I’ve been taking short and long walks since my childhood days on the farm. I still enjoy walking—sometimes it’s for exercise, to drop off my mail at a postal box, or to pick up a few grocery items. My husband and I often walk together, taking turns telling of “our day” while we walk briskly along the sidewalks of town. Even on our vacations, upon driving through a quaint section of a town, we stop, park the car, and walk its streets. There’s something about walking that soothes the soul.
The first venture I do recall is of the walk to our mailbox. It was not delivered to our farmhouse. We followed a winding dirt road to the village of Monterey, in Berks County, to pick it up.
I might have been 8 or 9 years old when my mother felt I was old enough to “fetch” the mail. Even though I was proud to go on this long trek alone, I was scared. Always on these jaunts, I’d take our “larger than me” St. Bernard dog. I knew he’d protect me. I also carried a hanky. Tiny as it was, I’d stuff a large wad of hanky into my mouth and chew and chew away my nervousness.
Some of my walking ventures were to my one-room schools, school bus stops, friends’ homes, and my Brownie troop meetings.
By the time I was born, five of my siblings had married or joined the service. The two older sisters attended Kutztown High School, getting there by bus. The two closer to my age, David and Gladys, and myself, walked the three mile walk to Stone Quarry School from our farmhouse (now a foliage farm on Christman Road), near Monterey.
At the end of our dirt lane, we crossed Route 222, heading towards Topton, making a left on Maxatawny Church Road, towards Shofer’s Village. There we picked up a few more kids and even more at scattered houses along the way.
Walking with others was fun. We’d have so much to discuss, from what our mother’s packed in our lunch pails to how we felt about our teacher, Mrs. Carrie Gernard. We’d sing songs, have short races, and giggle lots.
Nowadays, I hardly ever remember the words to a song, but I do recall, “I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch and all I do is cry all day. Boo Hoo.” It was a song, Mildred Loeb, from Shofer’s Village, taught us on our walks to and from school.
My walks to my Brownie troop meetings was fearful, but I loved Brownies so much that it was worth it. My mother had always cautioned never to go near strangers, whether in cars or trucks. This walk to Brownies was about three miles to the village of Maxatawny, via the Stone Quarry School. I’d often use the field across the highway as a shortcut. It was fun when the farmer had tall stalks of corn planted that I could run through. Other times the field was bare. At the high ridge, just before the highway, I’d prostrate myself in order that the passing cars and trucks couldn’t see me. Once the road was clear, I crawled stealthily down the bank, running across the highway, not stopping until I saw our farmhouse from the top of our dirt lane.
It might have been fourth grade that my mother switched me to another one-room school, Eagle Point. I loved my new teacher, Mrs. Sadie Kutz, but I did not like the one mile lonely walk in the other direction, towards Siegfriedsdale. My other two siblings now attended the Kutztown schools and used another bus.
I did my best to amuse myself on these long walks. I’d play “cloud” games of finding formations of birds or animals in the clouds. Stones were readily available to throw “as far as I could see.” Although my mother scolded if I had wet shoes, I’d never miss jumping in a fresh puddle of water after a refreshing rain.
Often I waded through high snow drifts. There were no light-weight clothes in the late 40s. I wore thick, bulky snow pants. I’ll admit, several times I urinated in those pants. It beat hanging my little rear end out in the cold icy air. Once home, I’m sure Mom did her best to rinse those snow pants. She certainly couldn’t wash them or they wouldn’t be dry till the next day. So, stink and all, they’d be back on me next school day.
I also trudged through slush and snow in high overshoes, called galoshes. They had ugly metal closures.
The hunting season became the most fearful for those walks. My fear, I’m sure, was due to my best friend, Agnes, who died in a hunting accident at her home. She lived over the field from me and we walked to each other’s homes over those fields.
It was during hunting season I’d wear a colorful scarf so hunter’s wouldn’t mistake me for an animal. I’d also sing as loud as I could so these hunters would surely know there was a young girl walking nearby.
