Letters from Hillside Farm (9 page)

May 9, 1938

Monday

Dear Grandma,

Pa sure is full of surprises. After school today, while I was doing my evening barn chores, the big red truck that had delivered our cows and horses drove into our yard. I've gotten to know the driver a little; Ross Caves is his name. Mr. Caves stepped down from the truck and asked if Pa was around. I said he was in the barn and I'd go fetch him. When I told Pa the trucker was here and wanted to see him, he started smiling—just a little smile that Pa sometimes gets when he is feeling good about something.

“Hello there, Adolph,” the trucker said. “Where do you want me to unload him?”

Now I wondered what Pa had bought. We already have horses and cows, and Ma has her chickens. I thought maybe Pa had bought a hog somewhere. Mr. Caves let down the ramp at the back of the truck and walked inside. When he appeared again at the top of the ramp, he was leading a pony, a little Shetland. Slowly Mr. Caves and the pony walked down the ramp, and then he handed the halter rope to me and said that this must be my new pony. It sure wasn't a hog.

I took the rope, but I just stood there looking dumb. I don't know anything about ponies. Pa asked about the pony's name.

“Ginger,” said Mr. Caves. “He's been injured at one time or another—you can see his front knees are overly large—and he's pretty old. But otherwise he seems okay. Very gentle. Seems to like people.”

Ginger stood beside me, not moving, just looking at me as if to say, “Who are you?” I rubbed his forehead with my free hand, which he seemed to like, as he moved his head up and down against my hand.

Mr. Caves put up the ramp, crawled into his truck, waved goodbye, and drove away. When the truck was out of sight, I asked if this was really my pony. Pa said it is but I will have to share Ginger with Annie, and because I am older it will be my responsibility to take care of him.

I asked Pa where he had found the pony. Pa explained that Ginger was a circus pony and had performed for several years with the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. But he is getting old, so the circus sold him to Mr. Caves. Mr. Caves knew Pa has kids and thought he might be interested. Pa said he paid only ten dollars for Ginger.

Now Annie came running from the house, yelling at the top of her lungs, “It's a pony! It's a pony! Can I ride him? Can I ride him?”

Pa lifted Annie onto Ginger's back and told her to hold onto his mane so she wouldn't fall off. Then I led Ginger around the yard a couple times, with Annie holding on tight and grinning from ear to ear.

Pa said Mr. Caves told him Ginger knows a bunch of tricks. I asked what kind of tricks—I'm still thinking about putting on my own circus, and having a pony do tricks will surely make it more interesting. Pa said we'll wait a few days for Ginger to get acquainted with his new surroundings, and then we'll see what tricks he knows.

After a few turns around the yard, Pa said that Ginger was probably tired after arriving on the circus train to Willow River and then being trucked out here to the farm. Annie slid off him and I led him into the barn and tied him in his new stall, which Pa built in the barn while I was at school today.

Imagine, Grandma, now I have both a dog and a pony. What more could a kid want?

Your grandson,

George

Dear George,

Have you ever heard of a “dog and pony show?” Well, now that's just what you can do with the circus you are planning. And you have a real circus pony—how lucky can you be? I'll bet your little sister is just smiling like everything. I know I would be if I had both a puppy and a pony.

Do you know yet what kinds of tricks your pony can do? When you find out, let me know.

Congratulations. You are a lucky boy!

Love,

Grandma S.

May 11, 1938

Wednesday

Dear Grandma,

Our school plays Forest Grove School in softball next week. Forest Grove won last year 7 to 6, and Miss Harvey says we can't let that happen again. Our team practices every noon and every recess, too. I don't practice much, though. I can't run fast enough to play any of the positions well. At least I don't fall down as often anymore. I guess my leg is getting a little better. But Amos still thinks I shouldn't be on the team.

Rachel asked me last week if I'd like to be the team pitcher. She told me that pitchers don't have to move around much, and she said that she knew I could do it. I told her I'd like to try, so every night after chores I've been practicing out back of the pump house. Miss Harvey said I can take the softball home overnight, if I remember to bring it back every morning.

