Johnny Miller, at about three years old, was laying in bed one evening. He should have long been asleep, but instead, he was jabbering to himself, laying there, looking up and out the window, at the huge moon beyond the peach tree that lived there. He could see the leaves swaying up and down in the moonlight, and there was a bit of magic in the moment.
When his Mamma came in to check on him, to find out why he was still awake, he posed a question to her.
"Do you know how come that tree out there looks so purty, Mamma?"
"No, I don't guess I do..."
"It's because the angels came down and kissed it, that's why it's so purty...."
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
Armadillo Wanderings
When Johnny Miller was small, he always somehow felt "different". But, as it turns out, most kids probably feel "different" than their peers. Johnny did not know this, of course - he thought it was just him. But, he did still live in a carefree, innocent world, where he was expected to do certain things, his daily chores and going to school and all, but never too much to handle.
He was aware, from a very young age, that growing up isn't all it's cracked up to be. He'd lay awake some nights, at 9 or 10 years old, thinking about how he didn't ever want to grow up. It seemed to him that grownups had tons of burdens - things that as a child he was spared. He supposed most kids couldn't wait to be grown up and independent - and although he was more than willing to do the work of an older boy - even selling papers for a time, and mowing grass - he didn't really WANT to be an adult. He wished that these days could last forever, but somehow sensed that they wouldn't.
Some of those sleepless nights, Johnny would lay there in the bed, and listen to his older brother Tommy across the room in his bed, saying "Nymph umm phut... I don't care if... Muphhf lutt blauf," then rolling over in his sleep and settling into a deeper slumber.
One of the thoughts he'd think, this little boy, would be about what life would be like without his father. It seemed, in the wintertime, his mother would often get sick, mostly because of her allergies, and sometimes would get so "down" that she wouldn't leave her bedroom for days, except, perhaps, to visit the bathroom. Yet, in his mind, it was his father who would die first. It wasn't a happy thought, by any means, but it was there, nonetheless.
Johnny was the youngest child in the family. His Dad was in his forties when Johnny was born, and his mother entering her forties by the time he understood what "age" was. Of course, every birthday, his Dad would be nineteen again, and on hers, his Grandma would be twenty-nine. Little Johnny was sorely confused when his mother turned thirty-nine. Something just didn't quite seem right there, when Mom turned 39, Granny was 29, and Dad was only 19. It didn't take him too long to figure out there was a skunk in the outhouse somewhere there.
When Johnny was fourteen, his worst nightmares became a reality, and his father did indeed pass on to the next world, leaving this one behind. His father had always been the breadwinner in the house, and his passing left the family without a whole lot in terms of material possessions. They had furniture, and a truck, but they also still had possession of the family farm out in the country, and the houses in town his Dad had inherited.
His mother sold the two houses in town, and they moved back out to the country, paying off the truck and putting some money into remodeling the house. That money did not last forever, but Johnny soon found part-time jobs to help out, and his uncle came to live with them for a while till the family could support itself again.
This older Johnny was dramatically different from the younger one. He had always been somewhat reserved and now it became more so. He sank deeper into the world of music and books, and nature. He'd often go for walks out in the forest near the house. He'd go through an old garden spot at an abandoned homestead up the road, looking for arrowheads left by Indians many years ago, or just traipse off through the woods looking for nothing in particular.
One day, he left the road, crossed the rusty strand or two of barbed wire fence that separated the "field" (now a very densely grown up patch of woods) from the ditch, and headed into the underbrush. About a hundred feet from the road, seemingly from right under his feet, and certainly no more than a couple of feet away, a fawn jumped up and high-tailed it off through the woods. Johnny had thought there for a moment that his heart was gonna stop.
Another day, actually probably only a few hundred yards from the very same spot, Johnny came upon a clear area, free from underbrush, where he saw the signs of an armadillo's rooting around for grubs and things. As he was examining the holes in the earth, he heard a rustle nearby. Turning and looking, he spotted the armadillo - and then it saw him. Most folks probably don't know what armadillos do when they're scared, but to back up a moment, we'll explain armadillo road kill.
