At the Crossroads
written by: Pauline Milner
@PaulineRMilner
Chapter 1
“There’s been an accident.” and “Please can you help?” were often the refrains at our front door which contributed to my eclectic childhood. Our house interrupted miles of farmer’s fields growing hay, oats and crops. Situated at the junction of Route 990 and Highway 7, we were the only civilization visible in any direction. For the entirety of my time living at home, I was called Elizabeth. It wasn’t until I left to attend university in another state that I got the moniker Liza, which I am still not completely used to.
My family owned approximately 500 acres of land. My father was an agricultural farmer who sold various varieties of apples and also had 150 red maple trees from where he gathered sap every spring to transform into delectable maple syrup. My earliest memories are of the hot syrup poured over snow to make taffy and eaten with a spoon, leaving me sticky almost from head to toe.
Our maple syrup was available exclusively at the convenience store in the nearest town. Each batch sold out almost as soon as it was stocked. Purchasers frequently returned the glass bottles to be sterilized and used again. There was no cash or other incentive to do so; it was logically something most of them did. I guess you could say my dad was one of the early recyclers.
My mother was an accomplished seamstress. She took in work from throughout the county where we lived. Combined with the constant chores around the house, she was incredibly busy which left my older brother and me mostly to our own devices.
Our parents were not harsh and never threatened anything remotely resembling a beating, but my brother and I were not keen to find out what would happen if we didn’t follow the rules, loose as they were. But it doesn’t mean that we didn’t push the boundaries. Sometimes I thought my brother David had a death wish.
We had about ten minutes to wash up after being called to the dinner table. If you were not in your chair before our parents were in theirs, you were promised to go to bed with an empty stomach. More often than not, David was sliding into his chair as my father was pulling his forward. Leaving David with only a few seconds to spare, I do not remember him ever missing his cue. When we were on summer break, as soon as the dusk-to-dawn light in our yard came on, we had to go inside without dawdling. We were also told to head home from the woods when the sun was one hand-width from the horizon. This meant an hour before sundown as our father had no interest in looking for his own lost kids in the woods. I recall many times pleading for David to start home from the fort we had built while listening to him repeat “Only a few more minutes.” This continued until there was no time to spare and we were running through the woods at full throttle. It is amazing we never snapped an ankle after landing in a hole or tripped over a branch cloaked by the darkness as it was closing in.
Chapter 2
I spent a good part of my childhood outside playing with my brother. Sometimes we were lucky enough to have relatives or friends visit but most lived too far away to come often. Since my parents were both only children, there was not a lot of extended family to get to know or spend time with. As long as I helped my brother build his fort in the woods, he would play dolls with me on the completely miserable days when we could not go outside. However, his kindness stopped when we did have company or got on the school bus. I was well accustomed to the ‘tell anyone and you’re dead’ stare. Playing with your little sister was definitively not cool.
When someone in need came knocking at our door, my parents were keen to provide what assistance they could. If my brother and I were in the house when our doorbell rang, which frequently happened in the middle of the night, there were times when we were banished to our bedrooms. David and I knew those calls for help would be the most interesting so we would sneak down to the third stair where we could listen to the conversation and see what was going on in the kitchen while staying in the shadow of the wall.
I was probably around five when I realized the people who visited our home were not invited guests but rather tourists, truck drivers and those simply trying to get from point A to point B. These encounters continued for several years after my brother and I had families of our own.
Chapter 3
It was one of the often spoken of ‘dark and stormy’ nights. Weather had run the gamut from cloudy to nickel-sized hail and thunderstorms for several hours. During one of the heaviest downpours, I was lying awake when the doorbell rang. David must have been awake too, most likely reading with a flashlight under his covers, because he was already in the hall when I exited my bedroom. Dad had reached the door and was inviting the fellow inside when we started down the stairs. Mom startled us when she swept by us saying “You two stay here until I find out what the issue is.”
My father pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and a young man limped over to sit down. His dark coat was ripped and I could see blood on the side of his face. When Mom helped him take his coat off, his shirt was also torn and blood dripped onto the towel she had laid for him on the table. As soon as David saw the blood he commented, “Cool” and quietly moved toward the kitchen. I came in behind him, expecting we would both be told to go back to bed, but the young man brightened and said, “Oh, sorry to wake you too.” As my mother came to the table with first aid supplies we both stood in the doorway thankful, for the moment anyway, that we could stay.
