"You'll have to ask your dad", was Mom's way of saying, "No". Dad would continue on with his crossword puzzle, not even hearing the question, and say, “If it is ok with your mother.” Before you could get back to the kitchen to tell Mom it was OK with Dad, Dad would have you take off his work shoes and massage his feet. On days when dad went to his part-time second job, us kids had to struggle getting Dad's boots on him. Not sure what that second job was, but his boots always needed the mud cleaned from them.
All my Uncles had second jobs. I think it was why they sat in chairs napping at family get-togethers. I cannot ever remember Uncle George being awake. Only a broken down tractor or combine could excite them. I remember all of them heading over to the Burger's farm, neighbor of my Uncle Hank, to fix a tractor. The rest of the day they discussed how Ford redesigned that tractor. Again, us kids had our own jobs to do at family get-togethers. Fighting bees to pick up fallen fruit was just one of those things I recall doing. The orchard smelled sweet and was so colorful in the Spring. Summers changed the sweetness of the orchard, the time when Grandma wanted the fruit. That fallen fruit was claimed by bees and mean yellow jackets. Aunt Marie's chickens were set free to feast on those yellow jackets and bees, making them sting even quicker. One old rooster would always attack us, giving Uncle John a good laugh. With fruit picked up, us kids were set free to run around with my cousin's dogs and throw rocks at the old model T Ford half sunk in the middle of the farm pond. The dogs would jump in the pond looking for the rocks. I met my cousins Timmy and Johnny for the first time there at Uncle's Hanks pond. It was at those family gatherings I got to meet and play with kids my own age and find out what real trouble was. Shooting an old coffee pot off my little sister's head with a BB gun got my Aunt Marie moving really fast. Grandpa was told never to buy BBs for us again.
Sitting in the studio painting, sipping hot chocolate, I am often visited by friends from the past. Some were not so friendly. Mike Perze is one such visitor. Only knew Mike for a second, never met him before and never saw him again after that second. It's a second I'll never forget. I was riding my bike on the school playground. I stopped to roll up my pants and out of nowhere came a fist right in my face. Felt like a rock, only I saw it was a fist. Another kid said it was Mike Perze. I pause with painting and wonder why that memory visited. After 65 years you'd think I'd forget. Back to adding the chickens to my painting of the orchard…
