Summer of ‘57

By Herlinda Klug

The movement of the car on the gravel road awoke me. The full moon illuminated our way, and I could see wire fencing, as I rolled the window down and breathed in the cool damp air. I knew that we finally arrived to our destination. My ten year old imagination was running on all eight cylinders, because this vacation was going to be unlike all the others. We were going to spend this summer on a farm. A real honest-to-goodness farm.

Every year, for as long as I can remember mom and dad would take my two sisters, my brother and I to Laredo and San Antonio, Texas to see our relatives. .

In the summer of 1947 the Johnson family was transplanted to northwest Indiana where dad found employment as a labor at Inland Steel Co.

That new world contained an abundance of asphalt, small yards to play in and small gardens to plant. The neighborhood was very diverse, we had Polish, Italian, Hungarian, Romanian, African Americans and Hispanics. We never experienced prejudice in this very small world of ours. The backdrop of this little world was made of tall black stacks that loomed over cold obscure structures below them, which seemed to embrace these ominous towers that spewed black and white clouds of dust onto our world.

Our social life was limited to museums, zoos, parks, beaches and the activities of mom and dads Hispanic clubs.

The closest we ever came to a farm was in the summer time, when truck loads of fresh fruit and vegetables were sold on the streets of our neighborhoods. So you can imagine my excitement when dad made the big announcement.

I was the second child of four siblings by now. Yolanda, the oldest at fourteen, was four years older then me and I can’t say that she was very excited. In fact, I’d say she was pissed. My brother, Tuddy was nine then and just as excited as I. Then there was Terry, the youngest of the girls, who didn’t have an opinion. Besides, it didn’t matter anyway because she always followed my lead.

In this circle of siblings there was a pecking order. There was the chain of command and the underlings. I gave the orders and they followed. I used threats, scare tactics, intimidation and the promise of revenge. It never failed, it worked for me. Yolanda was too old for my little army, besides, she had a mind of her own.

Looking back now, I’m not so sure that mom was as sold on the vacation as I. I remember watching her pack everyone’s belongings and then starting in on packing her kitchen gear. She wasn’t singing or humming as she so often did when she went about doing her daily chores. She was packing just about everything in the kitchen when dad came in and said, “Nena”, that’s what he always called her, (except on paydays, when he came home very happy and smelling of beer. Then he would call her, “Mona Lisa”.)We all looked forward to payday, because dad always divvied out money to each of us. Then, like clock work, mom would take it all away, leaving us each with a quarter. Our wealth was short lived. Anyway, dad said, “Nena”, if you don’t stop packing soon, there won’t be any room for the children. Dad turned to me and gave me the “wink”, to assure me that we would not be left behind. Mom gave dad the “evil eye”, and dad went back to packing our 1950 grey, Dodge sedan.

Dad, just like me, was all excited about our vacation. He lived through the depression and experienced the death of his father at an early age. He experienced hunger at an early age, and like so many people from that era, he was left with scars. I once remember hearing him say to mom, “I promise you, our children will never know a day of hunger as long as I live.” Now why dad made such a statement I didn’t understand, then.

So here we were, driving up to a farm that was silhouetted in the moonlight along with the dozen or more trailers that were parked just south of the huge barns. Dad drove up to trailer number seven, that’s a good number, I thought.

Everyone was asleep except for mom and me. The silence was broken as dad turned to announce our arrival. I looked at Terry and saw that she was going to pull her “half asleep” trick on dad - it always worked. The spoiled brat never walked.

The wooden stairs leading to the front door of the trailer had seen better days and the hand railing was teetering as mom held on, but this wasn’t my problem, besides, who needed hand railings? My main concern was the inside of our new home for the summer. Dad carried in the phony sleeper and laid her down on the only bed in this one room trailer. There was a round kitchen table with four chairs in front of the bed and to the right of the bed was the kitchen area. Left of the bed were two dressers and a metal closet. There was no bathroom. Let me guess, outhouse? Definitely not on my favorites list. My first experience with an out house was in Texas, and it wasn’t pleasant. I would simply need to find a good spider stick and just follow procedures. A minor setback that I could handle, nothing was going to spoil this vacation.

I checked out the sleeping arrangements right away and prepared myself for bed. Mom, dad and sleeping beauty were obviously taking the bed so the rest of us got the floor. How cool was that! I lucked out and got a spot on the floor by a screen window. Mom skillfully prepared our makeshift beds as we washed up for bed. I contained my excitement as I lay there in anticipation of tomorrow. I laid there by the window listening to the crickets and the fresh air. The scent of damp earth, woods and fields of wildflowers and things yet to be discovered were awaiting me. Dear God, if I should die before I wake the joy I have no man can take. I must have dozed off because the next smell was very familiar. It was the smell of coffee and homemade tortillas. Mom and dad were sitting at the candlelit table. Their reflections on the walls around them gave them the appearance of a clandestine meeting. I wonder where dad was going so early in the morning and why was mom making him a lunch? We were on vacation!

I yawned, turned over and fell fast asleep, again. My nose woke me to the

smell of chorizo and eggs. We washed up by the sink with the water that mom boiled for us on the stove and we ate breakfast. I often wondered if mom ever got any sleep.

