Threads of Memories of Growing up in Northern NY

I must say growing up in rural NY was the happiest time of my life, especially in the little town of Naumburg. Our house was the last one just before the Castorland bridge. The Beaver River and Black River met at the bridge. Both are old slow moving rivers. In the summer, Dad and I would take the little flat bottom row boat with the 2 hp putput motor and troll up and down the rivers fishing for walleyes and northern pikes. It was peaceful out on the river with Dad. Mud swallows flew in and out of their nests bored in the sides of the mud river banks. Water lilies graced the edges of the river, good places to catch a fish. Frogs croaked and water spiders skidded across the surface leaving tiny wakes in their paths.

Out on the river Dad and I didn't talk much. It was those times that he didn't tease but gave praise when he let me take the throttle and steer the row boat or when I landed a big fish. I felt proud at the age of 10 years that he was happy with my steering or catching a big northern pike.

Springtime the rivers would swell with the melting snow and ice and spill out onto the flats. Sometimes the water reached our house. Northern NY had lots of snow. Snow banks and snow drifts would be 8 or more feet high. Snow in the country is clean, white and sparkly. The trees covered in ice glimmered in the sunlight and moonlight when the moon was so bright lighting up the fields. The world is peaceful after a snowfall. It covers everything, making everything equal under its white blanket that muffles sounds. The call of birds becomes even more musical and clear in the solemn silence. The world after a snow fall always makes me humble and feel the spiritual presence of oneness.

I now live in NYC and tonight a snow storm may cover the city in 8 inches of snow. And even in the city that same spiritual peace envelopes everything for several hours before the demand of getting around takes over.

Peace to everyone for now.

THREADS OF MEMORIES OF GROWING UP IN NORTHERN NY Part II

 Our neighbor, Cliff Graves, was a dairy farmer. His pastures rolled out behind our property and across the road behind Lee's, my best buddy's, house. The fields on both sides stretched out to the rivers, my younger brothers, Doug and John, and I played all day in those fields. We caught garter snakes, grass snakes, and tadpoles in all stages of development. And off course we climbed trees. Once I climbed a tree in the pasture and stepped on a branch that had weaken from night rain. Before I knew it I learned the lesson of gravity. Flat on my back grasping for air and calling for every child's savior, Mom. Doug and Lee, both laughing, helped me up. My head just missed a large stone covered in mushy cow plop.

Skippy, Lee's little Jack Russel mixed, always tagged along. He lifted his leg on every clump of tall grass, cut grass. We called it cut grass because it was stiff and sharp. It made great reed instruments by placing a blade firmly between our thumbs and blowing. Mostly one note toots came out.

Skippy never learned his lesson to leave our calico cat, Gladys, alone. Gladys was near his size. Skippy come yapping up to Gladys every day. She just sat on her haunches not batting an eye, then swoop out with her claws and strike Skippy on the nose. Poor Skippy ran off crying only to repeat it the next day.

GHOST STORIES

Cliff’s hay barn had a wide drive bay for storing the tractors, plows and other farming equipment. On both sides of the drive bay were bales of hay stacked high to the ceiling. Thick ropes on pulleys hung from the rafters to the drive bay floor. Lee, Doug, John and I often played in Cliff’s barn. Cliff was a gentle man who loved his cows, farm and children. He allowed us free range of his barns and pastures. We would climb the stacked hay and swing on the ropes to the other side of the drive bay. Didn’t always make it to the other side. Just get up, brush the hay and straw off, and try again.

One day we all decided to go way up to the top of the stacked hay to tell ghost stories. Sitting deep in the bales of hay with little sunlight we told ghost stories. We were probably 11, 10, 9 and 5 years old. Each taking turns trying to tell the scariest story. I can’t remember who told the story or even what the story was, but it scared the living daylights out of us. Screaming and scrambling over the bales, getting scratched by the stiff dry hay we ran for safety of the open air and bright sunlight, away from the spooks hiding in the hayloft. Once out and safe, we laughed and tried to prove to each other that we really were not scared. To this day I still love a good ghost story.

Jasper

March 2, 2014 Jasper

My brother, Karl, worked for Cliff, mostly during the haying season. He also did a little muskrat trapping in early spring. Snow remained on the fields and the river had ice. We never ice skated on the rivers, even though the ice was thick, because you never knew where the whirl pools were. The ice could open any time at the whirl pools and re-close. So if anyone fell through the ice the likely hood of getting out was slim.

Karl ordered a do it yourself canoe kit. He tinkered a lot with building things and repairing old cars. I sometimes would go out on the river with him in that canvas canoe and pull up traps. Once a mallard duck caught its foot in one of those metal jaw traps and drown. Karl and I were both upset. Funny odd thinking of it now that I was upset over an innocent duck dying but not over the muskrats dying.

Anyway, Karl was out in Cliff's fields after a snowfall. He came upon a dead tree that had a nest of baby raccoons. The mother was nowhere to be seen. He came home and told my mother and asked if he should bring them all home. Her appropriate response was to wait a day and let the mother have a chance to return. The next morning early Karl went to check up on the babies. It was very cold. All but one of the baby raccoons attempted to crawl out of the nest looking for their mother and died. Karl wrapped the remaining baby raccoon in a towel and brought him home.

He was tiny and needed to be fed by a toy baby bottle. He grew to be quite large. My father had a knack for names. So the little raccoon was named Jasper. Jasper was a family pet. Since it was illegal to pen wild life up, he had free roam of the house and outdoors. He sat on my father's shoulders and would gently massage his head. We were taught never to play too rough with Jasper. My father would remind us that he was still a wild animal and dangerous.

Jasper loved to take car rides. Open the car door, in he would hop. Naumberg had no schools. It was too small of a town to support a public school. We rode a school bus into Beaver Falls and back home again. The bus stopped in front of our house by the driveway. Jasper everyday waited by the roadside for me and all my six brothers and sisters to come home. We loved him and he loved us.

People had approached my parents if they could take Jasper, but no way was that going to happen. And then it happened. We came home from school. Jasper was not waiting for us. We searched all over for him. We waited for him to come home. We spoke to everyone and anyone if they saw his whereabouts. Sadly we never found him. My own suspicion was that one of those people who wanted him open their car door and in he hopped for a car ride, never to return. In my heart I prayed over and over again that whoever had him treated him with love and respect they way we did.