I loved spending the night at Mamaw and Papaw Shafer�s house deep in the woods of Northeast Texas. The house sat on forty acres, much of which had been taken over by pine trees once Papaw quit farming. Mamaw still worked a couple of gardens of vegetables which she always put up in Mason jars that lined the shelves of her pantry. The house always had distinctive smells�the musty smell of quilts that were taken out only when company came for the night, the fresh scent of pine trees, and the delicious smell of fried chicken that Mamaw cooked for breakfast to accompany the cream gravy, fried eggs, and homemade biscuits.
To a small boy, the old house was a trove of almost forgotten treasures, and the land that surrounded it provided endless hours of exploration, from the spring at the back forty to the ancient farm equipment dotting the area around the old barn.
My favorite time of day was dusk, when we all sat on the front porch which Papaw insisted on calling a gallery and listened to the soon-to-be-night sounds coming from all around. My small emotions were a mixture of delight at the whistle of the bobwhite, fear at the plaintive howls of wolves in the bottomland back of the farm, and pure loneliness at the mournful cry of the whippoorwill. As darkness engulfed the house, Mamaw would always bring a coal-oil lamp to the gallery, and we�d sit while the adults reminisced about days long gone but not nearly forgotten. I�d sit as close to the grownups and the lamp as each would permit.
In the summertime, Mamaw would always mix ice cream, and Bill and I would take turns sitting on the hand-cranked freezer while one of the adults, usually Daddy, turned the crank until the ice cream was frozen. After a belly full of ice cream and a few more stories about the past, Mama would put Bill and me on a pallet of quilts on the floor of the front bedroom across the dog run from the parlor.
The darkness was filled with the endless buzzing of cicadas; whippoorwills punctuated the passing night. Bill, two years older than I, savored those moments as we lay together in the dark and he tried, usually with some success, to frighten me with some tale his fertile mind could create at will. Reluctantly, sleep would come, and morning would bring the familiar sounds of Mamaw at the well drawing water for coffee and Papaw making his way either to the outhouse or the barn.
Morning also meant an enormous breakfast at the huge oak table. Bill and I would sit on a long bench that sat against the wall and extended the length of the table. Once breakfast was finished, Mamaw gathered the dishes but left the food and covered it with a large heavy cloth. Until we were ready for the next meal, we could sneak by the table and grab a biscuit or whatever suited us at the time.
By nine o�clock, Papaw always had his mule Frankie harnessed to the wagon and waiting out front for the trip to Nash�s Store. Bill and I sat on the back of the wagon for the two-mile trip and pretended to be pioneers going west. Bill even swore once that he had seen an Indian lurking in the bushes beside the road. Nash�s Store also meant a Moon Pie and a soda pop. Papaw never picked up many supplies, so I suspect that the trip was usually just for Bill and me. Besides, Mamaw usually bought most of her sugar and flour and such from a peddler who traveled the countryside in a truck.
The only chore expected of Bill and me was to help Mamaw pick a mess of peas from one of her gardens, since she always sent vegetables home with us. While we picked peas, Papaw would always bring in a watermelon or two from the field. We�d eat one before leaving and take one home.
One particular pea-picking excursion stands out in my mind, probably because of the pain and humiliation which accompanied it.
As was the case on every summer trip to Mamaw and Papaw�s farm, Bill and I went barefoot. While walking down the rows picking peas, we always watched carefully for snakes that might be enjoying the shade under the pea vines. Watching too closely for snakes, I didn�t notice a large bull nettle between the rows. It raked across the top of my bare foot and I jumped a good ways off the ground and began yelling.
Mamaw came running, afraid I�d been bitten by a snake. Seeing my plight, she was relieved but sympathetic, as grandmothers always are. �You�ll be okay,� she said and began pulling the tiny stickers from my foot. �There�s only one thing that�ll stop the stinging, though,� she continued. �Ammonia.�
�Well, let�s get some, Mamaw,� I pleaded.
�I don�t have any at the house,� she said almost as if she was embarrassed, �but I�ll tell you what works just as well. Urine.�
Bill began to giggle. �Somebody�s gonna have to pee on your foot,� he blurted out.
�But I don�t even have to go,� I protested.
�Then I guess it�s up to me,� he said with delight. �Turn your head, Mamaw,� he said.
I closed my eyes. I�d suffered from a few accidents, but I couldn�t bear the thought of somebody aiming at me. However, Mamaw was right. When Bill relieved himself on my foot, the stinging stopped almost immediately. The only satisfaction I got was that Bill was laughing so hard he wet his own foot as well.
Daddy made us both wash our feet before he�d let either of us in the car for the trip home. I haven�t gone barefoot in a pea patch for over forty years, but I must admit that every time my foot itches, for whatever reason, I remember the bull nettle, and I think to myself, �Bill, where are you when I need you?�
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