7. The Old Home

Our household practically lived on fish, that fall. Having derived from long lines of Protestants, on both sides of our family, we never tired of fish.

After the first hard frost we spent our Saturdays (school having commandeered the other weekdays) clubbing the walnut and hickory trees for nuts which we hauled home in a borrowed cart. The walnut, as you may know, is well protected. It not only has a hard shell; this shell is covered with a thick hull. The most practical method of hulling walnuts, a dirty job if ever there was one, is to spread them out on the ground and leave it to time and the elements to disintegrate the hull. But no matter how long you wait for this to occur, your hands will be stained a beautiful shade of brown. This color was known by our family as Guthrey brown, because Papa, when a boy, knew a large family of neighbors named Guthrey who made their own clothes and dyed the cloth with juice extracted from walnut hulls. One of the distinguishing qualities of this dye is its permanence. It never fades either from fabric or fingers.

It was during these carefree days that I really made the acquaintance of my brother. He was a witty lad, his brand of humor slanted slightly toward the satirical. He poked fun at many people and things, but most of his fun was had at his own expense. Anything for a laugh.

Now that he was well enough to risk exposure to rough weather and had quite outgrown the small overcoat that had belonged to me, Mama set about it to make one for him out of Papa’s second-best frock coat. Mama had had success in making clothes for herself, but had never experimented with heavy material. What she lacked in tailoring skill she made up for in courage. We all held our breath, crossed our fingers, and hoped for the best.

At that time, the sleeves of women’s garments had begun to puff out a little at the top. I do not know whether this trend had influenced the architecture of my brother’s overcoat, but I do know that when he put it on for a fitting he looked very funny indeed.

I didn’t stick around while the new coat was in its final phase of dress rehearsal. Later in life I developed at least the average man’s ability to keep a straight face on occasions when it would have been impolite, if not positively wicked, to grin; but at fourteen, I found it more prudent, in certain circumstances, to slip away quietly without risking an accident.

There was no mirror in the living room where Clyde stood when the completed overcoat was ready to be put on view. I had gone upstairs. Mama called to me to come down and see the nice new overcoat. I thought I detected in her tone an almost pitiful wistfulness to be reassured. It was very seldom that Mama felt the need of my approval. I sincerely wished that I could rush to her relief with such words of praise as Papa was offering. But I knew I mustn’t try to do it. I shouted something that sounded like I’d be there in a minute. Papa was booming congratulations. That was all right for Papa: he had had a lot of practice in restoring people’s ailing faith in themselves.

At length they grew tired of waiting for me to show up. I heard Clyde clattering up the steep stairs. I could tell by his composure that he hadn’t seen himself yet. He came into our bedroom and walked directly to the mirror, leaned one high-pouched shoulder toward it for a better view; then the other. Then he began to rock with stifled laughter. He sat on the edge of the bed awhile, wiping his eyes and holding his lame stomach in both hands. When he thought he could stand another look he again consulted the mirror.

I, too, had laughed until I didn’t feel very well. We sobered down. “Are you going to wear it?” I inquired. “Of course!” Clyde said.

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