5 Summers were scorching,and when no rain came and the wheat became bleached and dried before it headed,the faces of farmers and townsfolk would not smile much and you took for granted,because it never seemed to have been any different,the frequent knocking at the back door and the young men standing there,mumbling or thrusting defiantly their requests for a drink of water and a sandwich if you could spare it.They were riding the freights,and you never knew where they had come from,or where they might end up,if anywhere.The Drought and Depression were like evil deities which had been there always.You understood and did not understand. 6 Yet the outside world had its continuing marvels.The poplar bluffs and the small river were filled and surrounded with a zillion different grasses,stones,and weed flowers.The meadowlarks sang undaunted from the twanging telephone wires along the gravel highway.Once we found an old flat-bottomed scow,and launched her,poling along the shallow brown waters,mending her with wodges of hastily chewed Spearmint, grounding her among the tangles of yellow marsh marigolds that grew succulently along the banks of the shrunken river,while the sun made our skins smell dusty-warm. 7 My best friend lived in an apartment above some stores on Main Street (its real name was Mountain Avenue,goodness knows why),an elegant apartment with royal-blue velvet curtains.The back roof,scarcely sloping at all,was corrugated tin,of a furnace-like warmth on a July afternoon,and we would sit there drinking lemonade and looking across the back lane at the Fire Hall.Sometimes our vigil would be rewarded. Oh joy!Somebody's house burning down!We had an almost-perfect callousness in some ways.Then the wooden tower's bronze bell would clonk and toll like a thousand speeded funerals in a time of plague,and in a few minutes the team of giant black horses would cannon forth,pulling the fire wagon like some scarlet chariot of the Goths 3,while the firemen clung with one hand,adjusting their helmets as they went. 8 The oddities of the place were endless.An elderly lady used to serve,as her afternoon tea offering to other ladies,soda biscuits spread with peanut butter and topped with a whole marshmallow.Some considered this slightly eccentric,when compared with chopped egg sandwiches,and admittedly talked about her behind her back,but no one ever refused these delicacies or indicated to her that they thought she had slipped a cog.Another lady dyed her hair a bright and cheery orange,by strangers often mistaken at twenty paces for a feather hat.My own beloved stepmother wore a silver fox neckpiece,a whole pelt,with the embalmed (?head still on.My Ontario Irish grandfather said,"sparrow grass",a more interesting term than asparagus.The town dump was known as"the nuisance grounds",a phrase fraught with weird connotations, as though the effluvia of our lives was beneath contempt but at the same time was subtly threatening to the determined and sometimes hysterical propriety of our ways. 9 Some oddities were,as idiom had it,"funny ha ha";others were "funny peculiar." Some were not so very funny at all.An old man lived,deranged,in a shack in the valley. Perhaps he wasn't even all that old,but to us he seemed a wild Methuselah4 figure, shambling among the underbrush and the tall couchgrass,muttering indecipherable curses or blessings,a prophet who had forgotten his prophesies.Everyone in town knew him,but no one knew him.He lived among us as though only occasionally and momentarily visible.The kids called him Andy Gump,and feared him.Some sought to2 5 Summers were scorching, and when no rain came and the wheat became bleached and dried before it headed, the faces of farmers and townsfolk would not smile much, and you took for granted, because it never seemed to have been any different, the frequent knocking at the back door and the young men standing there, mumbling or thrusting defiantly their requests for a drink of water and a sandwich if you could spare it. They were riding the freights, and you never knew where they had come from, or where they might end up, if anywhere. The Drought and Depression were like evil deities which had been there always. You understood and did not understand. 6 Yet the outside world had its continuing marvels. The poplar bluffs and the small river were filled and surrounded with a zillion different grasses, stones, and weed flowers. The meadowlarks sang undaunted from the twanging telephone wires along the gravel highway. Once we found an old flat-bottomed scow, and launched her, poling along the shallow brown waters, mending her with wodges of hastily chewed Spearmint, grounding her among the tangles of yellow marsh marigolds that grew succulently along the banks of the shrunken river, while the sun made our skins smell dusty-warm. 7 My best friend lived in an apartment above some stores on Main Street (its real name was Mountain Avenue, goodness knows why), an elegant apartment with royal-blue velvet curtains. The back roof, scarcely sloping at all, was corrugated tin, of a furnace-like warmth on a July afternoon, and we would sit there drinking lemonade and looking across the back lane at the Fire Hall. Sometimes our vigil would be rewarded. Oh joy! Somebody’s house burning down! We had an almost-perfect callousness in some ways. Then the wooden tower’s bronze bell would clonk and toll like a thousand speeded funerals in a time of plague, and in a few minutes the team of giant black horses would cannon forth, pulling the fire wagon like some scarlet chariot of the Goths 3 , while the firemen clung with one hand, adjusting their helmets as they went. 8 The oddities of the place were endless. An elderly lady used to serve, as her afternoon tea offering to other ladies, soda biscuits spread with peanut butter and topped with a whole marshmallow. Some considered this slightly eccentric, when compared with chopped egg sandwiches, and admittedly talked about her behind her back, but no one ever refused these delicacies or indicated to her that they thought she had slipped a cog. Another lady dyed her hair a bright and cheery orange, by strangers often mistaken at twenty paces for a feather hat. My own beloved stepmother wore a silver fox neckpiece, a whole pelt, with the embalmed (?) head still on. My Ontario Irish grandfather said, “sparrow grass”, a more interesting term than asparagus. The town dump was known as “the nuisance grounds”, a phrase fraught with weird connotations, as though the effluvia of our lives was beneath contempt but at the same time was subtly threatening to the determined and sometimes hysterical propriety of our ways. 9 Some oddities were, as idiom had it, “funny ha ha”; others were “funny peculiar.” Some were not so very funny at all. An old man lived, deranged, in a shack in the valley. Perhaps he wasn’t even all that old, but to us he seemed a wild Methuselah 4 figure, shambling among the underbrush and the tall couchgrass, muttering indecipherable curses or blessings, a prophet who had forgotten his prophesies. Everyone in town knew him, but no one knew him. He lived among us as though only occasionally and momentarily visible. The kids called him Andy Gump, and feared him. Some sought to