If an armadillo is crossing the road, it's small enough that many a pickup will be able to straddle it and never even touch it. But many of the beasts lose their lives despite this, because unlike the possum's habit of playing dead when frightened, an armadillo tends to jump straight up in the air. So, many an armadillo that could have lived to see another day has died on the highways by actually jumping up and hitting the underside of a car or truck and getting rolled in the process.
On this particular spring afternoon, when Johnny spotted that armadillo, and it spotted him, the armadillo did what they do when frightened. It jumped straight up in the air – seemed like it must have jumped at least a foot, maybe more... Then it tore off through the woods like it's tail was on fire.
This was another time when Johnny's heart felt as if it were going to stop. He was not afraid of an armadillo at all, but to be walking along, hearing an occasional chirp of a bird, a rustle in the leaves as a squirrel travels along it's own made-up trail, hearing the wind swishing through the treetops, this is the time when peacefulness would enter into Johnny's heart. The calm and serenity of the forest would heal the broken parts of his soul. To have this stillness disturbed by the sudden uprush of activity as the armadillo, or indeed, even the fawn, jumped up and ran through the woods was a rude awakening to a dozing soul. But once the adrenaline rush was over, and his heart calmed a bit, Johnny was happier than he'd been in days, or even months.
The teenage Johnny would often return home from these “wanderings” recharged and ready to face a new day. As he'd lay his head down on his pillow in the evening, listening to the sound of cicadas in the treetops seesawing along, and hearing the whippoorwill call in the trees just across the way from the homeplace, he'd dream happy dreams...
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Soggy Sawdust
Name: Johnny Arthur Miller
Found: February 20, 1971
Exact Age: Unknown
In Johnny Miller's family, each of the kids had a 'birth story'. They came up with the stories on their own, or with the egging on of their siblings. And depending on the child's imagination, at the time, the stories tended to be a little fanciful. But once adopted, the stories 'stuck' and although the details may have been stretched in the retelling, the basic story stayed the same.
For example, when Ann Miller, Johnny's older sister, was born, she was born a little black baby. Now, there was nothing wrong with this, black folks and white folks are all the same inside - but the Miller family was and had always been a southern white family. So, understanding this, the doctors picked little Baby Ann up, and holding her by the thumb and index finger, dipped her down in a big bottle of bleach. This bleaching did the trick, and to this day, Ann looks like any other child who was born white. Except. For one little bit of her. That bit where the thumb and finger came together, effectively pinching her as she was dipped in the bleach. In that one little spot, she was still dark colored.
Now, some kids would have just pointed out that they had a birthmark, but, who's to say which story was better? Who is to say that the bleach bottle story wasn't true? Certainly little Ann told it as if it were. Her baby brothers, Johnny and Tommy, thought it was true.
Johnny Miller had his own 'birth story'. In some ways, perhaps, it was not quite as fanciful as Ann's story, but, it was his story, nonetheless, and as true as could be. You see, when Johnny Miller was a baby, the sleepy little town of Armadillo Creek had two factories - a glove factory, and a shoe factory, in addition to the logging, farming, and mining. Out back of the old shoe factory was a huge pile of sawdust.
Johnny never could remember why there was such a pile of sawdust there, but it was there. And sometimes, people would go with a pickup and shovel in a load of it and haul it away for some purpose or other, to put on the fields, or something. Johnny Miller's Daddy did this one day, and as he was shoveling the sawdust from the giant pile, his shovel struck something semi-solid. He reached down and raked the sawdust off, and, lo and behold, there was a baby boy there, buried in the sawdust.
