Going Along

By Jill Marzinske

Julie Mueller lacks the confidence and self-esteem her older brothers and sisters have. Being overweight certainly doesn't help. Dawn Mason, the popular girl in class, is attractive. Boys like her. She looks good in a bikini. The girls form an unlikely friendship. Thanks to Dawn, Julie's world expands. She is introduced to cigarettes, alcohol, sex, and drugs. The girls drive around in a '54 Chevy, thanks to Mom and Dad. There is canoeing to St. Clair on a summer afternoon, going on vacation, making prank phone calls, and meeting her first boyfriend. Throw in trick-or-treating on Halloween, being used by her brother for wrestling practice, getting stranded in a car miles from home, and having to walk home. A coming-of-age story set in the 1970s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643007175

Book preview

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Going Along

Jill Marzinske

ISBN 978-1-64300-716-8 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-64300-717-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2018 Jill Marzinske

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

To my parents, the real Chet and Marge Mueller, thanks for the inspiration.

Love Jill

Chapter 1

We live at the end of a gravel road. On the north end is the highway going into town. Two miles straight south is our house. It’s tucked back in a corner, on the other side of a field, surrounded by trees. It looks like a pink shoebox with a pitched roof on top.

At the top of Bunker Hill, the road flattens out one last time. It curves around a small cemetery located on the corner before heading to the county line, about half a mile distant. Here is our driveway, good and long, a quarter mile in length.

The driveway wraps around one end of the bean field, straight rows of crops ripening in the sun.

Halfway to the corner, another driveway stems off to the left. Dad’s mother, Adella Mueller, or Della as we called her, once lived here. She’s gone now. But Dad’s older brother, Lloyd, a bachelor, lives here. The white farmhouse sits on a slight rise, nestled among some trees.

Once past Uncle Lloyd’s driveway, the road makes a sharp turn, going past the front of our house. At one time, a cherry tree stood here. It had been my favorite as it was the only tree on the place I could climb. Then came two pear trees. All three are gone now. The road extends, wrapping around a huge walnut tree standing on the corner. It’s been here for decades, probably even before the house was built. The road then travels past the north end of our house before ending up in our backyard.

Two more walnut trees stand here. They, along with plush woods surrounding our backyard, bathe the place in a generous amount of shade.

In the fall, the trees turn a rainbow of colors: russet, brown, and gold. Leaves filter through the air, covering the lawn in a carpet of color. Every now and then, there is an audible thump as walnuts hit the ground. In a few weeks, the trees will be bare, their empty branches pointing upward toward the sky.

When I was little, I watched my family at work, their rakes making a rasping sound as they moved over the ground, being used to clean up Mother Nature’s mess. The colorful leaves fluttered over the ground, collecting in one huge pile to be burned later. I eyed the pile of leaves, in the middle of the backyard, growing bigger and bigger. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I approached it. Turning my back to it, I fell backward. Leaves flew around me, creating a shower as I landed on the soft pile.

My eldest brother, John, who is six years older, approached me. Bending down, he picked up a huge bunch of leaves with both hands and dumped them on top of me.

I laughed.

Dad chuckled. Okay, you two, he scolded. Don’t get too carried away. I don’t want to have to rerake them.

Brother Mark, almost smack dab in the middle between John and me, chose that moment to speak up. I’ve got to go to Grandma’s.

Dad kept raking. What for?

I’m gonna go see if she has a rake. Mark was off like a shot as he raced out of the yard.

Dad shook his head as he watched his son disappear.

About twenty minutes later Rick, the youngest of my three older brothers, threw down his rake. I better go see what’s keeping Mark. He too took off running across the yard. Rick is eighteen months older than me.

Mom looked at her husband. She shook her head. You know they’re not coming back, don’t you?

Dad smiled at her and shrugged. That’s what I figured.

Then why did you let them leave?

Don’t worry about it, Mother, he reassured. We’re almost done anyway.

The walnuts were collected in large pails. Some Mom kept to be used for baking later. Right now, they were in the basement, spread out on sheets of paper to dry. The rest were tossed over the hill, to be collected by the squirrels.

At this point, the family’s privacy disappears. Like a window shade being rolled upward, the land on the other side of the river can now be seen. A family home sits in the distance. Just another big white farmhouse, like countless others around the area. The corn and soybeans are gone now, leaving behind bare fields. In some places, the earth has been turned over, leaving black dirt. In other places are the remnants of cornstalks, a souvenir of the recent harvest.

