Read Online Crunching Gravel by Robert Louis Peters - Free Book Online

But I would not become a full Lutheran, he warned, until I had passed Instruction.
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Easter
    My faith in Santa Claus and the Easter Rabbit disappeared when I was eleven. I had seen oranges in the box of groceries Dad brought home. We never had oranges except at Christmas, and Santa usually brought them, putting some in stockings and leaving the rest on the table. “Stay up tonight and see,” Dad said.
    Margie and Nell went to bed early, anticipating sugarplum visions and reindeer hooves. I yawned and said I was sleepy, too. Dad was listening to some boxing match. “No you don’t,” he laughed. “You stay up with us.”
    When the boxing ended, Mom brought out toys and fruit. We stuffed stockings and placed the toys in strategic spots for easy discovery. Considerately, my parents did not deprive me of all surprise—they put out my gifts when I was in bed.
    Easter was always easier than Christmas, less a matter of deportment than of colored eggs and chocolate. We tinted the eggs on Saturday, using Paas dyes and decal transfers. That evening Margie and I hid eggs outside, creating elaborate maps for finding them, one map per egg. Margie hid mine and I hid hers. We included our parents, fashioning the most complex hunt for Dad. Easter morning was chilly but sunny. My father refused to participate, despite our fussing and pleading. When we found them, all of the eggs were cracked and frozen.
    On Easter mornings we visited Mrs. Kula. She had sent an invitation via her daughter Celia to visit her. She appeared at her door wearing a white babushka. Since she spoke no English, she smiled and waved us inside, where she gave us two brightly colored eggs and a few jelly beans. She did not wish us to linger, for she soon opened the door, bowed, and smiled us out. Years later, one of her daughters said that her mother’s ritual was an ancient peasant one: If you could inveigle a non-Catholic, a non-Pole, to receive gifts on Easter morning, that person would be your scapegoat, carrying away your entire year’s burden of sins. We were oblivious to these subtleties.
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Ploughing and Seeding
    For five dollars, my uncle hired out his team, Bill and Bess, for plowing. I was a coward near horses, and when Dad asked me to drive the team while he steered the plow I refused. Horses would suddenly shake their necks and bare their teeth.
    My uncle was a hard driver. I had seen him beat Bill with a club while the horse was tied in his stall. In pain, the horse broke free and ran from the barn toward Minnow Lake, with my uncle in pursuit. I followed and saw him corner Bill, who waited docilely while my uncle, his wrath spent, grabbed the broken halter and stroked Bill’s neck with surprising gentleness.
    Eruptions of violence always dismayed me. In a recurring dream, Osmo Makinnen threatened to attack. When I sought to defend myself my arms froze at my sides. Usually I woke in a sweat. Why my impotence? Dad had given me pointers—and he had boxed at carnivals. To support my ineptitude, I found the Bible useful. If you followed Christ’s example, you simply turned the other cheek. I found the violence of men far worse than any violence of horses. A man enraged by a horse unleashed an enormous force few men could hope to restrain.
    One lasting image is of my father beating Lady. I had been told to graze her in timothy along Sundsteen Road. Since she was always docile, I went to the house for a drink of water and lingered talking to Margie. When I returned, Lady was not where I had left her. Shortly, I heard my dad’s angry voice—the cow was in the cornfield. When he flung stones at Lady, she sped crazily across the potato field. Dad cornered her near a fence, grabbed a tree branch, and beat her. She stumbled and fell, quivering, her belly swollen with calf I grabbed the branch. Dad was shaking with rage. I flung my arms around Lady’s neck. I felt her blood on my face. Slowly, she