Well, as everyone knows a baby should be cleaned up and taken care of - Daddy Miller could not very well just ignore this child, so he loaded him up in the truck, and headed into the city the next county over, where the hospital was. The doctors and nurses there took great care of little Johnny. In his telling, Johnny recounted that they had gotten water hoses to clean all the sawdust off of him, and then, out of his head - and they'd stuck the end of one water hose in his left nostril, and blew sawdust and dirt out of his right earhole, and then they'd switch to the other nostril, and back and forth, till the worst of the sawdust was washed out of his poor noggin.
Once he was cleaned up, he was a right presentable little baby, and the Miller family brought him home with them, and he was a welcome addition to the family. There were already the three older kids, and Tommy, and last in line was little Johnny. Whenever he'd tell this story to wondering adults or other kids his age, he’d finish it up by shaking his head vigorously, and asking, “Did you hear that sloshing sound? There still some water and soggy sawdust up there….”
Found: February 20, 1971
Exact Age: Unknown
In Johnny Miller's family, each of the kids had a 'birth story'. They came up with the stories on their own, or with the egging on of their siblings. And depending on the child's imagination, at the time, the stories tended to be a little fanciful. But once adopted, the stories 'stuck' and although the details may have been stretched in the retelling, the basic story stayed the same.
For example, when Ann Miller, Johnny's older sister, was born, she was born a little black baby. Now, there was nothing wrong with this, black folks and white folks are all the same inside - but the Miller family was and had always been a southern white family. So, understanding this, the doctors picked little Baby Ann up, and holding her by the thumb and index finger, dipped her down in a big bottle of bleach. This bleaching did the trick, and to this day, Ann looks like any other child who was born white. Except. For one little bit of her. That bit where the thumb and finger came together, effectively pinching her as she was dipped in the bleach. In that one little spot, she was still dark colored.
Now, some kids would have just pointed out that they had a birthmark, but, who's to say which story was better? Who is to say that the bleach bottle story wasn't true? Certainly little Ann told it as if it were. Her baby brothers, Johnny and Tommy, thought it was true.
Johnny Miller had his own 'birth story'. In some ways, perhaps, it was not quite as fanciful as Ann's story, but, it was his story, nonetheless, and as true as could be. You see, when Johnny Miller was a baby, the sleepy little town of Armadillo Creek had two factories - a glove factory, and a shoe factory, in addition to the logging, farming, and mining. Out back of the old shoe factory was a huge pile of sawdust.
Johnny never could remember why there was such a pile of sawdust there, but it was there. And sometimes, people would go with a pickup and shovel in a load of it and haul it away for some purpose or other, to put on the fields, or something. Johnny Miller's Daddy did this one day, and as he was shoveling the sawdust from the giant pile, his shovel struck something semi-solid. He reached down and raked the sawdust off, and, lo and behold, there was a baby boy there, buried in the sawdust.
Well, as everyone knows a baby should be cleaned up and taken care of - Daddy Miller could not very well just ignore this child, so he loaded him up in the truck, and headed into the city the next county over, where the hospital was. The doctors and nurses there took great care of little Johnny. In his telling, Johnny recounted that they had gotten water hoses to clean all the sawdust off of him, and then, out of his head - and they'd stuck the end of one water hose in his left nostril, and blew sawdust and dirt out of his right earhole, and then they'd switch to the other nostril, and back and forth, till the worst of the sawdust was washed out of his poor noggin.
Once he was cleaned up, he was a right presentable little baby, and the Miller family brought him home with them, and he was a welcome addition to the family. There were already the three older kids, and Tommy, and last in line was little Johnny. Whenever he'd tell this story to wondering adults or other kids his age, he’d finish it up by shaking his head vigorously, and asking, “Did you hear that sloshing sound? There still some water and soggy sawdust up there….”
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Pork and Beans
All Johnny Miller wanted for Christmas that year was a can of pork and beans. Why is not important anymore, it's just that he had it in his mind that he wanted pork and beans. Preferably the kind that had a good chunk of pork and not just a tiny blob of fat.
