was to be placed. Mother pointed to a vacant spot where the old stove had been, and uncle Jimmy, amazed us all, by physically reaching down and lifting the new stove from the floor by the door and moving it to it’s new location. The day before, it took two men to lift that stove, but Uncle Jimmy, big and strong, made it look easy.
Within an hour, he had rounded up wire, and tools from the old sheds and was hard at work doing the electrical work himself. He had mastered the trade long ago, and was I think capable of doing anything a man could do. Father had for the most part helped his younger brother by staying out of his way and leaving him have a free hand to do whatever he wanted. Father was not electrically inclined. The stove was finally connected and as soon as it was, Jimmy stood back and with great fanfare pushed one of the many buttons on its’ face. Instant success, the stove worked. This task, being accomplished by Uncle Jimmy, was just one of many that he would perform over the next days at Bay Road.
My sister Joan had tried twice during the afternoon to get her son Greg to nap in his room, the small room upstairs. On both occasions, he reacted in the same tearful way as he had on the previous day. On trying for the third time, instead of placing him in his bed, she sat in the rocking chair and held him thinking that when he fell asleep she could put him to bed. It had seemed to be working, as Greg grew silent, but after ten minutes, Joan stood up and left the room with Greg. She came down to the kitchen with Greg and announced that she had made a discovery. “The reason that Greg did not like that room,” she said, “was that the room was freezing cold, just as cold as a barn”. She said that as she sat there in the rocking chair, she felt cold, from her toes to the top of her head. “It must be because the way the room is located, on the side of the house that never gets sunlight and in the rear where even a little breeze feels like wind blowing.” “If we could get the windows open and let the warm air in, he might sleep there,” she said. Jimmy wanted to know why the windows wouldn’t open. Father said that he had tried and even with mother helping there was no way that those windows were going to move. Uncle Jimmy, with us in tow, went up stairs to see what could be done to open the windows. With all of his strength, with every muscle in his body, this man who had just lifted the kitchen stove by himself, could not move or even budge the windows. He vowed that before the visit was over he would take care of the windows. He wanted to go into a hardware store or to Sears on Saturday and get a few of the right tools to do the job.
Back down in the kitchen, mother and my aunt were just finishing getting supper ready. We opened the table leaf, and found a few more chairs and sat and ate our first real meal in the house. We told Jimmy about the prior nights experience and how this would be the first real night that we were staying in the house. We would all get to sleep in our own beds. He would be just across from us in new beds no one had ever slept in. Jimmy said he never had a problem sleeping anywhere. He had slept in barns on floors, and once had even slept in a bombed out church on a pew. No, I don’t think it would have bothered him if he had been sent out to the barns to sleep.
After supper, the evening air was so sweet and calm, that we each took a chair, and went out to sit on the front porch of our house. For hours, Uncle Jimmy told us stories of his exploits as a spy. He fascinated us, enthralled us and held us captive to his many hair raising moments, and the many odd situations that he had found himself in. His job, from all that we could learn was to go into countries that we had never heard of and to study, buy, or steal if necessary, any and all advanced electronic equipment, being used or developed by those countries, none of which were friendly to the United States.
One story that held us both, in suspense and then filled with laughter, was about actually being caught by two uniformed army officers while he was “at work,” trying to steal the service manuals for a radar system that he had “acquired” on a previous mission. They entered the room in which he was hiding and ordered him to stand at full attention. They of course were speaking in a Russian dialect, and he although being very fluent in it himself, feigned ignorance of what they were saying. He knew full well from their discussion that their task was to capture him and bring him to their boss for questioning or worse. As he tells it, when ordered to stand, he shrugged his shoulder and pretending not to know what they were saying, he sat in a chair mumbling in some unwritten language. They pulled him from the chair and ordered him to turn around. His response was to stand, and lift one leg up into the air and pull up his pant leg to expose his plaid stockings. His captures were not amused. At each of their commands he would engage in some antic that was to them at first aggravating, and eventually amusing. At a point in time when they were convinced that they had captured an idiot, they let their guard down for a moment and Jimmy sprung on them like a “lion on a lamb”. He overpowered the two would be captures, took from them their guns, ordered them in perfect Russian to remove their clothing until they were both buck naked. He then at gun point strapped both men together face to face and marched them outside. He tied the men with a rope to a tree, so tightly bound that neither could move. Using their own keys he proceeded to “acquire their vehicle with all of its radios and more weapons, and headed straight for the Hungarian border. Mother asked if he ever found out what happened to the men, but alas he did not. He felt that both men having failed so badly at capturing an American Spy would probably have been sent to Siberia for a “retraining exercise.”
It was no wonder that Jimmy was a favorite uncle. He was smart, big and strong, had been everywhere, done everything, and could remember the smallest details of his life and was willing to share every one of them. Father on the other hand could not and never would explain where he had been or what he had done with the preceding years of his life, those years that we were growing up and mother was working and we all lived with my aunt. The years of Fathers life were shrouded in secrecy, and never talked about or mentioned. Somewhat like the old story of the elephant in the living room that no one discusses. Fathers’ stories would take us another twenty years to unwrap.
It had been a day. A treasured and remarkable first day of our new life. Yes, today was the day that would mark the beginning of the life on Bay Road. At nine thirty, mother ordered us off to bed. My sister had decided that her son would sleep in her room that night and my brother and I headed off to our own room. We talked and laughed and giggled as we readied for bed, thinking about the poor Russians and all that Jimmy had told us. Getting into bed we could hear the voices of the adults sitting on the porch below us. At times the voices seemed so clear and loud that they almost seemed to be in the next room, and at other times they were distant and soft. We lay awake in the darkness until we heard the adults saying good night. Soon Jimmy and Stella were on their way up to bed and we could hear them talking softly as they prepared their room.
For a few minutes, the house was quiet, but then we heard voices again. Once again the sounds seemed to be coming from the next room. Had someone gotten up? Had some other persons arrived without us knowing it? Had we slept and was it morning? It all seemed so strange. The voices grew louder and appeared to be of men arguing. Strong words, not at all understandable. The persons doing the talking and soon shouting were speaking in a foreign language. French, it was French. I heard a few words clearly and having had two years of French in junior high school, I was sure the voices were in French. I thought that just maybe someone had decided to stop or camp outside the house, maybe in the driveway, or on the road.
I very quietly slipped out from under my bed sheet and looked out the window, secretly hoping to see just that. No one. There was no sign of anybody being outside the house or within range to be heard. I jumped back into my bed and pulled the sheets up again around me. My breathing became shallow as I tried to hear every word. I held my breath so I could try harder to know what was happening but to no avail. Suddenly just as the voices stopped, we could hear loud footsteps in the hallway just outside the bedroom door. Some one was walking, no stumbling down the hallway toward the stairs. My thoughts turned from joy to fear. I had no reason to be afraid, I was not alone, and my Uncle was right across the hall. All of a sudden a noise from the stairs as they creaked out with a person on them, and then, the unmistakable sound of the front door bell ringing.
Someone had walked down the hall and tripped on the stairs and gone out. I was not about to move. I wondered how long I could hold my breath like this. Sooner or later I would have to exhale. I was sweating and still and quiet, until inevitably I slept. In the morning, at first light I lay awake wondering, had this really happened, had I dreamed it, was something unknown happening in our house. Was I the only person that heard the noise, the arguing? This was all part of my first night in my new house on Bay Road, and it was so out of place with all the good things happening. Had I done something wrong and was now about to be punished for having so much good around me. This part of our new life was not mentioned, not part of Fathers plan. Why now, and why here?
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© Copyright 2007 Peter Yule (UN: peteryule at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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