|
I work the 3rd shift at one of the local Health Systems in
Dallas, Texas. Shortly after Thanksgiving, I went into
the Interventional Radiology Nursing Station at the start of
my shift, to make my token "two coffee pack" pot of
coffee. I stopped in my tracks before I made it to the
kitchenette. The thought of a double caffeine dose hitting my
system was momentarily forgotten. There next to one of the exits,
was a cardboard fireplace with about twenty stockings hanging
above the mantle. One for each of the radiologists, nurses and
secretary. Immediately, I was transported back to being
six years old and sitting in the living room at home in
Cadyville, NY. Watching "The Little Drummer Boy"
on the console television, my siblings and I sat quietly on
the sofa. They were probably immersed in the show of Baba, the
3 kings and the trip to Jerusalem. I, on the other hand, was
watching the rippling effect of flames that moved from the
inset part of the fireplace. I wiggled my toes, and could feel
the warmth actually coming from that fireplace. My naivety
made me ignore the fact the heat was coming through floor
vents. I sunk deeper into the sofa, more relaxed and a
feverish excitement built in my chest. Christmas would be
here soon, and Santa was going to squeeze down that cardboard
fireplace! I hoped he would notice the great tree my father
had brought through the front door and that was glistening
with tinsel and other decorations. The piney scent
entered my tiny nostrils. Splintery needles had not yet started to
loosen themselves from the branches and gather in small tufts
on the floor. Saturdays and snow days when school had been cancelled were
exciting for the neighborhood. Families with children
that lived on the lower end of the Bucks Corners Road would
all convene next to the the Garrow household. There is a hill
that seemed as impressive in size as Whiteface Mountain. We
would spend all day sliding down on flying saucers, sleds and
toboggans. Dodging a cluster of trees that lined the field was
no small feat. Those thin frozen branches would whip
aimlessly, but always seeming to catch the skin that wasn't
covered by a layering of scarf, hat or jacket. At the end of a cold, tiring day, we would
retreat to our homes and eat bowls of chicken noodle soup and
drink hot chocolate with marshmallows. Trips were made almost
daily to the Drollette Homestead, where Mimmy lived with several
of my aunts. Even though Mimmy was always busy, she always
took time out for the grandchildren. She taught me how
to knit using my thumb as a needle. Walks were taken to the
upper place to pick plump blueberries and the long walk back
home showed me with blue fingers and a blue tongue for
pinching the berries from the bucket. I loved scrambling over
the stone wall that separate the Upper Place from the huge
spread that was the farm. The stone wall had tall white birch
trees that provided cool relief from the sun overhead. Later
in the seasons, my sister and I could be found under a canopy
of white birches that separate the Drollette homestead from the
Hartmann farm. We did the naughty deed of peeling bark
back from the trunk and with sticks we found on the ground,
created our own berry baskets. We rapidly filled those
baskets with wild grapes, choke cherries, dandelions,
basically anything that caught our eye. Off we went to the
market to sell our wares. At the Cadyville home, we munched on
beechnuts from a tree that sat on the edge of our property.
Next to it at the peak of the hill, sat a silver maple my
father planted shortly after we moved there. Toweresque pine
trees could be seen in the distance just over the hill that
were great teepees. During these cowboy and Indian adventures,
my siblings and I could be found on the Adirondack picnic
table my father bought. Each side was the perfect size
as an army cot, and my brother would play "Sergeant
Carter" from "Gomer Pyle". We
marched in formation with imaginary rifles, with "Sergeant
Carter" blasting us simultaneously with orders and
comments about the crappy soldiers we were. My
aunts babysitting us when my folks were working was almost
like playtime. When we lived in Saranac, Aunts Linda and Rita
would babysit us. One time before my brother was born, my
sister and I were playing in the fantastic dollhouse that my
father had built. It had a couple of windows on each side and
an open door. We used cut tree stumps that were our
stools to sit on. Some cows broke through some barb wire
fence that separated part of the Hartmann and Drollette
properties. A big white and black cow stuck its head in
one of the windows. We screamed and screamed. I remember the
girls (my aunts) coming to our rescue! One soothed our frantic
cries while another got the cows back where they belonged and
repaired the barbed wire fence. Living in Cadyville, I
recall a time when
my sister was already in kindergarten. Being a year behind, my
aunts watched me, and made sure my sister made it off from the
bus in the afternoon. One cool day, I was playing in the backyard
sitting on a slight hill just behind the house. I had gathered a bunch of
beechnuts and was putting them in a toy milk bottle carrier.
Something made me turn around; CRIPES!!! a snake was right
behind me!! I screamed like someone was killing me in the
backyard. Of course being 4 or 5 years old, I thought all
snakes were poisonous. Aunt Linda came out like a
trooper and ran for a spade shovel. Mr. Snake was
severed into some pieces and tossed over the big
hill. During the hot
summers, Hannah and Robert Palmer, who lived directly across
from us, invited us over for the afternoon. Their house
almost seemed out of place in the rural setting of Bucks
Corners Road. It was a one story ranch style type house. A
porch ran full length of the house and was supported by roman
type columns. The interior was light and airy. The house
belonged more in a tropical setting. After visiting the
Florida Keys in the late '80s and seeing so many similar
structures, I believed this even more. Mrs. Palmer had one of
the most unbelievable flower gardens. It reminds me of the
arboretum here in Dallas, where there are sections of plants
with walkways between the sections. In the rows of Mrs.