It was their Christmas tradition to be at home opening presents on Christmas morning, but oftentimes the weekend before they'd go up to their grandparent's home near the city about a hundred miles from Armadillo Creek. This year, the Miller family did do that, but the official "family gathering" was at his Uncle's house - his Mom's brother's house. All the family was gathering there, for a nice big dinner. There were cousins running all over the place, and aunts and uncles, and, of course, his Grandma and Grandpa.
Uncle George went "away" for awhile, nobody knew where he had disappeared to. But he came back, he had a big grin on his face, and nobody knew why. Then when it was time to open the family gifts, everybody got a little something from everybody else, and even if it was only an ornament or a little gift, all the kids were having fun anyways. Except, Johnny. He really did have his heart set on those pork and beans.
Uncle George walked in and proudly handed Johnny a giant-sized can of pork and beans, with a nice red ribbon tied around the can. Johnny was ready to eat them right then and there, but his Mom wouldn't let him open it right away - he had to wait a few days till they were back home in Armadillo Creek.
When that day finally came, Johnny excitedly got ready to open his can, but - alas, his mother made him share the beans with everyone else. He pouted and argued, but to no avail. She was determined that he wouldn't make himself sick on such a large can of pork and beans. And, though he did get the biggest helping, everyone enjoyed them together.
Johnny learned that sometimes what we want most of all, isn't really what's best for us. Sometimes, maybe we want things that do not even really make much sense. When he was eating them, though, those pork and beans were perfect. But if he had eaten them all, no doubt he would have either become sick, or made those around him sick. So, sometimes, we have to share those things we want for ourselves with other people, in order for everyone to be happy.
It was their Christmas tradition to be at home opening presents on Christmas morning, but oftentimes the weekend before they'd go up to their grandparent's home near the city about a hundred miles from Armadillo Creek. This year, the Miller family did do that, but the official "family gathering" was at his Uncle's house - his Mom's brother's house. All the family was gathering there, for a nice big dinner. There were cousins running all over the place, and aunts and uncles, and, of course, his Grandma and Grandpa.
Uncle George went "away" for awhile, nobody knew where he had disappeared to. But he came back, he had a big grin on his face, and nobody knew why. Then when it was time to open the family gifts, everybody got a little something from everybody else, and even if it was only an ornament or a little gift, all the kids were having fun anyways. Except, Johnny. He really did have his heart set on those pork and beans.
Uncle George walked in and proudly handed Johnny a giant-sized can of pork and beans, with a nice red ribbon tied around the can. Johnny was ready to eat them right then and there, but his Mom wouldn't let him open it right away - he had to wait a few days till they were back home in Armadillo Creek.
When that day finally came, Johnny excitedly got ready to open his can, but - alas, his mother made him share the beans with everyone else. He pouted and argued, but to no avail. She was determined that he wouldn't make himself sick on such a large can of pork and beans. And, though he did get the biggest helping, everyone enjoyed them together.
Johnny learned that sometimes what we want most of all, isn't really what's best for us. Sometimes, maybe we want things that do not even really make much sense. When he was eating them, though, those pork and beans were perfect. But if he had eaten them all, no doubt he would have either become sick, or made those around him sick. So, sometimes, we have to share those things we want for ourselves with other people, in order for everyone to be happy.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
2005 Year in Review
After returning home from a family reunion back “home”, in August 2005, I was a little down. Up because I saw an aunt there who I had not seen in several years, and up because I renewed some old family acquaintances that I had not seen in quite some time. But I was down, because here I was back in my daily routine, knowing that sooner or later I’d “forget” the important stuff, yet again. I don’t so much “forget” but put it on the back burner for a time.
There were other thoughts on my mind, things at work and in life that were pulling me down, and that thought – that image, of my Dad and my uncles sitting on the old front porch of my uncle’s home, or sitting out on the lawn chairs in front of our house, rolling Prince Albert cigarettes and whiling away the hours telling stories about when they were young.
