Flying

The engine sputtered, coughed then fired one piston after another until the rhythmic sound soothed my being. Adjusting the choke,pulling the throttle the prop wash instantly caused tears to stream down my cheeks. Reaching down I grasped my old leather helmet pulled it onto my head and adjusted the goggles over my eyes. The sound was loud but I could see again. Someday I’ll learn not to be too anxious to start the plane until I have the proper equipment on.

I looked to my right for clearance; there sat Alice my fox terrier waiting for my signal. I held my hand up and in one motion she jumped on the wing and was sitting on the seat next to me. She loved to fly as much as I did. I adjusted her into her harness so she wouldn’t fall out if I did any flips.

The gauges checked out, we signaled for the chock to be pulled and started our taxi to the runway. The sock hung limp against the pole it would be a perfect day for flying.

Feeling comfortable with the craft and the weather I gave myself the big GO for takeoff. I held the brake and revved the engine to the red line rpm’s. Releasing the brake, the little craft shot forward down the grass airstrip passing in front of our house. I pulled back the yoke and the nose lifted upward. The plane pounced from the ground like a tiger jumping for its prey. Climbing into the sky, Alice barked wildly with joy. Her face contorted by the wind sailing through the open cockpit of our speeding plane. I banked our craft to the left and circled the barn to set my bearings and determine the direction of our flight. The little branch south of the barn beckoned to me. I kept it on my left as I followed the stream eastward toward Smith’s creek.

Banking southward as we reached the creek we passed over the old covered bridge. It was built in the 1840’s, the roof was pitched and solid, the red paint faded and splotchy. Large sycamore trees lined each side of the creek, making the bridge near impossible to see from the ground. I loved to fly over the old bridge thinking of the history passing through it.

We flew eastward to the Tenth Legion’s red brick school house and circled back to Smith’s creek. Following the creek to the north we passed over the covered bridge again then flew over old highway Erector Set Bridge, faded silver and rusty. Just north of the bridge was an ancient swinging footbridge. West of the footbridge was the Driver homestead. Kids were playing in the yard and they were waving and jumping around.

The footbridge was built high above the creek. I decided to show off a little for the kids. Looking at Alice, I told her we were going barnstorming. I pulled back the yoke, climbed to get speed then turned the plane around and dove to the creek, leveling off as if to land on the water and flew right under the bridge. Alice started barking and gave a howl. I pulled the craft up quickly and banked to the west. We flew directly over the kids as they jumped and waved. I dipped my wings to say, “Hi”.

It was time to return home, off to our right was the old farm house where I had been born and to my left was the Big House of the Court Manor plantation, built in 1838.

Just ahead was the airfield. I lined up the runway between the framing of what used to be a windshield. Approaching, I saw the wind sock hanging straight down. Passing under the fuselage were the maple trees lining Route 11, they had been planted in memory of Joyce Kilmer the author of the poem about trees. His brother owned Court Manor and raised race horses. Two were Kentucky Derby winners.

It was a straight shot to the runway. I cut the engine and glided sharply to the airstrip below. Pulling back on the yoke to get the nose up and placing the craft smoothly on the green grass. Gunning the engine, we taxied to our parking spot. I flipped the switch and the prop stopped turning. The chock was put in place and we were home, safe.

It was a great trip. Pulling off my headgear and loosing Alice from her harness she jumped from the cockpit and ran to meet my sister Ashaline who stepped off the front porch. She walked to the aircraft and asked why I had the chairs lying on the ground. I was caught.

Confessing, I told her how I’d found a wooden apple crate under the porch and dragged it to the middle of the yard shaking off the dirt along the way. I crawled into the crate cockpit but couldn’t fly without wings so I hunted for old boards, even thinking about pulling some off the fence. Taking a break from my search I went to the kitchen to get a drink. I pulled the ladder-back chair from the kitchen table to the sink, standing on the seat I started pumping the water. I look through the kitchen window hoping to find wings as I drank. Finishing my drink I hung the dipper back on the hook. Jumping to the floor causing the chair to crash backward I discovered my wing. If I put the bottom of the chair against my apple crate the wing would stick out. My problem was solved. I dragged four white ladder-back chairs from the kitchen to the middle of the yard, one at a time. I built my wings by putting the legs of the chair against my crate with the back of the chair on the ground. For the tail I put the chair face down with the legs pointing out. I did this for the front, too. A bushel basket lid was my propeller. The aircraft was boxy but comfortable. Ash smiled, I knew I wasn’t in trouble. Picking up one of my wings she sat down. “Now”, she said, “Why don’t you tell me about your trip”.

