Tales of Two Gails

Two Gails through Sixty Years By Gail Kelly Lester We were brought up together from the time we were tiny girls in the same rural, mountain community of three families living off a dirt road. One year older than me, Gail Shepherd (RHGail in these stories) had a full head of beautiful red hair, freckles sprinkling her nose and cheeks, a wide grin, and a gleam in her eyes contemplating from where the next new experience might come. Even ordinary mundane things offered the potential of becoming something significant and worthy of exploration. She was amazingly clever, possessed a vivid imagination, and remembered most everything in great detail. Nearly three years older than me, with the same lovely red hair that glistened in the sun, was RHGail's sister, Ann. She had a quiet smile, enjoyed reading, was more studious and serious, and less rambunctious than the two Gails, yet she was fun to be around. Even though we were younger, Ann participated in most of our early nonsensical escapades. Ann and Gail and their parents resided with Mrs. Julie Shuler, their maternal grandmother. My mother and I lived within shouting distance with my grandparents and other extended family members including my cousin Della who was a few years older than all of us kids. In the early 1950's, three generations living together in the same home was somewhat common in our area. The only thing separating us from each other and a fun filled day was a small branch of water flowing from the mountains and underneath a narrow foot log, a fence gate that was never locked, and permission from the adults allowing us to play together. On most days, if we behaved, permission was granted, giving us freedom to roam the hills and hollows and explore new things. In the days before every home had television, we were compelled to find creative ways to entertain ourselves with whatever was available, finding adventure in the simplest of pleasures. Climbing trees, along with games of hop-scotch and jump rope, kept us busy. Watching for the mail man to arrive at the end of the lane with the possibility of a letter from a distant loved one sent us racing from the porch to see what had been delivered. A large empty hole, dug in the sloping road bank and used as a root cellar providing winter storage for vegetables, became a "cavern" where we explored in the summer months. The depths of our imagination went much farther than the actual hole. The barn loft offered numerous summer activities though some were cut short with an adult admonishing us not to fall out and break our necks. Areas of a giant maple tree’s massive above ground roots were "houses" for our stick dolls with leaf dresses. We each had our own "house" on opposite sides of the tree and our stick people visited each other, chatting over imaginary tea and sugar cookies. Exploring the spring house usually got us in trouble as did playing in the branch. Our parents thought we would surely catch a death of cold if our feet got wet in the cold mountain water. Fat June bugs, with one leg anchored to a string, became airplanes, buzzing helplessly in an attempt to escape our snare until the poor bug succumbed to our antics. Rollie pollies that lived underground in the soft earth alongside the wood shed couldn't escape us. Our repeated incantations of, "Doodle bug, doodle bug, doodle, doodle, doodle," pestered them until the dazed creatures surfaced in response to our incessant calls as if to ask, "What is it this time?!" After dark, capturing fire flies in a glass Mason jar offered pre bed-time fun. Long summer days provided time to discover numerous ways to fill the hours between dawn and dusk.Wild blackberry briars and strawberry plants along with a June apple tree heavy laden with summer fruit in Mrs. Shuler's yard provided many a nourishing snack. In the fall, black walnut trees yielded nuts for us to enjoy. The nuts were encased in a thick green outer coating that was mushy inside. Once they had fallen from the tree, we had to patiently wait a few weeks for them to dry. Then we had to remove the outer shell which had turned black in the drying process. When sufficiently dry, we cracked them open with a hammer often smashing our fingers. The process was worth the effort because we usually got one of Mrs. Shuler's delicious walnut cakes as a result. Wild persimmons caused our mouths to pucker if they weren't fully ripe and sent us racing for a drink of cold water to wash away the dreadful taste. Shocks of corn stalks tied together at the top and left to dry in the field provided us with temporary tee-pees where it was fun to pretend we were Cherokee Indian maidens. Snowfall meant no school for a few days and ample time for fun, snowball fights, and winter exploration. Rainy days found us in Mrs. Shuler's attic prowling through dusty boxes searching for unexpected treasures, reading stories, playing with paper dolls, or cutting pictures out of the Sears Roebuck Catalog. One such day we were at Mrs. Shuler's ancient pump organ with RHGail intensely eyeing sheet music while fingering the keys. She pumped vigorously with her feet, pulling and pushing the knobs while plunking out the hymn, "In the Garden." Standing by in awe while attempting to harmonize the words, I thought she was an absolute genius! Even now hearing the old hymn reminds me of when my friend figured out all by herself how to play it on the pump organ. Because we both had the same first name and were always together, out of necessity Mrs. Shuler devised a creative way to differentiate one Gail from the other. When she called out, "Gail, come here," we both obediently came running. She would clarify, "No, not you, the red-headed Gail!" Or, if she summoned me, she would specify, "Not the red-headed Gail, the other Gail!" Sixty years later the names still apply