MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XIX
UP THE BRANCH
Part III
I see the Highway Department has never gotten rid of the old concrete bridge just fifty yards or so up the hollow. It is one of the few remaining ones with the high concrete walls on the sides. The WPA built it when they improved the road back in the Thirties.
Two branches meet just south of the bridge and then go beneath it on their way to the Forks. The main branch comes out of the hollow and the smaller one drains the hills to the south. At this point the branch is about two thirds of the way to the Forks where it meets the northern branch coming down from Ferguson Ridge to form the major creek that flows on to the river which is about a half mile to the northeast from the Forks.
Standing on this old bridge again reminds me of the time the school was having its' usual Fall Social. At that time the school was housed on the same land where the transmission shop is now located. As was normal, every time there was a social, the same old prank was played. Someone would stand by the hard road, across from the schoolhouse, and wait for the Logan bus (actually it was either a Consolidated or Trailways bus, but we always called it the Logan bus.) The driver would be flaged down and was told there was a man who needed to catch the bus to get home, to get to work or whatever tale could be thought of quickly. The driver would let the bus idle there for five or ten minutes, getting impatient to be on his way, blowing the horn repeatedly, and then finally driving off, while we laughed and laughed.
Later, on our way home, we had all reached this old bridge just at the start of the hollow. There were seven of us from our immediate family, my five brothers, myself and Mom. My father always worked evening shift and was never able to go with us. Then my two bachelor uncles from up in the head of the hollow were along. There were many more folks walking with us, practically all the parents and kids from up the hollow, maybe twenty-five or so more, strung out in front of us and behind us. When the school had a social, everyone came, whether they had any money to spend or not.
We were sitting on the walls of the bridge, or just standing, talking. It was a warm fall evening, everyone having a good time. We noticed a car pull of the hard road into the hollow but we didn't pay all that much attention since it was moving very slowly due to the large number of people there. Although it took some time, we all moved over to the side as far as we could and continued the talk and laughter. Just country folks having a chance to get together in a friendly atmosphere.
As the car got closer, we could see that it was Jim and Norma. Now Jim was not the best liked guy around. He was tolerated, as was his wife, a pinch-faced, sharp tongued woman. As the car rolled slowly past the group on the bridge, my oldest brother (Bill was probably about seventeen or so and I was probably seven or eight) suddenly yelled that Jim had run over his foot and took off after the car. He reached it at the end of the bridge and slammed his fist into the rear fender of the car, making a huge dent. Jim never stopped, just accelerated slightly and rolled on up the road.
Of course, he had not driven over my brother's foot, that was just a ruse to let Bill do something. And Jim had to know that. Off to the right of the bridge was the narrow road that led to Clints' house. He and Aldine bought the house and lived there while I was growing up. I can just barely remember the old woman who owned it before Clint and Aldine took it over. They had a kid, a boy, and I cannot for the life of me remember his name, I think Gary, but not sure. The house itself was a white frame, five rooms, small, and had huge cedar trees flanking it on both sides of the front entrance.
Clint owned the hillside behind the house, up the run to the north and up the hollow road for a good distance, nearly a quarter-mile. He bought a brand new Ford sedan, 1952, yellow and either brown or black. It sure was a good looking car (Aldine was a good looking woman, too.) They moved out after we did and went to live around Ona, somewhere up there. That was about 1960 or so. The house and grounds have sure gone downhill from then on. The house has been all different colors; the cedars were cut down; junk, cars and litter has been placed all over the garden areas; four wheelers have run over all the yard areas so the yard is pretty much of a mess, especially when it rains.
Now, just around the curve from the bridge and Clints' house, there was a small wet weather swamp, on the same side of the road as Clints' house, but down in a gully. Maple Creek flowed on the other side of the road, hugging right up against the road. There were all kinds of paths through that swamp, which could be used in dry weather, but water accumulated to four or five feet deep in hard rains. There was a series of small knolls above the water level on the hillside. The knolls were used for various purposes by various people. One was pretty well set aside for the gamblers and drinkers use. They'd light a campfire and spend most of the night there sometimes. A couple of others were for the lovers in the community. Both licit and illicit. Just let it be said that if a car or cars were parked in the curve, you kept your eyes on the road and not on the hill. It was just amazing what you could find around these knolls in the daytime, but I leave that to your imagination, also.
