For most of civilized history, spring was the time that people packed up and moved to new locations. The original reason for this was the fact that most people were farmers and, if they were to relocate, they needed to be on the new land in time to plant crops for the coming year. Even city dwellers depended on their own gardens for much of their daily food, so at least in the Midwest, March was the normal time for moving to a new home. In rural areas, suburbs and most small towns in this part of the country, March is still the usual time of year to change addresses.
Such was the practice on the day my parents moved our family just a few blocks from 515 First Street to our new home at 500 Washington Street in Knoxville. The new house was actually older than the former one, but much grander and located on ten acres at the edge of town – part of what had once been a thriving commercial cherry orchard. The day we moved, with the help of friends and uncles and their pickup trucks, was my youngest sister Ruthie’s second birthday.
The day had started out dark and misty and soon became cold and gloomy with intermittent wet snow and icy winds that kept us girls indoors and underfoot while the adults struggled with the heavy furniture, boxes of possessions and tracked-in snow, slush and mud. Our oldest sister, a budding teenager, was old enough to be of real help in organizing the placement of furniture and boxes of clothing and toys. I was in charge of entertaining my two younger sisters and keeping them, as much as possible, out of the way of the busy adults.
Having been eight years old when Ruthie was born, I was the perfect age to be fascinated by babies and had become an old hand at playing with her, teaching her nursery rhymes and songs, telling her stories and keeping her safe at play. Betty, just two years younger than I, was too close to my own age for my motherly instincts to kick in, and too young for her to share my interests and activities. She tended to entertain herself and resented any attempts I made to “look after” her. I guess it’s no surprise to learn that Ruthie was “my baby” and we have always been closer than I have been with my other two sisters.
Because of that closeness, I’m sure I noticed more and remember more of the enchanting little things Ruthie did as a child and appreciate how they affected her later life. Here are just a few of the delightful things I’ll always remember about her; We were going to Oskaloosa to shop and were looking out the car window, pointing out cows, pigs and other rural sights, when she asked me, “Why are they fanning the cows when the wind is blowing?” I wasn’t about to try to explain windmills to her. The notion that farmers kindly cooled the livestock on hot days seemed much more interesting than the dynamics of wind-power.
Probably prompted by the carcass of our Thanksgiving turkey, she showed great curiosity about bones and their purpose. I tried to explain to her that bones are the frameworks that support our bodies and that, without them, we wouldn’t be able to stand or walk. She began to imagine boneless cows lying about in the pasture like great lumps of pudding, and soft, floppy chickens that resembled feathered sofa pillows. Another giant leap of four-year-old reasoning and she became our little boneless girl who slithered down off a chair like so much Silly Putty, squirmed across the floor on her belly and had to drink with a straw because her neck was too floppy to hold her head upright.
Hearing a lively conversation going on in Ruthie’s room, in what seemed to be five or six different voices, Mother peeked in to see her, all alone, prancing and posturing about the room, playing all the roles in an imaginary drama. That wonderful imagination served her well as a Girl Scout leader and executive and kept life interesting for her two children and many friends. Today is her birthday; I hope she has as much joy as she’s given to the rest of us over the years.