I drew a circle on the side of the pump house with some chalk, backed up the correct distance, and practiced hitting the target. At first I didn't even come close, but after a while I was hitting the circle right in the middle about two out of three tries. Now I've got to work on pitching faster. When I pitched at recess today almost everyone hit the ball, even the second-graders. I've got to do better so I can strike them out. They shouldn't be able to hit so easily.

Your grandson,

George

May 20, 1938

Friday

Dear Grandma,

What a ball game it was! We played at Forest Grove School. Their ball diamond is in a little field out back of their school, and it crowds up to a big oak woods. It's mostly flat ground, which makes it better than our diamond, where we have to run uphill to get to second base (of course then it's downhill to home plate—if we get that far).

Grandma, these kids can play ball as well as they can spell. They can hit, and they run like deer. There were a lot of mothers at the game, cheering for both sides. I was so happy to see my mother and little Annie. Grandma Woodward came, too. I asked one of the kids where Amos's mother was, and he told me that she died when Amos was a baby. Grandma Woodward is quite a lady. You should have seen her standing along the first base line, waving her arms and cheering every time our team got a hit or somebody caught a fly ball. Sure helps to have somebody cheering. Little Annie got into that, too. She cheered no matter who hit the ball, their team or our team.

I was the starting pitcher. Grandma, I struck out the first kid that came up to the plate! I figured he must be one of their best players, or they wouldn't have had him bat first. I think he was a little anxious and swung early. I still haven't learned how to throw very fast, but Miss Harvey showed me how to hold the ball so that it drops or climbs when I pitch it, depending on how I throw it. It took maybe three innings before these Forest Grove kids caught on to what I heard one of them say is a strange way of pitching.

Herman—that same tall, skinny kid with the badly worn overalls who can spell so well—was the first one to hit one of my sinkers. He whaled on it! Herman sent the ball flying past second base and got himself a double.

As usual, whenever I came up to bat I either hit the ball high in the air and somebody caught it, or I hit it on the ground. By the time I limped to first base, their first baseman was standing there with the ball, waiting for me. It was embarrassing, but it didn't bother me quite as much as it once did.

I kept on pitching until the seventh inning. By then I was getting mighty tired. Amos wanted to pull me after the Forest Grove kid hit a double on my sinker ball, but Rachel said no, that I should stay in a little longer. I don't know how Rachel does it, but she talks back to Amos, and he listens.

At the eighth inning, the score was tied 5 to 5. Forest Grove got another run in the ninth. Now we had just three more chances to tie the game and maybe even win. I was beginning to think that the ball game was going to turn out just like the spelling bee.

Grandma Woodward, Ma, and Annie kept cheering us on. Grandma Woodward waved a little red handkerchief as she yelled. I was surprised that the Forest Grove teacher didn't tell her to quit shaking that handkerchief and sit down, but she didn't.

Amos was up to bat. For all his faults—and he's got lots of them—he's a good ball player. He can really hit. His grandma was yelling, “Hit it into the woods! Hit it into the woods!” Amos looked over at her and said, “I'll try, Grandma.” I've noticed that Amos has a different way of talking to his grandmother. He's always polite, and he doesn't say anything nasty like he does when he talks to me and some of the other kids.

Amos stood up to the plate and glared down at the new Forest Grove pitcher, a girl who came up only to his shoulder. One thing I noticed about this pitcher, besides seeing that she is just about the cutest girl in their school, was her fastball. Her name is Amy, and she can pitch a softball twice as fast as I can. Herman is their catcher—his hands are as big as sofa pillows—and even he shakes his hands after this cute pitcher whistles in one of her fast pitches. The ball must sting something fierce. (Nobody on either team wears gloves of any kind, not even the catcher. And the teachers trade off calling balls and strikes. It sure is different from how we played ball in Ohio.)

Amy's first pitch sailed right by Amos. He took a mighty cut at it—and nearly fell down in the process.

“Strike one,” the Forest Grove teacher yelled.

