I did my best to make the most of my childhood by spending all my time on idle acts of pointless fun.

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It’s the middle of May, the lilacs along my driveway are in full bloom and, as always, they remind me of Aunt Arlene. She had a row of lilacs that ran all along the southern section of her yard. Well, it wasn’t exactly “her yard”, or Uncle Bud’s either. The farm, the yard, and almost everything else around the place actually belonged to Clyde Black & Sons Hybrid Seed Corn Farms. Uncle Bud and Aunt Arlene were only granted residence as part of Uncle Bud’s employment compensation.

But I was just a little kid at the time and as far as I was concerned it was my Uncle Bud’s & Aunt Arlene’s house & farm, and it was a wonderful place to be.

I lived with my Uncle Bud & Aunt Arlene for weeks at a time, every summer, and throughout the year on weekends and holidays. It wasn’t that my parents abandoned me; it was just that I liked staying with Uncle Bud & Aunt Arlene and I took advantage of every occasion to do so. I can say without qualification that most of the happiest days of my life were spent on that little piece of land in the Kingdom of Clyde Black & Sons.

In the mornings I would wake to the sound of the wind shaking the leaves on the huge elm that grew just outside my second story bedroom window. The sun would pour through the tall, narrow windows of that old farmhouse and the white lace curtains would billow out like great gauzy ribbons unfurled to celebrate the day – and of course, my rising. Or so it sometime seemed. No prince ever had it better than I did in those days.

I was rich in youth, health, freedom, and perhaps the greatest blessing of all – I knew what I had. Most kids don’t really appreciate the value of these things until much later in life, but for some reason, I did. (Every now and then I get something right). I also knew it wouldn’t last, so I did my best to make the most of it. How? By investing all my time in idle acts of pointless fun. That’s what childhood’s for.

Schedules didn’t exist. Uncle Bud had to show up for work on time, but except for that, we wouldn’t have had any use for a clock. Aunt Arlene never roused me. I slept until I awoke naturally (about 10:00). When I was hungry Aunt Arlene would make a meal for me. I had no chores, no responsibilities, no appointments. I lived as free and sheltered from need as Adam & Eve in the Garden. If it wasn’t Paradise, it was its nearest likeness in Central Iowa.

My cousin Dwain was there, too, during the early years. He was Bud & Arlene’s only son. He was finishing high school just as I was starting elementary school. I thought of him as my older brother, and he treated me just like an older brother would – which is to say, he usually ignored me. Quite understandable. Late adolescence isn’t much of an improvement over early adolescence. It’s still a high-pressure stage of life, and certainly no time to have your life complicated further with a kid underfoot.

Still, he did occasionally take time out from his hectic schedule to do a few things with me. He took me fishing a couple of times. I can’t really remember where we went, but I suppose it was somewhere on the Skunk River since that was the only big river close by. I don’t know whether I caught any fish or not, but I do recall getting a fishhook stuck in my shirt collar. I guess it was that sort of thing that contributed to the infrequency of our outings together.

Sometimes he would take me along with him to the movies. I remember summer-night rides up dusty gravel roads to the “college town” district of Ames,

The theater we always went to was nicknamed the “Bloody Bucket” because it specialized in shoot-em-ups, horror shows, and lurid violence of every variety. Mostly forgettable stuff, except for one: King Kong. It was probably in its 3rd, or 4th release by the time I first saw it, but it was brand-new to me, and very impressive. Time hasn’t changed my opinion. It’s still a great movie, a genuine classic.

Dwain was a pretty good “big brother”, as big brothers go, though not for long. After a few years he got married and moved out – into a trailer home with his wife, Velma. They lived only a few miles away. I went to visit them several times. The only event I clearly recall from those visits was the time Velma made a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich for me. I had no idea that such surprising cuisine existed. I thought it was altogether exotic. To this day, I think of Velma every time I eat a B.LT; and I think of Dwain every time King Kong reruns on TV.

I imagine each of us has similarly peculiar associations running around our heads all the time. Anyway, I saw less and less of Dwain after he got married. But I wasn’t left entirely to my own devices. Dwain left some of his devices behind: a few paperback books (Zane Grey westerns); a catcher’s mitt; a perfectly good hunting knife; and several very interesting, and educational magazines.

Of course the magazines weren’t as explicitly instructive as their modern-day counterparts, but they did depict portions of female anatomy that I had not previously known much about. It took many sessions to completely memorize all the pictures, but with diligence, I finally managed it. That done, I went on to read the articles. They were mostly men’s adventure stories about big-game hunters, detectives, soldiers-of-fortune, and so on. Eventually I returned the magazines and the paperbacks to the shadows at the back of the closet, from whence they came.

I kept the knife for many years, though I never got much use out of the catcher’s mitt. I didn’t have any interest in sports, or games. Still don’t. Besides that, there was no one around to play catch with, anyway. But I didn’t mind the solitude.

Solitude was part of the charm of those days. People who know me now probably wouldn’t accuse me of being gregarious, but I’m a regular party animal compared to the way I was as a child. Outside of my cousins, I had few childhood friends, which was fine with me. As far as I was concerned, less contact with people was better than more contact with people. This went double for contact with other kids; whom I regarded as below the beasts in comportment and wisdom. In fact, I had a higher opinion of the beasts than I did of humankind.

Since then, many bumps, bruises, and assorted personal failings have given me cause to reconsider my childish assessment. My error lay in giving people, including me, too much credit for rational thought and in giving the beasts too much credit for minding their own business. In truth the animals have few options to do otherwise, and the humans have more options than they can handle. God knows what errors I’m making now, but I suppose they will all be revealed in due time.