Two curves farther on up the road was where Jim and Norma lived. The rented the old George Pinch house, a board and batten tiny little frame house. Old George and his wife raised nine or ten kids in that house. It had three bedrooms, all small, and a kitchen, outside privy, and a lot of land around it. But the land was no longer farmed and was covered hip high in broom sedge every summer.
Jim and Norma had rented the house just after they were married, and, for a time, were able to get their car across the old timber bridge. But it had rotted to the point where he was afraid to drive across it anymore. As we approached the house, we could plainly see that the car was parked there on the road, knew they had just gotten home, and should be preparing to get their little girl in bed. But there were no lights. And that seemed a little strange. We had been talking all the way up the road about what Jim might do about the dent in the car that Bill had left. Bill and a few of the others called out to Jim but there was no response from the house. So we continued on up the hollow toward the house. We never heard a word about the dent, but he did get a different car shortly after that.
Every now and then the river would flood and cause backwater to come up the creek. This part of the hollow was almost three miles from the river itself and I can only remember one time when we actually got backwater that far up the creek. That was in 1956, I believe, it was a long time ago, but I do remember that the water was so high that it covered the hard road all the way up past the Fire Road entrance, completely covering the bridge there on the road by Virgil's house. The water was so high that it got into the little field we farmed for Grandma and Grandpa and almost got into the road leading off to Clints' house.
Between the swamp and Jims' house, the road went up a slight grade and at the curve between them, was some twenty feet above the level of the creek. As a result, all the water that fell on the hill and the road wanted to pool on the road between the swamp and that first curve. This was a fairly long straight stretch of road, about two hundred yards, and had always been a nice solid stretch. But one year, about 1957, late in the year, we had a spate of terrible rains. Not enough to flood, but enough to keep the ground soggy from late fall into winter. Then we had a very wet winter on top of the fall rains. and the bottom fell out. We, along with some others, put tons of rock into these holes but never were able to keep them filled. Cars and trucks got stuck in the mud constantly. Then the weather broke and they graded it back flat just as it dried out and it was fine through the summer. The next winter was just as bad or worse. Freezing, thawing, snow, rain and the road broke down again. Even the school bus had a difficult time negotiating the road. Finally, after repeated calls by residents and the school board, the state came in and put truckload after truckload of rock and gravel on the stretch and finally got it stabilized.
Around the curve from there, was another straight stretch of about three hundred yards, past Jim's house, and then it curved around the hill again. Directly across from Jim's house, was a gas company road that led off Maple Creek Road and wound up the hill to a gas well and pipeline near the top of the hill behind our house. The road was only used to company jeeps up the hill for right-of-way maintenance and for growing boys to use to get where they wanted to be.
Part III
I see the Highway Department has never gotten rid of the old concrete bridge just fifty yards or so up the hollow. It is one of the few remaining ones with the high concrete walls on the sides. The WPA built it when they improved the road back in the Thirties.
Two branches meet just south of the bridge and then go beneath it on their way to the Forks. The main branch comes out of the hollow and the smaller one drains the hills to the south. At this point the branch is about two thirds of the way to the Forks where it meets the northern branch coming down from Ferguson Ridge to form the major creek that flows on to the river which is about a half mile to the northeast from the Forks.
Standing on this old bridge again reminds me of the time the school was having its' usual Fall Social. At that time the school was housed on the same land where the transmission shop is now located. As was normal, every time there was a social, the same old prank was played. Someone would stand by the hard road, across from the schoolhouse, and wait for the Logan bus (actually it was either a Consolidated or Trailways bus, but we always called it the Logan bus.) The driver would be flaged down and was told there was a man who needed to catch the bus to get home, to get to work or whatever tale could be thought of quickly. The driver would let the bus idle there for five or ten minutes, getting impatient to be on his way, blowing the horn repeatedly, and then finally driving off, while we laughed and laughed.
