During the months in 1964 that I was recovering from my spinal surgery that left my hands and arms partially paralyzed and unable to run, ever again.  I often took long walks from the farmhouse (not the farm) my parents bought down to the river to contemplate my future after such a drastic change in my lifestyle.

 

The next farm beyond the river was the Martin farm.  As I ventured further, sometimes on my little brothers' moped that I could handle, just barely, at 15 mph, I eventually walked or rode past the farm.  Filled with dogs, cats, chickens, geese, and kids, I ventured on up the driveway one day just to say hello.

 

Ambrose Martin had been laid up for some time with arthritis, his heavy body bend over forward in a strange posture with a cane for support, unable to do any work anymore.  Ambrose's only occupation was ordering his 14 kids and wife, Annie to do his bidding on the farm.  The kids all graduated at the eighth grade from the Catholic school 2 miles away on the hill and then were put to work on the farm.  Needless to say, the older children escaped as soon as they could, his dictatorial oppression.  I think three had left already at that time, leaving Tom Martin, 18, as the man of the household.  Ambrose had been ordered by doctors to stop having children after Annie had reached the age where the 14th child, Loretta, had Down syndrome.  Loretta was about 7 years old.

 

Tom and I hit it off right away and became good friends.  We had quite a few adventures that I have recounted in my autobiography, Hanging by a Thread, to be published soon.  On my second visit to the farm, I recall approaching a line of children and  Annie on the path to the house, avoiding chicken, goose, and dog droppings that were everywhere in the farmyard, as best I could.

 

Tom joined us and we were talking.  There was a collie mix, a rather small dog, that dragged her hindquarters because she'd been run over by a car.  Remarkably, she still had a litter of pups.  Such was the nature of the farm, including the bull that had broken his horn off to escape his stanchion and stood in the driveway one night, bleeding.  A difficult catch even with a nose ring because of his agitated state.

 

While we were talking there, without any pain, I suddenly felt my right leg being pulled out from under me.  When I looked, the paralyzed little collie had me by the Achilles tendon on my right leg and was pulling it out vigorously until Tom made her release me.  We pulled down my sock to check my ankle and I only had a little bit of skin removed and no bleeding.  I couldn't figure out why the dog would do that since I had just been petting her.

 

Tom knew why.  “You were too close to Loretta.  She was protecting her,” he said.

 

Copyright 2013 © Ronald W. Hull

 

8/7/13