There are bits and pieces, here and there that I can remember. Like, down past the old homeplace, where the road always crossed through the creek (until a year or two ago, when the county finally put in a bridge over those waters), there are still the few remains of a wooden fence that stretched along the bank, between the creek and the road.
In my childhood, this creek was the home of many an hour of wading, and searching for crawdads, running from snakes and finding all sorts of other adventures. Here and there along the way we’d find a tree that might have fallen over the creek, and we could pretend to be explorers, crossing a raging river by balancing ourselves as we slowly walked across the trunk of that tree, over the waters of the creek (and, truth be told, the water was only a few inches to a few feet deep – and no way we could have drowned.. but that truth would have spoiled the adventure – it was much more fun to pretend that we were crossing a deep ravine with a wild river running underneath).
But, in their childhood, that fence, whose few remaining slats are separated by inches of space as the boards have slowly shriveled and disintegrated over time, served a different purpose. In their days, the creek beyond was wider and deeper than now. The area beyond the fence was a bathing area, a swimming area. The fence served as a privacy fence while family members bathed. I could almost close my eyes and imagine the fence, with no space between the boards, with clothes hanging off it as the ladies bathed and the men waited, or vice-versa.
A little ways up from there, a tree had fallen over the creek, but partially down in the water. The stories were told that over time, the waters rushed under the log to cut out the bottom of the creek, making quite a deep hole – I think they called it the “blue hole”. By the time I came around, that blue hole was no more, but we had our own adventures.
I don’t “remember” their memories. I don’t even remember most of their stories. It’s been 20 years, this past November, since my Dad passed on, and only another year or two until my Uncles were all gone, as well. I was 14 when he died, and one of my regrets is that nobody ever took the time to record those stories. The voices are still now, but memories remain. Mine. Somehow, that doesn’t seem to be enough.
As an adult, I had the best of intentions – to “interview” my grandparents and mother and get them to tell some of their stories on a video camcorder, and have those memories forever. But, we never quite got around to it, and a couple of years ago, my Grandfather was taken to meet his Creator, and another source of memories was gone.
But, back to the present. After returning home from our family reunion, with these thoughts and others causing so much turbulence upstairs in my noggin, I had the thought that I should start doing “something”. Somehow, I decided maybe I should start writing down my stories. I didn’t want to tell them – naming names – in a way that other people’s feelings were hurt. I decided to make them anonymous. I am not sure where the names of Armadillo Creek or Johnny Miller came from - they just sounded "right".
At first, I didn’t tell my friends, or family. I just started to write. After a while, I mentioned the site where I was posting these stories to on my “regular” blogging site, but that was the only mention I made of it to anyone. Over time, a few new “friends” have been found who like the world presented here, and for that, I am thankful.
Only now is my family becoming aware that I am the author of these tales. I am creating a “2005” version of these, in a Word document format, for those members of my family who are not “online”, like my Grandmother and Mother. As the new year comes, I do plan to continue occasionally adding stories to the site, and maybe, next year, I can do a “2006” document/book.
I hope you enjoy these tales, as much as I have enjoyed writing them. I do hope that anyone who is intimately familiar with my childhood realizes that these stories are not completely accurate – but rather just represent my memories as I remember remembering them. That is, I tried to capture the thoughts and emotions of the time – rather than my later memories. This is hard to do, because as we grow older we “learn” things that slant our views and perceptions and now we look back and see things in a different light. I have tried to capture the innocence of the moment as much as possible.
I hope that maybe, somewhere, someone else may be inspired to tell tales of their younger days. There IS an audience out there, of young ears that want to hear, to know, what life was like "back in the day".
I hope everyone has had a wonderful 2005 Christmas Season, and I wish you a Happy New Year.
Uncle Ed
Dec 29, 2005
There were other thoughts on my mind, things at work and in life that were pulling me down, and that thought – that image, of my Dad and my uncles sitting on the old front porch of my uncle’s home, or sitting out on the lawn chairs in front of our house, rolling Prince Albert cigarettes and whiling away the hours telling stories about when they were young.
