MEMORIES OF MY HERO, MY DAD by Nancy Taylor Wright

I remember my Dad as always being the guy that could fix everything (our dads are always our heroes), and I think one of my earliest memories was in Geneva in some apartment complex we lived at and we used to go with my Dad to the dump and pick out treasures (this Taylor clan knows about “treasures”) – parts of bikes that my Dad did some miraculous mechanical stuff with and made our bikes to ride around the streets on. (Boy, you sure can’t do that nowadays in today’s mountainous landfills where they grind it all up before covering it up!)

Those were the good ole days – searching for treasures in someone else’s throwaways! (Gosh, but is that why I get such a “rush” when I find someone else’s castaways alongside the road waiting to be picked up – why do you think I have a van?!)

And of course, I remember the ice cream truck that used to come through that complex and ring that bell “just for us”, and by the time we wormed a little change out of Dad for our scrumptious goody and started savoring the taste of that delight before it melted …. Mmmmm, life was good!
And I remember in Geneva, the times we went to the shop Dad worked at whenever we were in town shopping, or to pick him up after work. It’s funny how you can still smell the engine grease and all the corresponding smells in your memories, but I’m not sure I could tell you which side street that shop was on right now.

Not only was my Dad a great mechanic and fixer-upper, he could also build a house – and that house on Stark and Hecker has some memories stashed there also. Like when the basement had been dug and then rain filled it in – Bob managed to fall in and my Dad the hero had to pull Bob out by the hair and all was well, except maybe for Bob’s pride and a sore scalp! And after the house was built, the boys shared bunks in the back bedroom off the kitchen and while they would be changing into their PJs getting ready for bed – Dad would be scratching away at the back window making like a bear outside and the boys would come running out into the kitchen, scared to death. It wasn’t too long at all before the boys caught on to Dad’s tricks and that ruse didn’t work anymore.

Then we moved to the farm on Old River Road, the memories that come trickling out from there! Like taking the tractor and wagon down in the winter to break up some ice in the Erie Canal to make ice cream with, going back to the house and all sharing in cranking that thing – us kids always took turns on the front end, when the ice cream was still slush and as it hardened, that was when Dad took over. Then us kids would all fight over who was going to lick the paddle – gosh, as if ice cream in our bowl wasn’t enough, there was just something about being the one to lick that paddle clean.

We had a sugar maple tree in the front yard close to the road, and we would tap that in the winter and put some of the maple sap on fresh snow for our winter maple candy.

We had a lot of crops that I remember planting and harvesting with Dad on the tractor, like buckwheat, and maybe regular wheat, and I think we grew corn and popcorn also. And of course we planted the one sloping hill down to the artesian spring with strawberry plants, which we picked (well, actually, Mom and Dad did most of the picking because us kids were too busy fighting with each other about infringing on another’s row or some silly thing like that, and then getting time outs and smacks on our little behinds). But then we would sell it alongside our road (the road cut in between the house and apple orchard side of the road and the other side had the big barn and animals and chickens, and the crops going down to the canal) and us kids would get a share of the money for all of our “work”.

And that big barn housed an airplane fuselage at one point. That barn was also where Dad caponized a big flock of chickens one year, and I still to this day remember the smell of burning feathers – but boy, did those chickens grow big after that!

We had bees for the honey and it was a sight to remember to see Dad dressed in the protective clothing and hat with the veil, and Dad used to make it all look so easy as we would watch from a distance. But boy, that honey sure tasted good on our toast and buckwheat pancakes!

Dad had a friend, Johnny, who owned the hotel in Waterloo, and I remember many a weekend going with Dad to the hotel where we would be treated to a soda while Dad fixed something there. Dad was always fixing motors and stuff in his shop room across from the stairwell in the farmhouse. In the winter, Dad always wore a short-sleeve shirt (and sometimes a long-sleeve shirt) and a vest sweater and he was always warm enough – me, I was always standing on the floor register keeping warm while watching Dad fix things, or talking with him.

Sundays were the day Dad took over the kitchen for breakfast (regular and buckwheat pancakes, waffles, and fritters – those fritters….always a new surprise in the middle of them as Dad loved to experiment – and then Sunday night when Dad would make popcorn, cookies, fudge, and other goodies, and we had a meal of cereal, crackers, or graham crackers with milk and then all the goodies Dad had made, and we played a lot of Canasta those nights.

I remember the cider press we had to make apple cider and sure wish that I had a smaller version of one now as that cider always tasted soooo good, and it became our vinegar after it sat and fermented over the winter.

My Dad gave us a lot of memories to keep forever….he is dearly missed.