As the young man winced when Mom started cleaning his wounds, he stated, “I was driving to see my family on my motorcycle when I got a flat tire. I lost control and hit some loose gravel which sent me sailing across the rough rock and into the ditch. It was hard enough driving in the rain; I was looking for a motel to pull into for the night. I sure was happy to see your front yard light. It’s the only thing lit up for miles!”
Mom told the man, “I will get you cleaned up after which Fred will gladly help you change your tire.” No one had a chance to say anything as David chimed in with, “Mom! Motorcycles do not have spare tires.” Everyone chuckled then Dad declared, in a jovial tone, “Hey now, just because you are the resident car and motorcycle expert doesn’t mean you know everything there youngster.”
Smiling, the young man aimed his introduction at David, “Well, youngster, my name is James Clayton, what’s yours?” Stepping a little closer, my brother replied, “I’m David and I’ll be nine next week.” I don’t know why he had to add such information. Perhaps he thought it would make him seem smarter.
My Mother told him his arm would not need stitches but the road burn was severe so he would need to see a doctor as soon as possible to get antibiotics. She turned her attention to his face. Everyone was quiet and I watched closely as she gently brushed away some small pieces of gravel. When she got a good look at his face she declared he would not need stitches and the nasty scrapes would heal in time. When she finished, Dad sat beside Mr. Clayton at the table. “You are welcome to stay here for the night” adding, “I can take you into Willowvane tomorrow so we can get you fixed up with a new tire or get the one you have now repaired.”
David settled into the chair opposite my father and asked, “What kind of bike do you have?” Mr. Clayton gave a friendly smile but Dad was the one who spoke first, “David and Elizabeth, you two get yourselves back to bed. If you are awake early enough, you can pepper Mr. Clayton with questions in the morning.”
Chapter 4
Of course, David woke at the crack of dawn as did I. We played a board game quietly in my room until we heard Mom and Dad go downstairs. We were already washed and dressed so we were right behind them. As soon as the coffee machine was percolating, Mr. Clayton joined us in the kitchen. Dad was right. Immediately after he sat down, David’s questions swung into action. He hadn’t met anyone who drove a motorcycle before. Beside David on the kitchen table, he had brought one of the few magazines on motorcycles that he had. David enquired, “Hey, Mr. Clayton, is your bike in here?”
James Clayton responded, “I reckon it could be. Let me take a look. By the way, Mr. and Mrs. Berryman, thanks for the loan of your room last night. It sure beat trying to find a tree to keep me dry.” Mom, who was busy making breakfast, said, “You are most welcome. Would you like some coffee?” He answered in the affirmative as Dad offered, “You’ll find most people are accommodating in these parts. Winky doesn’t open his garage until noon because it is Sunday. I am sure these two will keep you busy until it is time to go.”
It was that morning when I believe David took his first footsteps into manhood. Mr. Clayton walked with us to our fort in the woods with David asking him question after question. David was ready with a new inquiry before Mr. Clayton had finished answering the prior one. I was happy to simply listen to the inquisition as hearing a new voice was a novel opportunity. When my Dad left after lunch to drive Mr. Clayton into town, he let David come along with them. When they returned a couple of hours later, you would think my brother had spent the morning with a movie star; He even got Mr. Clayton to autograph the page in his magazine where there was an ad for the type of motorcycle he drove. As we sat in the fort after supper, I was happy for David. He had hardly ever spoken about adulthood, but now he was talking about how he was going to emulate James Clayton by getting his own motorcycle, moving to a city, living in his own apartment, and working as a structural engineer. I didn’t know it at the time, but David would stick to his plan almost to a tee.
Chapter 5
It was five days before Christmas when a surprise snowstorm came upon us. On our local news, the meteorologist forecasted a chance of a few flurries. As we could not see across the road once it started snowing, he was off by several inches and the flakes piled up fast.
We had finished dinner and all four of us were settling in to watch a movie when there was a loud rapping on our front door. When my father answered, he was met with a young man who was panicking and talking so fast one could not even make out the words he was trying to communicate. He obviously was in severe distress and my father put on his coat and boots in a hurry and followed the man outside. My mother’s only remark was, “Oh, dear.”
Mother was looking worriedly out the window and I asked, “What is the matter?” She shooed me away as she continued to peer out and offered only that there had been an accident.
My brother and I sat nervously on the sofa waiting for something to happen. We had sat for what seemed like hours but in reality was only probably fifteen minutes. Dad opened the door and was followed inside by what I assumed was a family – dad, mom, daughter about the same age as me and a tiny baby snuggled into a blue blanket, a son.