Youthful Adventure

“We need a party”, Ashaline, my 10 year old sister said. We called her Ash. Anita my 8 year old sister was nicknamed Nita. Me, I’m Wayne. I’m 6. It was a hot day and we needed an adventure.

Nita and I dragged a couple of wooden peach crates from under the front porch. We placed them in the shade of the maple tree of our front yard. Becoming excited about having a party we ran to the kitchen to gather table settings and three chairs. Ash placed an oilcloth over the peach crates. The tablecloth belonged to our grandmother. It was unique. The pattern had lots of square designs. Each square design had a print of a red heart with a black arrow going through it.

Nita set the make-shift table with plates, silverware and some glasses. I struggled with the big chairs but managed to get them setting steady around the table. The ground wasn’t as level as a floor. I tested each one by sitting on them to make sure they wouldn’t tip over.

Alice, our white fox terrier, jumped onto the chair that was for me. Nita and Ash thought it was great to have Alice join our party, I wasn’t sure. I had to go to the kitchen to get another chair and Alice’s food bowl. Ash had moved my table setting and she placed Alice’s bowl in front of my old chair. Taking our places at the table we were ready for a party.

Ash explained we would have a make believe party and have pretend cakes and pretend ice cream. Nita remembered the barn down on the highway was where they pasteurized milk for Shenandoah’s Pride. They decided we should hike over to the barn and see if we could get ice cream. Down the lane we went to the dairy barn. I was really excited to be at my first party with grown ups. Alice asleep on her chair was left dreaming of whatever dogs dream about. We left her there.

The dairy barn was a one story building used for processing milk. Each day a tank truck would haul the milk to the ice cream plant. I didn’t know what pasteurized or dairy meant, but I understood ice cream.

We stood at the door looking in. We must have been a sight, three kids looking through the door as if to see a big bucket of ice cream. It was a little disappointing when I didn’t see any. I remembered seeing a man spraying a hose at the other end of the building. Nita was the first to see the waterfall of milk. Actually it was milk falling across cooling rods. Milk is heated and cooled quickly by running it over the refrigerated rods. Ash touched the milk that had collected at the bottom saying it was cold. Nita wondered if it tasted like ice cream and she stuck her tongue right into the cascading milk. Ash and I kept watching to see if it did taste like ice cream. If so we would stick our tongues in too. In seconds we realized Nita’s tongue was stuck. She couldn’t get loose. Her tongue was frozen to the cooling rods. Ash started jumping and screaming. I just stood there watching Nita as her eyes were getting bigger and bigger and her tongue started turning purple. I felt something wet on the back of my head. It scared me and I jumped to the side. I was surprised, it was the man with the hose, he yelled for us to get out of the way as he squirted water into Nita’s mouth. Her tongue came loose from the cascade and the guy started laughing and spraying us with the hose. Ash took Nita by the hand and the three of us flew out the door like a bunch of scared kittens. Much later the dairy barn was torn down, but none of us ever went back there again. We still like ice cream.

From the dairy barn we made our way across the field to our house. Nita had trouble talking at first because her tongue was swollen and numb. She kept talking and soon sounded ok. She rattled on about how scared she had been and Ash’s screaming and my staring didn’t help. She was really tough and didn’t even cry. I don’t remember ever seeing her cry. As we walked and talked it was less scary and became funnier.

On arriving at the house we had forgotten about our party. There was our table waiting for us, Alice jumped up from her nap and started eating from her bowl. We sat down and chose our favorite make believe cake. Mine was Grandma Cline’s banana cake it was a four layer yellow cake with quarter size slices of bananas between each layer and on the top layer. The icing was butter cream. I don’t remember what their cakes were. Ash counted out the candles on each of our cakes, then pretended to put them into each cake and light them. She had us blow out our candles and make a wish. My wish was to fly around the world. We had lots of fun celebrating our birthdays and talking about our adventure. It was a great party and the day I learned to sing. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU”

Resurrection

I was in the bathroom with Alice our fox terrier. She was due to have pups any minute. I had no ideal what to do. My assignment was to interrupt the Jack Benny radio program if anything happen. Alice just slept. The show ended, everyone headed for the stairs. I went to bed and fell asleep.

