From Sylvia: Reunions at Walnut Springs

When I was a girl, the Sunday in August when we would go to the Boyer Family Reunion ranked right up there with Christmas and the last day of school. Officially, it was the gathering of our Grandpa Boyer’s five brothers and sister Millie and all their offspring, numbering at that time close to 100.

First, of course, church for everybody. Then after church got out, a leisurely ride into the Pennsylvania hills on a two-lane highway where Daddy watched for the turnoff, an unmarked dirt road into the woods. As we made the turn, our eyes adjusted from the glare of the open road to the dim, green and yellow light under a winding tunnel of trees. Through our open side windows came the smell of the sun-warmed woods and green things thriving in dark soil, somehow both familiar and exotic. From both sides, we could hear the woods breathing — the sizzle of summer insects at work.

Daddy drove our two-tone Ford slowly because the lane was narrow and filled with mudholes. My sister Betsy and I loved this lumpy-bumpy ride that made us rock and lurch as we perched on the back seat. We held onto the front seat for balance, smiling and making big eyes at each other. Grass grew up in the middle of the lane and we could hear the shush-shush as it slid along the bottom of the car. It felt like it was tickling our feet. Trees and bushes grew close on either side; friendlier ones leaned in to shake hands through the open windows, then with a flap! were gone.

I would peer ahead, hoping that around the next turn I would see the clearing where the family was gathered. But no. Then I would begin to worry that we might meet another car coming out of the lane. If we did, I had figured out that someone would have to back up and I didn’t want it to be us.

Finally, around another curve and there! Through the trees we picked out bright spots of painted metal — the fenders and trunks of other Boyer cars, pulled up in a friendly row in the meadow grass near the old log cabin at the back of the clearing. We hung over the front seat and craned around Mother and Daddy for a better view. Aunts and uncles and cousins of all ages and sizes were walking about the sunny clearing. To the left in the shade of tall trees were picnic tables already loaded with plates of sliced ham, big bowls of potato and fruit salad, jars of red beet eggs, trays of deviled eggs and metal pans of baked beans. Aunts with familiar faces and others who looked sort of familiar were shaking out colorful tablecloths, chasing children from the cookies and chocolate cakes, and calling to my mother.

White smoke rose from a brick barbecue pit where chicken and hamburgers and hot dogs were being tended by grandpas and uncles. Younger men in white tee-shirts had set up the stakes for quoits and the clang of occasional leaners and ringers rang through the trees, amid shouts and joshing and hearty greetings to newcomers.

We itched to get out of the car, but first, a scramble in the back seat to get out of our church dresses and into the shorts and tops that Mother handed back to us. Off with shiny shoes and white nylon socks and Ah! What a feeling when our bare feet hit the warm meadow grass, flattened and tenderized by earlier arriving cars and people.

I’m sure we spent a few minutes at the old wooden tables, eating the fried chicken and potato salad my mother had prepared, but I was eager to be going, to see my cousins, to roam around the place. So different from home or school or church, yet familiar because we came here each year, the place was dear to the elders because Walnut Springs was close to the old family homestead further up the lane into the woods.

I loved to go and see the spring on the other side of the lane. It was tucked under the root of a big tree. We would squat down to look into a pool about the size of an old bathtub but rounder on the sides. The water was still and ice cold — we’d always stick our fingers in to test it. Sitting in the pool toward the shallow end, and looking out of place, would be a bottle of milk and a big watermelon, getting cold for later. The white milk with the red letters of Wengert’s Dairy across the bottle looked extra bright in the quiet spring.

I’m sure the first times I went to the spring it was with an adult, who pointed out to me the handful of places in the floor of the spring where — “See there?” — sparkling grains of sand moved almost imperceptibly as tiny rivulets of water pushed up out of the ground. We would lean closer. “I see it!” It seemed that if you looked away for a second, the sparkle might disappear. Magic was happening there silently, steadily while we were up here in our big, clumsy noisy world.

People were quiet when they came to the spring. Adults wouldn’t let us play or set foot into the pool. “No, you’ll rile up the water!” They set things in it slowly and carefully. Some explained that we kept the water clear because it was especially good to drink. Nearby was a water dipper so you could fill a water jug or just drink your fill.

There were games for kids in the clearing, races and peanut scrambles, and Aunt Genivieve would play the accordion for a cakewalk. All these were fun, but what I loved most was to walk down into the woods.

Across the lane, you took a footpath that sloped gradually downward, following the small creek fed by the spring. As you walked, the air changed, became cooler. The old trees made a canopy that filtered the bright sunlight; the air seemed to glow green and gold all around. The chatter from the picnic grove gradually faded. Up ahead, the occasional shouts and calls of others in the woods rang and echoed under the trees.

