Bruce Eyster

As another new summer approaches ; I look back over the past few decades and during these reminiscences : I came across this old photograph of me from the 1950’s . It is from a summer , when I was sent off to Illinois to visit my country , Grandmother , for awhile .
She was a real storybook , sort of Grandma ; she kept chickens , an old dalmation , hunting dog , and she had a little garden , too .
I can remember climbing up in her lap and snuggling into her soft arms ; her scent always had
the fresh , clean , smell that was a combination of laundry that was sun dried and a little , like home made bread , fresh from the oven .
My Grandfather ( her husband ) was a coal miner and looked like the profile of the guy on the Indian head , nickel . He had a great sense of humor and his only bad habit was , maybe : chewing tobacco .
He didn’t think it was sanitary to have a toilet in the house , so I’d have to use the old wooden , two seater , out back . I was always a little afraid of that , because of wasps and bugs in general , that I felt I was exposing myself to . LOL !
For years the kitchen stove was a cast iron model , from which my Grandma produced the best tasting assortment of fresh meals that would cover the wooden table in the center of the room , three times a day .

I had cousins , in that small town , too and we’d spend the days exploring the fields , bluffs and woods , going fishing and swimming , gathering wild strawberries , catching grasshoppers or lightning bugs . We’d take bicycles and head off down old , dirt roads doing all the Tom Sawyer / Huckleberry Finn things , except for building a raft .
If , I had to make a telephone call , I’d have to pull a box up to the wall mounted phone , stand on it and then crank a little handle on the side of that odd , little telephone and I’d get the operator ( she knew everyone by their first name ) and after a few pleasant words, she would connect you with whoever it was , you wanted to speak to . The talking was done by holding a black cone shaped instrument to your ear , while speaking into another , similar shaped one that was the mouth piece , which I could swivel to a lower position , so the person at the other end could hear me !
Nights were spent playing cards , popping corn and my favorite : telling real life , stories that were accounts of and by the other members of the family . If you were lucky , there’d be a few real , life : supernatural accounts thrown in , as well .
There was an actual Main St. with a general store that sold everything from seeds to cotton , clothing and a movie theater that would show movies that I’d already seen on television but it was run by two sisters that would provide lemonade and small bags of pop corn made right there , by hand .
The evenings were always more dark than in the city , where I came from . So , I could see all the stars , when the sun went down and all you’d hear were the rather , quiet sounds of the crickets and an occasional train .
I know this sounds like a Truman Capote , short story and in a way , it kind of is . In fact , I was constantly meeting people , who were , in some way ; distantly , related to me . ” Oh, Hi , Bruce ; I’m your aunts’ , sisters’, cousin on the other side of the family ” etc.
I’d always smile and act like I understood , perfectly but I could never really , figure out how we were connected and treat them like somebody I’d known and loved all my life .
There was one person , of course , that I was steered clear of . He was simply called Choo , Choo
because he was constantly saying that , as he ran up and down the roads and railroad tracks . Years later , he was actually run over by one of those trains and I was told they discovered a thousand dollar bill , safety pinned to the inside of one of his upper , pockets of the bibbed overalls he always wore . Poor , old Choo Choo !
Then , there was a dear friend of my Grandma’s : Miss Warren . She lived a few streets away and although she’d lived in Illinois ,most of her life , she managed to retain a slight , Scottish accent which made the most mundane statements , sound like the most profound words , I’d ever heard . She really did know about witches and weird stuff , too . So , I was always seeking her out and bothering her with little requests that I’d hope would open that secret , treasure trove of those “old wives tales .” I once came across a book called the 6th and 7th Books of Moses . It was supposedly taken out of the other writings because of the powerful , secrets it revealed . It was just a lot of odd seals , signs and diagrams with strange and partial instructions of what and how to perform the impossible and improbable but the book exists and I got my hands on it and that was proof enough for me ! When Miss Warren saw it she said : ” Owwwww , Thit’s a tarrible , baaaaad Bouk ! There was ain olled wumen thet used ta lev hier , an’ shie wod pute thet bouke under her melk churn ain git aul the crrrrream , frum ev’ry buddie else’s churnin’s !”
If dialects aren’t for you , she’d say :
“Oh , that’s a terrible , bad book . There was an old woman that used to live here and she would put that book under her milk churn and get all the cream from everybody else’s churning ! ”
Well , much to everyone else’s dismay , I got her to tell me all about this old woman , who was really a witch ! It was proved by putting a certain kind of tree limb under the steps of a house the old woman was visiting and when she tried to leave , she couldn’t ! It was said the old lady got pretty , frantic. She was literally running in circles and despairing , in a way that was obviously delirious , till the tree limbs were removed , from under the steps and then she ran out the door and was never seen again !
My mothers’ side of the family did know a lot about plants and animals and the various remedies and interesting things associated with them , it seemed to me they just had an affinity for that . For Instance ; my Grandfather , just knew where all the morrels grew . You’d go to the woods with him and he’d say : You see that tree , down there ? ” And you’d say : ” Which tree ? ” He’d finally take you on a walk to some tree in the distance and say: ” The morrels are right there ! ” ……… ” Where ? ” you’d ask , till finally , he’d push the leaves and stuff aside and there would be those little , spongey , mushroom , things . It was like he had an extraordinary sense , of those kinds of things . He’d always return home with the biggest fish but he’d never disclose his fishing spot to anyone , not even his own sons . Once , he brought home a little , baby , squirrel in his shirt pocket . It had fallen out of a tree and he brought it home , named it Rudy and raised it , till my Grandma made him return it to the woods . She was afraid that she might , inadvertently , step on Rudy . Now , she could wring a chickens neck and clean just about any kind of animal my Grandpa brought home but Rudy had become a bit too domesticated , you see , and she only made him return Rudy out of kindness .
Well , so much for summers ago ; memories and butterfly kisses ………………..

Tags: balance, Bruce Eyster, Butterfly, Circa 1950's, Grandma Tadlock's house, Ill., Marissa, summer