In any case, time-to-myself was part of the reason I liked staying with Uncle Bud & Aunt Arlene. Uncle Bud was away most of the day taking care of Mr. Blacks business. Aunt Arlene was busy in the house taking care of her business. That left me free to take care of my business, which was: daydreaming, playing, reading comics, and hanging out with the barnyard animals – like the 8 or 9 cats that were in residence.

Cats always know the best places to hang out. On rainy days they (we) would climb up to the haymow inside the barn, listen to the rain on the roof, snooze a little, and just generally kickback and appreciate the joys of the contemplative life.

On sunny days I would retire to the comfort of my treehouse in the mulberry tree (actually more of a platform than a house) where I could survey the countryside, enjoy the breeze, and pluck mulberries at my leisure.

If I wanted an even better view, I could climb up the galvanized steel windmill that was just outside the yard fence. It was several stories high; I usually lost my nerve after getting about 2 or 3 levels up. Even at that height it was a grand vantage point. I could look out over a green ocean of corn that stretched from horizon to horizon; its rolling waves broken only by floating islands of tree-shrouded farmyards. And over it all was an immense dome of blue sky, huge billowing clouds, and a truly amazing light. A chronic melancholic could probably be cured by nothing more than daily exposure to the blazing benison of an Iowa sky in summer.

But I had more active activities, too.

During the farrowing season, there was plenty of scary fun in the “Running of the Pigs” – a sport similar in reckless stupidity to the annual “Running of the Bulls” in Pamplona. The first time I tried it was in Missouri, where I learned it from my cousin, Bub. It requires nothing more than: angry pigs, a pigpen, and a little foolish bravado.

The Pigs: after sows gave birth, they become a little more aggressive than usual – no doubt the result of maternal protectiveness combined with frazzled nerves. Imagine being the sole source of nourishment for an entire litter of hungry piglets. Besides being thoroughly out of sorts, they are also very quick, and big. (to me anyway. At the time I stood barely higher than their shoulders). In later years I took a lot of razzing about my exaggerated memory of monstrous Iowa hogs).

The Playing Field: At Black’s it was a long runway about 25’ across and about 5 times as long. It was surrounded by a wooden slat fence about 4’ high. The action: the designated player climbs the fence, sits on the top rail, and waits for the sows to wander away from the immediate vicinity. Then, depending on individual courage (or goading, if two, or more, are participating) the player leaps into the enclosure and runs like hell for the other side.

It’s simple, terrifying fun. Of course, it’s more satisfying when you have a buddy around to witness your derring-do, but even solo it can be very stimulating. How much the pigs liked the game I can’t say. I’m sure they would have liked it better had I ever tripped, which I didn’t. I did come close to being caught a few times, but that only added to the excitement.

On those occasions when I felt the need for human company, I could always visit my cousin, Donna. She lived exactly 1 mile away, as the crow flies. I can be that precise about the distance because the country roads in that part of Iowa were all laid out in a gridwork of 1 sq. mile segments. Bud & Arlene lived halfway down one of those segments, Uncle Roscoe, Aunt Maxine, and Donna lived halfway down the next one over. Of course, not being a crow, I had to travel 2 miles: 1/2 mile north, 1 mile east, and 1/2 mile south. Pedaling a bike over loose gravel made it seem much farther. After many such trips I gained an indelible impression of just what a mile looks like – and feels like. It’s not really a very useful skill, but I’m still very good at estimating distance.

Donna and I got a lot of exercise going back and forth, but we got even more when the farrowing season was over. Then we had a private roller-rink available to us that was second to none. The floor of the farrowing shed was smoothly paved with concrete. After the pigs were through with the facility, and it was scrubbed clean, it was all ours. Since it was completely enclosed, with big doors that could be opened to the wind or closed to the rain, we had good skating in fair weather or foul. I doubt many kids ever had such a luxury.

Such were the pleasures of those long-ago summers. Winters were a different matter. The winter landscape in Iowa had a windswept, tundra-like quality about it. Even so, there was a bleak sort of beauty to those wide vistas of snow-covered plain, and the swirl & howl of the wind added just the right touch of awful majesty to the whole thing.

The snow would drift in long lines several feet higher than I was, and the frequent sub-zero temperatures would freeze a crust on top that easily supported my weight. It was great fun to dig under the drifts and carve out snow caves. Sometimes I would carve several caves, connected by tunnels. Every now and then they would fall in on me, but I could easily climb out. And after a few cold hours of this I could always retreat to the house where Aunt Arlene would warm me up with a delicious treat. One of her specialties was a kind of poor-man’s French Toast. She would butter bread, fry it in a skillet, and serve it covered with maple syrup. Wonderful stuff.

Aunt Arlene, and Uncle Bud, too, spoiled me rotten, and I appreciated every bit of it. They gave me a love that asked for nothing in return. That strikes me still as the only kind of love truly worthy of the name. All the other varieties of love are quid pro quo arrangements that bargain affections like goods and cash. What value there is in that I can’t imagine.

I feel blessed to have had those years with Bud and Arlene. The things that touch our lives when we are young remain with us for the rest of our lives. I’m sure that whatever good there is in me is in large part a result of those years of sheltered privilege. It was a very special time, with very special people, at a very special place. Like all such things it had its season, and then it was gone – like the lilacs in May, like the wind through the trees.

I miss it still.

By K. L. Shipley