When we were little, we regularly visited my mother's family in Cooksboro, and her sister in Melrose. We also went to Hoosick Falls, where my father's younger brother Frank lived with his family. That was the only one of my father's relatives who had children our age; my father was second youngest, and didn't marry until he was 40. Visiting was different in those days. Most of our relatives did not have telephones, so visits were usually reserved for Sundays, on a drop-in basis. Most people could be found at home, as there was no place else to go except mornng church services. Businesses were all closed on Sundays, and anything to do with entertainment was essentially unheard of. A different world. My father always had a car, and always an old car with dubious performance capability. I don't think he ever drove more than 35 miles per hour, whether by his choice or not was never determined. Nevertheless, he would feel the need, every few years or so, for us to visit his relatives. We would undertake the trek to Schenectady, or Glens Falls and it would consume the entire day. The highway system was still quite primitive, with old and narrow roads. In those days, no one, at least to my knowledge, ever brought food or drink on a road trip, even, or maybe especially, for kids. No bathroom stops either, but then with no drinks for the several hours of travel, we were all dehydrated so didn't need to go. Moreover, maybe because of the surprise nature of drop-in visits, or maybe because of the Yankee thrift ethic, I don't recall any offerings of food or drink at those distant locations. I remember being starved and anxious to get home for something to eat. I assume no one wanted to feed people they only saw once every year or so. Life was so different then.
While most visits were to places without kids, and therefore tedious and boring for us 3 kids, one visit was memorable, at least to me. We were at a relative of my father's, fairly local, a farm, probably in the Pittstown area. The man's name seems to have been Dan something, maybe Delurey, though that doesn't seem to be quite right. Again, no kids; it must have been a nice day because we kids were outside, while the adults engaged in talking, which we couldn't stand. They had a farm collie that followed us all around, very friendly. We petted it and played with it for the time we were outside. Its name might have been Shep, but I'm not sure. When the time came for us to leave, all the adults, 4 or 5, were standing around the opened door of our big old car while we 3 kids filed in. The dog was sitting in front of them, a perfect family picture. We kids said goodbye, probably mostly to the dog, when suddenly without any warning or provocation, the dog jumped up and bit me on the forehead. The adults all sprang into action, but it was all a blur. I'm pretty sure somebody smacked the dog, because when we were leaving, the dog was cowering at the end of the driveway, and it was being consoled by the hired hands, who probably thought some bratty kid had teased it into desperation. I remember I felt embarrassed and guilty, as if it were my fault that the dog didn't like me, because it really was a nice dog. All I wanted to do was go home and forget about it; one of the prime commandments of our childhood was that you did or said nothing to bring attenton to yourself. Kids were supposed to be silent and invisible, and here I'd been front and center right before a whole group of adults. Several days later, in the early evening hours, we were playing at our house with a number of neighborhood kids, as was usual, when the man, Dan, showed up to see if my wound was healed, as it were. I was called from playing so he could see that I was recovering. Once again, I felt a rush of embarrassment and humiliation, and responsibility for the nice dog's bad action. My father, always the detective, surmised that the dog might have sat on a cigarette butt that someone had dropped while all were gathered to say goodbye to us. Some things we'll never know.
No comments:
Post a Comment