Later, on our way home, we had all reached this old bridge just at the start of the hollow. There were seven of us from our immediate family, my five brothers, myself and Mom. My father always worked evening shift and was never able to go with us. Then my two bachelor uncles from up in the head of the hollow were along. There were many more folks walking with us, practically all the parents and kids from up the hollow, maybe twenty-five or so more, strung out in front of us and behind us. When the school had a social, everyone came, whether they had any money to spend or not.
We were sitting on the walls of the bridge, or just standing, talking. It was a warm fall evening, everyone having a good time. We noticed a car pull of the hard road into the hollow but we didn't pay all that much attention since it was moving very slowly due to the large number of people there. Although it took some time, we all moved over to the side as far as we could and continued the talk and laughter. Just country folks having a chance to get together in a friendly atmosphere.
As the car got closer, we could see that it was Jim and Norma. Now Jim was not the best liked guy around. He was tolerated, as was his wife, a pinch-faced, sharp tongued woman. As the car rolled slowly past the group on the bridge, my oldest brother (Bill was probably about seventeen or so and I was probably seven or eight) suddenly yelled that Jim had run over his foot and took off after the car. He reached it at the end of the bridge and slammed his fist into the rear fender of the car, making a huge dent. Jim never stopped, just accelerated slightly and rolled on up the road.
Of course, he had not driven over my brother's foot, that was just a ruse to let Bill do something. And Jim had to know that. Off to the right of the bridge was the narrow road that led to Clints' house. He and Aldine bought the house and lived there while I was growing up. I can just barely remember the old woman who owned it before Clint and Aldine took it over. They had a kid, a boy, and I cannot for the life of me remember his name, I think Gary, but not sure. The house itself was a white frame, five rooms, small, and had huge cedar trees flanking it on both sides of the front entrance.
Clint owned the hillside behind the house, up the run to the north and up the hollow road for a good distance, nearly a quarter-mile. He bought a brand new Ford sedan, 1952, yellow and either brown or black. It sure was a good looking car (Aldine was a good looking woman, too.) They moved out after we did and went to live around Ona, somewhere up there. That was about 1960 or so. The house and grounds have sure gone downhill from then on. The house has been all different colors; the cedars were cut down; junk, cars and litter has been placed all over the garden areas; four wheelers have run over all the yard areas so the yard is pretty much of a mess, especially when it rains.
Now, just around the curve from the bridge and Clints' house, there was a small wet weather swamp, on the same side of the road as Clints' house, but down in a gully. Maple Creek flowed on the other side of the road, hugging right up against the road. There were all kinds of paths through that swamp, which could be used in dry weather, but water accumulated to four or five feet deep in hard rains. There was a series of small knolls above the water level on the hillside. The knolls were used for various purposes by various people. One was pretty well set aside for the gamblers and drinkers use. They'd light a campfire and spend most of the night there sometimes. A couple of others were for the lovers in the community. Both licit and illicit. Just let it be said that if a car or cars were parked in the curve, you kept your eyes on the road and not on the hill. It was just amazing what you could find around these knolls in the daytime, but I leave that to your imagination, also.
Two curves farther on up the road was where Jim and Norma lived. The rented the old George Pinch house, a board and batten tiny little frame house. Old George and his wife raised nine or ten kids in that house. It had three bedrooms, all small, and a kitchen, outside privy, and a lot of land around it. But the land was no longer farmed and was covered hip high in broom sedge every summer.
Jim and Norma had rented the house just after they were married, and, for a time, were able to get their car across the old timber bridge. But it had rotted to the point where he was afraid to drive across it anymore. As we approached the house, we could plainly see that the car was parked there on the road, knew they had just gotten home, and should be preparing to get their little girl in bed. But there were no lights. And that seemed a little strange. We had been talking all the way up the road about what Jim might do about the dent in the car that Bill had left. Bill and a few of the others called out to Jim but there was no response from the house. So we continued on up the hollow toward the house. We never heard a word about the dent, but he did get a different car shortly after that.
