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his mouth wide open, and his head thrust backward he groaned as he reached his climax. Although I had watched animals do it over the years, it was the first occasion that I had witnessed what happens when a human male experiences an orgasm. When it was over he looked at me as if either he was unsure of what he had just done in front of me or felt guilty about it. But then he relaxed, smiled, wiped himself off, and lightly kissed me on my forehead. I wasn’t in the least bit shocked or disgusted by what I had seen. Quite the contrary, I was grateful to Joe Peterson for opening up a whole new chapter of learning for me.
    S UMMER CAME , but it was a summer I would rather forget. It was 1932. I was nine years old and the Great Depression was at its height. One day Grandma Boltman was driven over to our farm by her attorney. Donald and I slowly stalked around his big, shiny black car like wild animals encircling their prey. We didn’t dare touch the gleaming metal and chrome of that beautiful machine but we stood on tiptoe and peered inside, enchanted. Momma and Phyllis were in the kitchen while we boys hung around outside. Then Dad, Grandma, her attorney, and Momma went to sit in the parlor and were soon engaged in serious discussion. None of them looked happy. Through the curtains I caught sight of Momma wiping away tears. Don and I had no idea what was going on. We sauntered over to the porch stairs, then sat on the steps. Phyllis remained in the kitchen, busying herself with plates and cups and whatnot. That evening over supper, after Grandma had left to return to town, the subject of the adults’ big discussion was revealed to us. Dad informed us that economic reality would force us off the farm. Grandma Boltman had no alternative. She could not afford to keep the place going. She had explored every option, had searched the depths of her soul, and had no recourse but to sell off all the livestock and give the farm over to farmers from neighboring areas. They would work the land and if any profits were realized they would share half the income with her. The mere thought of leaving our home was devastating. That night both Don and I quietly sobbed into our pillows, crying ourselves to sleep. As for Phyllis, she spent the night lying next to Mom in her bedroom, both of them howling loudly while Dad sat in the parlor all alone, contemplating our fate and our future. Deep down inside I knew he was frantic. What was he going to do? What would we do? Where were we going to live? More importantly, how was Dad going to earn a living? Grandma Boltman was stone broke. She couldn’t help us at all.
    When Joe Peterson heard about our plight a couple of days later he came over with Ma Peterson to express their sorrow and sympathies. But Peterson admitted that he, too, was on the verge of closing down his own farm. It was the first I’d heard of it. On his way out that evening he gave me a look that I will never forget. It was one of genuine love, of pity, of remorse, of affection for me. But he couldn’t say anything and neither could I. Deep down I knew I was going to miss him. He was a warm, tender man, and in a very special way I knew that he cared for me. But all that was soon to be over.
    Fortunately, Dad had a few good friends in Ottawa. As luck, fate, and providence would have it—I don’t know which was more applicable—one of them came through with help. I don’t recall the guy’s name but Dad told us that he worked for the Stateville Penitentiary near the town of Joliet, about halfway between Ottawa and Chicago. He had managed to find Dad a job as a guard with the prison service. Dad was overjoyed, but when he came home and told Momma about it she simply accepted it without showing too much enthusiasm.
    The worst part about the whole business was having to say goodbye to our beloved animals and livestock. It was sad enough finding good homes for the cats and dogs but I was heartbroken the day I watched my beloved pony