Father went directly to the phone to call for emergency services. From listening to him, I deduced the father was driving through the unexpected storm when his vehicle, caught in the slush, suddenly careened across into the oncoming lane and into the ditch on the opposite side of the highway. There was a strong smell of gasoline so the family knew they had to abandon their vehicle. When the father tried to take their tiny son out of the car seat, the seat belt which clicked into the seat jammed. He was stuck in the vehicle. His father ran to our front door, banging louder than needed to elicit a response but he was terrified their car was going to catch on fire and their son would be trapped.
Thankfully, my father was able to free the baby and was now requesting the police to come to the scene and also he called for a tow truck.
As the situation calmed itself, introductions were made. Harold and Alice Johnson were the parents’ names and their children were a daughter named Annabelle and a baby son named Arthur. They were traveling to spend time with family for Christmas but only occasional flurries were expected when they got on the road.
I was secretly happy the family was stranded at our house for three days while their vehicle was repaired. During that time, I made a lifelong friend with Annabelle. We became pen pals and to this day still communicate by sending hand-written letters back and forth. We purposely do not follow one another on social media, therefore looking forward to our letters in order to learn about familial news.
Though my brother thought it was not cool to play with me, I did not return the sentiment. David joined Annabelle and me in making a snow fort on our front lawn. We also made snow people of varying sizes, each one bigger than the last. During this time, I decided I did not like babies. Young Arthur cried a lot and garnered what seemed like an inordinate amount of attention. Thankfully, I changed my mind as I got older and have my own son and daughter now.
Having Annabelle to play with made the time until Christmas pass quickly; something I was thankful for. That year I was hoping for a Cabbage Patch Kid and waiting to see if I got one (I did) made time move frustratingly slow.
Chapter 6
One summer, in the middle of the night, my entire family was awakened by a loud screeching sound that ended with a whump and our house shook. It rattled the panes of glass in my window and I ran to my parents’ bedroom, not wanting to investigate the commotion by myself. We were soon joined by David who looked as frightened as I felt.
Dad told us both to stay with Mom while he went to see what happened. A minute later, there was a fracas coming from downstairs. I heard my dad hollering, asking if someone was okay. Curiosity got the better of all of us and we headed down the stairs. Our mother told us to wait when we all got to the bottom of the stairs. Dad and another man’s voice were coming from the kitchen and our mother returned telling us to go back upstairs. Of course, to my brother and me, it meant things were going to get interesting so we took our position three stairs from the top.
Our father’s tone was angry. You could hear it in his voice when he boomed, “Of course, you’re drunk. You reek of the stuff.” An old man moved into view and he could only be described as a scruff muffin. He had long hair on one side which failed at its job of covering his bald spot, his bushy beard was grey and his clothes were disheveled. He slurred his words when he spoke, “Yous don’t need to be callin’ the cops now do ya?” My father responded firmly, “You bet I am calling the police. You’ve destroyed our front porch.”
My brother and I looked past the old man as Dad dialed the phone. We couldn’t see much except there looked to be something blocking the kitchen window.
While my father was on the phone with the police, the old man turned his attention and pleaded to our mother. “Aw, com’on lady talk to your husband. I ain’t got no insurance and they’s are gonna fine me big time.” Mother responded with, “It’s not my business. That is between you and my husband.”
When my father was finished on the phone, he directed the man to wait with him outside. Looking dejected, the man followed silently behind my father.
Not wanting to get caught in case Mom decided to come upstairs, David and I headed back to our rooms. My window was open and I could hear the conversation going on between my dad and the scruff muffin. My dad was upset about the damage done to our porch from the car plowing into it. When I got to see the ruination later, I understood why my father had been so upset. It was obvious an entirely new porch would have to be constructed. Dad was eventually thankful when our property insurance policy paid the cost of the damages and would collect from the scruff muffin directly.
Our father was forthcoming about what had happened and he used it as a teaching example as to why you should never drive drunk. He emphasized how this time only property was damaged. It could have easily resulted in injury or even death if someone had been on the lawn or the porch when the vehicle came sailing off the road.
Chapter 7
My childhood reminiscing would not be complete without talking about Molly.
Like many children, David and I would wish for a puppy when all the major holidays and each of our birthdays came around. We frankly didn’t expect to get a puppy so we hardly ever feigned disappointment when the usual toys and clothes were unwrapped.
Since mom was the one who displayed the most disdain about getting a puppy, during the summer when I turned 10 my brother and I would beg our dad every chance we got when mom was not around.
One day Dad came home from working toting a box. It was closed at the top but when he put it down, there was a scratching sound coming from the inside. David and I were sitting at the kitchen table doing our homework when this transpired and our curiosity peaked. Dad looked at both of us and asked, “Aren’t you going to look in the box?” Mom had come into the kitchen, but she did not at all seem interested in the box on the floor, where the scratching had become more intense, followed by the cutest little bark I had ever heard.
