Robins and Roller Skates

By Mary Magalee

Charming, wonderful short stories of a little girl growing up in a rural Kansas college town during the depression. These true short stories bring to life the colorful characters of the small college town of Baldwin, Kansas. The joys and trials of this little girl are written in the style of Jean Shepherd and Garrison Keillor. Mary Magalee also takes us beyond her childhood into motherhood with equally amazing humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Magalee
• Release date: Apr 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301825516

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Robins and Roller Skates

By Mary Magalee

Copyright 2013 Mary Magalee

Smashwords Edition

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The Hill of Beans

The Priceless Treasure

The Heroine

The Authoritarian

The Love Affair

The Lie

The Job

The Miracle

The Birthday Party

 The Gray Hair

The Day In May

The Hats

THE HILL OF BEANS

My father had an expression he employed in moments of exasperation. You’re not worth the powder to blow you up!

From my earliest memories, these words were incorporated into the fragile fabric of father’s composure. I had accepted them without question. They were there, and one lived with them as one did with father. One did strive however, to avoid disturbing the delicate balance of father’s disposition.

Children grow and change. There came a day when I heard those words, and wondered. My father was a home handyman. He possessed small knowledge and less skill, with few sophisticated tools for pursuit of the art. Nevertheless, his confidence carried him through his endeavors with a triumph that beguiled all of us. Our household operated upon the assumption that father could not fail. He believed it. We believed it. Such faith produced sufficient results.

This particular day, he had removed a screen door in order to cut several inches from one end. He took it outside and placed it upon two saw horses. It kept sliding around. He needed someone to hold it steady. I was the only one available. I was five years old.

My small hands could scarcely grasp the door at all. To keep it firmly in place while my father sawed vigorously was completely impossible. Again and again, it slipped from my fingers. Once it slammed to the ground. My father would shout, set the door aright and begin again. Before long, his patience and temper disintegrated entirely. He directed a slashing blow at my head which, from long practice, I deftly dodged so that it glanced off much as a stage blow is enacted. Years later, whenever I was required to be slapped in a play, the director was always astonished at my agility. I was merely imagining my father as the adversary.

I had escaped Father’s initial blows, but he caught me before I could scamper out of reach. He delivered a series of swats upon my small behind. I had learned that the sooner and louder I wailed, the quicker my release. My father did not like noise. He soon gave me a shove that sent me sprawling. Get out of here. You’re not worth the powder to blow you up!

It was summer. My father had a huge garden. There was row upon row of sweet corn, tall and graceful and arching. I had discovered that it was a delightful place in which to hide, secure and coolly comforting. I used it for years without detection. Mostly, I crawled in there to cry. My older brother laughed and mocked when I cried. My first memory of him is a taunting, Cry baby, Mary. Cry baby, Mary! He devoted an undue amount of time to the sport of making me cry. Thus, early, I struggled to control my tears. In time, I became a graduate of the School of Not Crying. I enrolled in the post graduate courses and received my doctorate. I cried, but alone. I still do.

Thus, that day I fled to my obscure, softly rustling green place. I sobbed awhile. Physical assault left me outraged. I disliked its indignity. The pain could be endured with a disciplined shrug. However, I simply did not understand why people slammed each other about. Nor do I comprehend it now. It seems foolish and futile, brutish. I realize that there are times when some children, indeed, even adults, are incapable of responding to anything except force. Nevertheless, I detest its effrontery to the majesty of mankind. I am certain that we were designed for more noble objectives.

I did not cry long. I seldom do. I cannot think and cry at the same time. Weeping extorts such a wet intensity. I am unable to consign the concentration essential to continue. An involuntary notion soon taps into the tears. They decamp as a dream or scheme uncoils behind my eyes.

My father’s parting words were echoing in the corn: You’re not worth the powder to blow you up! What did it mean? I knew about powder that blew up. Fourth of July in those days was a powder-blowing-up day. I had felt the force of powder when a fire cracker exploded accidentally in my hand. However, it had not even begun to blow me up. How much of that exploding powder would it take? How much would the quantity cost? I needed to know these things to be able to comprehend my worth.

