Late Frost in early April

Robert Frost, the poet, that is. From a biography by Jean Gould, she writes: "Spring flowers, always so slow to come to New England, seemed later than ever the next year.

"When there was still no sign of blossoms at the end of March, he 'made some out of paper and put them down the roads on April Fool's Day.' And if the neighbors saw him strewing the bits of colored paper along the path, he paid them no heed––or if he did, it was just to give a friendly wave, inviting whoever wished to ask just what he was about." ––Jean Gould, Robert Frost, The Aim Was Song.

From the Online Book Club: A review

"One gripe I had with this book is the meandering plot. I am normally a fast reader, but this book took me an unusually long time to finish. Some readers may not mind this, as some of the side stories and passages are absolute gems. 

"This isn’t a book you should race through, as you might with a thriller; you should savor every sentence. The writing is lovely and lyrical. I enjoyed reading the book as much for the author’s use of language as for the storyline itself. The story is quite engaging and Claude is a likeable main character. All of the characters are vividly written, particularly Claude’s friend Tim, who is deaf and an orphan.

"The dialogue is easy to understand, even with the heavy use of rural Pennsylvania dialect. I usually find the use of a dialect distracting, although it was natural and flowing in this case. I felt like I knew these people well and became used to their manner of speaking.

"I rate this book 3 out of 4 stars. I wish I could have given the book 3.5 stars. The story will tug at your heartstrings. This book would appeal to anyone who likes to read wholesome stories about country life and boys growing up. Actually, I would recommend this book to anyone who appreciates good writing."

Thanks, Carolyn, for this insightful and accurate review. The Boys of Summers Run is now available through Amazon.com as an e-book or in a softcover edition.

Or, better yet, patronize your local bookstore on the corner. It should be able to order The Boys of Summers Run through its network of distributors including the Indie system. Also, the Kobo platform provides a variety of e-book formats for those of you with tablets and the like. 

Uncle Fritz and the Percheron

Here's my Uncle Fritz with one of my Grandfather Cotton's mighty Percherons. Alfred Banks Cotton became a noted breeder in the early 1920's and also maintained a "fine herd of Holsteins." Note the milk cans in the right of this photograph.

Quoting from the website The Percheron Horse Association in America, Fredericktown, Ohio: 

"This is how Alvin Sanders, author of A History of the Percheron Horse (©1917) describes the race of men who developed this race of horse: "Their horses are a part of their inheritance, particularly prized and accustomed to the affectionate attention of the entire household. Their docility, growing out of their intimate human relationship, is therefore an inborn trait".

More on this influential breed of draught, or draft, horse on another blog of our Along Country Roads family, My Corner of Pennsylvania. Just click the link on the right.

Aunt Bea's Plymouth

 "The Crumms"      


Mr. Crumm became an interest of mine, for he was a genuine farmer. At the eleven o’clock service, he often wore a medium blue, well-tailored wool suit with a matching vest and pocket watch linked by a golden chain. My mother always fell tongue-tied whenever they met in the aisle of the sanctuary or the vestibule during the organist’s Recessional. 

“I can’t picture him as a farmer. Can you?  He belongs to the Rotary!” she’d whisper. Any farmer holding membership in the local Rotary Club was stationed much higher than most farmers, in her mind and experience. My father would tease her.

“Oh, you’d fall for any fella in a blue suit. Bein’ Rotary is even better.” My father possessed neither the membership nor such a suit. He’d be met with her scowling rebuke. He seldom shared her notions but he did tell me once: “You’d do well, bud, to copy Squire Crumm. He's landed gentry but didn't fritter it away like some."  

On that Saturday, Aunt Bea announced we had a full afternoon of visitation rounds for the  church. And when I learned the Crumms were on the list, I hoped our stop there would consume most of our tour.  “Glad I am that you could make it today,” she told me as we left. “The Crumms are always a treat.”