The woods rim the yard before sloping downhill and eventually hitting the Le Sueur River, the same river that travels through St. Clair. Over the years, many neighborhood skating parties have taken place here.

Aside from the house, there are a handful of other buildings, most of which are no longer in use.

Across from the house, on the other side of the backyard, is Dad’s shop. This is a red building with white trim. Not too long ago, it had been our henhouse. The small single door is gone now. In its place is a large slab painted white. It rolls sideways on an overhead track. When open, it reveals a large cavity, large enough for an automobile.

For years, we raised chickens. Sometime every May, Dad rolled into the yard, driving a beat-up black Ford pickup, the same one he used to haul firewood every fall. He rounded the corner by the walnut tree and went past the three-stall machine shed sitting across the road from our house, the same place he parked the truck once he was finished with it. It also housed Dad’s tractor.

Immediately after the machine shed, Dad pulled off the gravel and drove across the lawn. He went behind the light pole and the gas barrels. He pulled to a stop in front of a small building. This was the brooder house.

When Rick saw Dad drive into the yard in that black truck, he knew exactly what the man had in back. Come on, Julie. The two of us hurried out of the house and ran across the lawn to where our father was waiting.

Dad let down the tailgate and drew a big box to the edge. We climbed up into the back end. As we leaned over the box, we could see tiny chicks inside desperately trying to poke their heads through the holes on top. We could hear chirping inside. Rick and I poked our fingers through the holes in an effort to push the chicks back down.

Dad lifted the box out of the truck and headed for the brooder house. We hurried after him. Once inside, Dad sat the box down on the floor and lifted the lid. Bending down, he lifted one edge of the box just enough so that the chicks began to spill out. He used his hand to help the rest of them out. He made a couple more of trips out to the truck. When he was finished, tiny birds covered in soft, downy yellow fuzz were everywhere. By this time, Mom had joined us. Our parents stood by watching and laughing as their two youngest ran around the small enclosure after the tiny creatures. The babies scurried off in all directions. A loud, chirping noise filled the room. They were none too happy at the prospect of being caught in our clutches.

Dad brought the chicks home every spring for one reason. Eventually, they were to be butchered and used for food. For now, however, Rick and I were not making the connection between the tiny birds and the family table.

Over the next few weeks, the birds grew. For a while, they stopped being cute. They suffered through that awkward stage, their feathers going from yellow to white. Finally, when they were big enough, they were herded out of their present home and taken across the yard to the henhouse.

The barn sits on the northwest corner of the yard, right where the ground slopes downhill before going to the flat. The flat is aptly named for that flat piece of tillable acreage next to the river.

Right now, the large building stands empty, except for an assortment of castoff items that are no longer deemed necessary. It also houses cats from time to time.

There is also a combination granary and corncrib. Next comes the old brooder house, also filled with unused castoffs. We seem to have an abundance of those. At one time, it had been my playhouse.

The last thing is the remnant of a cinder-block foundation, where the machine shed once stood. Dad had been inside one day, trying to fix the roof, when it caved in on him. He came out of that one without a scratch. After that, he tore the building down. Now, the only hint the building was ever there was that foundation. Mom is trying to plant a flower garden here.

The gas barrels are also gone.

Beyond the field in front of our house lies a strip of gravel slicing through the neighborhood, connecting one house to another.

The first house, a two-story large white structure, sits below the hill, half a mile distant, on the other side of a pasture that we own. Wilton Krienke likes to use this pasture for his cows. Dad doesn’t mind. He never uses it anyway. As Dad is so often fond of saying, Might as well use it. Those cows ought to keep that pasture well mowed. At least this way, I won’t have to worry about it.

The Krienke house cannot be seen from where we live. They are like this phantom neighbor. They are there. We just can’t see them.

There are three daughters. The eldest, Anne, is my age. I used to go over there to play when we were little. They had this amazing playhouse. All the furniture was scaled down child-sized. Each of the girls had her own bedroom. There was carpeting on the floor and store-bought drapes. And instead of cereal or homemade oatmeal for breakfast, they had coffee and Pop-Tarts. Of course, the coffee was mostly milk and sugar. When I first learned of this, I ran home, begging my mother, Can I have coffee for breakfast?

