My earliest memory is of hammers. Whenever I saw one, I grabbed it. Finding a few scraps of wood and small nails was easier. With these dear ones, I could be away from mom, and I would move to a lonely spot in the shed or yard. Having a stable place for the scrap of wood, I would steady a nail with my left hand, hold the hammer high near the head with the right, and tap, tap, tap, until the nail was standing independent. Then, changing the angle of the hammer and grasping the base of it with my left hand, I would gently smack the head of the nail being very careful to keep it straight, until its head was flush with its new home. After repeating this ceremony twice more, I felt the world was right. Then, I could head to the tomatoes for my reward.
Being among the tomatoes was not without risks. Someone may come and chase me, or scowl at me. I justified myself there by looking for worms to remove from the plants. My true goal was to eat as many tomatoes as possible. Picking a ripe one, I would bite into it and relish the sweet acidic, letting juice drip down my hand and forearm to the elbow. I continued picking, eating, relishing, until my mouth was sore. Small payment for my reward.
One day, on leaving the tomato patch, as a cloud began to block the sun, I saw father heading toward me. I felt some tension in my tomato filled belly as he rarely spoke to me directly. Holding a brown bag, he called out, “Haly, when is your birthday?” Standing above and looking down at me he added, “Oh, never mind. Happy birthday,” and pulling a hammer out of the bag he offered it to me. I wiped tomato juice from my hand on my pants, and frowning slightly, he handed me the new hammer. As I held it up with my mouth and eyes open wide in amazement, he added, “Stop taking your brothers’ hammers.” And turning, he trounced back to the house.
I held its wood handle and dark iron head above me like a warrior holding his sword after battle, though with considerably more question than surety on my face.
In Tacoma it was always nice outside, even when it was raining lightly. We never saw snow except on the peak of Mount Hood. Dearborn was always freezing with snow on the ground, except when it was sweltering with air full of mosquitoes. Without an indoor toilet, the worst thing was to have to pee at night in January. Father and mama kept a bed pan but said we couldn’t because we always missed it. So, you had to go out – find a coat and boots, even with that and long flannels, it was freezing cold. I would march to the outhouse, at least it did not stink so much in the winter. Invariably, coming back to the house, Les, or one of the others would be going back in from the porch. I would see the yellow snow he made and mumble, “It is not right!”. Mama said, “You do what is right for you. Don’t fret about others.” I felt right, but I also felt jealous, which did not feel right. “Don’t be jelly,” she would also say.
James Evans & By The Way Books 