Crunching Gravel (14 page)

The machine resembled a small smudge stove, with a pot for burning kerosene, a short tube fitted with a lens, and a crank and sprockets. There was a single filmstrip, of Betty Boop, a sequence of ten frames. Making one's own transparencies for casting on the wall supposedly was easy. With much anticipation we tacked up a bed sheet, arranged chairs in a row, and made up fake tickets. Alas, I couldn't make the smudge pot work. Finally, when the smoke cleared, I managed to cast a faint image of Betty on the sheet. The machine was a fraud.

Something eluded me, something a youth with a practical turn of mind might understand. Near tears, I returned the machine to its box and never looked at it again. To this day, I approach most gadgets with trepidation. As for the typewriter, I finally became a proficient typist. During World War II this skill kept me from fighting as an inept rifleman on the German front.

 

Less than a month before the lakes froze Dad bought a used rowboat. We tacked pieces of tin over the bottom, sealed them with tar, and then painted the boat. We would fish for crappies, a delicious new species planted in Minnow Lake by the State Fisheries Division.

The boat moved well, although there were still small leaks. We used cane poles. Crappies are fighters and, once hooked, tear off with the line. In half an hour we managed to land a dozen fish. We fried them in cornmeal dipped in egg batter. I mastered flensing so that the slabs were boneless.

The boat was a sign of our improving fortunes. Perhaps a bike would come next, although I had long since given up on ever owning one. Whenever I'd ask, my parents would say they didn't have the money and that you couldn't ride a bike in snow anyhow. Eventually, I accepted what seemed a fact of life in the country: Only town kids with sidewalks and paved streets had bikes.

In some ways I was glad, since all machines confounded me. I could never generate much interest in our family car, despite Dad's hopes. He kept saying that machines were “simple.” I would wait nearby while he worked under his Ford, the lower half of his body protruding like the legs of a huge frog. When I helped him clean valves or adjust brakes, the intervals of waiting seemed interminable. Cleaning valves with steel wool was not my idea of fun. To Dad the intricacies of engines had beauty and grace. He would tell my mother in great detail what exactly he had done to regenerate a motor or to find the cause of a mechanical failure.

If I couldn't have a bicycle, I hoped we'd buy an Aladdin mantle lamp, to facilitate reading. The Botterons used one, and they weren't much better off than we were. The little mesh bags attached inside the globe held a mixture of air and kerosene that produced a wonderfully white light. Our single-wick lamps, even when the globes had been freshly cleaned with crumpled newspaper, cast such a weak orange-tinted glow that one's eyes tired easily, especially if the book had small print. When three of us were sitting at the table with schoolwork, we had arguments over where the lamp should stand. To avoid disputes, we measured the table, found the exact center, drew a circle, and agreed that there the lamp would remain. Those who couldn't see would have to hunch over so that they could. On winter evenings we vied for the favored spot nearest the heating stove. If you lost, you sat across the table with a blanket draped over your shoulders. The Aladdin lamp, with its white glass shade hand-painted with roses, when it came, shed a lovely light.

 

The glorious close of October, a halcyon stretch of Indian summer, faded as brilliantly hued maple leaves turned from reds to livid purples and browns, from yellows to dull ambers, and fell from the trees, leaving the branches bare. Poplar, aspen, birch, pincherry, and oak leaves, though not as colorful, paled and drifted as mulch to the ground. Intermittent chilling rains soaked those leaves still on the trees, hastening their demise. Flights of honking geese in elaborate formations flew south, following air currents so far above the earth the birds were almost invisible. Skunks and weasels nervously explored the henhouse for possible entries, hunting for fat meals against a possibly barren winter. Chickadees appeared, skittering for seeds on dried goldenrods, asters, and jimsonweed. Raucous crows pecked the last seeds from rotting sunflower heads and from ergot-covered ears of corn remaining in the fields. Blue jays screamed from the trees, where they had drilled holes and stuffed them with acorns. Our hens had grown thick new feathers. Pullets laid their first eggs. The dog's fur thickened. Lady continued to graze in the fields, but the grass had either turned brown or, though remaining green, had stopped growing. In the evenings, fogs rolled in from the swamps, depositing hoar frosts. Rain pools and groundwater near the pump were glassed with thin ice. Each day the air was chilled with mists. Indoors, we lit early-morning fires, banking them throughout the day. Even then, water left overnight in the kitchen in the pan we used for washing our hands and faces froze. We wore mackinaw jackets when we did chores and exchanged summer underwear for long Johns. The first snowstorm materialized late one afternoon. The morning had been sunny with a brisk northerly breeze. Skies were clear. Shortly before 4
P.M
., fast-moving dark clouds laden with moisture drifted in, shrouding the earth. The air suddenly smelled metallic, a fusion of brass and zinc absorbed from the huge clouds. At the sign of the first flakes, we put on our coats and went outside. We held our arms out and turned in slow circles, our faces thrown back, our mouths open, drinking in the huge flakes. Within minutes, the snow was so dense we were unable to see the barn. Woodpiles were capped with snow. Light drifts formed near the road and swirled around the corner of the house, leaving bare patches where current vectors were strong.

When Margie, Nell, and Everett returned to the house, I stayed outside, luxuriating in the snow. The powdery drifts were now large enough to tumble about in, which I did, starting near the house and ending up at the bottom of the small hill leading to the strawberry patch. I lay spread-eagled, loving the feel of the flakes on my skin. I removed my gloves and thrust my fingers deep in the snow. I rolled over on my stomach, as if the white ground were a lover. Smother me, winter! Smother me! Nature's cyclical roll was intact, moving to its next stage, whirling man, animal, plant, and tree along its course. Next year at this time I would have changed, as my life gyrated, impelling me through my seasons, my final winter a gentle chilly breath present in all of the others. My cycle was unique; there could be no other one quite like it.