The sound of silence is killing me.

https://youtu.be/bGLHadex0B0

I wake up most nights just after midnight.  It is then that I do my best thinking.  Last night was no different.  I have nothing in particular to worry about, so I just lay there and think and inevitably end up back in Nickerson and I can hear a lonesome train whistle coming from the track that ran about 3 blocks from the house.  Mostly what I hear is silence, but the silence is broken occasionally by a coyote.  Rarely it is a wolf, but rarer still is a panther, or mountain lion drifting up from the river.  I love the river and I especially love walking the banks of a river or creek.

There is so much to see, or at least there was back when I was a pubescent girl with a vivid imagination.  Maybe it was just that back then the river and the cemetery were the 2 places I could go to escape the tedium of every day life.  Mom let me go to the cemetery with no qualms, but she worried when I walked along the creek.  Now granted Cow Creek ran past Nickerson on one side and Bull Creek on the other.  Access was restricted when those 2 flooded which they did every Spring.  The fact that the third and final escape was the Arkansas and it was always running high.  I went back to Nickerson a few years back and was surprised that nothing had been done about flood control, so they were pretty much busy building little dirt dams here and there to keep the water out of their houses.

There is just something about a quiet stream far from the city.  Little spiders skate across the surface where the water is still.  Tiny minnows gather in still places.  Baby frogs find their first water legs in pondlike places.  The abundance of flowers and mosses gives hope to a world that is still living away from the crowded city.  I am terrified of snakes, but in the wilderness they do not bother me at all.  I just back up and go a different way.  I am in their territory and that makes a world of difference.  When I find one in the goose house, it becomes my duty as superior human to kill it.  In the wilderness, I am the intruder.

Do you know what a crawdad house looks like?  If you come upon a small hole with balls of mud piled around it, that is a crawdad house.  I used to think a crawdad was a tiny lobster, but late in life I learned they were the cockroach of the creek.  I still like them.  When they are in the water they mostly travel backwards.  When Bret was 4 years old I took him fishing at the park and he caught a crawdad.  Actually the crawdad caught him because it had a grip on his hook and when he let go, he fell to the ground.  Bret was terrified of the "crab".  Jiraiya and I found one by the ditch a week or so age.  He and his daddy went back and found it and it was nearly dead, so Bret put it in the duck water.  The next morning we found its lifeless body near the duck water.  We had a funeral complete with rivers of tears for the poor little crab.

If I live to be 100 years old, I will never forget my life in Nickerson, Kansas.  I go back there sometimes.  I do not know any of the people there, but I haunt the places I used to walk.  Bull Creek was a dry creek bed last time I was there, but I still recall how it could fill the banks and overflow across the fields when the Spring rains came.  I  remember my brother catching a bull frog and putting it in my skirt with instuctions to take it to the house and find something to put it in.  I was mortified that it would bite me.  As luck had it, I opened my skirt to show it to Josephine and it leapt into the house.  She almost beat me to death before I recaptured it.  I think I told you she was mean.

I want to go back home next Spring.  I will drive 96  Highway and the State Patrol will have a man at every bridge, because the creeks all flood in the Spring.  It is just something that we can count on.  Since Kansas is flat it floods easily.  I love Colorado, and my life is here, but I think when I die, my soul will live in Kansas.

At least I hope so!

A mothers worst nightmare.

Raising 5 kids on my own was not an easy undertaking and came with a lot of lessons learned the hard way.  When I was very young Aunt Helen came to Nickerson and brought us kids all something.  This was her way of showing us she cared.  This one particular year, she paid my dues to the Brownies and bought me a Brownie dress and cap.  I was so proud, until I went to the first meeting and found a bunch of snobbish girls who did not care that I had the dress and cap, I was still from the wrong side of the tracks.  (This is a misnomer that I shall address at a future date.)



