A View from the Buggy (3 page)

“Can you bait your own hook?” Dad asked.

“The boys showed me how at home,” I said, but I held my breath as I slid the worm on the hook. Afterward I bent over to rinse my hand in the lake water and rose to my feet again. I gave the line a fling and ever so slowly reeled the line in. Dad gave his rod another toss, which sent his line way beyond where mine had landed.

“How do you cast it out so far?” I asked.

Dad jiggled his line. “You give the rod a good, firm cast and release the button just as you finish your swing.”

“I wish you'd watch and see if I do it right,” I said.

“Just a minute.” Dad finished reeling his line in. “Okay. Go for it.”

I took a good grip and gave my best cast. It fell short of where I wanted it, but Dad didn't appear discouraged. “Practice, practice, practice,” he said.

I smiled and reeled in slowly. The line bobbed.

“Set your hook!” Dad hollered.

I hauled back and wailed when the now empty line flew out over the water. Dad only smiled. “Practice, practice, practice.”

I cast my line again, and there it was. Another bite. I set my hook and squealed, “I got him!”

“Bring it in,” Dad encouraged. “Keep reeling.”

The next moment I had a good-sized fish out of the water.

“That's a nice bluegill.” Dad beamed. “Can you unhook it?”

“No,” I said. Dread filled my mind. Surely Dad wouldn't make me learn how to unhook a fish this evening. But my fears soon came true.

Dad calmly stepped closer. “I'll show you how, and the next time you can do it.” He pointed. “Here are the gills, so slip your hand down like this.” He demonstrated, grasping the fish. “Push the hook down like this, and there you go.” Dad finished and threw the fish into the bucket.

How will I ever get a grip like that on a slippery fish?
I wondered with wide eyes.

Dad had already gone back to fishing, so I cast once more. In no time I had another fish.

“I still can't do it,” I moaned to Dad.

“It's part of the fun,” Dad said. “It's not as hard as it looks.”

I took a deep breath and slipped my left hand over the fish's face. Dad smiled as I seized the hook. Slowly I pushed down, and amazingly I had it unhooked.

“Good job,” Dad cheered.

I felt warm all over. “You're right,” I told him. “It works if you just do it.”

We were soon back to fishing, the rest of the evening passing swiftly. We released the smaller fish but kept the larger ones.

Just before sunset Dad announced, “I think we should gather up our things and head home.”

“Already?” I groaned. “I'm enjoying myself.”

“It's after nine.” Alvin seconded Dad's opinion, and I knew we'd have to leave. Moments later we loaded everything into the van, and I settled into the backseat again.

“I hope we can do this again,” I whispered to Alvin.

“So do I,” Alvin agreed.

I figured I'd smile a long time over this wonderful evening. And to think that God had made such amazing things as fish. He must be a very great God.

Horses and Boys

Marvin Wengerd

Can two walk together, except they be agreed? (Amos 3:3)

W
HEN
I
WAS A BOY WE LIVED ON A SMALL FARM IN
W
ALNUT
C
REEK
Valley. Back then farms with waving fields of grain and sprawling cornfields stretched their yellow and green across the valley. The “big creek,” as we boys called Walnut Creek, tumbled its course to the river that lay beyond. This creek marked the southern boundary of our farm.

Up from the big creek toward the house was a 12-acre bottom field in which we grew corn. In the spring came plowing, disking, and harrowing. Planting followed. Then cultivation. Row after row, hour after hour of sitting on a two-horse cultivator swatting flies, steering the lines, and managing fast foot pedal plunges to miss hitting tender corn seedlings.

This all led toward monotony, of course. King and Queen, our half wild, half tame team, needed to rest at times, so the monotony was broken by end-of-row breaks where reading and tossing stones in the creek were favorite pastimes while we waited.

When the corn was waist high, cultivating was over and summer with all its work and play began. Making hay, shocking, and then threshing wheat and oats and chasing groundhogs and each other made the sweat run down our backs. It also added inches to our biceps as summer moved into fall. By then the memories of our hard days cultivating were all but forgotten. The trees had begun to color and the cornfields had turned from a sea of green to a rustling golden brown. Harvest time had arrived.

The cool October wind not only stole summer's warmth and fun,
but it also reminded Dad that it was time to pick corn. Years before, Dad had invested in a two-row corn picker—my brother and me.

We would hitch King and Queen to our hay wagon equipped with one-foot-high sides all around. Off we jolted to the waiting cornfields. Our right hands were fitted with leather bands and sported V-shaped metal hooks on the palm side. With this outfit we tore into a corn husk and ripped it from the stalk. And with speed that's hard to explain, the left hand grabbed the well-guarded ear and yanked it free. With the same left hand the ear is airborne to find its place on the wagon bed with a dull thud. Over and over down the seemingly endless field my Dad's two-row picker ripped, grabbed, yanked, and threw corn.

As we picked (such a simple word for a very difficult job!) corn, the wagon with King and Queen hitched to it moved along as well. We would start at the back of the wagon and work our way up to the front, filling as we went.

Standing at the front of the wagon we would simply holler, “Giddap” to King and Queen. They would start off; the two most recently picked corn rows guiding them in a straight line.

When we were ready for them to stop we'd call out, “Whoa!” The wagon would have moved ten feet or so by then, and obediently the horses would stop, even though the lines hung limply on the wagon. Horsemen call this
voice command
.

“Whoa.” “Giddap.” “Whoa.” “Giddap.” “Whoa.” “Giddap.” All morning long King and Queen started and stopped perfectly as my brother and I fought cold hands and picked corn.