The next morning I went to the bathroom not thinking of Alice. There she was with five pups. She seemed proud. I rushed to get my sisters out of bed. We were excited and talked about how cute the pups were. Ash said not to handle them until their eyes opened. Dad called us to breakfast.

We went downstairs. Ash was my big sister, she was ten years old, my other sister Anita was eight and I was six. Breakfast was slab bacon and gravy bread. As Dad was leaving for work he told Ash, “One of the pups was still born”. The pup was wrapped in a dish towel and put in a shoe box. He instructed her to get the shoe box from the back porch then dig a grave under the old pine tree and bury the pup. Dad went to work and we headed outside for our burial detail. Ash carried the shoe box. Anita carried the pick and I drug the shovel.

Ash put the box down and removed the lid. Inside a little black and white spotted puppy was dead. Ash put the lid back on the shoe box and Anita used the shovel to clear the pine needles from the spot she thought would be a really good grave.

It was a challenge but a rectangular hole appeared. I used the shovel to lift some dirt out of the hole. Not being much help I resigned to watch. It took about half an hour of digging and scraping. Ash informed us that the hole was deep enough for the shoe box. She put the box into the hole and Anita covered it with dirt. Ash made a cross out of some wood slats from a bushel basket top. She wrapped the slats together with some string.

The three of us stood there as she pushed the cross into the pile of dirt over the grave. She said a prayer and we made our way back to the house dragging the pick and shovel. Sitting down at the kitchen table we talked about our experience at being undertakers. I didn’t know what that word meant but figured out it was someone who put dead people into the ground.

Anita remembered the Easter story from her Sunday school lesson and wondered if the puppy would come back to life in three days. Ash didn’t think so and I didn’t know what the heck they were talking about. Anita and I trekked to the grave as she talked about how the preacher said Jesus rose from the grave, she called it the resurrection. Another new word I didn’t understand. Anita and I spent a lot of time looking at that grave. I assumed the pup would come back to life and dig itself out of the ground.

The next morning everything looked the same. We stood there wondering how the puppy could get out of the grave. Anita wanted to dig up the box and check. I said no, because it was only the second day. All day long we traveled to the grave and looked, but nothing changed.

The morning of the third day, Anita woke me and told me to get dressed. She was anxious to look at the grave. We made our trek again. The grave looked the same, no changes. That afternoon Anita wanted to see if the pup was in the grave or not. We drug the shovel out and dug up the grave. We uncovered the box and sure enough the pup was still there. We put the lid back on the box and covered the grave. I put the cross back and we decided to tell Ash about the puppy not being resurrected.

We went back to the kitchen and told Ash. We sat around the table talking about all the things we had been doing in the past few days. Ash had made some beef stew. As we ate dinner we talked and laughed about what each one of us thought. Some of my questions were answered. After dinner we gathered around the radio to listen to the program, “The Shadow Knows”.

Gallery Night

Success is in the eyes of the beholder. Ashby and Allison Fine Arts Galleries opened in June 2003. Their first gallery night in Alpine, Texas needed a method of counting visitors for future planning.

The solution, a battery operated electric eye to count the number of visitors who passed through the portal of the gallery. The device was installed at a height of the average waist of a person. Several tests were conducted to determine if the count being recorded was correct. Everything worked to a tee. A simple division by two would account for one customer coming and going. On Friday at 10 am the device was reset to zero. A piece of masking tape was put over the numbers. We decided not to check it until Sunday morning, after the activities of the weekend.

As the weekend progressed we were glad the device was taking care of the counting, business was hopping. We could hear the click as people came and went. Saturday we closed at midnight and headed home exhausted.

The next morning we drove to the gallery. Our first order of business was detaching the tape on the counter. On checking we were surprised, 8,371 visitors passed through our door, we knew this was not possible. The division by 2 meant 4,185 ½ people had been there. We were disappointed; the count could not be accurate, as it was high. We expected between three and five hundred visitors.

We moved to the porch to guesstimate the number of visitors. Stepping through the door we heard the faint click of the counter. As we were drinking our coffee we heard the faint clicking sound again. We looked at the door and both laughed. There was Picatso, our gallery cat, pawing the electric eye. Click, click, click, the mystery was solved.

Killer for Hire

I’m a contract killer. My lifestyle is different from others. I work at night. I have very sensitive hearing and eyesight, especially in the dark. My reflexes are the best in the business. I’m very fast, my muscles are strong and my grip is deadly. My specialty is not leaving any evidence. I don’t relax until my victim or victims are dead.

