As young toddlers my next oldest brother and I were pretty much inseperable. Kenneth Richard Sutherland, or ‘Dick’ as we all called him, were two years apart in age so he was naturally the one person I hung out with the most. Being two years older and bigger, he was also the one whose lead I would follow in most of our activities. And being a type “A” personality, he was a natural leader and instructor. When adults weren’t around he liked telling me what to do… or NOT do. And, generally speaking, I would comply.
But Dick wasn’t just bossy all the time. He also took an interest in trying out different things and then showing me how to do them. Whether it was building a snowman in winter or how to throw a horseweed ‘spear’ in summer, Dick was my trainer and demonstrater. I think he took pride in showing me anything that he had mastered. However, on at least one occasion he demonstrated that he had mastered one activity too well!
In the 1940s and into the 1950s the Sutherland family always spent Dad’s two week summer vacation visiting our garndparents. One week would be spent with the grandparents Sutherland in the small farming community of Bowen, Illinois. The other week would be spent visiting the grandparents Hostetter outside the even smaller farming community of Frankford, Missouri. Although there were fun things to do in Bowen, Illinois, my favorite week of summer vacation was always the one spent at the Hostetter farm. There were fields to roam and creeks to splash around in and ponds to go fishing and frog-hunting. And Grandmother Hostetter, an excellent cook, had fresh-baked biscuits every morning that were to DIE for! And then there was the BARN!
The Hostetter barn was probably typical of barns built all over the country at least a hundred years or more ago. A plain, square structure built on bare, hard-packed earth with unfinished, rough-hewn barn-siding planks that measured one inch thick by thirteen inches wide. I know these measurements because when that barn was torn down later in the 20thcentury, my mother secured a section of that barn-siding as a souvenir which she passed onto me and my wife. My wife, who was also a very good artist, then painted a picture of the Hostetter homestead on that plank using old photographs. It features the colonial-style 2-story house as well as the barn and other outbuildings. It is one of my most cherished possessions.
The barn had a fairly steep sloped roof which allowed for a hayloft above the ground floor. I would estimate that the hayloft floor was about 9 to 10 feet above the ground. As one might expect, the hayloft was an attractive place to visit for two little town boys exploring Grandad’s farm.
My mother was the older of two Hostetter sisters. There were no Hostetter sons and the sisters always remained a close-knit family with their parents. The younger sister, Virginia, married her high school sweetheart, Joe Wright, and they had two kids… the only first cousins I ever had. Since it was a close-knit family group, the Sutherlands and the Wrights would share one week of summer vacation at the Hostetter farm. At that time and place, my Uncle Joe Wright, who stood over six feet, was the tallest man in our group.
One morning in 1946 after having fortified ourselves with Grandma’s biscuits and other delicious fare, Brother Dick and I went exploring. It was a fairly chilly morning so we both wore light jackets. At that time he was nine and I was seven. We puttered around the barnyard for a while looking for snakes or any other small critters which were always fascinating to us ‘city boys’. We may have mischievously tossed a pebble or two at some of the free range chickens roaming about just for the perverse pleasure of hearing them squawk and scramble away. Free range chickens were a fixture on all small family farms. Dick and I could justify our petty meanness to them because it was almost impossible to walk around the barnyard without stepping onto a fresh pile of chicken poop!
I think we may have turned our attention to the corn crib building which was situated to one side and a little ahead of the barn because inside the open passageway of the crib was an old, hand-cranked corn shelling machine. This was interesting to us because even little kids could operate it. You just put an ear of corn into the funnel top and crank the handle. The mechanism inside chews all the kernels off the cob. The corn kernels come out of a spout in the front of the machine and the bare cob drops out the bottom. Of course, it’s a tedious way to shell corn… one ear at a time. But I guess it was handy for generating small amounts of corn kernels to scatter around for the chickens. The corn sheller never held our interest for long. Cranking that handle was too much like work!
Dick finally said, “Let’s see what’s in the hayloft, Guy.” So we headed for the barn. One side of the barn was a large passageway open at both ends. This was where Grandad Hostetter would park his tractor. The inner wall of that passageway had a sturdy wooden ladder nailed to it that gave access to the hayloft above. Up the ladder we went.
We were delighted to see that the hayloft had a lot of bales of hay piled up against the back wall. These were the old rectangular shaped bales which was the only way hay was baled back in the day. There were maybe two or three rows of bales stacked up close to the sloped ceiling and perhaps another three or four rows descending, stairstep style, down to the wood plank flooring. To make the scene even more inviting, there was a lot of loose hay from broken bales scattered all about and providing cushioning for two boys romping around on this little haystack hillside. The hayloft certainly wasn’t full as I recall that there was a good 10 or 15 feet of bare floor leading to the large, 2ndstory hayloft doorway at the front of the barn… which was wide open that day.
After scrambling up and down the hay hill for a few minutes I got the notion of trying to somersault down from the top. I made one or two lame attempts at this but my spindly little legs flew apart when I hit the 2ndor 3rdbale down resulting in an awkward sprawl. Brother Dick assumed his didactic demeanor and commenced instructions.
“No, no, Guy! If you wanna do it RIGHT, you gotta tuck yourself in real TIGHT… like a CANNONBALL!” Dick climbed to the top of the bales. “Now look! I’ll show you how to do a real cannonball roll!” Dick did tuck himself in real tight; knees up under his chin and hands clasped firmly behind his head with his elbows held firmly against his knees. And down the haystack hill he rolled!
I was impressed. It was a perfect roll all the way down the hay. But, DANG! When he hit the bare wood floor he kept on ROLLING! I had a fleeting thought: ‘Why doesn’t he stop?’ That thought quickly turned to shock when Brother Dick rolled right up to the open loft doorway and disappeared!
