Wagon Wheels and Whimsy

I told my daugher-in-law last night that my yard decorations are originals.

Nobody else would put together such an odd combination.

I think that pretty much reflects my personality.

Nobody else would put together such an odd mix---it's my parents fault, in spite of efforts to do the opposite.

Anyway, this is a whimsical setting which will greet folks as they drive into the Lovestead.

That horse coming around the tree has a geranium on its back.  My sister-in-law Margaret understands my personality, so she sent it to me for Christmas.  Nice to have a horse that packs flowers and doesn't eat. 

And, there's a story behind that wagon wheel which sits there in disconnected segments.

When we moved to the Lovestead, I told Bill we needed to bring along at least one of the two wagon wheels, gathered for us by my some of my drill team girls from a neighbor's woods about 35 years ago. 

Of course, there's a story.  And, it's the stories that add value to the crazy yard decorations.

". . . . These gatherings created vivid memories for kids and for me, and they usually went off without a hitch.  A few times, however, the enterprising minds of a few teenagers looking for action led me to second guess the wisdom of extending my hospitality toward  my students. 

Take the drill team picnic of 1976, for example. After a sumptuous feast of weiners, hamburgers, Nalley’s chips and deli potato salad, we decided to take the girls on a hike up Greenhorn Mountain behind our house.  

Once the group had arrived at an appropriate promontory for viewing of the valley and lake below, Bill would top off the night by playing nostalgic favorites like “Oh Susanna” or “Shenandoah” on his harmonica.  

That first year that we’d added the hike-harmonica segment to the evening schedule, the girls received my commentary on the points of interest in the forest as where we made our way to the mountain. 

I pointed to the spot, for example, where I learned for sure I could never willingly kill anything.

One time, I’d pointed my pistol at what I thought was a grouse and couldn’t pull the trigger.  It turned out to be a stump.

Then, there were the two weathered-but-intact wagon wheels partially hidden in a depression surrounded by needles, ferns, bushes and trees.

“These belong to my first grade teacher, Mrs. Kinney,” I explained. “She’s lived here in the neighborhood forever.  Must be they were left here when some pioneers came to Idaho.  I wish I had these in my yard.”

Lesson:  Don’t ever suggest your secret desires to students.  The ol’ phrase “you may just get what you ask for” happens more often than not---especially if teens feel a sense of loyalty.

A year later, the Ponderettes again gathered in late May at our tiny one bedroom rental house situated below Greenhorn Mountain.  This year, for some reason, the mountain hike seemed to be just a popular precursor for expectation of the evening’s events.  

Some Ponderettes just couldn’t wait to get going.  Stuffing down their hotdogs, Jackie, Sue and Mari seemed uncharacteristically anxious as they prompted the others to hurry up eating their dinner.  

Soon, two dozen well-fed troopers set off across knee-deep grass squealing as they stepped into the puddles left from the previous day’s rain.  

As we reached the base of the mountain, the group began to splinter off into smaller groups,  so when we arrived at Bill’s concert site to await his annual harmonica performance, the fact that we had a few stragglers seemed like no big deal.  With most of the girls seated on huge rock boulders or soft green moss, the show began.  

Several songs later and after enthusiastic applause for the outdoor musical treat, the May mosquitoes arrived for their blood-sucking smorgasboard, so we wasted no time heading back to the house. 

“See ya there,” I announced.  “Be careful going downhill and don’t trip.  Stay away from the bears! We’ve seen moose in these woods too!”   

That reminder usually got the slackers to speed up a bit.  It was nearly dark by the time I arrived at the house in time to find the Ponderette revelers picking up their leftovers and heading for their cars.  

Exchanging pleasantries with the teens while enjoying the thought of another succesful picnic, my mouth was too busy and my math skills were too tucked away to notice that not all the girls who headed up the mountain had returned to the house.

Suddenly, as I waved good bye to the last group to leave the house, I noticed an extra car still parked in the driveway.  It was 9:30 p.m., almost dark.

“Where ARE they, and which ones are they?” I began to wonder out loud. “Bill, they haven’t all come back!”   Looking again at the car, I could see that it belonged to Sue, the drill team captain.

“Now, who was she hanging out with?” I asked as Bill and I stood outside our home, nervously wondering if someone had fallen over a cliff-----and very quietly at that.  We hadn’t heard any screams or shrieks-----but then again, we had all been talking so much and so loud, how could we?  

Certainly someone would have noticed.  I began deducing who would have been with Sue.  Before any likely prospects had popped into my head, we heard an sound far off across the fields toward the mountain.  

We listened. 

