My Road To Rotary

Chapter 8

My Red-Headed Chum

ONE DAY the Harris house was turned into a tumult by the un­announced appearance of our Aunt Sue who hugged Cecil and me and showered us with gifts; bows and arrows, Indian costumes, sweet scented grass baskets, and other mementoes she had brought from the great West. When the truth finally came out, we knew that Aunt Sue had become desperately lonely during her separa­tion from her charges. Hopes of a reunion of the family by some business opening for father having been repeatedly shattered. Aunt Sue could bear the suspense no longer.

Aunt Sue (Mrs. Wesley Cavelle) was mother's elder sister who had been widowed by the war between the States, and being child­less she naturally took great interest in her sister's children.

After many discussions, her devotion was rewarded by permis­sion to take Cecil back with her to the West not far from where mother was keeping the home fires burning by giving music lessons and caring for Nina May. The separation was thought of as tempo­rary but it proved to be practically permanent, excepting for a very brief period only of family reunion in Cambridge, New York, and a slightly longer period in Fair Haven, Vermont.

My home was to continue to be with my grandparents in Wallingford; in that beautiful village, surrounded by mountains that needed to be climbed; hills, which in winter held their white bosoms out so invitingly to the sleds of happy youngsters, and in summer echoed with the voices of dashing brooks where shy trout sought cover beneath overhanging banks; in that village graced by wind­ing creek and nearby sparkling lakes; where the crisp frosty air of winter rang with the impact of skates on ice and with joyous shouts and laughter; where in summer boys, whose brown and glistening bodies knew not the shame of bathing suits, disported themselves in the clear, cold water. There my home was to be with wholesome New England orderliness, cleanliness, kindliness, thoughtfulness and good living. A lucky boy was I, the second of the three children of George and Cornelia Harris, grandson of Henry and Clarissa Fobes Bryan and great grandson of Reuben and (Huguenot) Olive Chapelle Bryan.

Cecil had fallen into the hands of Aunt Sue and Nina May rested within the warm embrace of mother. There was only one left to enliven the home of the aged couple and that one was I. Many have said, ''What a pity it was that the Harris children could not have been kept together/' So it was but that was not destined to be.

Mother's courage, determination and physical vigor overcame the handicap of having been born the baby of her family but father, though possessed of intelligence in a marked degree and given a good education, was not possessed of courage, determination nor physical vigor. The ways of the world were too much for him.

Sometime after the departure of Aunt Sue and Cecil a new boy began to creep into my consciousness; his hair was a fiery red and he was of the right sort. I am certain that he was of the right sort because during the many years of our most intimate companionship we never had one serious disagreement. We always stood together in all things; the downs as well as the ups. When punishment and disgrace were my lot, my redheaded friend. Fay Stafford, suffered them with me, though neither punishment nor disgrace would have been visited upon him had there been no Paul.

His older sister tells me that when she also was a child, I used to make my way to their home and lispingly ask, "Can Fay come out to play with me?" We were about the same age he having been born in February and I in April of the same year and generally speaking we were evenly matched. I shall always feel that I was singularly blessed with the companionship of Fay during the formative period of my life. He was the first of a long list of friends who have enriched and sweetened my life, but of them all, there was none better, none more true, than my red-headed boy friend of the granite hills.

Just to climb snow clad mountains, not infrequently, was our sole objective; the weather might not be inviting for any other outdoor sport. There was always a measure of glory in the achievement of getting to the top although climbing through snow which had drifted, was always a laborious process.

One Saturday Fay and I determined to climb Bear Mountain, or as far up as we could during the short winter day. I concluded that it would be the part of wisdom to say nothing to grandmother about our objective, so we labeled our expedition "a hike" which might take the entire day. Grandmother had no particular objection to hikes but warned us again about the dangers of trying to climb icy mountains. She said, "If you must climb mountains, boys, do it in the summer time, don't go rambling over mountains in the win­ter." Fay answered rather gaily, "Well, the mountains are there, Mrs. Harris, and must be climbed and who is there to climb them ex­cept Paul and me?" Grandmother was not convinced but the joint appeal of two of us was more than she could stand.

Grandmother always had a soft spot in her heart for Fay, and I always thought that she considered him a restraining influence on me. I have seen her stop in the midst of her work frying her delec­table "riz" doughnuts, spear one of them with a fork while it was sizzling hot and hand it to Fay on a plate. On the Saturday men­tioned, she gave us a sack of fresh doughnuts, bade us be careful and to be home early.

It was our usual plan to go direct east to Bear Mountain, Willie Strong and I having done it more than once, but, for the sake of variety, Fay and I hiked some miles north on that carefree Satur­day morning; the climb would be easier than on the more direct route and that would be an advantage there being considerable snow on the ground.