I didn’t always sing for the hunters. I did not like music class at school. I felt I could not carry a tune. On these walks my shyness vanished. I belted out tunes like,
“I’m looking over a 4-Leaf Clover,” and “Over the Rainbow.” I was sure the clouds above me applauded my bellows.
After I lost my best friend, I found two more: Audrey Kern and Irene Leiby. They lived at least six to eight miles away. We took turns walking to each others homes. Part of my route was the walk to the school bus stop. Farther on the road, in Siegfriedsdale, was a spring outside, which became my rest stop for a fresh drink of water from a “common” cup. Once by the farm, I’d turn off on a dirt lane passing the Mennonite farm, through their barnyard, and over their hill in back. At the top of this hill, I could see Audrey waiting for me on her front steps. From there we headed for Irene’s farmstead. Once at Irene, I’d head for the outside spigot, cupping my hands to drink more refreshing spring water. We’d play barn games as well as outside games for hours and once again I’d head home for my evening meal.
In seventh grade I attended the Kutztown College Campus for 7th through 9th grade. It was in my 8th year that my sister, Gladys, returned from Nebraska, where she lived a few years with an older sister. She attended Kutztown High School. At this time, Gladys and I had the privilege of taking two buses to get to our schools. If we missed the bus that picked us up at the highway, we might have a chance to catch Oscar’s bus on the road I had trekked alone so many years. Upon missing the bus, Pop usually saw us heading back down the dirt road. We’d hear him yell, “Scdon don dunn wetter” (Pa. Dutch for gosh darn thunder weather). On the ride to school with Pop, Gladys and I knew to keep our mouths shut.
In addition to these school walks, I loved walks around the farm. Whenever it was lunchtime and wherever Pop was planting or mowing the fields, I’d take his lunch.
It was usually a bologna sandwich and a quart of mint tea, freshly brewed from the garden. Pop was always glad for the reprieve from the farm work, although the rest wasn’t long. The empty jar and newspaper scrap were handed back to me for my homeward trek.
When my father wasn’t working, which was on a Sunday, except for necessary work, like feeding animals, Pop hunted arrowheads. I’d tag behind him in bare feet. What bliss it is to feel freshly plowed ground crunch up and around my toes! I picked up many a stone and questioned, “Pop is this an arrowhead?” As many times as I asked, it was always “no.” Pop did find many arrowheads over the years and kept them in bushel baskets in the cellar.
Other walking journeys were on my own, just wandering, following the creek, which winded its way, about a mile, back into a grove of trees where a spring was located. It was a fun day, dreaming Indians were following me in hot pursuit and I finally lost them when I hid behind a mulberry bush.
Another journey I enjoyed was to follow the creek in the other direction. It crept its way through the meadow down to a large pipe under the new highway. Once there, I’d run barefoot back and forth inside the huge pipe, allowing the water to trickle around my feet.
Every Mother’s Day found me on a walk to pick daffodils and bluebells for my mother. Following the dirt road half way to the school bus stop, a family cemetery was located in the field to the left. Prior to laws forbidding family cemetery plots, some farm people buried their own. I’d walk through the field, crawl over the low brick wall that bounded the plot, and there, I’d pick my flowers. Mom was always happy for a bouquet of freshly picked flowers even if it was from a cemetery.
Many years later, in my early motherhood, my children honored me with a wildflower they chose especially for me. They were found along the long, dirt road where my children and I took walks. My babies were pushed by the children, who wanted “their turn” and by me, in a monstrous baby carriage. Again, we enjoyed the silly things I did in my childhood, such as racing and who could throw a stone the farthest.
These country walks have taken me through childhood, school years, motherhood, and marriage. I have to admit, even the memories still soothe the soul.
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to raising children to humorous stories about her and her husband to everyday stories to season stories and more.