A somewhat high-pitched “hee, hee” and playful little screams followed by obvious but muffled giggles broke the still night air.   Wherever they were in the darkness, it had to be some ways from the house, and whatever they were up to sounded pretty suspicious.

“What are they doing out there?” I asked.

 
“Dunno,” Bill said, shrugging his shoulders and turning toward the house, convinced by the gleeful sounds that his Boy Scout first aid wouldn’t be needed tonight.

“Guess I’ll go see what’s going on,” I said as he rounded the corner.
By now, it was pitch dark.  Avoiding the puddles lurking in the tall grass would be impossible,  so I accepted the notion that wet feet would be a part of this reconnaissance mission.  

As a country girl who had practiced faithfully over the years all the cunning strategies that I’d watched and learned from the ‘50s TV Westerns, I also welcomed the notion that it would be fun to sneak up on these stragglers and catch ‘em in the act.  

So, I crouched down and took careful, silent steps toward the sounds.  There really was no need for my slinking because whatever their deed, it was obviously keeping them totally focused on the territory immediately around them.

 
“Oops! Gotta hold it  tighter,” an indistinguishable voice commanded.  “Now, you grab this side, and I’ll hold on here.”

“What the heck are they doing?” I again asked myself while slowly lifting one leg and carefully, quietly advancing it one step closer to the action far across the field. 

Suddenly I heard a uniform outburst of giggles; something had obviously distracted their focus.  Curiosity was distracting my concentrated effort to remain undetected, but again, they remained oblivious to all outside stimuli. 

“Okay, let’s get moving,” I heard the captain command her unknown lieutenants.   

I too followed her instructions and took a few more giant, hopefully indiscernible steps, one foot landing smack dab in the middle of a cold, wet rain puddle. I prayed that the splash would not carry across the evening air.

  My prayers were answered.  

They still had no idea of my presence as their grunts and groans became one giant cacophonous, shrieking outburst.  

The noise certainly announced to any critters of the night that their hallowed ground had been invaded by unknown two-legged monsters.  It also firmly implied that I wasn’t going to like my impending discovery.

 
Deciding my attempts to scare the bejeebies out of them would go in vain, I sped up and  yelled to them across the pasture.

“Hey, what’s going on out here?”

“UH-OH! She caught us!” one shrieked.  “We’re in trouble now!”  Squeals and giggles echoed in the darkness.

My feet couldn’t move fast enough for me to finally see for myself who was involved and why they hadn’t returned to the house with the rest of the group.

  Suddenly, I was flopping flat on my face in the wet grass.  This mishap not only delayed discovery but once again revived the ever-present  reminder of just why I had never tried out for drill team when I was these girls’ age and why I had questioned my principal Dick Sodorff’s intelligence when he asked me to advise the group that first year of teaching.  

Pushing my wet clumsy body upward, I took off again, intent on seeing the nefarious activity.  

One more obstacle, however, reminded me that it was dark----the barbwire fence, which I collided into with full force.  

I fell once more,  this time partially pinned to the fence where the barbs had grabbed various parts of my apparel, refusing to let loose. 

Farm folks will tell you there’s is no graceful or easy way to remove oneself from a barbwire fence without ripping one’s clothes or even body parts. Having a little extra bulk in the latter can complicate the situation further-----and I had plenty of extra posterior to attract any barb looking for a place to dig into.  
Since there’s a definite dance that goes along with the effort to escape such a situation, getting stuck in the fence is the closest this clumsy body has ever come to performing the barbwire ballet.     

Fortunately, unlike some of my human friends, cows and horses have always had enough decency to refrain from commenting about my lack of grace and refinement as they’ve watched me perform the necessary escape steps.  

With the barb-laden wire one’s unsolicited partner, the effort definitely calls for a slow dance.    Fast dancing with barbwire nine times out of ten results in disaster.  

To successfully loosen in loosening oneself from the grasp of this fiendish partner, one must keep feet in delicately balance and wiggle the torso ever so slowly.  Maybe the barb will let go.  

If not, a few intricate arm motions are needed; one hand clutches the wire and the other contorts attempting to reach the point of contact between the body and the barb.  

After carefully raising the wire and wiggling the torso a few more times, usually you can free yourself.  

But you have to be careful because those barbs know a good meaty body when they see one, and just as one has succumbed to your escape tactics, another might just grab the seat of your pants.  

Using my long-practiced strategies gained from many similar predicaments, I eventually freed myself from the fence and sloshed onward through at least eight inches of water and grass.  

