Brewer Chronicles - The Prologue

Prologue


Walnut Ridge is about ten miles north of Salem in the hills of Southern Indiana.  The Ridge runs several miles on gravel roads along the East-West jagged spine of a long hill covered by farms dotted with homes, barns, sheds, fields, and a LOT of tall trees. The community was a rather close knit collection of interconnected families by blood and/or heritage. People passing through would classify all of us as ‘hillbillies’. We considered that a term of endearment.

The farm ran along this gravel road and included 240 acres consisting of fields, pastures, and various trees (including hundreds of walnut, hickory, oak, elm, and popular). A half mile dirt road went from the gravel road over a hill, winding between fields and the pasture to a circle around the barn to reach the basic two story frame home that was built around 1900. Dad always said that if anyone came there, they were lost (this was especially true during squirrel season).

Dad had a 1938 Pontiac 2 door sedan that had the springs pushing through the seat cushions, the back end of the top fabric flapping, and a heater that seemed more like a cooler instead. Sometimes, it had to be started with a crank that had a way of cranking back. We kids really expanded our vocabulary when Dad talked back to it. The dirt lane required skilled attempts at speed runs and fish-tailing leaps to get over that hill even if it was just wet. Snow and ice made it an Olympic event. Often, Mom and the kids would have to walk to the top of the hill to cheer Dad on his multiple attempts to top the hill. Our family was pretty cranky during the winters.

Winters can be brutal in this part of the country. January of 1943 was indeed brutal. That may have been the harbinger for my entrance to the world. Snow had been falling and drifting for several days. I tested my parents by picking January 22 to be born.  Dad met Dr. Huckleberry (yes, that was his name) at the end of the lane with our steel wheeled Farmall F12 to pull his car over the hill and to our house. It was a long night.

Salem is a quaint Mayberry-like town with a stately county courthouse in the middle of the ‘square’ surrounded by various businesses and about (at that time) 2000 residents (3000 on Saturdays). Dr. Huckleberry delivered most of them. He was a very busy man.


My parents bragged about how Dr. Huckleberry ‘moved in’. We had no phone and were practically unreachable. After I was born, he requested to stay awhile and slept for over 20 hours. He refused payment because of this. This was also an indicator of how many people would be generous to me in my life.

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