The girls were rude.  They were girls I went to school with and they were rude in school, so I do not know what I expected to change.  I never went back.  The dress, cap and pin were disposed of some where.  Mother did get the dues in cash.



Fast forward to many years later when I found myself newly divorced with 5 kids and several full and part time jobs.  Debbie was the oldest and must have been in the second grade or so when I enrolled her in the Brownies.  At the time I was just starting as Dinner Cook at the Red Carpet Restaurant  under the tutelage of  Bob Bailey.  My ex-sister in law, Rosie Seeger was my babysitter and it was summer.  Rosie lived in the south end and the restaurant was in the north end two miles away.



The Brownies first outing was a picnic on the Arkansas River in the southern part of Hutchinson.  A get acquainted sort of thing.  The leaders assured me that they would drop Debbie off at Rosies after the picnic, so off I went to work.  At 2:00 o’clock the phone rang and Rosie said Debbie had not been dropped off as promised.  I called the leader.  She informed me that she thought I must have picked Debbie up as she was not seen after they came up from the river.  My heart dropped!  Then I became angry.



“You said you would drop her off at the sitter.!”

“Yes, but I thought you must have picked her up!”



Words were exchanged as to her mental state and the police were called.  Bob covered for me and I raced to Rosies.  As luck would have it, the policeman in charge of the investigation was Ronnie Moore, who had been a classmate of mine in school.  He assured me that everything would be done to find Debbie and I should just set tight and he would keep me up to date on what was going on.



This was back in the day when the telephone was hooked to the wall and if you were expecting a call you needed to be near the phone.  I waited at Rosies because it was closer to the place where she was last seen and the other kids were there.   I had plenty of time to envision Debbie falling in the river, or some man grabbing her, or being hit by a car.  Since I did not know where she was I sure did not know where she wasn’t!  I could envision all sorts of things and none of them were good.  Do you realize how slowly time passes when you are waiting with a life in the balance?  All I knew was  that Debbie was missing.



Ronnie was my rock through that ordeal and I do not think I ever properly thanked him, nor did I ever see him again. 



It was about 3:30 when the phone rang and Bob explained to me that Debbie had just walked into the back of the restaurant looking for me.  She had walked all the way from the Arkansas River through the south end of Hutch to 13^th and Main which was probably 2 miles to find her mother!  I guess it was a good thing that I had taken them to the restaurant several times when I went to make bread on Sundays.  Otherwise she would not have known where the restaurant was.  She had walked past Rosies street, past  fifth street where we lived and found the place where mommy should be.  It seems her experience with the Brownie division of the Girl Scouts was about as warm and fuzzy as my experience all those years ago.



There is one thing I have learned from motherhood over the years and that is this:  Being a parent is one of the hardest jobs I will ever have.  There is no rule book.  Hind sight is better than foresight.  And no two kids are alike.  The psychology that works for one is wasted on another.  I earned every gray hair in my head at the hands of my children.  And lastly, while it does not pay very good wages every little success; every little “I love you mom” and the card on Mother’s Day; all are priceless. 


It is what it is.

We all have our baggage.

And my Father was no different.  When he married my mother he already had a shattered family behind him.  He had been married and had 5 kids.  One son and one daughter had died at a very young age.  His wife was deceased and he had been left with 3 sons.  The boys had all ended up in an orphanage.  Earl had been adopted as had Richard.  Sadly, Gene had not found a forever family.  Earl seemed to be the most normal as he married and sired 2 boys and 1 girl.  We were in contact with them although it never was a close relationship.  Richard had a lot of mental health issues stemming from his years in the Army.  Ah, but dear Gene was a study unto itself!

I did not see Richard or Earl until my teenage years, but Gene turned up early.  We were living on the Stroh place.  I must have been 5 or 6 years old, possibly 7.  I recall him turning up in the middle of the night, or so it seemed.  He came with somebody named Banks and that is about all I recall about that meeting.  When you are little you pick up scraps of conversation and piece together your own reality.  That is what I have done with Gene Bartholomew.  Over the years I learned that he had a wife and son back east some where.  Seems brother Gene had a bad habit and that was writing checks on someone else's bank account.  The state also had a bad habit of arresting him and putting him in prison.