My contact takes care of everything for me. I’m driven to the site to do my job. I wait as preparations are done for me. I scope the area, looking for ways the victim or victims could possibly escape. I make a mental note of how to handle situations that could be embarrassing.

I verify arrangements for food, drink and the necessary place has been taken care of. My equipment is a gun metal chair with a soft cushion. It is placed by a window where a street light cast a beam of light across the floor or by a door with a back light casting the beam.

Everyone departs. I’m alone waiting on darkness, setting on my comfortable cushion, sometimes for hours, sometimes more than one night. I’m patient and have been known to fall asleep on the job.

I’m always in the shadows and the lighted area is what I consider the dead zone. My victim sets foot into the zone. I jump, race toward the victim. I have the victim in a death grasp before he reaches the outer edge of the beam.

Tonight is different, it has been very busy and none have escaped. I have laid out each of the dead in the light beam as the morning sun warms the area and the bodies.

I hear the key turn in the lock, in walks my contact and the contractor. I hear much pleasure as they count seven dead. I fall to sleep as I hear the rewarding exclamation, “Picatso, the best dang cat I know”.

First Funeral

I don’t like funerals. Here’s a story of my first one.

September 18, 1947, Fairview Church of the Brethren, Court Manor, 5 miles south of New Market, Virginia. Weather was sunny with no rain and warm.

We lived in a farmhouse on the Court Manor plantation. Everyone was busy getting dressed. I just stood around and waited. Finally someone gathered me up, washed my face and hands and dressed me in my best clothes.

I really didn’t know what was happening, I just waited. I know my Dad was very sad. I heard him crying during the night. I had sneaked into his room during the night and slept on the floor at the foot of his bed.

We all loaded into the car and drove to the church. I remember sitting on the front pew and listening to people talk. A big wooden box called a casket was in the center of the pulpit area.

All the talk stopped and everyone was invited up to view the person in the casket. I didn’t go up, but some family member picked me up and took me up to the casket. They told me to look at my mother. I didn’t want to. I looked toward the back of the church. They kept turning around for me to look and I kept looking up or away from the casket.

My dad told her to put me down and he took me by the hand and we walked out of the church. We stood under a tree and people came up to my dad and said they were sorry. I kept hold of his hand.

Some men came out of the church carrying the casket and walked around the corner to the grave yard. The casket was closed. Dad followed behind the casket with me in tow. The rest of our family, Big Bob, Junior, Ash and Netz followed along behind us.

We stood at the grave, a large hole in the ground. Everyone was sad and crying. I didn’t cry because I didn’t understand what was going on.

Someone was talking and praying and then we the family went up and someone was handing us roses. One was put into my hand.

A little later the casket was lower into the ground and more words were spoken. Dad was crying then and I remember saying to him, “Don’t cry, Daddy, you still have me”.

We went back to the house and my life continued with lots of different things happening. I was six years old and had to start school, it was really a tough day.

August 1, 1977. I was visiting my dad, he had terminal cancer. We were setting on his porch step watching traffic go by on Interstate 81. His home was west of interstate 81 opposite the entrance to Endless Caverns.

We were just sitting there talking. He started telling me about his garden which was in front of us. He said that it would never be a garden again. At the time I wasn’t concerned but he was right. Every time I have driven by his home there has never been a garden.

He told me he really like living in his old house, he could sit on the porch and look out over Court Manor and think of my Mom. He could see the Church where she was buried and lately was thinking a lot about her.

He told me that he’d be buried next to her and that she was really a great wife and mother. He said I had made him proud and knew she was proud of me too.

We then talked about his Mother and Dad and that he was about the same age as his dad when he had died. We talked about little things after that, most not worth mentioning.

I stood up and told him I had to leave and drive back to Washington, DC to catch a flight to Miami. He stood up and hugged me. My Dad hadn’t given me a hug since I was a child. It brought tears to my eyes.

He then looked at me and said, “You are a good son and this will be the last time you see me”. I then ask if he thought he’d be in heaven and he said, “I made my decision years ago and we’ll all meet again”.

Driving back to DC was a long tearful hour. I did wonder about him and our conversation. No one had ever told me they wouldn’t see me again. Two days later on Tuesday I received the call, my Dad had passed. I was very fortunate to have a great Dad.

Best Little Helper

I was stuck in the old willow tree. Grandma finally answered my calls for help after what seemed a very long time. She laughed while dragging the old wooden ladder from behind the wash house to the tree.