The day promised to be fair and indeed it was so during the Best part of the journey. There was just enough cold in the air to make our ears and noses tingle and when did a New England boy ever fail to experience a sense of joy when the air was cold and his ears and nose tingled?

Not far from the Ed Crary farm, we swung to the east, over a stone and rail fence and into a pasture, then up into the sprawling hills lying in the direction of Bear Mountain. Our glorious expedi­tion was on its way; great explorers were we; our fame would spread far and our names be long remembered. Of the various points of the compass we might have chosen, we chose this one. Why? Be­cause it was one of the very few which was entirely unknown to us. How could there be adventure in tracing a known course? Would Christopher Columbus have endured his suffering had there not been a new world to discover?

So we trudged merrily on our way, singing and shouting as we went along. During the course of the forenoon we saw a dilapidated farm house in the distance, and, working in the barn, an unkempt man and boy. The spirit of adventure caused us to bend our steps in their direction as it was worth while to become acquainted with folks whom we had never seen before.

When we approached within hearing range, we called out and waved our hands. The boy waved back but the man leaned on his fork with which he had been pitching hay to his stock and gazed at us stolidly. Fay shouted, "Good-morning, Sir!" and the man replied, "Good-morning, yourself. What ye two doing up here anyhow?" "Oh, just came to look around; any gold mines around here? Might buy one or two." "Nope" said the man, "neither gold mines nor much of anything else worth carrying away. We're poor folks, live on ham sandwiches and snow balls, mostly snow balls in the winter time. Won't ye have a snow ball?" "No, thank you" I answered, "must be on our way." "On yer way where?" he inquired. "Most anywhere," I answered. "Mostly to Bear Mountain, I guess." "Yer better keep out Bear Mountain on a day like this." "What's the matter with a day like this?" I inquired. "It's nothing but sunshine." "Yes, the sun is shinin' right now but there'll be snow afore night. Better turn round and walk towards home, if yer got any."

With that the farmer and his boy resumed their labors while we sat down on an ancient wooden sled and lunched on grand­mother good "riz" doughnuts. We then continued on our way to­ward Bear Mountain not much disturbed by the farmer's prophecy. When had we ever in our lives quailed in the face of a snow storm? We had enjoyed them and exulted in them when they were fast and furious; we were Green Mountain boys; no shiftless farmer could tell us where to get off when it came to snow storms.

So on we went over hill and valley, pasture and woodland but there was no gainsaying the fact that the snow did begin flying through the air in ever increasing volume. By four o'clock in the afternoon it began to be difficult to see our way but we had no fear, not as yet although we did consider the advisability of turn­ing around and finding our way back to the home of the farmer. Eventually we did turn back but by that time the snow so filled the darkening air we could not determine which way was back.

In this dilemma we almost ran into an old wreck of a barn which manifestly had served, at some time, to store, until needed, hay which had been cut in the surrounding pastures. Barns far sepa­rated from farm-houses or other buildings were not uncommon in that day.

Instinctively we circled the building trying to find an opening, in which attempt we were soon successful. Inside we found some shelter from the sweeping snow and wind but none from the cold. As the temperature had been steadily falling, we were soon chilled to our bones. A skunk, better clothed than we, slunk out under the sill of the bam, leaving us as far as we could see the sole occupants of the structure.

The question which agitated our minds was whether we would be able to remain in this miserable shack until the storm abated or until daylight of the morrow came. We thought of the worries of the folks at home and about grandmother's remarks about going into the mountains in the winter time but there were other matters far more pressing. Were we to be the subjects of a tragedy and were we writing a chapter destined to be recorded in the annals of our valley. Were we to be victims of one of Vermont's great storms? Perhaps the story would be printed in the schoolbooks in order that boys and girls of future generations might know what becomes of headstrong boys who will not heed the warnings of their elders who know much more than they? Such and many other forebodings filled our troubled minds but the question as to whether we should breast the storm again or remain in our flimsy shelter was our imme­diate concern. The question would probably have been readily an­swered had we been sure of the points of the compass and which way would take us back to the house of the farmer far in our rear.

Well advised or ill advised, we did break out into the storm holding each other by the hand in order that we might at least have each other and also help each other through the drifts. Fortunately there was no disagreement as to direction though neither was confi­dent. Although we could see but a short distance ahead, we pressed on and in course of time we came to a steep declivity ahead of us which confirmed our fears that we had completely lost our bearings; we had encountered none such on our route from the farmer's house. Should we now turn back or should we turn in another direction? We finally pressed forward in the belief that we could never regain the farmer's house or even the abandoned bam. We thought we might be more protected from the storm by the trees and hills if we could get down below. We therefore descended the steep slope hanging to the branches of trees and bushes as we made the descent.