I sat frozen in wide-eyed amazement for a moment expecting to hear the sound of my brother smacking onto the ground below. But there was only silence! And then I did hear a faint guttural noise… like someone starting to clear his throat. Very trepidatiously I approached the edge of the doorway. Peering down, there was Brother Dick... suspended from a large, rusty old nail sticking about an inch out of the wood that had somehow miraculously snagged the back collar of his jacket as he went over the edge! The nail had saved him from a nasty fall, but he was now dangling with his own body weight forcing his throat against his tightly fastened jacket, like a noose! And in this awkward, stressed position he was unable to loosen his jacket.
I got down on my knees and said: “GEEEEZ, Dick!” Dick wasn’t talking very clear. He said: “GHE… ! GHEEUH!!” I braced my left hand against the floor edge and reached down with my right hand to grip his taut jacket collar at one side of the rusty nail holding it. I tried lifting him off the nail, but there was no way my skinny little 7-year-old body was going to be able to lift my 9-year-old brother even an inch!
I think Dick could feel my hand next to the back of his neck as I grabbed his collar and he was NOT in favor of my efforts! His hands flailed upward as if trying to brush me away, but that only increased the tight jacket pressure against his throat. He gurgled alarmingly and stopped flailing. I withdrew my hand. I didn’t know what to do and I was getting scared. After a few motionless seconds he got a bit of very low, hoarse voice back. He rasped:
“GUH… GUHY!”
I leaned my head way low near to his and whimpered; “Whaaaat?” Although greatly hampered by his distressed throat, Dick made a more distinct effort to articulate his words.
“GE..UH… GEH UNCH… GEH UNCA JOE!”
Then it dawned on me. Of course! Uncle Joe! The tallest man for miles around! No doubt this was the solution that immediately occurred to Brother Dick when he suddenly found himself dangling and choking above the hard earth. And his jerky little brother was trying to drop him over six feet onto it! Okay, Dick. I finally got the message!
In a panic, I hastened down the loft ladder and started running across the barnyard toward the house. Now here, Gentle Reader, is where this traumatic childhood incident – which I am relating factually to the best of my recollection – starts getting horribly twisted and inflated by other members of my family whenever the story gets told and re-told at family gatherings!
The Hostetter house sets atop a gentle knoll in rolling hill country near the Mississippi River. I would estimate that the distance between the house and the barn to be at least a good hundred yards or more… DOWNslope. So I had to run, UPSLOPE, taking a circuitous path to get around fences, outbuildings, etc. But I DID RUN that distance! It may have taken me a full minute but I WAS aware of my brother’s desperate situation and that time was of the essence! And that part is Stage One of my family’s cruel re-imaginings.
So I arrived breathless at the rear door leading into the dining room and stopped at the wide doorway between the dining room and the living room where all the adults were engaged in lively, cheerful conversation. And this is where Stage Two of all the nasty re-tellings occurs.
I don’t think it’s given much importance in child-rearing these days, but back in mid-20th century the rule-of-thumb was “children should be seen and not heard”. And I know that I and my siblings have been chastised on several occasions in our upbringing if we noisily barged into a roomful of adults or interrupted adult conversation. I was torn… and it never occurred to me to say: “Excuse me...” So I just anxiously stood there for a moment – and it really WAS just a brief moment, not more than 10 seconds – waiting for a break in the adult conversation. My mom was the first to take notice of me and she must’ve also noticed the strained look on my face because she said, “What is it, Guybie?” Ahhhh.. the dam inide me burst and I blurted out: “Dick’s hangin’ on a nail out at the barn!”
There was a moment of stunned silence as the adults stared back and forth at me and each other. Then it was like a movie director said: “Action!” Suddenly a herd of adults jumped to their feet and came stampeding past me… almost knocking me down. They all rushed to the barnyard with Uncle Joe in the lead. I was winded from my own rush up the hill so I lagged behind. By the time I got to the barnyard I could see Uncle Joe reaching up with his hands around Dick’s thighs and easing him off that old nail. Dick’s face was BLUE!
Dick disappeared from my view when lowered to the ground because of all the concerned adults hovering around… so he remained hidden from me for a couple of minutes. I don’t know if Uncle Joe or anyone else had to administer CPR. I remember hearing Mom say, “Oh, Honey…!” That was followed shortly after by sighs of relief and nervous laughter. And a “Praise the Lord!”
The crowd thinned and I could see Dick sitting up on the ground.. apparently breathing okay and rubbing his throat. The color was coming back to his face. Before getting to his feet he was looking around and saw me standing there looking at him. He fixed me with a long glare… a look that seemed to say: “What the hell TOOK you so long!” But maybe that’s just my imagination. The main thing is that tragedy was averted and life moved on enjoyably.
HOWEVER… that incident got re-told frequently in family discussions and get-togethers over the years. And the re-tellers – whether siblings; parents; cousins; aunt or uncle – always seemed to take evil relish in besmirching my character!
At Stage One of the episode they liked to say something like: “Well, with his brother hanging out at the barn, Guy came ‘strolling’; or ‘sauntering’; or ‘lolly-gagging’ up to the house”! At Stage Two they would say something like: “So his brother is choking to death out at the barn and Guy comes inside and leisurely stands around until someone finally asks him what’s goin’ on”!
Come ONNN! I mean… SERIOUSLY?!!
No, Folks. NOT seriously. It was just a fun way that my family liked to recount a near tragedy. So I guess I can put up with it. It’s always good for a laugh!