Even at up-close range, I could barely make out the two figures in the darkness, but by now I recognized the unknown voice.  It belonged to Jacque, a junior member of the marching squad.  

Somehow her involvement in this great wagon wheel caper came as no surprise.  

I admired Jacque’s spunk and identified with her tendency (outside of drill team, of course) to walk to the beat of  her own drummer---figuratively, that is.   Therefore, it was difficult for me ever to get mad at her. 

Sue’s involvement in this crime did surprise me.  Up to this time, I’d seen nothing but her maturity and no-nonsense leadership skills.  Sue’s senioritis must’ve finally gotten the best of her on this spring evening.

Now that I knew WHO the culprits were, I didn’t have to spend any time trying to figure out WHAT they were doing.  They were crouched in the grass huddled over something they could not hide.

“OH-MY-GOD!”  I intoned with articulation adequate for any creature within a mile radius to clearly understand.  

Sue and Jacque appeared ready to join me in prayer as they gripped different sections of one of Mrs. Kinney’s rustic wagon wheels and knelt before me.  

I towered over them, totally stunned, not only with the nature of their crime but with the perseverance they had demonstrated in carrying it out.  

While on our hike to Bill’s mountain concert, they had left the group shortly after we crawled through the fence on Mrs. Kinney’s property.  Somehow they had remembered for an entire year the precise spot in the bushes in those strange woods where I’d pointed to the wheels. 

GPS devices weren’t available to the general public at that time, so these two must have had X-ray vision or photographic memories.  

Even more amazing was that the petite young ladies had manhandled that heavy wagon wheel with its iron axle and rim across, over,  or under two barbwire fences and through a rutted pasture with knee deep grass and, often, knee deep water.

“We remembered how much you liked them,” Sue announced. “We wanted you to have them.  We’ve been planning this ever since last year.”

Rather than chastising them, I couldn’t help but marvel at their prowess and fortitude but most of all at their desire to do something nice for their drill team adviser.  

How could I get mad?  Besides, Mrs. Kinney obviously hadn’t used those wagon wheels for quite some time.  

Since she was living in a retirement home somewhere away from Sandpoint and hadn’t been on her property for at least ten years, I doubted she had even thought of them for several decades.  Better that someone who appreciated them should take over stewardship of the old relics, I rationalized.

 
“She’ll never know,” I thought to myself.  “As long as they’ve moved it this far, might as well take it all the way.  It’s too far away from the woods to return it this time of the night.”  A favorite discipline line in teaching circles suggests that “life is full of choices.”  Well, after all these rationalizations, I made a choice.  

The wagon wheel would move on to the Love house.   I’d served as an partner to this crime in progress.

We set on across the field.  As we pushed and urged the wheel forward, it kept insisting on falling to one side or the other, pulling all of us with it.  

At one point, it landed on Sue’s arm.  Her watch broke.  At another point, on wheel thief passed loud gas in the night air.  Someone may have wet her pants.  

At several points, we just let the wheel tumble along its way, collapsed on our backs, looked at the stars and giggled our hearts out.  Eventually, we maneuvered the pilfered artifact through one last barbwire fence, onto the lawn, and up the ramp to a well-lit garage.  

I summoned Bill.

“Would you believe these girls?” I commented as he inspected the wheel.  “This is what they were up to.  Looks like we have a new addition to our yard art.  But ya know we need the pair.”  The girls-----wet, bedraggled, scratched and bruised----stood proud, admired the wheel and smiled at their achievement. 

“We’ll get the other one for you next year,” Jacque promised.  She kept her promise.  

The following year Sue went off to Idaho State University to learn to be a teacher, so Jacque recruited two other Ponderettes---her sister Jeri and her friend Mari Beth---to step up to the plate, eat their hotdogs, and later detour from the party to retrieve that second wheel.  

I now had a set, and Mrs. Kinney never seemed to mind. 

I stood prepared to return them if anyone ever complained, but I felt comfortable with the notion that one person’s junk is another’s treasure.

  Indeed, the set has had a place of honor, both at our first little home and now just outside my kitchen window of the home where we lived for nearly 30 years.  

Every year I paint the rims and hubs bright red, the same color as Mrs. Kinney’s fingernail polish and adorn the area around the wheels with flowers.

  In my mind, they serve as a reminder of my first-grade teacher and one of the many hysterical experiences of my own teaching career.  

If Mrs. Kinney were still alive,  I think she would highly approve of the direction her set of abandoned wheels have rolled

Note:  This story (written a few years ago) is a segment from  "Stay Outa My House" from my book Lessons with Love, available at http://www.keokeebooks.com/ or http://www.amazon.com/