In a box in my closet are letters from Gene that he had written to our father.  Parts of those letters are seared in my mind.  I do not read them anymore.  "Dear Daddy, When are you going to come and get me?  We are going to get a new pair of overalls in a couple weeks.  I miss you, daddy"

Some time in my grade school years I recall carrying on a correspondence with him while he was in Lansing Prison.  I recall that he was an artist at calligraphy.  Mother always said that was his downfall because he was in prison for forgery.  He did have beautiful handwriting.  I do not know what we wrote about, only that we did.  I do recall once when he was released he came by the house and somebody with a car drove him out to the Arkansas River and dropped him off so he could "be alone to clear his mind."  The next day she picked him up at the specified time and he once more disappeared.

He turned up again when I was in high school.  This time he stayed with my sister and her husband, but that only lasted a few weeks and then he was gone again.  The last anyone heard of him, to my knowledge was that he had been arrested in Nebraska and rather then prosecute him for whatever he had done, they took him to the county line and dropped him off.  He was never seen nor heard of again.

I have often thought of his son.  He would have to be about my age.  His name was William (Billy) Bartholomew.  Of course I am too late, I am sure.  But wouldn't that be nice if he had heirs and one of them read this?  I am not holding out any hope at all.  Just a silly old woman waking up in the middle of the night with something on her mind.

I have been farther then I have left to go!

I woke up this morning thinking about how many family members, friends, and just acquaintances I have attended funerals or memorial services for.  Do not ask me for a number, because the figure would make both our minds reel   And this is not to discount the services I did not attend for one reason or another.  I guess this all started forming in my little mind last week when I was up on the mountain with a friend and he wanted me to see a water fall higher up the trail.  Little cars like mine only go so high on rocky roads so we had to walk a ways.  So off we started.

Pretty soon I was huffing and puffing like "the little engine that could" did in that book I used to read to the kids.  I thought we were probably almost to the top and turned around to look back at where the car was.  Hell!  I could still read the small print on my bumper sticker!  We were 7 minutes into our hike and I was pretty sure it was going to be a long day, but with him cheering me on and by sheer determination on my part I made it a few more yards.  I looked back at the car and back up at the mountain.  I knew who was going to win this one and it was not me!  I muttered something about being a little out of shape and the dear soul took pity on me.  He was not going to make me march all the way to the top of Mount Princeton or wherever we were. ( I think he knew who would be carrying my lifeless body back down and he was not really up to that task.)

He left me setting on a rock and came back very soon to tell me that there was a beautiful view right around the bend in the road.  Thank the Lord for small favors.  So we spent a little time enjoying the babbling brook and just communing with nature.  The glory of the mountains is the serenity and the closeness of God.  There is no need for conversation with the majesty of the beautiful Rocky Mountains surrounding you.  It is something I wish everyone in the world could enjoy for just a little while.  It is a peace that stays with me for a very long time when I come home.

So once more, with my feet firmly planted on the terra firma of my flatland home, I can access the situation that brought me to the realizations I face this morning. 
#1.  I am fat and out of shape.
#2.  I am, while I hate to use the term "old", definitely over the hill and picking up speed.
#3.  The beautiful vistas of my home state of Colorado may best be viewed from the passenger seat of an air conditioned car parked on one of the scenic overlooks the National Forest Service built for my enjoyment.
#4.  The rod and reel I bought when I got my fishing license (which is also another story) may just stay over there in the corner because I may not be agile enough to climb up and down the banks of any river where said fish may be located!

But once more I have digressed, but would you really expect anything less of me?  No!  And therein lies the beauty of why you continue to read these blogs!  You think I may actually someday say something worth repeating.

