Encountering the Deaths of Innocence

I was 5 years old when I first encountered death. It fell from the sky, floated down the river and rattled in the grass.

It was 1930, not a year for sissies.

We lived in Grand Dalles, Wash. Our house and the railroad building made up the town. In a childhood filled with peculiar houses, that one stood out. Literally. Its back porch was casually suspended over a precipitous cliff above the Columbia River. The outhouse, firmly anchored to the rocky soil, had a seat that jutted forth, like a flying buttress on a medieval castle, over the riverbed, a hundred feet below. When the hole was uncovered, wind from the gorge filled the air with an eerie moaning.

At night, as Mother brushed my long black hair, I watched the lights of The Dalles on the Oregon side. To my child’s mind it was New York, a long way off, unreachable. Only if my father’s next road job took us there would we go. The ferry trip across the river was expensive, and there was the Depression.

The population of the town was nine. Four in the railroad family, and the five of us, “if you don’t count the rattlesnakes,” my mother would add.

Watching Sister Leave

Alice, my older sister, started school that year, leaving me behind for the first time.

I watched with envy from my warm bed as Mother straightened the bow in Alice’s blond hair and patted Brother’s cowlick flat before she tucked wrapped razor blades in their coat pockets. She then repeated the daily litany:

“Now promise . . . if a rattler gets you, you’ll cut yourself and suck the poison out.”

Alice always winced, but they promised, kissed Mother goodby and disappeared from my life until dusk.

I was lonely without them and had trouble amusing myself. Sometimes I negotiated with Mother to play cards, but she was often too busy. I began to look forward to the arrival of drifters, men down on their luck, who came walking through on the train tracks.

Some days, four or five came; other days, none. They arrived at our door hungry. Mother offered a meal, served on the front stoop, to those willing to cut wood.

While they ate, I stood in the doorway, under Mother’s watchful eye, and tried to get them to talk. Downcast eyes and hunched shoulders marked my lack of success, but I continued, each new man a possible source of company.

A Conversation

“Where are you from?” I had cornered my new victim just as he started his meal.

He stopped eating and looked up. “Someplace where the lakes are as blue as your eyes.”

Encouraged, I squatted near him.

“Do you have a little girl?”

“Yes. . . .” He hesitated while looking at me. “She must be about your age.”

“Can she come and play?”

“No,” he laughed, a rusty sound. “She’s a long way off.”

I settled myself on the step next to him and told him about the snakes and how you had to be careful.

“Ever see one?” he asked.

“Not a live one,” I admitted. “But Alice and Brother saw one down by the well.”

The Shoe Repair

When his meal was finished, he asked Mother for a piece of cardboard. I watched as he trimmed it and placed it in his shoe.

Then he, like the others, disappeared down the tracks.

We lived in the house only one school year. A fall, a winter and a spring. Each season marked by something memorable.

Fall’s event was an air show. It had but one barnstorming pilot, but I had never even seen an airplane.

“And,” Brother explained, “they’re going to have a parachute jumper.”

“What’s that?” I asked, and both the big kids began drawing pictures to show me. They had been studying airplanes at school.

I was shivering with excitement the day of the show. Mindless of Mother’s admonition to watch out for snakes, we children jabbered as we marched across the sagebrush.

A Small Figure on the Wing

The plane bumped along the rough field and with a loud roar slowly took to the air, disappearing from view. Its reappearance was greeted with, “There it is!” A small figure appeared on the wing, waved to the crowd and fell over the side--to the ground.

Screams filled the air.

“What a pointless way to die.” Father’s voice was low.

When we reached home, no one wanted to play. I took my doll and climbed onto my bed.

“Something happened,” I explained to Dolly as I put on her coat. “Something about die.” I fastened her buttons. “You can’t talk about it.” I wrapped her in a blanket. “And I didn’t even see any parachute.”

Winter came fast on our river perch, isolating us further. Mrs. Wilson from the railroad house was our only visitor. When she came, I positioned myself nearby and listened, even harder when the voices dropped.

“Did you hear about the McEwon boy?” Mrs. Wilson’s voice was really low.

“What happened?” Mother spoke softly, too.

“Drowned. Tried to swim the river.”

“They found the body?”

“No, they won’t. He’s gone directly to God. That river don’t give up its dead.”

Body-Watching Game

I went to the back porch and lay flat on my stomach, extending my head over the edge. I squinted, the way Brother had shown me, and, peering at the swirling rush of water below, I initiated my new game: watching for the dead bodies.

Soon, the weather kept us housebound.

“At least,” Mother announced with relief, “those darn snakes won’t be out in this.”

Spring brought two changes. The snakes returned to warm themselves on the rocks, and my hobo friends came back along the tracks.

In late May, the two converged near the house. I knew something was wrong by Mr. Wilson’s voice talking to Father.

“Saw him down the tracks.”

Father picked up his cap. “I’ll come with you.” He started for the door, me at his heels.

“Where you going, young lady?” He took my shoulder. “Your mother wouldn’t like it.”

“But she’s not here, she’s with Mrs. Wilson and the big kids.”

“Guess I can’t leave you here alone.” He took my hand. “But you do as you’re told.”

No Identification, But . . .

When we arrived, Mr. Wilson was leaning over a bush. Two shoes were all I could see.

“Any identification?” Father asked.

“Nah, not a thing. He’s been on the bum a while, probably don’t have anybody.”

“Snake?”

“Looks like it. Wouldn’t take much.”

Father picked me up.

“Let’s tend to him when the women get back.” We returned to the house. I went into the kids’ room and closed the door. Mother found me there.

“I don’t know what your father was thinking of.” She wiped my tears with her apron. “Stop your crying now and come out.”

“But his little girl?” My sobs began again.

“Now quit that . . . don’t be silly. We don’t know who he was, so how do we know if he had a little girl.”

“But he did.” I called to her retreating back. “I know he did. I saw the cardboard in his shoe.”

We moved the next week.

I turned 6 in June.