Amos was embarrassed. He picked up a handful of dirt, rubbed his hands together, grabbed the bat, and stepped back up to the plate. He waved the bat across the plate a couple times and yelled to the pitcher, “Show me what you got.” The pitcher did, and Amos got another strike.

His face got redder and redder. It is one thing to miss the ball, but to miss a ball pitched by a girl must have been too much for Amos to endure.

Meanwhile, Grandma Woodward was still cheering for him, yelling, “You can do it, Amos!”

Amos didn't respond. This time he spit on one hand and then the other before grabbing the bat and stepping to the plate. He pointed his bat out toward the woods, I suspect to intimidate the pitcher. So far nothing had upset her.

The next pitch was a fastball right down the middle. The Forest Grove pitcher didn't know it, but the fastball is Amos's favorite pitch. He pulled back the bat and swung. “Crack!” That ball went sailing higher and higher, toward the big woods behind the outfield. One of Forest Grove School's outfielders ran as fast as he could toward where he figured the ball would fall. He had only a few feet left to go and he'd be in the woods, and nobody can catch a ball in the woods. Then the outfielder stopped, held up his hands, and caught the ball. “You're out!” yelled the Forest Grove teacher.

Grandma, you should have seen the look on Amos's face. He figured he had hit a home run for sure. He threw down his bat and stomped off the field. I could hear him cussing, and I hoped Miss Harvey heard him, too. If you get caught swearing at our school, Miss Harvey lays down the law, which usually means sweeping out the boy's outhouse for a couple months.

Rachel was up next. She hit a little dribbler that rolled far enough so she had time to get on first.

“Tying run on first,” yelled Grandma Woodward. I noticed she had walked over to where Amos was sitting with his head in his hands and was talking to him.

Amy struck out our next player. We had one chance left. Rachel yelled from first base for me to bat. Amos was beside himself. He said something, but I didn't hear it because I was busy stepping up to the plate to face the cute pitcher from Forest Grove School who never smiled, never frowned, never said a word, just pitched. One fast pitch after the other.

By this time everyone on both teams knew about my bad leg, and most everyone must have been wondering why Rachel picked me to bat. I knew that unless I hit a home run, I would be thrown out at first.

I limped up to home plate and waved the bat a couple times. I had no more than gathered my thoughts when I heard the ball slam into the catcher's hands.

“Strike one,” the Forest Grove teacher yelled.

The next time I was ready when I stepped up to the plate. Another fastball. I hit it a little on the side, and it climbed high enough, but it dropped foul. Strike two.

“You can do it, Georgie,” yelled Annie. Grandma, you know I don't let anybody call me Georgie except Annie and my mother, and then only on rare occasions.

I thought maybe Amos had the right idea when he picked up some dirt and rubbed it between his fingers before grabbing the bat, so I did the same, but the only thing that happened was I got dust in my nose and I sneezed.

“God bless you,” said the Forest Grove teacher.

I rubbed my dirty hand across my nose, picked up the bat, and limped up to the plate. I could see drops of sweat on the pitcher's forehead. She wound up and let go with another one of her fastballs, probably the fastest ball she had pitched all day. If she struck me out they would win the game just like they did last year. Our school would never hear the last of it. We couldn't let Forest Grove School win the spelling bee
and
the ball game.

I closed my eyes and swung with everything I had, and the bat hit the ball. I opened my eyes to see the ball going higher and higher and heading for the woods. The question was, had I hit it hard enough for a home run, or would one of their outfield speedsters catch it? Two outfielders were racing toward where they figured it would fall.

Grandma, that ball fell a good twenty feet into the woods.

“Home run!” yelled our team and everyone on the side rooting for us. “Home run! Our team wins. Our team wins!”

I can't remember when I've felt more proud. I limped around the bases as fast as I could, making sure I stepped on each one. Our entire team stood waiting for me at home plate so they could pat me on the back or shake my hand—all except Amos Woodward. He just stood there sneering. Amos almost spoiled what was a near perfect day.

Your grandson,

George