Peace to all of you and may the road that lies before you be one you are eager to travel!

Freezing weather, candlelight, and the barn?

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, I hear.  I spend a lot of time trying to figure mine out, but I have decided it is best to just go with what pops into it from time to time.  Take last night, for instance.  I heard about a candlelight vigil at the River walk in honor of the policeman and 2 civilians who died in the fiasco at Planned Parenthood in Colorado Springs.  It was advertised as unsponsored which told me it was a gathering of the community.  As it turned out, it was a photo op for a church that shall remain nameless, but that is all beside the point.  It seemed like a worthy endeavor, so I bundled up with 2 of everything on my frail little body and away I went!

Of course I went early since that is what I do.  My friend Janet showed up and we lit our candles, sung hymns, said a prayer or two.  Since all the cameras were finished rolling the leaders decided not to walk to the police station so we were dismissed.  Janet and I made a stop at Coyote Jack's store on Union where he made us a cup of hot cocoa.  (You will be hearing more about him in a later blog.)  I dropped her at her car and headed home.

I decided to take South Road even if it was icy and deserted and wild animals hang out there and jump in front of the car.  I just like to avoid traffic when I can and South Road was surreal with a soft snow falling.  For some reason, my mind wandered back to the barn on the Stroh place where we lived when I was probably 6 or 7 years old.  As I recall you came up the driveway to the house.  There was a detached garage to the right side where the kitchen was located.  Further to the right was a granary and a chicken house.  And closing the circle going back to the drive was the barn with a long low loafing shed(?).  I think that is what it is called.  But the barn was prominent.

Bear in mind that this memory is 68 years ago and much has been through this old brain, but as I recall I stepped into the barn through an oversized door that barns have.  On my right was a big wooden barrel.  Inside it was grain.  Directly in front of me was a stall for a cow to stand and her head was placed between two boards to hold her in place for milking. This was called a stanchion.   A pitch fork full of hay was put in the manger and she could eat while she was being milked.  Now milking was an art in itself.  The milking stool was a board with 1 leg.  The "milker"sat balanced on that while milking.  Now let me see if I remember that process!

First you placed the bucket under the udder.  Then you got yourself balance of the "stool".  Then you grasped a teat with thumb and forefinger where it protruded from the udder and  applied pressure as you "stripped" down to the end of the teat.  I know this is not sounding like anything is going to happen, but it does.  I am probably not your best source of "how to milk a cow not using a machine", but it does work and the milk squirts into the bucket, except some where in the process (and do not miss a beat or the cow will "hold her milk") you need to aim at the cat dish and fill it up because they are hungry.  Barn cats are profuse in a barn and necessary to keep the mice thinned out so they do not get in the grain.  Barn cats are that only.  They are not for petting or holding.  Most of them would just as soon rip your face off as look at you and you learn to respect their territory.  Come in, milk the cow, fill their dish and leave.   I think these are known as feral cats today.  And ever so often a disease goes through the colony and they all die, but be patient and more will magically appear.

There were several stalls for milking, but as I recall we only used the one and only had one milk cow at a time.  There was a hayloft up above that we were not supposed to go into because we might fall and break our neck, which, according to folk lore, happened a lot.  There were rooms in the back where the other cows (and God only knows what purpose they served) and the one horse could hang out when a blizzard was coming.  And in the spring we had to walk the fields and pull up poison weeds and burn them. 

The low part of the barn was used for whatever it needed to be used for at the time.  As I recall mother had geese and as I recall they were damned mean!  If I strayed (and I did once) into their domain the big gander would attack me and I had to be saved.  This is strange because I have 9 geese out back that love me.  They have never attacked me and 3 of them let me pet them.  I think that gander was just plain mean for the fun of it.