She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. Of course not. That was the end. Case closed.

The lawn surrounding their house is immaculate. Not one dandelion in sight. The flower gardens are in perfect order. I wonder, has Anne Krienke ever mowed a blade of grass in her life?

We got along fine when we were little. Now that we’re in high school, she’s taller, skinnier, and prettier. Not to mention smarter. Like my sister Valerie.

Years ago, Dad was a farmer, like his brother, Lloyd. In fact, Dad still helps Uncle Lloyd out whenever the need arises. Several years ago, however, Dad gave up farming. Now, he works as a janitor at the college in Mankato, the same college my sister Valerie is about to graduate from, the first one in our family to get a degree.

When we were younger, my brothers and I loved going to work with our father, but only on Saturdays, when there were no classes. I still do from time to time. Now that I’m older, I save up my cash and go shopping. All I have to do is walk down the hill four blocks, and there it is, a plethora of shopping centers: Osco Drug, Brett’s, and JCPenney’s, among others. Penney’s has this great candy counter. I can get a pound of jelly beans for maybe a buck. My sister Laurie used to go there with a friend of hers. They would sit there trying on hats, having the time of their lives without spending a dime.

And in the next block are movie theaters, two of them side by side. Rick and I used to go to matinees. We went to Planet of the Apes. I was ten. He was eleven and a half going on twelve.

Mom couldn’t figure out why I went to the college in the first place. I heard her ask Dad once, What does she see in that place? Apparently, she thought it was a waste of time. From a child’s perspective, however, it was like a giant fun house, so many things to see and do.

We had to be up by 6:00 a.m. Dad had the same thing for breakfast every morning, seven days a week: four strips of bacon, lightly browned, two eggs over easy, and two slices of toast with plenty of butter, and hot black coffee, good and strong. The stronger, the better. Like Dad says, There’s only one way to tell if it’s done. Put a rock in. If it floats, she’s ready.

We usually had toast and cereal.

With breakfast out of the way, Dad filled his thermos with whatever coffee was left over from breakfast. He grabbed his lunch from out of the fridge. Mom usually made it the night before. If he was going alone, he’d have a couple of sandwiches, a couple of pieces of fruit, and a handful of cookies. These he put in his gray lunchbox. Oftentimes, when all three of us were going along or when she didn’t have any lunch meat, Mom made fried-egg sandwiches. I love those! With this extra food contained in a brown paper sack clutched tightly in someone’s hand, we were on our way.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

Chapter 2

From the outside, the pink rambler at the end of the road has not changed much. The one obvious difference being that the open front porch is gone. In its place is a closed-in one. Dad bought this one off some guy for ten dollars. All the man had to do was go over there, take it off the guy’s house, take it home, and put it on ours. The guy has built a new house. He won’t need it anymore.

Most of the changes have taken place inside the house. The living room, as well as all three bedrooms, have been repainted. New curtains flank every window. We even got new sheets and bedspreads. My brothers, who share the room across the hall, chose blue for their color. My sister Val and I chose purple.

Dad built new bunk beds for the boys. These are made out of plywood and two-by-fours. He nailed them right to the wall, making sure they are good and sturdy. There are even drawers underneath for storage.

Dad hung new ceiling tiles in both the living room and the dining room next door. Both rooms are separated by an expansive archway going from one side of the room to the other, making them seem like one large room.

Next came a brand-new kitchen, now located on the north end of the dining room. This entire room has been lined with oak paneling, creating a warm, cozy atmosphere. New cupboards flank the north wall, going clear across the room, from one side to the other. A new refrigerator stands on one end next to the porch, while a matching stove stands at the opposite end next to the bathroom. Both in harvest gold. Dad didn’t buy these. They were a Christmas present from the six of us. The sink stands in the middle with a casement window looking out on the driveway and the empty brooder house beyond. A matching snack bar juts out from the wall, next to the doorway leading to where our old kitchen used to be. Over it is another cupboard. This one has glass doors. It’s where Mom keeps her good dishes, a set of blue and white Currier & Ives she got with green stamps, enough for twelve people. We use them on special occasions like holidays or when company comes over, over all the cupboards are new Formica countertops.

The old kitchen is now