Wooden Nickel
The Great Depression destroyed George’s hope of establishing a home based business.
He could no longer support his family with income from his farm.
He walked five miles down a dirty country road, kicking stones with his boots until he reached Route 22. He stuck out his thumb, hitched a ride to Mill Creek and laid bricks for a few bucks a day and did it six times a week.
The biggest insult to his love for farming was the fact that he had to hold down two jobs– mason and farmer, just to feed the family.
When potato picking time came around, after the green vines of the potato plant had withered to brownness, the family reaped the free rewards of mother nature. It felt good to hold firm brown root vegetables after lifting heavy grey bricks all day in the hot son. His kids hated working the farm, especially picking potatoes.
They would rather listen to Elvis records.
The Taylor kids and his wife Esther stood at the edge of the fields and George held a nickel with a bison on its face in his palm and said, "Whoever finds the biggest potato gets this buffalo nickel."
His youngest son said "You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog," and spit at his daddy.
George was going to whip his ass good this time. But the eight year old tore off running down the dirt road in the opposite direction his daddy walked to work. The child ran for at least a half mile at top speed while laughing as he escaped the wrath of the whip of his foolish daddy who tried to buy him for a worthless nickel.
As he slowed down and a dust cloud formed around his worn out sneakers he could hear his father’s footsteps close behind him, running at top speed out the lane too.
"Go pick out your own switch."
Little Barry found the nicest looking sapling he could.
George lashed his ass and back on the long walk home down the dusty lane.
The family ate mashed potatoes at every meal for the rest of the year, but not as part of Barry’s punishment, but because George dropped the buffalo nickel somewhere along that dusty dirt road.
He could no longer support his family with income from his farm.
He walked five miles down a dirty country road, kicking stones with his boots until he reached Route 22. He stuck out his thumb, hitched a ride to Mill Creek and laid bricks for a few bucks a day and did it six times a week.
The biggest insult to his love for farming was the fact that he had to hold down two jobs– mason and farmer, just to feed the family.
When potato picking time came around, after the green vines of the potato plant had withered to brownness, the family reaped the free rewards of mother nature. It felt good to hold firm brown root vegetables after lifting heavy grey bricks all day in the hot son. His kids hated working the farm, especially picking potatoes.
They would rather listen to Elvis records.
The Taylor kids and his wife Esther stood at the edge of the fields and George held a nickel with a bison on its face in his palm and said, "Whoever finds the biggest potato gets this buffalo nickel."
His youngest son said "You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog," and spit at his daddy.
George was going to whip his ass good this time. But the eight year old tore off running down the dirt road in the opposite direction his daddy walked to work. The child ran for at least a half mile at top speed while laughing as he escaped the wrath of the whip of his foolish daddy who tried to buy him for a worthless nickel.
As he slowed down and a dust cloud formed around his worn out sneakers he could hear his father’s footsteps close behind him, running at top speed out the lane too.
"Go pick out your own switch."
Little Barry found the nicest looking sapling he could.
George lashed his ass and back on the long walk home down the dusty lane.
The family ate mashed potatoes at every meal for the rest of the year, but not as part of Barry’s punishment, but because George dropped the buffalo nickel somewhere along that dusty dirt road.
posted by Charles George Taylor at
11:17 PM
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