Before we went out to see our new playground, mom gave us the usual instructions about manners and behavior. Always show respect to older people. You always say “please” and “thank you”, finally, respect other people’s property and never ever, talk back or you will suffer the wrath of the old brown belt in my mother’s hands, followed by the hated sermon on the mount. I dreaded the sermons, they were meant to make you feel real bad, but the truth was that they were quite boring. One time I asked mom if she could just skip the sermon and just give me two spankings instead. Boy, was that a mistake. I got a sermon first, a spanking and an extra long sermon to boot. So, with this in mind, I made up my mind not to anger her this summer if possible. We met the farmer and his wife. He was feeding the pigs by the sty. He had blonde hair and blue eyes. He was wearing bib overalls with a blue shirt and looked to be about seven feet tall. He waved and gave us a friendly smile. His wife was small and short with sandy brown hair; she was busy feeding the chickens. I’m not sure who smelled worst, the pigs or the chickens.

We discovered that the farmer had fields and fields of tomatoes. We found ourselves running between the rows of tomatoes playing tag. There were many people in the fields helping the farmer to pick the tomatoes and there was my dad too. We ran over to see dad whose clothes were drenched in sweat. He asked us if we were having a good time. We were having a great time, I replied. I asked him why he was working so hard and he said that the farmer had so many tomatoes and not enough help so dad volunteered to help. I thought that was a great idea so Tuddy, Terry and I got our very own bushels and we had a contest to see who could pick the most tomatoes. There were other children in the fields and I saw that I was going to be making new friends and possibly indoctrinating new members to the tribe. Everything was going fine; I knew I would win the contest because I always won. That is, until I met my first tomato worm. It stopped me dead in my tracks. I stood there with a smashed worm in my hand trying to keep from screaming. It would not do my image any good if the others witnessed my total disgust and uncontrollable desire to vomit. I quickly ran from the field under the pretense of needing to use the outhouse. I headed for the water pump near the trailer to wash off the disgusting carcass.

The other kids in the field turned out to be Mexicans just like us. They spoke very little English though. I learned that these kids traveled all over the United States with their parents to pick different crops. How cool is that! They called themselves, migrant workers. At lunchtime we had a picnic with sandwiches and kool aid. We got bored with picking tomatoes so we went to explore the woods near by. It was great! I lead the way and I decided what we were going to do and what we would play. Everyone cooperated and our first expedition was exciting. We were only limited by our imaginations, which turned out to be an abyss. This was the best part of the vacation. This was the best idea that dad ever had I couldn’t think of a better place to be this summer.

It wasn’t long before I really needed to use the outhouse. This was probably the only part of the vacation that I could have done without. I ran over to the smelly box with dread. It was dark and full of spiders and ungodly creepy crawlers. I picked up a stick before I entered. I looked all around the four walls, the ceiling, and the ground and around the hole on the board to see if these creatures were any where around. If I did find one I killed it, removed it or chased it away. I had this tremendous fear of being bit on the butt and being rushed to the hospital only to be examined by an emergency room full of doctors, how embarrassing. So, in order to avoid all that, this ritual continued for my entire stay.

That summer was spent working the tomato fields on the farm, watching the pigs, horses and cows and exploring the back woods. We built forts, made teepee’s and conquered worlds, created situations, and we fought battles and won kingdoms. We braved the wilderness and ferocious animals all for the betterment of man. Our world was bigger, better and safer because our tribe was indestructible, invincible and late for supper. Tomorrow would be another day. The days went by so fast, and the time for us to leave was soon arriving. We all decided that our last day in the woods would be a very special day. We had a tribal ceremony with dancing, food and a secret herbal Indian balm that was to be collected, prepared and worn by the tribal high priest leader. Of course, there was no question about who that was. So I went into the woods by myself and began to pick the many leaves that grew in the woods. When I returned to the sacred stone in our camp I began to crush and smash the many herbs that I collected. I poured oil ( moms cooking oil ) on the sacred balm and began to apply it to my arms and legs asking the God’s to bless this great leader and vowing to return one day to our holy of holies. Our time was over but the memories remain.

That night after our bath and supper I lay on the floor feeling a little warm all over. Maybe I had too much sun? A while later, my skin began to form hives that began to itch like crazy. I felt my eyes swelling nearly shut and the itching was unbearable. I scratched and scratched and scratched only to feel a sticky substance oozing out of the hives that were now covering my entire body and even in my mouth. I felt my lips swelling as I got up and stumbled over to mom who was asleep in bed. I shook her; peering through the slits in my eyes I could barely see her. She awoke startled asking me what was wrong. The darkness of the room did not reveal to her my dilemma. She got up to turn on the light that woke everyone up. As everyone turned to see what was going on I heard a collective groan from my family. From what I could see, the faces on mom, dad and my siblings were transfixed on me, their eyes were as big as saucers and their lower jaws had obviously unhinged from their skull leaving them with gapping holes where their mouths should be. They scared me so much that I began to cry hysterically. What was going on? What did I look like that would cause my entire family to react this way? Dear God, please help me. I am sorry for whatever I did. I’m so sorry.

After mom’s examination, it was discovered that the “Big Chief’s” secret balm contained poison ivy.

I returned home with the worst souvenir of all.

For the next three weeks I was treated like a leaper and I couldn’t help believing that I saw some pleasure in my brothers and sisters faces as mom patiently applied calamine lotion all over my wretched body.

Thirty years later at a Thanksgiving family dinner we were all reminiscing about our favorite family vacations. It was my turn and I began my story about the summer of ’57, my brother was the only one who remembered anything good about that summer. But they all remembered the poison ivy incident. Everyone was laughing but dad was laughing even more then anyone else. After all these years we were finally told the reason behind the sudden change of our vacation plans. Dad had been laid off from Inland Steel for four months and the farm vacation was of necessity. Dad was keeping his promise to mom, “Our children will never know a day of hunger”. We all laughed at our innocence and I realized how our parents did what ever was necessary to protected us from a situation that could have shattered a child’s summer. We were sent a nightmare, but for a child, it was a dream come true. Thank you, God.