Leaning the ladder against the tree, she said, “You’ll have to get yourself down, I didn’t put you up there”. She stood, watching and waiting. It was difficult getting my nerve up and slowly I worked my way to the ladder. Down I came a step at a time until I was standing firmly on the ground. My bare feet felt the softness of the grass. I was glad.

She grinned, pulled the ladder from the tree. “You’re the reason this ladder is here and you have to help get it back to the wash house” she said. I struggled with one end as we carried and drug it back. Behind the wash house and under the eves was a rack where the wooden ladder hung. The ladder wasn’t used much and had been made by my grandpa many years ago.

The wash house is where grandma did the wash. The smoke house was converted to the wash house. Since grandpa died there was no one to butcher and smoke the hams. An electric wire ran from the house to the wash house and grandma had a new Maytag ringer machine. Sometimes neighbors would come down to use the machine. They’d always bring a pie or cake.

I had turned six the summer of 47 and never met my grandfather. He died before I was born. My mom had recently died of a brain tumor. I really didn’t understand what the adults talked about in medical terms. I knew she was gone and wouldn’t come back.

I was four when she became sick. I remember riding with my Dad to the hospital in Charlottesville. It was the University of Virginia and the doctors were supposed to be the best. She had several surgeries and eventually she didn’t make it. Most of my memories of my mother were as a sick lady who spent lots of time in the bed. I would lie on the floor next to her bed and fall to sleep. She’d always smile when I woke up and gave me a pat on my head or a half way hug. I was afraid I’d hurt her. I didn’t know what was ok or not ok.

It was my first trip out of the Shenandoah Valley riding in a pick up to visit my mom at the hospital. I was excited and saw big trucks, mountains and watched people in other vehicles. The fields were full of cattle, horses and sheep. I couldn’t believe all that I was seeing. I decided I would count the cows. My sister had taught me how to count to 20. I started counting. I would fold a finger down each time I counted 20. When I made a fist I had 5 times 20. When I got to 2 fists (10 times 20) I had to stop. I knew then I’d have to learn how to write. I had no way of remembering the count.

As we drove into Charlottesville, there were a lot more cars on the road. We stopped at a stop light. Back then the light was only red and green; there were no yellow lights for caution. We drove through several on green and would stop at the red. As my dad drove under one of the lights it turned red.

A policeman on a motorcycle pulled us over. It was the first motorcycle I had seen. It was noisy. The policeman talked to my dad and gave him a ticket. My dad told him about my mom and the policeman said for him to be more careful.

The motorcycle drove off and my dad started to cry. I didn’t understand at the time but he had reached a stress level. I couldn’t do anything. I held his hand and he stopped crying and said he had to get to the hospital before 2 o’clock because that’s when the visiting hours started.

We arrived at the hospital and I wasn’t allowed to see my mother. Children 12 and under were not allowed into the patients rooms. I had to wait in a waiting room. It was supposed to protect me from getting or giving germs to someone. I was by myself and could see nurses at a desk. Once in awhile a nurse would walk to the door, look in and walk away. They never spoke. Dad came back in a couple of hours and he started driving us home. He didn’t speak the whole way back. He was very sad.

After my mom died I was shuffled between grandmothers through the summer until school started. My sisters were 8 and 10 and my brother was 12. We had a good time; my sister learned to fry chicken. Nearly every night we had chicken for supper and eggs for breakfast in the mornings. At different times someone would bring a crock of beans or potpie or something like that.

My Aunt Betty moved in with us during the school year, she was a high school senior and would stay with us. She helped us clean and take care of ourselves her cooking wasn’t as good as my sister’s.

My recollections stopped as my dad pulled into the drive in his 1939 Chevy pick up. I loved to climb on the back and figure out how to get into and out of the truck bed. It was a greenish color. My sister had taught me about colors to. Back then most cars were black, so green was neat.

Grandma said, “come into the kitchen, I’ve made some banana pudding”. It was one of my favorites. My other favorite was the banana cake my other grandma made. We sat at the kitchen table eating our pudding as she told dad about me getting stuck in the old willow tree. He laughed and said he’d need a branch from the tree as he had to do some divining for a woman in Timberville. I ask what divining was and he said he would take me with him and I would be able to see.

After eating, dad took me outside to the old willow tree. He stood under the tree and started talking to the tree. He said something about needing the right branch to find water. I was confused, in our part of the country a branch is a stream of water. They have creeks, branches run into creeks and creeks run into the Shenandoah River.

