Whether plunging into Greenwood Lake at the city’s edge or feeding cows on our moderate acreage, my big brother showed gentleman traits. But Tim wasn’t stuffy – no “goody-two-shoes”.And with
Whether plunging into Greenwood Lake at the city’s edge or feeding cows on our moderate acreage, my big brother showed gentleman traits. But Tim wasn’t stuffy – no “goody-two-shoes”.And with exactly one year, one month and one day between our birthdays, we pursued adventures together.
One practice common to us as growing boys was climbing things.
We climbed trees. Pear trees, Pecan trees, Willow trees. I watched Tim fall from one. His crash to the ground yielded a broken arm and his reconfigured wrist held me spellbound the whole way to the hospital. Though clearly in pain, he prevailed with valor. In the 1950s a bone fracture was a big deal. To set his arm the nurse put him under with ether-soaked cotton. This set in motion a bout of vomiting. Tim was miserable yet didn’t make a fuss. No whining. No moaning. I was impressed. Wow.
In our teen years Dad introduced useful outlets for our climbing zeal. He referred us to the steering wheel of a farm tractor. We climbed aboard. And many times after.
Hay season found Tim steering the well-worn Farmall H. With it he towed a mowing piece to a meadow past Groveania, a dusty dot on the Okmulgee County landscape south of Bald Hill Road. His mowing task done, the cut grass lay under a July sun to cure. Tim’s white hanky found daylight often, attending to bouts of sneezing brought on by hay fever. The alergy dogged him all Summer long.
The vintage Allis Chalmers our dad assigned me required bailing wire to keep the tractor’s shifting arm fixed in second gear. Without this safeguard the slightest bump would pop the stick straight into neutral. It was hardly the only saving use of the binding material. The shouted phrase “Got some bailing wire?” was standard fare as a stop-gap remedy for hay-baling woes all across Oklahoma’s fruited plain..
A multi-pronged hay rake followed behind the Allis. Once I raked the long grass into windrows, our dad wrapped up the process. He drew the grassy aroma into his lungs, then guided his equipment to harvest the meadow’s yield. Winter feed for his modest cattle herd.
Tim and I kept climbing, traversing wooden fences and livestock chutes at the rodeo grounds across from our acreage. Perched above the bull pens, we adjusted our straw hats and planted our chins on the heels of our open hands. Like area ranch-men were prone to do at local animal auctions. What fun – up here with my big brother. Adjusting our positions, what fun surveying the grown-up wranglers at practice in their calf-roping.
We didn’t tire of climbing. The two of us hoisted ourselves onto the back of Old Bill. Naturally.
Riding horseback meant free entrance to the annual Rodeo, regardless the number of passengers.
©2018 Jerry Lout
In his pre-college years Jerry Lout schooled at Wilson Elementary, Preston High and O.S.U. Okmulgee. He writes memoir and reflections on living. Jerry authored “Living With A Limp”, from which this piece is edited ( Amazon.com ). Additional narratives are published at www.jerrylout.com. He may be reached at jerrylout@gmail.com