There are bits and pieces, here and there that I can remember. Like, down past the old homeplace, where the road always crossed through the creek (until a year or two ago, when the county finally put in a bridge over those waters), there are still the few remains of a wooden fence that stretched along the bank, between the creek and the road.
In my childhood, this creek was the home of many an hour of wading, and searching for crawdads, running from snakes and finding all sorts of other adventures. Here and there along the way we’d find a tree that might have fallen over the creek, and we could pretend to be explorers, crossing a raging river by balancing ourselves as we slowly walked across the trunk of that tree, over the waters of the creek (and, truth be told, the water was only a few inches to a few feet deep – and no way we could have drowned.. but that truth would have spoiled the adventure – it was much more fun to pretend that we were crossing a deep ravine with a wild river running underneath).
But, in their childhood, that fence, whose few remaining slats are separated by inches of space as the boards have slowly shriveled and disintegrated over time, served a different purpose. In their days, the creek beyond was wider and deeper than now. The area beyond the fence was a bathing area, a swimming area. The fence served as a privacy fence while family members bathed. I could almost close my eyes and imagine the fence, with no space between the boards, with clothes hanging off it as the ladies bathed and the men waited, or vice-versa.
A little ways up from there, a tree had fallen over the creek, but partially down in the water. The stories were told that over time, the waters rushed under the log to cut out the bottom of the creek, making quite a deep hole – I think they called it the “blue hole”. By the time I came around, that blue hole was no more, but we had our own adventures.
I don’t “remember” their memories. I don’t even remember most of their stories. It’s been 20 years, this past November, since my Dad passed on, and only another year or two until my Uncles were all gone, as well. I was 14 when he died, and one of my regrets is that nobody ever took the time to record those stories. The voices are still now, but memories remain. Mine. Somehow, that doesn’t seem to be enough.
As an adult, I had the best of intentions – to “interview” my grandparents and mother and get them to tell some of their stories on a video camcorder, and have those memories forever. But, we never quite got around to it, and a couple of years ago, my Grandfather was taken to meet his Creator, and another source of memories was gone.
But, back to the present. After returning home from our family reunion, with these thoughts and others causing so much turbulence upstairs in my noggin, I had the thought that I should start doing “something”. Somehow, I decided maybe I should start writing down my stories. I didn’t want to tell them – naming names – in a way that other people’s feelings were hurt. I decided to make them anonymous. I am not sure where the names of Armadillo Creek or Johnny Miller came from - they just sounded "right".
At first, I didn’t tell my friends, or family. I just started to write. After a while, I mentioned the site where I was posting these stories to on my “regular” blogging site, but that was the only mention I made of it to anyone. Over time, a few new “friends” have been found who like the world presented here, and for that, I am thankful.
Only now is my family becoming aware that I am the author of these tales. I am creating a “2005” version of these, in a Word document format, for those members of my family who are not “online”, like my Grandmother and Mother. As the new year comes, I do plan to continue occasionally adding stories to the site, and maybe, next year, I can do a “2006” document/book.
I hope you enjoy these tales, as much as I have enjoyed writing them. I do hope that anyone who is intimately familiar with my childhood realizes that these stories are not completely accurate – but rather just represent my memories as I remember remembering them. That is, I tried to capture the thoughts and emotions of the time – rather than my later memories. This is hard to do, because as we grow older we “learn” things that slant our views and perceptions and now we look back and see things in a different light. I have tried to capture the innocence of the moment as much as possible.
I hope that maybe, somewhere, someone else may be inspired to tell tales of their younger days. There IS an audience out there, of young ears that want to hear, to know, what life was like "back in the day".
I hope everyone has had a wonderful 2005 Christmas Season, and I wish you a Happy New Year.
Uncle Ed
Dec 29, 2005
Thursday, December 08, 2005
December Ice
One year, in Armadillo Creek, autumn lingered long. The days grew shorter and shorter, but it turned into an Indian Summer, where the days stayed warm, and the nights were cool, but not cold. After Thanksgiving, some storms moved through the area. Then, in the first week of December, it began to rain, and it rained, and it rained, and even when it stopped, a little while later, it would rain some more.