He stood and walked around the tree stopping and looking at certain areas. He picked me up and told me to grab the branch just over my head. I did and he let me down until he could reach the branch. He took out his pocket knife and cut the small branch from the tree.

He sat on the ground and cut the twigs away and in a few moments there was the big 2 prong fork. He looked at me and said, “Let’s go find some water”. We jumped into the Chevy and I held the fork as we drove toward Timberville.

We drove to this big old house sitting on a big piece of property. A woman older than grandma came out of the house. My dad introduced himself and me as his little helper. The woman said I’ll pay for your services and not the little helper. Dad said it would be OK.

This woman said she was going to build some chicken houses but needed to drill a well for water. She wanted to make sure she could find water before she had them built. She wore a bonnet and an old faded apron. She reached into the apron pocket and pulled out a dirty Popsicle stick and a tin of Old Navy snuff. I had seen men use snuff but never a woman. She licked the stick, stuck it into the snuff. The stick had snuff running along the side she had licked. With her finger she pulled out her lower lip and dropped the snuff into her mouth. It was ugly. She licked the rest of the snuff off the stick and closed the tin replacing the dirty stick and tin back into her apron pocket. As her and dad were talking she’d spit a long stream of brown juice toward the ground. Each time she repeated the spitting act my stomach turned. I decided then I’d never use snuff.

My dad asks about where she wanted the well, it had to be close to electricity so she told him to look in a small area. She wanted it close to the house as she was going to put plumbing in for a bathroom and kitchen sink. She was tired of carrying in cistern water for baths and doing dishes.

Dad told me to gather up some rocks and showed me where to build a pile. He said, “Make a fist”, I did, and then he said “get only rocks the size of your fist”. I took off, I was going to be the best little helper. Soon a pile grew until dad stopped me. “You’re a pretty good little helper”, he said. I was really proud.

After marking off an area with rocks from the pile, he told me, “Let’s go get our lucky charm”. I trailed behind him as he walked toward the pick-up. He reached in and picked up the forked willow stick and let me carry it. We walked back to the area marked by the rocks.

He took the forked branch from me and walked to the first rock we’d laid out. Then he took the forked ends in each of his hands and the long straight piece was pointed upward. He held the forks inward instead of outward. He started walking very slowly toward the second rock I had put down. Walking a few feet the stick bent downward. He stopped. He had me place a rock, just under the point of the stick.

He then started walking again back and forth between the original rocks I had placed. As he walked between the markings the branch would bend and I’d place another rock where he told me to. He finished and explained to me that the water flowed in the direction of the rocks I was putting down. He explained it was an underground stream because of the direction of the flow and we would search the flow to find where to drill.

“Let’s find the spot closest to the surface so it won’t cost as much to drill the well”, dad said. We started at the farthest point from the house. He gripped the stick again. He winked at me and told me to watch for the deepest bend in the stick then mark it with the number of stones he would tell me. We started walking along the line we had marked with the rocks. I watched the stick go up and down. He had me mark certain spots with one rock at different intervals. The stream was big and deep he told me. We continue as the stick kept bopping up and down and I kept putting down one or two rocks where he told me to.

All of a sudden the stick bent the farthest down, almost to his knee. He told me to put 4 rocks on this spot. We walked on toward the boundary nearest the house. From start to finish we had 1 rock or 2 rocks marking the spots. The 4 rocks spot was about 30 feet from the house. He told me that the well would have to be drilled only 100 to 120 feet and the drillers would hit water.

We drove short stakes into the ground at the 2 stone markings and a long stake at the 4 rocks. Dad went to the house and called for the woman to come out. He showed her the spot to drill the well. “If they don’t find water I expect my money back”, she told dad. She paid him three dollars for marking the spot to find water.

We drove back through town and stopped at the gas station. Dad paid me a quarter for being a good helper and ask if I wanted a Popsicle, I said, “No Way”. We both laughed.

That evening we sat at the dinner table eating my sister’s chicken and talked about divining for water. I told them it was a gift and only certain people could do it, me and dad.

Sunday afternoons we’d go to grandmas for dinner. I would always visit the old willow tree. People didn’t have dad do divining for water, modern devices took over. My career as a divine helper was a short one. I still wonder if I have the power to do it.

Over the years I’d always visit the old willow but progress makes changes. The magic tree was cut down to make room for a new four lane highway. I may have been the last kid stuck in the old willow tree. I do know I was the best little helper just like the old willow tree.