My first ventures down this path were with Daddy or another adult. But eventually I was old enough to take off on my own. I would go in bare feet, feeling exhilarated and free — who knows what you would find in the woods? But it also seemed familiar and safe, a big playground for us kids. You would usually meet some family members coming or going, maybe a great uncle with a straw hat and a walking stick, moving slowly and pointing out things remembered from years ago.

I loved the creek — its splashy traveling music called to me. I squatted and watched, drawn into the playful way the water coursed through the rocks. It seemed like a game— “Catch me if you can!” Leaves and bits of bark riding on the water looked as if they were having a wonderful time, twirling and shooting down little cascades, then whisked out of sight.

The rocks alongside the creekbed were covered with a dark green sheen. Here and there among them grew tiny wildflowers, white or maybe red, set like jewels against the dark banks.

Up on the path, the way led through successively larger rocks — pinkish-gray sandstone, crusty to the touch. I marveled at the lichen, intricate faded blue-green doilies, pasted on their surfaces. I thought they must be ancient drawings or a picture code of Indians who once lived in these parts. What stories did they tell?

The path led down more steeply but the rocks became boulders rising to twice my height and the size of small rooms. I couldn’t imagine their weight. Trees had to adjust their roots and trunks around them. They were old, immovable beings, answering to no one. I crept quietly between them, holding my breath and listening.

The path ran out and going forward meant rock climbing. I exulted in the grip of my bare toes on the cool surfaces and the way my arm, leg and hip muscles got me where I wanted to go.

Eventually, if you climbed up whenever you had the chance, you came out on top of flat-topped boulders big enough to pitch a tent on. From that vantage, there seemed no way to go further unless you had ropes. The drop in front of the boulders was twenty feet or more. You looked down into a vast dimness as the woods trailed away down the hillside. It was like being on top of an ancient world.

The way back to the clearing and civilization could take as long as you liked. For me, it had something to do with hunger. Most families brought enough food to have lunch and dinner, so when I wandered back to the picnic tables there was plenty to eat and always an aunt to say, “Want a cookie, honey?” As the day waned, some families took an early leave. But I liked it if we stayed long enough for marshmallows toasted on the fires and older people singing and reminiscing on the wide cabin porch.

Mother came with sweaters. The sweat and dust of the day had long since dried on our bodies, leaving us a mottled shade darker and our hair stiffened into wild, ropy-looking sculptures. We piled into the back seat of our car, tired to the bone and happy in the way you are when the day has gone just as you wanted. Try as I might, I don’t remember a single thing about the ride home.

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Pete and Alma's first grandchildren

Can you name them? Hint: Three of these cuties have names starting with "J." (If you click on the image, it will come up larger on your screen.)

Bonus points: Can anyone name whose house the second picture was taken at?

And for homework: Now we need pictures of those very cute younger cousins. Can anybody help with those? Thanks!

From Betsy: Grandpa's last year

As I entered adulthood (my 20s) and began moving around a bit, my visits to Quentin were less frequent. However, after Grandma died I went to live with Grandpa for what ended up being the last year of his life. It was during a turning point in my own journey in life, transitioning from a search to “find meaning in life” to discovering a relationship with God — one that actually led me to life with Grandpa.

When I moved in, he announced, “I’ve been cooking for many years. Now you can do the cooking!” I informed him that I didn’t really know much about cooking, to which he replied, “Then I’ll teach you!” And that he did — from beef vegetable soup to boiled chicken potpie to fried chicken and homemade French fries to corn meal mush (first hot for breakfast, the next day sliced and fried, sometimes made with scrapple) to potato bread to doughnuts and raisin rings and peanut butter candy. We didn’t use written-down recipes. I learned how to trust my taste.

Grandpa told me that everyone loved his bread and candy but no one had learned how to make them. Of course I said I’d love to learn, as did Uncle Pete and Uncle Paul. I have yet to venture making the candy by myself, but someday I will surprise everyone.

Grandpa had a variety of cars over the years. I doubt that any of them were new. He’d buy them used and keep them running, usually by his own repairs. The two that I remember were a gold Hudson and a DKW. The Hudson he had when we were children. I remember because it was so big and I was so little. I loved the smooth, curving look of it. When I climbed into the back seat and the door what shut, I felt as though I had sunk into a big pillow. I couldn’t see out of the window or the door, and the back of the seat went up very high. When Grandpa started driving, it felt like riding on a cloud — no bumps. To this day, if I were ever to have a classic car, I’d have a gold Hudson.

The DKW I remember as Grandpa’s last car. I had heard comments from some of his children that he probably shouldn’t be driving anymore, but — how to tell him?! He asked me if I’d like to drive it, and did I think I’d be able to handle five forward gears — on the floor. I said I’d try, and with much relief I took to it. He was impressed with my efforts and from then on I always got to drive when I was there. Whew!

