For the Hangtown Group As promised, here’s chapter 2. OBIE, Chapter 2. DIG IN Within about fifteen minutes, we’d left old town with its unique regular grid pattern and quaint cobblestone streets. The northern outskirts of Philadelphia were comprised of a quilt work of ethnic communities, most notably, German town to the east and an Irish settlement running along a ridge top to the west. Within thirty minutes we were making good time on a well-traveled dirt road. Despite the clouds of dust and numerous ruts, the relative comfort of this rural route was a welcome relief after the tormenting clatter of the inner city’s cobblestones. After about an hour, Uncle Gus pointed out the massive hickory tree that marks the southwestern corner of his two hundred fifty acre estate. Soon we descended a steep easterly slope and emerged from a dense forest of pine and spruce. Before us lay a large, gently rolling pasture, partly wooded with occasional groves of deciduous trees. The autumn sky was a brilliant blue and a cool intermittent breeze occasionally sent a scattering of falling leaves across the road ahead. Several times large coveys of pheasant and grouse were disturbed from the road side to sail across the lush green pastures and settle again into the dense foliage. Stately red oaks and golden hickories reigned over the pastures and the ravines were ablaze with the vibrant fall foliage of dogwood, sassafras and mountain laurel. As we approached the Camp home, the rest of Uncle Gus’s family, each waving enthusiastically, assembled in the yard. Both of my uncle’s sons were married with children and this spacious dwelling was home to all. As we stiffly unloaded our road-weary posteriors from the buckboard, the family descended on us from all directions and we were once more caught up in a frenzy of hugging, kissing and camaraderie. Christoph managed to slip away and began unloading the wagon, Uncle Gus began introductions and I, still stupefied by the house itself, was now further overwhelmed by the enthusiastic attentions of Uncle Gus’s two sons, their wives and nine remarkably affectionate children. I thanked the Lord silently to myself, dusted off my pants, gave an enormous sigh of relief and a tremendous wave of satisfaction swept over me. The long, trying journey was over. We were home. Uncle Gus’s nine grandchildren ranged in age from the oldest who was almost six, down to the two toddlers and a newborn. Six of ‘em were on me like ducks on a June bug! As I staggered and struggled to stay on my feet, Uncle Gus’s eldest son Klouse grabbed me by the hand and began shaking the fire out of me. Cousin Klouse is in his late twenties and his wife Maggie is Mr. Macgregor’s granddaughter. Klouse and Maggie have three sons and two daughters. Klouse, besides helping out with the farm, is an experienced cobbler and works at my uncles shoe shop. Klouse’s brother Irving is twenty-six and I’d guess his wife Kathleen to be in her late teens or early twenties. Kathleen emigrated from Ireland, arriving with her family shortly after Irving. Irving and Kathleen have four children. Irving assists Uncle Gus with the farm, raising donkeys and horses, which they interbreed in order to produce mules. Mules are a product of crossbreeding and are evidently a hardy animal prized by area farmers. Following introductions, Kathleen and Maggie announced that dinner was ready and waiting. Uncle Gus suggested that we eat now and deal with the luggage later and everyone wholeheartedly agreed. The mouthwatering aromas of hot seasoned seafood back at the wharf had been a terrible temptation, and the hour-long trip to Camp House had been almost more than our beleaguered bellies could bear. Irving was left to unharness the mules and the rest of us were ushered into the house, through the entry hall and into an enormous dining room in the east end of the ornate stone structure. I know that Mother would have preferred a brief time of toiletry prior to dining, but she congenially acquiesced and went along. As we entered the hall, the mouthwatering aromas that wafted out of the dining room were almost sufficient to buckle my knees. The dining room itself was fabulous. Philadelphia had been one of the colonies busiest ports for two hundred years. During that time it had become the final resting place for many a gallant old vessel. Much of the building material for Camp House had been salvaged from these exquisite old schooners. The wood floors, enormous hardwood beams, intricately carved wainscoting and all the trimmings, had been rescued from these old ships and exuded the rich color and patina characteristic of wood that has achieved an advanced age. The furnishings were of a similar vintage and had come from around the world. At the east end of the dining room was a wall of windows designed to take advantage of the spectacular view of the Delaware River below. In front of the window stood a six-legged, hand carved, solid oak table from Germany. Fully extended, with additional leaves in place, it measured sixteen feet in length. On the table, with place settings for twelve, were pewter plates and numerous bowls and platters of steaming hot foods in a variety and quantity that I’d not seen in three long, hard, hungry months at sea. The youngest of the children lined up at the drop leaf tables and Maggie Mae escorted the rest of us to our assigned seats. My father stood at the far end of the table and my uncle took his customary place at the head. We all stood there drooling and watching Uncle Gus attentively. Uncle Gus smoothed his white beard, flashed that big grin around the table, bowed his head and requested, “Let us pray. Our heavenly Father, we ask Your blessing on this special occasion and we thank you for reuniting our family here in this land of liberty. Bless our family and friend’s dear Lord and our loved ones far, far away. Bless this food and the precious hands that prepared it. Thank you for your son dear Lord and for his tender touch. Thank you that you love us each so much. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen and pass the biscuits please!” Irving had heard this routine before and had anticipated that request. He let sail with a hot buttermilk biscuit before Uncle Gus could even look up. The biscuit careened across the table, grazing the top of Uncle Gus’s head and leaving a tassel of gray hair sticking straight up as though he’d just seen a ghost! Everyone was caught off guard by these antics and stood speechless, staring in disbelief. The old gentleman peered at Irving over the top of his spectacles, feigning aggravation for a moment, while everyone else held their breath, and then that big grin broke out again and we all laughed hysterically from relief. Finally we each took our seat and Uncle Gus grabbed his fork and said, “Dig in!” To be continued.
Posted on: Fri, 05 Dec 2014 16:21:35 +0000