The back yard had a long thin cement walkway that led from the garage to the back porch. The cement walkway ended in two cement steps that led to the door into the house and these steps were the site for many activities. They were the entrance to the house, but only for family and close neighbors who lived across the alley, and they were a kind of quiet escape when inside the house became too raucous for anyone in their right mind.
When I was growing up Daddy was the Superintendent of Transportation for the Longview School District. This meant that he was in charge of getting every kid who couldn’t walk to their neighborhood school building . He was also responsible for all of the after-school-activities that required transportation, that meant any kind of movement of children in Kindergarten through high school from sports to music or field trips; any activity that was sponsored by the school district. Because Daddy’s job gave him the opportunity to hire quite a few men in town to drive school buses and help run the garage, he got to know most of the families who lived in Longview and its near environs. Many of the men who worked for Dad were guys who lived out in the country and/or were real sportsmen. This was a blessing during hunting or fishing season because we were often the recipients of any over-flow of game, fish or fowl, that happened to fall into his employees grasp. I however, dreaded the Spring when no matter how hard I prayed, if we left the house for even a short trip to town or a drive out in the country, when we returned there on the front porch would be a big galvanized bucket smiling mercilessly at us as we drove down our street. Mama would clap her hands with glee and squeal, “Oh goody, someone left us a bunch of smelt.” “Smelt, oh God not smelt,” I’d scream to myself. “Anything but smelt!” Smelt were these little six to eight inch long (from tip of shiny head to tip of scaly tail) silver fish and Spring was when they “ran” the rivers. Now, it wasn’t that I didn’t like to eat smelt, which I didn’t, and it wasn’t that I didn’t like the smell of them, which I didn’t. It was simply that once Mom had taught me how to clean them, that was my and only my job. I’d have to get the bucket from the front porch and head to the back steps. I’d sit on the back steps where there was a garden hose real close and I’d get to behead and gut the little suckers. It was not only a disgusting job, it was often very cold and the garden hose gave no life-giving warm water to ease the aching cold from my waterlogged hands. I was taught that the easiest way to clean these little brutes was with a pair of scissors rather than a knife, and that did make the job quicker and less deadly. As I got older I often thought that the knife might put an end to my mother rather than the smelt, but none-the-less Mom survived and the smelt did not. Mother delighted in dredging the little buggers in flour and frying them in grease. It was a delight to the rest of the family but it may have been where I initiated my general dislike for most kinds of fried fish.
Beverly & Karry circa 1952
Hopscotch
The walkway in the backyard was the perfect size for hopscotch. Every year from the time I was quite small until I graduated from high school as soon as it was dry enough my sister Beverly and I would get out the chalk and draw our hopscotch numbers in each square of cement. One block would have the number 1 the next the number 2 the next the number 3. The fourth cement square would be divided into the numbers 4 and 5, then six was in the next square followed by another divided square for 7 and 8. Numbers 9 and 10 were in the last two squares. I never went from the house to the carport or patio or garage without hopping down the sidewalk, and most summer evenings Bev and I spent at least a little time tossing a penny or marker of some kind into the squares and hopping from one to another. It was a simple, game with all kinds of silly rules (don’t step on a line. and you can’t hop in the square where there’s a marker). One of the hardest parts of the game was when you finally got your marker to square 10, then you had to pick it up on your next turn and turn around and drop it over your shoulder into the same square without turning your head around to see where you were dropping it. This movement often took many turns to complete successfully. I can remember rushing out to get something out of the car or vacation trailer, never being in such a hurry that I wouldn’t automatically hopscotch down the walkway and I got to the point that I could practically run and still hop at the same speed. Couldn't do that these days!
Thank you for never making me clean or eat smelt :)
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