When most of us kids heard that the stock market had crashed, we just assumed it was the old auction barn across the river. There had been high winds the day before and severe damage was reported.
After the fall of the stock exchange, the depression began to rise. It hovered over our little town like the threatening dark clouds that ushered in our summer storms. People who were around during that depression experienced trying times. Nearly everyone was struggling for life’s basic needs: food, shelter, and clothing. Frankie and I were only knee-high to a grasshopper, but we did what we could to make a difference.
One day we went to an outdoor vegetable market owned by a benevolent old farmer by the name of “Zeb Turner.” Zeb’s farm was about a mile from our place and we had hopes of returning with a watermelon in exchange for little more than a song.
After Zeb told us the price, I showed him my only nickel. Looking out over the patch of still growing melons, Zeb smiled and said, “I’ll sell you one of those two out there for a nickel.”I pondered his bizarre offer a minute, and then said, “I’ll take one.”
Frankie piped up saying, “I’ll take the other! But, leave them on the vine for another month or so. We’ll be back later.” Frankie had not occupied space on this earth for nine years plus without picking up a few maneuvers along the way.
We couldn’t wait a month to help out with the food situation, so we put our heads together to do some thinking. Not far from where we lived was a field of tall grass, wild oats and other non-harvestable plants. This field was home to several abandoned chickens and native pheasants. We reasoned there might be eggs amongst the weeds and underbrush.
Next to this field was a broomcorn crop and before its harvest, nests were found there also. Fallen seed from these plants was a gourmet feast for the inhabitants.
Every evening around five o’clock, Frankie or I could be seen exiting those nesting sites with our basket of “cackle-fruit” which we shared with the neighbors.
One day when Frankie was returning home with her cache, she took a shortcut through Mr. Gimble’s clover pasture where his two blue mules were grazing. Now, blue mules aren’t actually blue, but are dark brown with grayish hair on their backs. The contrasting colors give them a blue appearance.
While leaving the field Frankie accidentally left the gate open and the mules went clopping down the road. Little Elmo, the local scalawag, saw it all and threatened to tell. Now in a tizzy, Frankie offered him her new penknife if he’d promise to be mum. He agreed, and then ran off to join Melissa Quigley, a nosey 12 year old.
About twenty minutes later, up the street they came. The little traitor with ice cream dripping all over his face and she with a smug, satisfied smirk on hers. The fat was in the fire.
Frankie was forced to “beat around the bush” about the mules or tell an outright lie. The trick to telling a good lie is to be able to recall it should you ever have to tell it again. Frankie always forgot the lyrics. If either of our mothers had caught us lying, they would have skinned us alive.
Sometimes while we’re growing up, we don’t always appreciate our parents and what they are teaching us. Only later do we realize the extent of their wisdom.