I'd like to tell you how rough, how difficult my life was growing up, but that would be a lie. Other than being skinny and lanky, my childhood was great fun, and most of all, grand. I had friends, I wasn't bullied, I wasn't picked on everyday, or anything bad or depressing like that. Oh, I had accidents, like falling from a tree and getting kicked off a horse, nearly drowning, fell through the ice skating, and I got a few whoopin's by Mom, once in a while, (Mom was the disciplinarian in the family), but my dad never laid a hand on any of us boys, and he wasn't a drunkard, either. Oh, sure, Mom and Dad argued like cats and dogs, but for the most part we just figured that was normal for married folks, and from the noise coming from the neighbor's house we figured that was more fact than legend. People argue, more argument than being at peace, so it seems, but that didn't matter to me. I wasn't one to go sulk in my room, because they disputed. As I grew up, I noticed that Mom played me off of Dad so I would side with her. I put an end to that when I came home from college one summer, and told them that it's your problem; you work it out. Mom was horrified that I didn't take her side, of course.

Becky and Bill on their horses.

Miss Polly's Sunday School class, I'm front left bottom corner, and Becky is second from the left back row.

Photos: top was the Harris farm from the field, and the lower photo was of Becky's home, many decades after we'd played there. I used to come running over, usually because I cut through the field and I'd run to the nearest door to knock on it. Her mother Sue would answer and I'd ask, "Can Becky come play?" Sue yelled loudly; "BBBBBEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY! Olan's here." Becky would come bounding to the door, her ponytail bouncing, and it was off to a day full of fun on the farm. Sue was loud and it was like she was calling in the pigs when she yelled for us, and we knew it was best to head for the house.

My mother and Sue talking as we visited.

Becky wasn't a "block friend." She was a country girl and lived across the field from me, but through her I learned to milk a cow's teats, and her mother Sue gave me churning lessons, though I suspect she just needed someone to do the work. I was always curious about everything. Yes, I was a town boy with a country connection. On their farm we had no boundaries and we explored every square inch, looked under every stone, swam all the ponds and waded each creek. We played our hearts out and then would collapse on the spot to rest. On one occasion, when we were coming from the barn, Becky said, "Hey Olan, lets ride these young calves in the pen."

I replied, "Sure! Let's do it! And we can pretend we are rodeo riders!"

"Great idea, Olan!" We climbed the fence with great anticipation. We were going to be bull riders. Becky was the first over and landed directly in the muddy slop. Mud, and I'm guessing other stuff, splashed upward, and sprinkled across my face. "Come on Olan!" Becky looked at my face, and laughingly said, "You have cow poop; all over your face. Come here and I'll wipe it off." I came close to her. Becky reached in her back pocket, pulled out a red handkerchief, proceeded to spit on it, and started in on my forehead.

Before I knew what had happened, Becky had grabbed one of the young calves by the tail, and I was tossed flat into the mud and manure that was a calf lot. It was obvious that we were going to get very dirty this day. "Come on, Olan," Becky shouted. "You grab the neck, and I'll jump on." We worked like a team, as soon as I would grab a calf's neck Becky was on its back in a flash, and off she flew landing in the mud. It was great fun that day, and I reckon that she and I both did an equal amount of flying through the air, and landing in the gunk. Our adventures seemed to never end. From swimming in one of their many ponds in the summer to donning our skates in the winter to playing ice hockey with sticks, and an old flattened tin can for the puck. Preparing the ice for skating on a pond was hard work. We each took a scoop shovel from the barn and begin to shovel the snow off the frozen surface. After the ice was cleaned of snow, we would put on our skates for a few hours of good cold fun. My brothers, Bill, and Becky all had ice hockey skates while I had figure skates, and I tried very hard to keep up with her as she glided over the ice. One particular winter day was different than the others, and it's still fresh in my memory.

Becky said, "Olan, do a spin like this!"

I would then do a pirouette.

Becky would say, "Hey, Olan, can you skate backwards like me?"

I flipped my weight, turned around and was skating backwards. "How do I stop?" I shouted to her.

"Just put the tip of your skate on the ice, and drag it, Olan, like this." Becky came to a stop, and it looked so easy. I lifted my left leg, and put the tip of the skate down on the ice, but something went wrong. Instead of slowing to a stop, I was sprawled face down on the ice and slowly spanned to a stop. She laughed, "Oh Olan, are you okay?"

I lifted my head up, looked back across the ice to Becky and replied, "Yeah; I am fine. Help me up.

You look like a snowman. You've finished sweeping the snow off the ice. Stand still and I will wipe the snow off of you."

At about that moment my brothers, and Becky's brother, and Bill shouted to us from the shore and said, "Come on you two. It is time for us to go in and warm up." She and I headed for the shore. She was the first to hit the snow bank at the edge of the lake. I headed for a different area to come ashore, so I had more time on the ice. Then suddenly I heard the ice begin to crack under my feet. This was not unusual for skating on a frozen pond. At different times, the ice would moan and groan. My brothers and Bill always chopped a hole in the ice to check the thickness. If it wasn't four inches thick, we didn't skate. This sound was slightly different. I looked down between my feet just as the ice gave way. Down into the freezing water, I fell into the icy water up to my neck, and my feet were stuck in the mud and gunk of the bottom of the pond. My whole body was in shock. I just stood there shoulder deep in freezing cold water.

I heard Becky screaming, "Olan has fallen through the ice!"

Bill looked at me and said, "Good grief, Olan. The water's shallow there, stand up." I was short and tiny and what was shallow for Bill was deep for me, but I stood up and sure enough the water only came to my waist. Bill grabbed me and pulled me onto the shore. The boys wrapped me in their coats. We were about a quarter mile from the house. At the house, Sue assessed the situation, "What has happened to Olan, Bill?"

"He fell through the ice. We were skating on the farthest east pond and were getting ready to come ashore when he fell through, but it wasn't very deep, he just sort of sunk down to his shoulders."

"Oh, my dear Olan, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" Sue said. I was still unable to say anything as I pulled myself closer to Sue. I don't remember much more about that day except that I felt loved. Even this potentially tragic day didn't dim my exuberance for Becky or her family, rather it tightens the tie that binds. Becky and I did a lot of things together, such as, playing in the corn bins, wrestling, swimming, playing on swings and such. She didn't play house or doctor with me like some of my other girlfriends would do, but she was my best friend.

Fading away from this memory, to another, I started drawing people. One winter I was in my brothers' bedroom visiting Walt, and he was drawing, he was a great sketcher, and I was amazed at how easy he made it look. "Teach me how to draw." Hell, I couldn't even write letters, but here I was wanting to draw. I wanted to draw people, and so he taught me, not stick figures but real faces. I used to have those old scribbles around and the last time I saw them I thought, they were like any other child would draw at that age, but by damn they weren't stick figures. I've drawn all my life, still do on occasion, but mostly I paint.

I drew this at age 17, 1970.