After a couple of days, all the old wooden, one lane bridges on the dirt road leading out from the state highway, through the valley and out to the Miller homestead, were under water. The creek, which meandered down through the valley, crossing the road in several places, had swollen to the point where you could no longer see the bridges, or even the roads leading up to them, on either side.
On the side lane, leading down past the Miller farm, the road dipped through a creek - no bridge had ever been built there, and there was only one family living back down that way, so the county never cared to spend the money on it. But the creek went over its banks so much that it ran several hundred yards up the road, till it reached the base of the hill upon which the Miller farmhouse sat. The Miller farmhouse was up on high ground, and nowhere near the creek, but the lower pastures, down by the creek, were all covered in water.
It was the most water Johnny Miller had ever seen. Later, he'd see pictures of what it was like in town, in Armadillo Creek, where the river running through the edge of town had moved beyond its banks, too, and swallowed up a little grocery store, and the lumberyard, and several other businesses. Where the main highway had to be closed for a day or two, as people simply could not go through.
The good side to all this wet chaos, for Johnny Miller, was that the Armadillo Creek Schools had no choice but to shut down for a day or so, and even after they started up again, the school bus could not even begin the trek down the dirty, muddy road, and past the washed out bridges, to the Miller farm, so he and Tommy had a few more days off, just as good as snow days!
But, it was December, and reality, sooner or later, had to catch up. Because, toward the tail end of the storms, when things began to clear up, and the flood waters receded, it started getting colder, and colder, and colder. Johnny and Tommy Miller finally had a few days of school, and then, it started to rain again. This time, glazed ice was everywhere. Thick, glazed ice. The trees were beautiful, with icicles hanging from evergreen leaves. But, with the loud "pops" out through the forest as the sap within the trees froze, causing the trunks to split, it began to sound as if artillary fire were coming from every direction.
Once again, roads were impassable, but this time, it was due to ice. Once again, school was closed, and Christmas break was right around the corner. Since the flood waters had finally receded, the neighbor kids, who lived down the side lane, would come over and while away the days with the Miller kids, and there were many a paper airplane battle and other indoor fun that happened. Jigsaw puzzles were done, and games of marbles, and dominoes, and Yahtzee. And, at times, the kids bickered, or were just bored, or spent time outdoors exploring.
After a few days of this deep, bitter cold, Johnny and Tommy found that they could go "ice skating" on the creek, or even the pond. They didn't have skates, but if they got a running start, they could, at least, slide across the ice. That ice, after a few days, was so thick that they couldn't make it crack, no matter how hard they tried. If it had, chances are they'd have been hurting pretty bad, as it was quite a walk back up to the house and warmth.
Since the family had been shut out of town, most of the time for a week or two prior to the ice storm, supplies were already low. But, there were always beans, pinto beans. Many songs would be sung, around the house, about "Beans, beans, musical fruit..."
The other problem was that the Miller family wasn't quite prepared for the sudden cold snap. There was firewood, but, before the ice started to melt, the wood supply was getting low. Johnny's Dad, and Johnny and Tommy, piled into the truck and went off down the road, slipping and sliding just a bit, to some deadfalls next to the road in the edge of the National Forest.
Johnny, at seven or eight, was not afraid to carry an armload of wood, from where it had just been cut, to the tailgate of the truck, or to climb into the truck and start stacking the wood, neatly, while his older brother carried it to him.
But, with a few sticks of firewood, or not, that ice was treacherous, and there was more than one bruised behind, and skinned elbow, by the time the load was complete. Then, when the truck was loaded up, they went back to the house, with enough firewood to last through the rest of the cold snap, until the roads cleared enough to get out and forage for more.