When we pulled down the lane, we crossed the stone bridge and we were . . . treated . . . to a scene from Currier & Ives. A rock wall, rail fence, Colonial home rendered in Summer Butter and trimmed in Arctic White; it fit my expectations. “This home . . . goes back to the early 1800s,” said Aunt Bea. “Tops our Out Home by nearly seventy years.” 

As we parked in front of the house, Mr. Crumm climbed off his tractor and greeted us with a little finger-pointing wave. His carriage was a bit stooped but his step covered ground.

“There you are, Beatrice, driving your faithful steed. We always look forward to the black Plymouth pulling up the drive.”

I was re-introduced and Mr. Crumm shook my hand in both of his. “Ah, yes,” he said, “a Cotton to the core. Say hello to your folks––you'll be a credit. Well, let’s go in. Barbara June has set out her coffee cake, and I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.” He ushered us toward the porch and asked, “And how go things at church?”

“Well, John, all programs are showing promise. Reverend Crawford is much improved. My, you have lots of enterprising projects around and about.”

“Yes, always something. The storm brought down some debris we must redd up.”

Mrs. Crumm––Barbara June––met us with a silver tray and the afternoon’s goodies, usually a feature of Aunt Bea’s visitations, kind of like the English taking time for tea. “Let’s visit on the porch, such a pleasant day, breeze and all.  J. R. took our storm windows down.”

Aunt Bea led off: “I understand you’ve heard from John Junior. He’s been out west,” she said to me. “He’s doing well, I hope?”

“Much the better,” said Mr. Crumm.

“At least his letters sound positive,” said Barbara June.

“I need him now that spring’s sprung, but we’re hopeful the exposure out there will give him some focus. He says he’s working pretty hard, learning the ropes on a ranch. They’re through calving. Might be too tame for him around here,” he laughed weakly.

Earlier, Aunt Bea had cued me in on the Crumm’s only son. He’d served in Korea as a conscientious objector and came home . . . “strange. He’s seen a lot of things, unpleasant and horrid things. I hope you never have to go to war.”

I’d met John Junior a few times. He cut our buckwheat crop Out Home and made a miserable mess of it. Though I was barely ten years old, even I could tell he was running the combine too fast. The reel became a blur throwing stalks of buckwheat into the air where they fell pell-mell, missing the conveyor belt. It was the only time I’d ever heard my family criticize a neighbor. “That boy’s got a screw loose,” said my uncle. “Always did, even before Korea.”

I helped myself to another slice of coffee cake at Mrs. Crumm’s insistence while she relayed her well-rehearsed explanation of her son.

“John could never accept the loss of our Catherine. Catherine,” she told me, “was an army nurse . . . in the world war.”

“Battle of the Bulge,” added Mr. Crumm. “Her ambulance ran off the road during some shelling and rolled over.” 

“Something happened then with John. He was but ten years old. So devoted to his sister. A beautiful thing––we were so pleased with the both of them and their love for each other. She was always ‘Cat’ to him.” 

“You’ve paid such a price,” said my aunt, and before an awkward silence followed, she rose and directed my attention to a large plaque on the wall, surrounded by photographs of the courthouse, the state’s governor, and local potentates. “John, can no one talk you into running again? You were such a good county commissioner. One of our best.” 

     He laughed.

“Beatrice, twelve years is enough. When John comes back home to us, I need to have things in place so he can take over here and hold things together. No time for local government. Why don’t you run? We need good men and women in our governments.”

“Oh, J. R., don’t wish such on Miss Cotton. All those meetings and the long-winded phone calls all times of the night.”

We said our good-byes and drove off, leaving the polished walnut, the white wickered porch furniture, the hooked rugs, the cobbler benches and shaker rockers, the wing chairs and camel-backed sofa behind until our next visit. Which I hoped would be soon. But, it was a big congregation and many folks to visit. The widows and widowers, the infirm, the young families, the spinsters, the kids off to college, the new members and the old guard. Nothing quite as interesting as a patriarchal gentleman farmer who I thought, as did my father, might be a worthy model for my future.

As we hit the county road, Aunt Bea let me shift the Plymouth’s gears, through the 1-2-and 3 from the floor-mounted lever. We were both thoughtful. She looked my way.