Every now and then the river would flood and cause backwater to come up the creek. This part of the hollow was almost three miles from the river itself and I can only remember one time when we actually got backwater that far up the creek. That was in 1956, I believe, it was a long time ago, but I do remember that the water was so high that it covered the hard road all the way up past the Fire Road entrance, completely covering the bridge there on the road by Virgil's house. The water was so high that it got into the little field we farmed for Grandma and Grandpa and almost got into the road leading off to Clints' house.
Between the swamp and Jims' house, the road went up a slight grade and at the curve between them, was some twenty feet above the level of the creek. As a result, all the water that fell on the hill and the road wanted to pool on the road between the swamp and that first curve. This was a fairly long straight stretch of road, about two hundred yards, and had always been a nice solid stretch. But one year, about 1957, late in the year, we had a spate of terrible rains. Not enough to flood, but enough to keep the ground soggy from late fall into winter. Then we had a very wet winter on top of the fall rains. and the bottom fell out. We, along with some others, put tons of rock into these holes but never were able to keep them filled. Cars and trucks got stuck in the mud constantly. Then the weather broke and they graded it back flat just as it dried out and it was fine through the summer. The next winter was just as bad or worse. Freezing, thawing, snow, rain and the road broke down again. Even the school bus had a difficult time negotiating the road. Finally, after repeated calls by residents and the school board, the state came in and put truckload after truckload of rock and gravel on the stretch and finally got it stabilized.
Around the curve from there, was another straight stretch of about three hundred yards, past Jim's house, and then it curved around the hill again. Directly across from Jim's house, was a gas company road that led off Maple Creek Road and wound up the hill to a gas well and pipeline near the top of the hill behind our house. The road was only used to company jeeps up the hill for right-of-way maintenance and for growing boys to use to get where they wanted to be.
posted by tanstaafl | 11:40 AM
2 Comments:
I tried to comment earlier today, but apparently I'm having issues with the word verifications. Maybe I was trying before I had enough coffee in my system.
I am glad you are feeling better. It had been on my mind to ask you, but I didn't want to be intrusive. So thank you so much for that update. It eased my mind.
And I do hope you manage to finish your book. I'm still down for three copies. I told the guys that I'd take your writing over Samuel Clemens any day, and I keep a small Mark Twain collection handy in case I run out of other things to read. I think you're just that good as a story teller.
The guys here don't read much, but I read aloud to them if it's something I really like. They enjoy them, too...and then THEY start telling stories, lol. It's wonderful.
I also understand why you might appreciate more feedback from people visiting your page (I'm glad they are there--I wish they'd jump in too). There are some communities for writers online, where you can get feedback and offer advice, with other writers. One of those might be something you'd enjoy. But if you go to one of those, make sure to pass along a link for me. I'd miss reading these :) Very much, I'd miss them.
No, I think I'll go it alone for a while. I still have much writing to do before I finally turn it into a full blown rewrite for a book. It is in its' seminal stage right now. I'm trying different formats and different styles while staying true to my own upbringing. And whatever I do, I have to keep it country and kind of jakey because that is the way I am naturally. I can put on the dog with the best of them but I can sit and swig the rotgut moon with the fellers too. And feel right at home with both and all those in between.
I have the outline of the book. I am missing a number of chapters that I still need to write, but I'll get on a jag and knock out a bunch of them soon. I just need a week or two of rainy weather and the desire to do it. It's funny, my brother and I were talking today and I was unaware that he had begun writing. But he asked me what I knew of copyright law and how he could protect something. I am not sure right at the moment whether he has written something or whether one of his family has, but the games' afoot there.
Tell you what, you've not read the Preface and Dedication to the novel. I'll put it up in the AM for you. Then you'll be more able to tie in the Up The Branch thing.
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