Memories of an American Life

THE FOUNDLING Rod and Maybell loved children. They had planned for a family but it just seemed they were never to be so blessed. Rod was a successful farmer, even though his spread was small in comparison to those who had nearly sixty cleared acres. As with most farmers in that day, they were self-sufficient, did not owe the bank, went to a little struggling church, and paid their tithe every Sunday. Rod was from the old school. He would continue clearing his fields. Maybell was the perfect housewife. She was an adept seamstress. She sewed most of the clothing she and Rod wore, including their Sunday best, which she kept hanging on special pegs in the closet in their well-built cabin. She had even managed to make bib overalls for her man. Rod pulled his heavy coat collar up around his ears to ward off the morning chill. He picked up the two scrubbed clean milk buckets, the larger bucket for the Holstein, the smaller pail for the pampered Jersey. She did not produce as much milk as her bigger mate, but her milk was butter-fat rich. Rod stepped out the door. There was a tightly woven hickory slat egg basket setting on the small porch. Rod set the buckets down, picked up the basket. He opened the door. "Mother, come quick." The baby was wrapped in a small, tattered, almost threadbare quilt encasing his little body. He was a cheerful little fellow. An upturned toothless grin creased his diminutive mouth. There was a nearly empty thick glass baby bottle with a well-used off-color nipple in the corner of the basket. The boy was wearing a lightweight, fine-knit white undershirt, a tricorn garnet held together with a safety pin, close-knit blue soft fluff wool hose, gloves, slippers and over it all, a blue Canton flannel shift. Maybell and Rod were flabbergasted. They did not know of any expectant mothers. Neither did the neighbors or the Sheriff who inquired about it in a wider neighborhood. In the end the baby remained with Maybell and Rod. "What shall we name our son?" Rod opened the door. Streaks of light announced the borning of a new day. The pinpoints of stars that had blanketed the sky, winked out. In the distance, a small bright cluster. Pointing, Rod said, "There is our son's name! Morning Star." Hopefully, a bereaved mother would know her little boy was safe, in a real home, with loving parents. NOTE: Dad said Morning Star was well known in the area and was a great help to his parents. He was a beloved only son. His birth mother was never found or identified, and no one ever claimed to know who she could be. MY FIRST AIRPLANE RIDE IN 1928 It was a World War I two-place biplane surveying St. Paul, Indiana, with several circling sweeps before flying down the county line road paralleling Platt’s farm field, where the barnstormers landed. The mechanic had corralled, with free rides, two strongsters to go to Brunner’s filling station to fill and bring back two cans of gasoline. A landing airplane was Lorelei’s cry to the adventuresome. The mechanic had a set of scales on a tripod, a round dial, a round dial on the top, one cent per pound. The pilot was resplendent in knee-length jodhpurs, wool fleece jacket with a fluffed fur collar, brown leather knees-to-ankles leggings laced tight, matching helmet with goggles resting on top at the ready and an extra-long white silk scarf. I had always thought they wore the long scarves to impress the pretty girls. That, too, but really they wore them of silk and extra-long to wrap around their necks so that they would not chafe their necks, turning, twisting, swiveling their heads when looking for enemy planes in a dogfight. Now you know, Snoopy. Evelyn and Marian alternated care for their five-year-old brother, giving their mother a day off on Saturday. Ev had just graduated from high school. She, her little brother, and a classmate walked out to look at the airplane. “Do you want to ride in the airplane?” her school friend asked. Ev pointed to me. Having heard the exchange, the pilot reassured her, “Your little brother will be perfectly safe with me.” “I can take you all, but I will need a written consent from the boy’s mother.” I nearly dragged my feet going home. I just knew Mom would say no. Guess what, Mom signed the consent! I remember everything I saw, and especially my mother standing in the front yard. The kicker: I cost Ev’s friend 50 cents. Who knows, the pilot may have been hauling air mail on Monday. He may have been waiting for his commission. He sure got my vote. I bet he liked hauling little boys, too. I was sitting in the front cockpit in the middle seat between Ev on my left, and her classmate on the right. The mechanic fitted heavy straps around each of us with one strap across the three of us, just to make sure we would all stay in our seats. I was wearing my Christmas present, a black oilcloth helmet with isinglass goggles. “I’m counting on you to not move around or stand up,” said the mechanic, “because all these belts will keep you right here so you will be safe.” And he winked at me. Then the mechanic stepped in front of the plane. He twirled the big wooden prop a few times until it seemed to catch. Then came the back and forth exchange between the pilot and the mechanic. “Switch on.” “Switch on.” “Contact.” “Contact.” The big Liberty engine roared to life. The pilot signaled. The mechanic pulled out the chocks and we were rolling down the grass strip. The plane lifted as we cleared the fence. Look, there’s the school and gym, ‘n’ the cemetery, the falls, Flat Rock River. There’s Dad’s store and Mom in the front yard waving. I would never have been able to see her from that vantage point if she hadn’t signed that consent.