We had just unloaded and were back out on the west end of the field, farthest away from the barn, when the incident occurred. The wagon being empty, the corn landed on the wooden wagon floor with a sharp crack, kernels flying in all directions.

“Giddap,” I called and kept on picking corn, throwing it into the empty wagon. “Whoa,” I shouted above the rustling corn. “That's far enough.”

But somehow wild King didn't hear my command. Both horses kept going, spooked by the sound of the corn. Jumping out of my corn
row with my heart pounding in my throat, I yelled with all the force of my 12-year-old vocal chords. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

Nothing slowed them down. In fact, they picked up speed.

Tears pushed their way into my eyes as I thought of what could happen when King and Queen reached a gallop. They were headed straight for the road and the barn beyond. Visions of them meeting the milk truck barreling down the road flashed before me. And how would the barn door look after these two had tried to funnel themselves through its narrow opening?

But when the team was only a few yards from the road, I saw that King and Queen were galloping headlong into another kind of problem. My breath was lost and my heart raced as I watched in disbelief as the two horses made straight for an electric pole. Wild-eyed King, every muscle straining, pulled to the right as he tried to avoid the pole. He might have succeeded but for Queen's 1,800 pounds that pulled in the other direction, also to avoid the pole. Straining with all her might, Queen held her course. The thundering noise seemed to put wings to the team's feet as the two hit the pole with the wagon tongue in the middle, flying like an arrow from the bow.

The almost empty wagon careened wildly sideways across the corn rows, crashing nearby stalks to the ground. Harnesses strained as the heads of the two horses met on the far side of the pole in a face-to-face encounter. With heaving breath, they pulled their heads apart.

My brother and I approached with knees shaking. Would there be pieces of their harness and wagon tongue left to pick up?

Amazingly nothing was much amiss, other than King and Queen regarding each other in puzzled wonderment.

Unable to contain our pent-up emotions, we burst out laughing. What had started as a world-sized catastrophe ended with two boys holding their sides over two horses with 12 acres and a road to run away in, but who had been stopped because they couldn't agree which side of the pole to go around.

An Eventful Evening

Janice Hochstetler

What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him? (Psalm 8:4)

I
T WAS HUMID THAT
S
UNDAY
,
AND EVERYONE FELT HOT AND A BIT
grumpy as we drove home from the three-hour church service. Our horse, Lady, plodded along, her hooves beating rhythmically on the pavement. Moments later, Mom turned around in the front seat of the buggy to ask, “Why don't we go down to the pond for a picnic supper?”

There was a chorus of, “Yes, let's,” from the rest of the children, and I joined in with enthusiasm.

“May we go swimming?” nine-year-old Jeffery asked from his perch between his brother and sister on the back seat of the surrey.

“Not today,” Dad said. “It's Sunday.”

Jeffery groaned. “It won't be any fun if we can't swim.”

Dad kept his voice firm. “You can go wading, but no swimming.”

Jeffery accepted the verdict with a sigh, and there were no more protests. We soon arrived home and were on the way down the dusty cow path behind the barn. Down the lane that led to the woods where, inside the leafy shadows, lay the pond.

I watched as Dad started a fire when we arrived. He planned to grill the hamburgers Mom had brought along. They would be scrumptious, since they came from our own Angus beef, raised on the farm.

While the fire died down, Dad and the boys decided to move the paddleboat we kept at the pond. As they lifted the boat near the shore, a skunk scurried away toward the field nearby.

“Eeeek!” I squealed and jumped back a few feet.

Six-year-old Jaylin held his nose. “I'm glad she didn't spray me.”

The smell was bad enough already. What would it be like to have skunk spray all over oneself? There would have been little choice then but to dive into the pond, even with Dad's prohibition on Sunday swimming.

I shivered as the skunk disappeared from sight. Jeffery, though, had already forgotten his scare and was headed off into the tall grass. Moments later, his loud yell sent another chill up my back. I turned to see what trouble had appeared now. But instead of trouble, a beautiful fawn leaped over the grass. My heart beat faster at the wonderful sight. God has made such graceful creatures, and so fragile. He is a great and wonderful God indeed.

By the time the fawn disappeared, Dad had returned to his fire and the hamburgers were put on. When they were finally cooked, we ate near the water's edge to the sound of chirping birds and croaking frogs.

After supper Dad asked, “Who wants a paddleboat ride?”

“Me!” Jeffery shouted much louder than necessary.

“Me too!” Jaylin was jumping up and down in excitement. Two-year-old Justin, who had no fear of water, echoed the words.

I didn't want to miss out on the fun, so I added my desire. But before we could leave Mom said, “Why don't we all help clean up the supper mess, then we can go together for a ride?”

We all agreed, even the smaller children, and finished in no time.

The boat was large enough to hold us all, and we piled in. As we headed across the water, the sounds of nature surrounded us. It was a gorgeous and peaceful evening now that the sun was down.

We had passed the middle of the pond, which Dad had once claimed was 15 feet deep, and were approaching the opposite shoreline when Jeffery cried out, “Dad, the boat is going down. Water's about to come in.”

“We need to go for the shore!” Dad's usually calm voice was frantic.

Then, without further warning, the water began pouring in. Dad panicked and jumped to his feet. For a moment he stood there frozen, when
splash
, the back of the boat was under the water and we tipped sideways. This dumped all of us into the cool water. Most of us
screamed for help and thought we would drown, since Dad and Jeffery were the only ones who could swim. The lifejackets were still on the boat.

I sank under the water, where I grasped for something to hold on to. My hand caught ahold of Mom's dress, and I clung to it with all my might. I remember thinking that I had read somewhere that this was something one should never do, as the other person would only be dragged under as well. So I let go, but kicked wildly and thrashed about.