The Way I Remember It

About the Book

Dad had a great fear of thunderstorms, especially tornadoes. He dug us a storm shelter not far from our back door that was really just a hole in the ground with earthen benches, floor, and walls. The ceiling was of logs covered over by tin and dirt. A wooden/tin door covered the entrance. We spent many hours in that cellar listening to the wind howling outside and the rain or hail beating on the door, wondering what was happening and if the house was still there. Occasionally, the entire night was spent in that dark, damp cellar without knowing the damage until daylight. A peach tree overshadowed the cellar door and the winds would cause the limbs to slap and brush the tin door to make strange sounds like someone trying to get into the cellar with us. Other times it sounded like the bony fingers of death was scratching on the door. Our imaginations ran wild with pictures of a world gone crazy with destruction of all we had. We were scared in the storm cellar but the world outside was much worse, so we stayed put.  Dad took us to a tornado site in Tennessee and we saw the damage done to a community. We saw a little two-room shack that had been lifted into the air, rotated several times and set back inches from the front porch. We saw straws driven into trees, tin from roofs wrapped tightly around trees; and a 2 x 4 piece of lumber punched half way through a large tree. Memories of that Tennessee tornado didn’t help much as we huddled in our storm cellar. Today, when the weather radio sounds a tornado warning, we quickly dress, grab the dog, two flashlights, a battery powered radio, some pillows and blankets to protect us and huddle in the hallway of our contemporary house.

The house was not wired for electricity because in the early thirties it was not available in our area. Cooking, drinking, and bath water had to be drawn from a drilled well just inside the cow pasture. Later, Dad wired the house for lights with one bulb in the center of ceiling of each room with an on/off string dangling within reach. The string had an intelligence of its own and would avoid our groping hands in the total blackness of the night. We would stand in the middle of the room with both hands swinging wildly in the air with mounting frustration, muttering something we hoped no one understood. I could imagine the string dodging our hands while smirking silently in the pitch-black room. Mother outsmarted the string by tying one end to her bedpost so that an upward swing of her arm snagged the mischievous thing. I have always been very stubborn and have stood waving after the string for a long time, not willing to give up.

As a cowboy depended on his horse to get him where he wanted or needed to go; I depended on my bicycle. I inherited a blistering problem affecting my feet and hands, which resulted in limited use of both in hot weather. My bicycle opened up a world that would have otherwise been closed completely. My bike with it's big wire basket up front took me to town to buy groceries, to sell eggs and tomato plants or pears, see a Saturday afternoon matinee, visit friends or relatives. My bicycle took me to creeks where the fish were anxiously awaiting my arrival, or to a swimming hole made especially for hot sweaty boys, or over the next hill, around the next curve in the road, or rides to feel the wind against my face.

I remember being very possessive of my bike. I would like to think it was because it was my only means of transportation other than sore feet and if it was broken I might not be able to fix it. When neighbors or relatives visited us and wanted to ride my bike, I tried to prevent it by making up some story like "my bike is tired and needs to rest" or "one of the tires is about to blow out and that could be dangerous". Once, when I had prior notice, I hid the bike and lied that it was broken. Another time, I drained the air from the tires, claiming leaks, only to be foiled by someone pumping air into them to

About the Author

I think everyone has a need and desire to be known outside the circle in which we travel. Someone once wrote, “To leave something behind is our claim to immortality”.

I am not even sure that publishing is important. I do know, however that writing is important even though it will never be read by anyone. I could say that it is more of a hobby to be enjoyed by the writer if no one else. Who am I trying to fool? Of course, I wanted to be published, to be famous, and to have some extra income. I have fooled around with photography some and once the picture was snapped there was a feeling of satisfaction knowing I had captured the scene on film. It was mine. A second and equally important amount of satisfaction is derived from showing the photographs and hearing the ahs and ohs.