Crocker Lane

Crocker Lane, directly across from the village church and named for the first family to build on it, wasn't much more than a narrow strip of grass with ruts on either side.  It led all the way from Highway 117 to the aptly named Beautiful Cove, a serenely sheltered inlet of deep woods and driftwood covered rocky ledges with a stunning view of the Atlantic.  Ruthie and I spent hours there, collecting shells and playing in the tide pools, building forts, wading toward the tide as it came in and chasing after it as it went out.  We got there the long way 'round, past Old Hat's where 117 ended and scrambling all the way but we usually came home down Crocker Lane - Ruthie would cut across the square by the post office while I continued to The Point - sometimes catching a ride with the mail car if it were late enough but mostly just walking slowly at the side of the road and bracing myself for an inevitable lecture about my dirty face and skinned knees.

On one afternoon, sleepy Crocker Lane was alive with activity.  Pulling a wagonload of firewood, Denny Crocker's team of oxen had inexplicably gone on strike midway down the lane - both mammoth creatures simply stopped and no amount of coaxing or encouragement could persuade them another step.  Even Denny's whip, which everyone knew he carried just for show and rarely if ever actually used, had no effect - he shouted the commands and gave one of the great beasts a half hearted flick on the hindquarters - but the oxen were rooted to the spot.  Denny pushed and pulled, yelled and sweet talked, threatened and reasoned, all to no avail.  The island's only yoke of oxen dug in and were unmoved by his protests and pleas and it wasn't long before a crowd, some curious and some loudly unhelpful but all thoroughly mystified, had gathered.  They tried car horns, they tried bells, they tried banging cast iron pans together - the oxen showed no interest.  Uncle Bernie fired his shotgun into the air - the oxen blinked, but didn't move.  

Get a tractor! someone in the crowd yelled unkindly and Denny glared.

Meanwhile, his wife, a good hearted, up island girl with a practical streak, arrived carrying two buckets of buttermilk and a half dozen ears of sweet corn.  While Denny fussed and fumed, she calmly tempted the team into motion and led them down the lane, across the road and into the churchyard.  While Denny unloaded the firewood, she stood quietly with them, stroking their shaggy heads and telling them what fine animals they were, what great hearts they had, what noble beasts they were.

My good boys, she repeated softly, What's a tractor know about teamwork.  And then she beckoned Ruthie and me and we each got to ride an oxen all the way home - slow but elegant with the smell of leather and hay and island sunshine.  Nana was in the doorway and the dogs came running up the driveway to meet us, barking and nipping at the oxen's hooves like flies while the placid beasts paid them no mind, serenely putting one foot in front of the other, in tandem, all the way to our back door.

Moved 'em slicker'n bacon grease, Uncle Bernie later reported to my grandmother, Just like that Pied Piper fella!

Nana just smiled.

Some years later, Denny retired the team and put them out to pasture - for a long time we could see them as they grazed peacefully in his fields, harnessed up only for an occasional Christmas sleigh ride.  They'd earned their rest, which as his wife liked to say, was more than anyone would ever say about the tractor.