Our rental was a corner lot, and the street ended right at
our corner. The school bus stop was about half a block down the cross street.
Because we lived on the south side of where Terrawanda ended, I had to walk to
school. With only one car and two other young children at home, my mom couldn’t
take me each day. Instead, my parents worked out some kind of agreement with
the older Relyea boys who lived directly across the street—they would walk me
the mile each way to and from school.
The Relyea boys were very protective of me. I remember one
afternoon on our way home, a boy from another group said he was going to lay
down on the railroad tracks we crossed. Other kids tried to talk him out of it,
but he wouldn’t budge. When the freight train came, the Relyea boys gathered
around me in a circle so I wouldn’t see what happened. I don’t know what
happened for sure. Years later, I even tried to look up train accidents in 1962
in Defiance, Ohio, but found nothing. Still, I’ve always believed the boy
didn’t survive.
Another time, I was walking home alone when one of my
mother’s sisters, Aunt Doris, pulled up beside me in her car and told me to get
in. I told her no. She said my mom had sent her, and again, I said no. So, she
just slowly drove alongside me all the way to the house. Sure enough, my mom
had asked her to pick me up. Still, the adults agreed afterward that even
though Aunt Doris wasn’t a stranger, I had done the right thing by following
Mom’s rule: no rides from people, no matter what.
Then there was the time I was walking home from first grade
with my friend Beth Feeney. I somehow convinced her that we should go ice
skating on the little cemetery pond between our houses. I went first to test
the ice and fell right through. Beth’s screams caught the attention of a gas
station attendant across the road. He came running, pulled me out, and drove me
home—giving my mom a lecture on “watching her kids,” as if any mother could
completely control a strong-willed six-year-old at all hours of the day.
I have other random memories from our time on Terrawanda
Drive.
At the end of the road, there were two houses that shared a
driveway. The Keisling family lived in the front house, and a family with three
boys around the same ages as Kenny and me lived in the back. The Keislings had
four or five kids, including two older girls who babysat us from time to time.
There were also a few boys—one my age, one Kenny’s age, and one a little older.
We all played together often, and they were generally good company.
One day we decided to play cowboys and Indians. For some
reason, someone thought it would be a great idea to “hang” the Indian—which
ended up being my brother, Buddy. Thankfully, an adult looked out the window
just in time and came running to cut him down. Mom wasn’t too thrilled with the
rope burns around his neck.
There was another day when my dad asked me to check the time
on the kitchen stove. I went to the doorway but couldn’t bring myself to walk
in—I had the overwhelming sense that someone was in there. I told my dad. He
brushed it off and told me to go check again. Same thing happened. The third
time, clearly annoyed, he said, “For God’s sake, Beth Ann, I’ll check the time
myself.” He walked into the kitchen, then backed out fast, grabbed his rifle,
and shot a rat. From that moment on, I learned to trust my instincts.
Behind the Keisling house was a hill where we used to dig
holes in our quest to reach China. I would daydream as we dug, imagining
beautiful pagodas and colorful temples—certain it had to be more exciting than
Defiance, Ohio. We dug deep, but needless to say, never made it to China.
One afternoon, a Posey cousin came to babysit us and brought
her new baby. She breastfed the baby right there at the kitchen table. I was so
grossed out, I couldn’t eat my lunch. I didn’t say anything—just told her I
wasn’t hungry. At the time, I had never seen my mom breastfeed Jeni and had no
idea that it was normal.
My brother Jeff was born while we lived in this house, but I
don’t remember much about his coming home. By then, I had probably grown used
to my mom disappearing to the hospital and reappearing with a new sibling. At
that point, I was six, Kenny (Buddy) was five, Jeni (Jennifer) was two, and my
mom, remarkably, was only twenty-three.
Looking back, our year on Terrawanda Drive was short but
packed with unforgettable moments. It was a time of early independence, strange
dangers, new siblings, and make-believe adventures that sometimes got out of
hand. It was also the start of me trusting my gut, learning to stick to rules
(at least sometimes), and realizing that even in a small Ohio town, life could
be anything but boring.
No comments:
Post a Comment