“The Crumms are community pillars for all of us. They hold up their end despite their personal tragedies.”

“Would you ever run for county commissioner?” I asked. “It would make us proud.”               

     There followed a long pause. “Some day, there will be women in public office. And, some day, maybe you’ll be our family’s county commissioner.”

From Henry Beston

“I am glad that the country world thus retains a power to use our English tongue. It is a part of its sense of reality, of its vocabulary of definite terms, and of its habit of early common sense. I find this country writing an excellent corrective of the urban vocabulary of abstractions and of the emotion disguised as thinking which abstractions and humbug have loosed upon the world. May there always be such things as a door, a milk pail, and a loaf of bread, and words to do them honor.” 

Henry Beston, Northern Farm.

Beston is a northern Wendell Berry and disciple of Thoreau. He and his wife, writer Elizabeth Coatsworth,  lived a life devoted to naturalist writing and wrote from a farm in Maine most of their years together. 

Another from Henry Beston's Northern Farm:

“If we are to live and have something to live for, let us remember, all of us, that we are the servants as well as the masters of our fields.”

Aunt Bea's Plymouth

Part One, "The Dress"

It developed when my Aunt Beatrice retired from the college, she assumed a status she called “selectively engaged.” 

“I’m not out to pasture, just standing at the gate,” she would tell those who asked. Her retirement dinner had been well-attended and speakers there were effusive in their praise of “Miss Cotton and all the fond memories many of us hold here tonight.” It also developed, though no longer a fixture on and about campus, she was becoming such at church. She had already “engaged” a position unofficially. 

The minister had become immobile through a bad fall and long convalescence. Parishioners filled in and took on various new duties. Aunt Bea became the Visitation Caller and every Sunday bulletin reminded folks: “Miss Cotton remains available for call and contact should need arise.” 

“I find I gain more from these visits than those I call on,” she confided to us once. “Aunt Rae used to say, ‘It suits me right down to the ground,’ and this does,” she said of it, adding the travel around the township dovetailed with her interest in ancestry.  Local history and connections, cemetary trekking, and interviewing the community’s oldsters kept full retirement at bay. 

“There are so many blanks to fill,” she would often tell me. The church provided a stipend for fuel and any expenses. And I would often ride along. 

By this time, I was in my early teens, just a couple years younger than the black 1939 Plymouth Road King coupe Aunt Bea bought from a Mister Lamb and drove during the war years. “It’s been well-cared for,” said Mister Lamb. “Well, I should know,” he laughed, “I’ve done all the maintenance on it. Thought once, we might keep it for Mother, but she said she’s read about these ‘new automatic shifter gears, and I want one of those.’”

And I learned how to shift through 1-2-3 from the lever mounted on the floor. The knob was rubber with a plastic cover displaying a photograph of my brother and me digging out from the blizzard of ’48.

One of our early calls took us to a family we’ll call the Steadman’s. Like many of the neighborhood, they lived rural on remnants of a larger farm broken up to give all the offspring a base of some kind if not a livelihood. They would attend the local church or occasionally, the mother church in town for an annual event or dinner.

We’d no sooner settled in the cluttered Steadman living room, when the daughter came home from high school, burst in the door, brushed past us, and declared: “Mom! I gotta have that dress by Friday.”

Mrs. Flora Steadman tried an introduction but it seemed guests played second-fiddle to this dress crisis.

“We’ll tend to it, hon. I’ll get your Aunt Irene to help. Don’t panic.”

Daughter stormed up the stairs and her mother tried an apology this time. “I’m sorry, but this dress thing has her in a stew. She . . . forgets her manners some times.”

Out in the Plymouth, we pulled down the lane and Aunt Bea had to laugh. “Oh, my. Manners were never a long suit with the Steadmans at best. A rough lot even back in my day, and it doesn’t seem the new generation shows much promise. Blood will tell.

“Nothing like good country manners. Such serve one well.”

I would hear a lot about manners, as she traveled for the church and around the country during those years. And, more about “showing promise” later.