I loved to go to town (Lebanon, that is) with Grandpa. He had certain stores for certain items. Kugler’s Fish market for oysters; A&P for Bokar or 8 O’Clock coffee; Weiss Markets for general goods; and Fry’s Market on Colebrook Road for Martin’s Meats.

For my 26^th birthday, Uncle Jim and Aunt Gerry wanted to throw a surprise birthday party for me at their house in Lebanon. They asked Grandpa to go along with a story that they were going to take us out for a Chinese dinner. I think it was a hard thing for Grandpa to do, being the very honest man he was. But here’s how it went: He didn’t look enthusiastic. He asked me if he had to wear a suit. Then: “I guess I’ll have to shave.” Then: “I don’t like Chinese food.” With all his foot-dragging, I was convinced he was just coming along to this Chinese affair to humor his family. He was so proud of himself when the surprise came off without a hitch and he hadn’t spilled the beans.

One day Grandpa said his children wanted him to continue his biographical efforts to include his life up into married life and children. He asked if I would write it down as he told the story. So — he would sit in the big old brown stuffed rocking chair in the kitchen (I believe it was first put there for Grandma) and I would sit at the kitchen table and write as fast as I could.

During that year, I was transported back in time. He would tell me about life in the early 1900s and sometimes we’d take a drive and explore places he’d not been to in a long time. There was a man in Cornwall whose name I can’t remember, a self-professed expert on area history. Grandpa would consult with him on places like Penryn Park (The train would take you there; it’s in the woods in the same area where the Boyer reunions are held now.) to see if they still existed.

Uncle Sam (Grandpa’s only living sibling at that time) would come down from Catasauqua and stay overnight in Quentin. Then Grandpa and I would drive him to his A-frame cabin in the woods, just down the dirt road a bit from “the old homestead” where they grew up. He’d stay there by himself for a few days, and then we’d reverse the process. One time the three of us went to the stone foundation remains of No. 62, the home where they grew up. They came upon two huge rocks at the edge of the road and argued over which one they had chipped away at as boys. The times that Uncle Sam stayed with us were precious — late evenings of two 80-plus-year-old brothers remembering. If only I had had a tape recorder going.

One time they were discussing (or was it arguing) about Great-Grandpa Boyer’s Civil War saber. Every year at the reunion the saber would be passed from one sibling to another for the year. I had a feeling that Grandpa had had it for more than a year. A day or so after Grandpa died, Uncle Sam came to the house. The first words out of his mouth were, “Where’s the saber?” After it was securely in his possession, he warmly greeted and visited with us all.

Every evening Grandpa and I would sit in the living room, he in the chair in front of the window by the sofa and me across from him at the other end of the sofa. I would read to him the “funnies” — Dagwood and Beatle Bailey; the sports article related to the Phillies; the obituaries, and the headlines from the front page of the Lebanon Daily News. If the Phillies were playing, he’d listen to the game on the radio, getting up to go to the kitchen for a handful of peanuts, later pulling from his shirt pocket a couple of Rolaids. If there wasn’t a game, he’d listen to a talk-radio program and at midnight a Christian program called Nightsongs which was mostly quiet music. Once a week there was a German (or maybe Pennsylvania Dutch) preacher he liked.

One evening he had made several trips back and forth between the living room and kitchen, putting a pill under his tongue and checking the big-dial clock on top of the piano. I asked what was wrong. He said he was having some chest pain. I was going to call the doctor, but he said not to. When I asked him again, he was adamant that I shouldn’t call. He sat down in his chair. His head went back and his breathing changed. I called 911 but by the time the ambulance crew arrived, he was standing on the shore with Grandma, they were both healthy and just as he had pictured their reunion so many times that year.

He never talked to me about faith or God, but after Grandma died, he had a number of visits with Reverend Baseshore of the Cornwall Methodist Church. I think he wanted there to be no doubt about his getting to where Grandma had gone.

Grandma and Grandpa were a major source of love and security in my life. No matter what had happened or how long I had been away, I was always welcomed with a big bear hug — sometimes with Grandpa’s strong body odor (because deodorant was not for men), and usually with sharp whiskers rubbing my cheek because he was happy to have the freedom not to shave after he retired. They never criticized me or showed disapproval of any sort, even when I was trying to be a hippie and couldn’t seem to find my way. There were no lectures, just love and acceptance. They knew who I was at the core and always believed that I would make it to where I was supposed to be. Well, here I am and there you have my memories from age 61. I’m about to become a grandparent myself. May I provide what I’ve received and make a safe place for this new generation.

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