Palmer's garden, under an old apple tree, Mr. Palmer would
drape garden hoses and set them on drizzle. There were
metal flying saucers meant for winter time, but we used them
and imagined them to be deep pools, better then the the
Hollywood Jet-set had in the 60's. We would traipse home,
huddling and shivering in our towels, sad the fun had to come
to the end, but thankful we were invited there. On humid
nights, I recall Mr. Palmer playing his banjo from the porch.
Their home sometimes felt like a museum, but one which was
comfortable, and that you like to visit more then once. There
were sitting parlors with chaise lounges thickly padded and
covered with brocade type material. Large conch shells could
be found as door stops. One of these shells was etched with a location in Florida and the year the conch was
found. Their property was immense, and I think Mr.
Palmer was the first owner of the newfangled driving
lawnmower. He methodically would mow that field which would
have been great as a driving range for golf. Thick pine trees lined the
back of their home. I don't recall sunlight getting through,
because there were so many pines. The ground was more like a
carpet of brown pine needles and thick pitch oozed from the
trees. No grass could be seen. Just the pine needles
everywhere. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were retired when I was a
child, Mr. Palmer having done so in 1964. As the years went
by, they traveled to Florida for the warmer weather to escape
the brutal winters of upstate New York. Mrs. Palmer passed
away in 2004. Her husband followed shortly after in 2006. He
was 97 years old. Mealtimes always bring a warm, fuzzy, down
home feeling. One of my favorite quick meals whether eaten hot
or cold were glacier hotdogs. I am not sure if they are still
manufactured. I know there isn't anything like it here in the
south. I loved the snap sound those hotdogs would make, and
how they would bust open full length after being cooked on the
stove. Another favorite was Indian Cakes, which were deep
fried pieces of dough that were stretched before being
immersed in the hot grease. Drenched in butter, they were a
delicacy to me. I dread to think what my cholesterol level was
back then. Every once in a while Aunt Linda would make
doughnuts in the little kitchen at the Drolet Homestead.
My Uncle Carl, could sniff those doughnuts from where he lived
with Aunt Shirley. I remember him coming to the house, not
wanting to wait for the cooked version. He loved that dough,
which I admit had a distinctive taste. Being raised in the
country, I was never real happy to make a trip to Plattsburgh,
for shopping or other errands that needed to be run. There was
too much noise, too many cars, and too many traffic lights.
One trip I did like was going to the mill where my father
worked, which was Diamond
International back in the 60's and 70's. Driving through the
main gate, I remember huge Doberman Pinschers behind large metal
fences. The industrial smell though I always equate (even to
this day) with the smell of cooked glacier hotdogs. As most
kids, my siblings and I were some little terrors at
time. When visiting my Aunt Liza and Uncle Bobby's farm
in Chazy, we loved to meddle with the bulls. Mimmy had bulls
at different times on the farm in Saranac, but the bulls in
Chazy were huge! They each had their own cage, where
steel bars kept them separated from the cows. I recall
how impressed I was when I seen how the bars had been bent
from the huge bull heads charging at them. We would take
old broom sticks and rattle it on the steel bars, just to
agitate the bulls. Seeing them dig up hay and dirt from the
concrete floor and snort real hard in frustration just
encouraged us to keep antagonizing the poor creatures. Walking
through the pasture continues to be a favorite downtime moment
for me, though the last time I did make the trip, it was in
2003. The barnyard holds old relics from years gone
past, that we used in our everyday chores. An old dump rake, a
potato digger, an old hay bailer. In the barnyard there is a
milk house that isn't used anymore; I remember eagerly pushing
corrugated pipe through openings in several walls that led to
troughs for the cows to drink water. Making that pump
arm go up and down as fast as possible was a lot of fun. I
loved to watch the cows slurping and filling their bellies
with the cold water. Leading off from the barnyard is the
pasture, that stretches for what seems like miles and miles.
It branches off to other fields where potatoes were planted
and dug and leads further down to Barney Hill. Legend
between myself and several cousins is that Nazaire or Mose had
an old work horse named Barney, that after kicking the bucket,
was buried here. On the trip to Barney hill, two memorable
spots enter my mind. One is a natural spring deeply hidden in
the woods. At this spring, there is water cress, that we used
to pick and bring home to make water cress sandwiches. When I
need to relax, I close my eyes and think on that water cress
and the crisp cold water that we would drink with the cups of
our hands. Secondly, there is a cabin in the woods that was
built by my father, two uncles and some of the Goddeau boys
sometime in the 50's. The cabin still stands today,
though with a significant lean to the frame. In 2003, Aunt
Linda and I had quite the time trying to find the cabin.
The trees had become so dense, that we could not see the shape
of the cabin, as was possible 20 years ago. The cabin
has seen several restorations. The most significant one I
think, is when my father put in Plexiglas for windows, a
hidden compartment in the floorboard and a door with lock. I
am told that my father, uncles and friends used the cabin when
they went hunting or when they just wanted to gather together
and hang out. My cousins and I repeated this when I was
in my teens.
|