This was one December, where the Christmas Holidays were almost a drag, after having already missed a large chunk of the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas due to weather conditions. But eventually, the winter chill would recede, and springtime would bring renewal.
After a couple of days, all the old wooden, one lane bridges on the dirt road leading out from the state highway, through the valley and out to the Miller homestead, were under water. The creek, which meandered down through the valley, crossing the road in several places, had swollen to the point where you could no longer see the bridges, or even the roads leading up to them, on either side.
On the side lane, leading down past the Miller farm, the road dipped through a creek - no bridge had ever been built there, and there was only one family living back down that way, so the county never cared to spend the money on it. But the creek went over its banks so much that it ran several hundred yards up the road, till it reached the base of the hill upon which the Miller farmhouse sat. The Miller farmhouse was up on high ground, and nowhere near the creek, but the lower pastures, down by the creek, were all covered in water.
It was the most water Johnny Miller had ever seen. Later, he'd see pictures of what it was like in town, in Armadillo Creek, where the river running through the edge of town had moved beyond its banks, too, and swallowed up a little grocery store, and the lumberyard, and several other businesses. Where the main highway had to be closed for a day or two, as people simply could not go through.
The good side to all this wet chaos, for Johnny Miller, was that the Armadillo Creek Schools had no choice but to shut down for a day or so, and even after they started up again, the school bus could not even begin the trek down the dirty, muddy road, and past the washed out bridges, to the Miller farm, so he and Tommy had a few more days off, just as good as snow days!
But, it was December, and reality, sooner or later, had to catch up. Because, toward the tail end of the storms, when things began to clear up, and the flood waters receded, it started getting colder, and colder, and colder. Johnny and Tommy Miller finally had a few days of school, and then, it started to rain again. This time, glazed ice was everywhere. Thick, glazed ice. The trees were beautiful, with icicles hanging from evergreen leaves. But, with the loud "pops" out through the forest as the sap within the trees froze, causing the trunks to split, it began to sound as if artillary fire were coming from every direction.
Once again, roads were impassable, but this time, it was due to ice. Once again, school was closed, and Christmas break was right around the corner. Since the flood waters had finally receded, the neighbor kids, who lived down the side lane, would come over and while away the days with the Miller kids, and there were many a paper airplane battle and other indoor fun that happened. Jigsaw puzzles were done, and games of marbles, and dominoes, and Yahtzee. And, at times, the kids bickered, or were just bored, or spent time outdoors exploring.
After a few days of this deep, bitter cold, Johnny and Tommy found that they could go "ice skating" on the creek, or even the pond. They didn't have skates, but if they got a running start, they could, at least, slide across the ice. That ice, after a few days, was so thick that they couldn't make it crack, no matter how hard they tried. If it had, chances are they'd have been hurting pretty bad, as it was quite a walk back up to the house and warmth.
Since the family had been shut out of town, most of the time for a week or two prior to the ice storm, supplies were already low. But, there were always beans, pinto beans. Many songs would be sung, around the house, about "Beans, beans, musical fruit..."
The other problem was that the Miller family wasn't quite prepared for the sudden cold snap. There was firewood, but, before the ice started to melt, the wood supply was getting low. Johnny's Dad, and Johnny and Tommy, piled into the truck and went off down the road, slipping and sliding just a bit, to some deadfalls next to the road in the edge of the National Forest.
Johnny, at seven or eight, was not afraid to carry an armload of wood, from where it had just been cut, to the tailgate of the truck, or to climb into the truck and start stacking the wood, neatly, while his older brother carried it to him.
But, with a few sticks of firewood, or not, that ice was treacherous, and there was more than one bruised behind, and skinned elbow, by the time the load was complete. Then, when the truck was loaded up, they went back to the house, with enough firewood to last through the rest of the cold snap, until the roads cleared enough to get out and forage for more.
This was one December, where the Christmas Holidays were almost a drag, after having already missed a large chunk of the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas due to weather conditions. But eventually, the winter chill would recede, and springtime would bring renewal.
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