When we got to the bottom of the decline, we judged that there was a frozen brook before us because of the formation of the bot­toms and the lay of the land. We crossed the brook and being somewhat sheltered from the wind, we could see that there was a long strip of land bordering on the brook. Could it be a road and if so where would it lead? Sustained by hope, we clambered up the steep side of the stream, sometimes through deep snow-drifts and sometimes over rocks which held their heads above the sub­merging snow.

When we were surely on level ground, we looked up and down the level strip and resolved to follow it as far as we could, walking down the slope rather than up. Imagine our relief when we found that a small, flat bridge extended across the bed of the small brook, making it certain that we were traveling on a road lined with tree clad hills. It was a strange land to us but human habitation must be found not far distant from the road. Continuing our laborious course we came to a watering trough, a re-affirmation of faith in our belief that we were on a road. For some minutes we stood by the watering trough, blessed evidence of the existence at some time or other of men and thirsty horses.

I stood for some time surveying our surroundings; there was much about them that seemed familiar and yet I could not recall them. Suddenly a transformation took place with stunning effect; the hitherto strange and unknown land was changed to a familiar scene. With joy ringing in my voice, I shouted, "Oh Fay, this is the Gulf Road." I knew then that we were within four miles of home and that I knew every step of the way.

We could not lose our way now. Steep hills on both sides marked our course and the frozen waters of Roaring Brook were near at hand. Could we breast the storm and struggle four weary miles through the snow? We could and we would; courage had come back to us. Far down in the valley was the love, light and warmth of home.

We were painfully conscious of the fact that we were not the only sufferers from our unhappy adventure. I knew how anxiously grandfather and grandmother would be waiting. Had grandfather known in which direction to look for us he would ere now be on his way with lantern in hand and Fay's father, mother and sister were, without doubt, anxiously waiting for him.

We made our way carefully along, stopping often to rest and turn our faces away from the storm in order to gain breath for further efforts. Each step had to be high in order to disengage the foot from the ever deepening snow. Those who know what it is to wallow through deep snow will appreciate the struggle which was before us. One factor favored us—we were New England mountain boys and our muscles were hardened by climbing hills for the joy of coasting down. Snow held no terrors for us, it was our friend and we loved it. So we made our way through the night, the whiteness of the snow making our surroundings less awesome though there was neither moon nor star to light our course. In places the gulf narrowed to the width of the road and the boughs of the evergreen trees, weighted with snow, extended nearly across the roadway im­peding our progress.

It seemed like an age before the curve in the road told us that the old sentinel. White Rocks, was standing watch over our valley only a mile or so on our left. We could not see White Rocks but we could sense their benign presence and felt the better for know­ing they were near. The course narrowed perceptibly as we rounded the curve. There was only sufficient width for the road and Roar­ing Brook, under the frozen waters of which speckled trout hiber­nated and awaited the spring freshets to set them free.

Soon all fears were banished by the recognition of shadowy outlines of the houses in which farmers and their families were slumbering throughout the long winter night. Then we passed the school and came to the village stores though the last light had been extinguished at an earlier hour. We turned the hotel corner, passed Judge Button's house and there before us was my blessed home. Lights in the South parlor window proclaimed the fact that grand­mother, grandfather, and Delia were all sitting up and anxiously waiting. We stumbled against the kitchen door which was promptly flung open before us and grandmother's arms were open to receive us as she fervently uttered the words, "Thank God, it's the boys. They are home."

It was only the work of a moment for grandmother and Delia to strip the wet garments from our shivering bodies. Grandmother as usual in all such circumstances took command. "Don't stand round here doing nothing, Delia. Put plenty of birch wood into the stove, throw the dampers wide open and give us a rousing hot fire. Get out the yellow wash tub, Pa, and fill it with hot water and I will put plenty of mustard into it. Get round the comer and off with your underclothing, boys. Get me the ginger bottle, Delia. Ill make some hot ginger tea. Put some coals in the bedpan, Pa, and warm Paul's bed; we will put both boys in it. The main thing is to keep them warm and perhaps we can sweat out the freezing effects of this storm."

Grandfather made haste to fill her orders and then drew his boots on and lighted his lantern preparatory to going out into the storm. "I'll run over to Phon Stafford's," said grandfather "and tell him to come over and get Fay." "It's a bad night to go out. Pa," said grandmother. "Of course the Staffords must be told but mark my words. Pa, Fay shouldn't go out of this house to-night. He has had enough fighting snow drifts and snow storms for one night. We'll see about taking him home in the morning."

So Fay and I slept together that night as we had done many times before. Our toes tingled with the heat of the mustard and our bodies sweat from the heat of the ginger inside. This was Fay's last adventure in winter mountain climbing. He developed a fever in the night and in the morning of the day following, his father took him home, put him to bed where he remained for several days. He was forbidden by his father from participating in further adventures of this kind.