David and I wasted no time opening the box and inside was an obviously confused puppy; first put into a box and now looking up at two children who took the time to jump and scream until one calmed enough to pick her out of the confines of her box with no amenities, except for a small towel that smelled like her mother; meant to be a form of comfort.
I couldn’t believe I was holding this little squirmy beautiful puppy. When David anxiously asked if we could keep the puppy, it was Mom who answered, “That was the general idea. But you must remember you said you would look after a puppy, fulfill all of its needs.” David and I spoke in unison, our words garbling together, “Yes. Of course. We’ll take care of…..by the way is it a boy or a girl.” Dad gave the little critter a scratch behind the ears, “It is a little girl. She’s a mutt though. Going to be a small dog too.”
Chapter 8
Indeed, our mother had been correct. While David and I loved playing with the puppy, there was less enthusiasm when it was time to feed her, take her outside to teach her to walk on a leash or clean up her messes. It seemed the novelty of having the responsibility to look after a puppy wore off almost immediately.
Over the next few days, there had been an ongoing argument between David and me over what to name the puppy and we had reached a stalemate. David wanted to name her Zelda and I wanted Princess. There was no agreement on either side and we thought our puppy might have to remain nameless.
While sitting at the table one night for dinner, our debate continued. Mom, who almost never spoke sharply, interceded, “Enough!” David and I were startled and the arguing stopped mid-sentence. “Our puppy will be named Molly.” There was no further discussion about what to name our little pup. Mom had easily ended the task for us. While David and I did less and less of the chores, Mom picked up the slack. Molly would sit on Mom’s lap while she was knitting and followed her everywhere. Molly would lie down, her paws slid under the door when mom was in the downstairs washroom.
For almost 17 years, it was obvious Molly was mom’s dog. Sure, Molly would play a game of fetch or tug with us but mom; she was Molly’s person and protector.
Molly gave us years of entertainment with her idiosyncrasies.
It was because of Molly’s disregard for anyone’s personal space that Dad installed a doorknob to the bathroom door upstairs which locked. Before that time, Molly had learned to pull down on the latch to open the door. Molly would enter the bathroom when anyone was having a bath; hop onto the side of the tub to play with the bubbles. Without fail, Molly would slip into the bathtub and was not often in any hurry to get out for she loved water as much as she loved bubbles.
While Molly’s legs were not long enough to let her easily survey what was on the kitchen counter, she became quite adept at walking on her hind legs in order to see almost anything. Watching her inspect things while walking on her hind legs was hilarious. She looked like a meerkat popping out of its den to see what was going on around its home.
Molly always went down the stairs backwards. We did not teach her to navigate stairs this way but it was what worked for her. I guess some dogs want to see where they have been.
Chapter 9
Several years have gone by since my parents passed. David chose civil engineering as his career path and now lives on the East Coast. I studied to become a doctor but I am currently on sabbatical while I upgrade to a different specialty. I have a husband, Jonathan, and two beautiful children, Tait and Tabitha. My husband and I met in high school and he went on to be the administrator at the hospital in Willowvane.
Three months ago, Jonathan accepted a position on the East Coast which was close to where David and his family lived. Though we were leaving our hometown, it didn’t seem like home anymore since Jonathan’s parents had also passed and his sister, too, lived on the East Coast.
We had been staying in a suite in a hotel in Willowvane for three days and the time had come to get on the road. School was over and the kids were anxious to move to their new home. There were two vehicles that needed to come with us. Tait and Tabitha set out with their father. They know me well and their father has much more tolerance for them singing with their headphones on along with their usual bickering in the back seat. Tomorrow, they will travel with me, or be split up between two vehicles if the quarrelling gets too distracting.
I hang back as I want one more drive past the home where I grew up. First, I stop at the store where the maple syrup from Dad’s trees is still sold. I considered purchasing a bottle, but crossing four states is quite a drive to return the bottle. It simply wouldn’t feel right if I kept it.
I pulled over to the side of the road when I got to the four corners where a flashing stop light was installed several years ago. Ownership of our farm had changed hands a couple of times and I do not know the people who live there now. I mull over whether to knock on the door and ask to take one more walk through the apple orchard, perhaps looking back to see my younger self sitting on the bench looking out from the widow’s walk.
Finally, I decide to forgo the walk and wipe away the tear drifting down my cheek and put the car in drive, heading east. After all, you can’t go back home.
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