by Kathy Fischer-Brown
I’ve never ceased being amazed at how
a sound, a smell, or an image can set off a chain of memories. Often these are
deep-seated, long forgotten memories tucked away among recollections from
earliest childhood. Sure, there are photographs stored in boxes or old slides
whose colors have faded that I’ll take out and once in a blue moon to share
with family, or scan to preserve for the future. But every so often, something
totally unexpected tickles a nerve, stimulating the mind to take a trip back in
time.
Take the song of the Eastern whip-poor-will, for example. Too many years had passed since I last heard its distinctive call, making for a completely unexpected moment of nostalgia one late spring evening about a year ago. Well over sixty years, to be precise.
I was a city kid. We lived in a one bedroom
apartment in The Bronx—my mom, dad, two-year-old sister, and I. Some years
earlier, my paternal grandfather had bought a property in Plattekill, NY, a
picturesque spot in Ulster County on the Hudson River, with acres of land on
which stood an old and sizeable stone and clapboard Dutch farmhouse. It was to
have been Grandpa Ben’s retirement home, but a massive heart attack felled him
at the age of 48, a month after my sister was born. Subsequently, the house,
along with its abundance of trees and assorted wildlife reverted to my dad, his
sister and my grandmother. I don’t remember much of my life before the summer
after I turned three. But that summer was memorable.
As a toddler my world consisted of
our small one bedroom apartment on University Avenue, where a grassy esplanade
down the center of the street held groups of benches for sitting and shooting
the breeze on sunny days in all seasons; a small playground with swings and
seesaws, and a movie theater were within walking distance. Family and friends
all lived close by. But starting some time after I turned two, we began
spending our summers at the house in Plattekill.
My sister and me (right) in the haystack, circa 1954 |
Even now I remember how much I loved
the place, although I can’t really visualize much of it, and after a futile
search for it online, I wonder if it’s still standing. There was a certain
smell, of pine and cedar, the coolness in the shadows of wide elms and oaks,
from one of which my father hung a tire on a rope from a hefty bough for us—and
the many cousins who came from the city in an endless stream—to swing on.
We had a beagle, Taffy Lou, who, it seemed, had a litter of fat, fluffy
puppies every summer—brown ones, black ones, spotted ones…. Her beau was a
neighbor dog named Fido (no kidding), who came to visit alone or with his
owner, a freckle-faced girl named Terry, who was about seven or eight. Down the
country road was a dairy farm. I had a particular favorite among the cows; her
name was Elsie (or at least that was what I called her).
On warm summer evenings, we’d sit outside in the newly mown grass on folding chairs with striped canvas slings and watch what seemed like hundreds of rabbits hopping along the edge of a copse of tall trees at the edge of the property. We had a small tractor that one of my older boy cousins liked to drive over the acres of tall grass, with me and his younger brother dangling our legs off the back platform. Afterwards, we’d rake up the cuttings and build a gigantic haystack, which provided hours of jumping and burrowing fun. Our next door neighbors behind a palisade fence were a family who owned the Freihoffer Baking Co. They had an apple orchard, and by summer’s end, there were more apples than they could shake a stick at. Around this time, the sweet cinnamon aroma of simmering apple sauce and apple pies in the oven filled the place.
And, of course, there were whip-poor-wills. Every evening and well into the night, I'd stay awake listening. A kid from The Bronx never heard such a thing.
On warm summer evenings, we’d sit outside in the newly mown grass on folding chairs with striped canvas slings and watch what seemed like hundreds of rabbits hopping along the edge of a copse of tall trees at the edge of the property. We had a small tractor that one of my older boy cousins liked to drive over the acres of tall grass, with me and his younger brother dangling our legs off the back platform. Afterwards, we’d rake up the cuttings and build a gigantic haystack, which provided hours of jumping and burrowing fun. Our next door neighbors behind a palisade fence were a family who owned the Freihoffer Baking Co. They had an apple orchard, and by summer’s end, there were more apples than they could shake a stick at. Around this time, the sweet cinnamon aroma of simmering apple sauce and apple pies in the oven filled the place.
And, of course, there were whip-poor-wills. Every evening and well into the night, I'd stay awake listening. A kid from The Bronx never heard such a thing.
After my family sold the house
following the summer of my fourth year (because we had outgrown the small
apartment with the birth of yet another sister), we moved from The Bronx to
Long Island. I remember being sad over not having the old house to summer in anymore.
Even the thought of having grass and trees (and bugs) year-round was of little
consolation. And for the next 12 years, I didn't hear a single whip-poor-will.
Not even once. Then, after we moved again when I turned 16, this time to
Connecticut, the whip-poor-will and its singular sound had faded from my
consciousness.
My dad was glad of the moves. He
owned a printing company in The Bronx and during those summers in Plattekill,
he’d stay in the city and join us for weekends. I missed him, just as years
later I’d wait up for him and worry on especially snowy nights while he made
his onerous nightly commute home.
Which brings me back to that elusive
bird. Sadly, its numbers are in decline, and as I mentioned, I hadn't heard one
in over half a century. So, you could say, I was exuberant on that evening in
early June last summer when its unmistakable warble broke the settling silence
in the wooded area near my house. It was probably just passing through, for its
call was unusually brief, and I haven’t heard it since. But in the moments
following, I was transported back to a Friday night long ago, when, unable to
stay awake long enough to greet my dad following his weekly commute, I fell
asleep. The bird’s song was a sweet reminder of that night and of my dad, all
of about 29 at the time, sitting at my bedside, gently waking his sleeping
child with the song she had grown to love over a few short, unforgettable
summers.
~*~
Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author
of historical novels, Winter Fire,
Lord Esterleigh's
Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan's Wife,
and The
Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy
adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her The Books We Love Author page or visit her website.
All of Kathy's books are available in a variety of e-book formats and in
paperback from Amazon and other online retailers, as well as a bookstore near
you.
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