How would I find out? I was afraid my parents would be angry or laugh. My brother would call me a stupid girl. Mrs. Lewis. She and her husband was an elderly couple who lived half way down the next block. I loved them both. They possessed a quiet serenity lacking among my peers. I visited them often. Mrs. Lewis and I would sit on the front porch and talk about birds or measles or God. She had a humming bird feeder. We would watch with our breathing suspended as the small tremulous forms froze to sip the sugared water.

Mr. Lewis had a gorgeous Guernsey cow and would let me sit beside him while he coaxed rich, yellow-white, foamy milk from her swollen bag. I do not know what he had done to earn a living. He was retired before I was born. They had almost no money. But they had their house a cow, chickens, a garden, and fruit trees. They also owned an ornate mantle clock that sat high upon their dining room sideboard. It was gold and ivory and had a black onyx horse which stood proudly atop the clock.

Sometimes in the winter when we sat in the dining room to be near the stove, Mrs. Lewis would tenderly take the horse down and place it in front of me. I knew I was not to play with it, but I could let my hands feel its cool smooth back and sides. Those were important moments.

During each visit, Mrs. Lewis would take me into the big, bright kitchen. She would lift me onto a hand-carved oak chair and push me up to a round oilcloth-covered table. She would pour milk from a white, wide-mouthed ironstone pitcher into a large blue hobnailed glass. She would place a plate of huge sugar cookies next to me. Each had a half a walnut pressed into the center. How I loved those cookies and the crunchy nuts, the rich cold milk. And the sugar my tongue found on my mouth!

Mrs. Lewis was sitting on her front porch swing snapping beans. She never cut them. She said that robbed them of a might of flavor. She patted the faded green cushion beside her and scooped me into the swing with a hug. She always seemed glad see me, welcome and wanted. I was accepted! I reached for a handful of green beans.

My, we’re serious today, wee Missy. Are you troubled?

Mrs. Lewis turned toward me her dark brown eyes wide with concern. No one else gave me such complete attention. Few people have that gift. She would lean a little toward me as if what I said were so important that she did not want to miss a word. She had a rare and captivating ability to concentrate completely upon the subject hand. I had difficulty capturing even a momentary audience from other adults. My mother often seemed to listen, but with a dreamy daze that meant she was actually thinking of something else. Well, not exactly troubled Mrs. Lewis, mostly, just wondering.

She smiled. She was a tall woman quiet, slow-moving with an unstudied regal set to her head. Her dresses were full-skirted small print dark cotton, ankle-long. Her shoes were black softly creased, high-topped. Her hair was pulled into a generous bun high on her head. It had been red but was a whitish tan now. Little curling wisps escaped about her face and neck. I did not like to see her smile. Her ill-fitting dentures were likely to move a little.

"Well, now, I’ll answer whatever wondering I can Missy.

With anyone else, I would have hesitated. But I was certain that she would not laugh or be angry, the attributes nearly all adults had as standard equipment.

How much powder do you think it would take to blow me up?

Mrs. Lewis’s long, arthritic fingers paused amid the beans. She did not laugh. She was not displeased or indignant. She simply consigned herself to the question. Her entire being was dispatched to rescue one small girl whose immediate world was awash with uncertainty. Soberly, intently, she sat considering. I could hear a distant lawn mower and the shrill voices of children at play.

The swing squeaked as Mrs. Lewis’s foot pressed it into barely perceptible motion. Some people said that she was slow and deliberate because she was deaf. However, I knew she was not. She had never asked me to repeat anything. She answered when she was ready. She thought things through with precision and prudence. She did not like mistakes. This involves time. Big brother Ted received an autograph book for his birthday when he was about twelve years old. He asked Mrs. Lewis to write in it. She took it upstairs and was gone so long that impatient Ted ordered me to wait for it, and departed. It was worth the wait because I was able to