So this is what I thought about on the way home last night.  If I could live my life in reverse I would go back to that place.  It was where Donna stuck her finger in a turtles mouth and John Britan said it would not let go until the sun went down.  It was where Mary set in the mud puddle and Dorothy was born.  It was my brother in overalls and my sister got her first pair of glasses.  It was the big yellow tomcat eating the baby chick.  It was mother going to "club" and dad coming home drunk.  It was my childhood and my roots.  I want to go back there next summer and see if that house is there.  I want to listen and maybe here the kids at play.  Back to the days when someone took care of me.  When I was cute and loved.  Or at least that is how I remember it.

All this rain...

All this rain takes me back to Nickerson, Kansas and the time Dad spent farming with John Britan.  The farm was located across the Arkansas River.  I do not know  East from West so I am not sure which side of the river that is, but it was leave town, cross the bridge and turn left.  As most farm land was back then, it was dry land.  Ah, but through the middle of it there ran a "slough".  For those of you who do not know what a slough is, I will tell you.  A slough is a low place that much resembles a dry ditch most of the year.  When it is rainy season, it looks like a creek.  When it is really rainy for any length of time it looks like a small river.

The wheat was planted on the full acreage was planted to wheat.  Most of the time that worked fine, but if it filled the slough that part of the crop was lost.  Now, Dad would sometimes take Jake and I with him when he went to do the harvest.  Josephine stayed home with the younger kids while Mother drove the truck into town to the elevator.  If it was dry, it was pretty boring, but if the slough was full, we had a blast.  At the time it seemed to me that this raging river was my home.  Once Jake built me a flat raft with a string tied to a matchstick that was poked through a hole.  That way I could hang on to the string and keep it from floating away.

The Kansas sun beat down on us as we played by that wonderful body of water and we could put our feet in it and we were in heaven.  We did not know what hot was and more then once we got a good sunburn.  Mother would doctor us with whatever magic potion she had on hand and by the next day, the sunburn was gone and we were a darker shade of tan.  By the end of summer we looked like a couple Indians.  I do not remember combing my hair, but I am sure I did.

Jake was my hero and sometimes one of the boys from town would come to visit him.  That was never any fun because they would wander off and the beautiful, cool riverwould  turn into a muddy, dirty mess.  Jake always made my life magic.  He instilled in me an ability to see life through different eyes.  He painted pictures of a world far away that was beckoning to him.  From him, I got my love for music.  Oh, not just music, country music.

With the help of a car radio and a good battery he delivered The Grand Old Opry to the front yard of our little house on Strong Street.  He knew all the singers. Faron Young, Little Jimmy Dickens, Hank Williams, Ferlin Husky, Carl and Pearl Butler, and on and on.  I always thought he would some day pick up a guitar and head south.  But he didn't.  When he was 16 years old he forged his birth certificate and went into the Army.  I stayed home and wrote to him.  He was sent to Germany and by the time he returned home, I was not a little girl anymore.

Funny how rain can trigger emotions that I thought were long lost.  I wonder what is going on in Nickerson?  It floods every Spring and I am sure this one is no different.  I am planning a trip back there in August, but it can never be the same.  The house is gone.  The people I knew are gone.  It is just a spot on the map now,  but isn't that how life was planned to be?  And our memories, they never leave.

I still love country music and I listen to Classic Country when I am at home alone.  The radio used to crackle and break up so I could not understand the words.  Now it is clear and while it is the same, it is not the same, but through it all I can hear Jake singing.  I can feel the hot, humid air that is Kansas.  And while this brings tears to my eyes as I think back, it was probably the happiest part of my life.

I miss you, my brother!

Let me be clear on this poverty thing.

Maybe we are getting lost in semantics here if indeed semantics is the word I want.  I very much appreciate the comments I am receiving when I write about my childhood.  "Oh, grandma, so sorry."  "I just never knew how hard you had it."  "This is so very sad,"  The thing is here, I did not have it bad.  Granted we were poor, but back in the times I grew up in, most people were.  We may have been poorer then most, but there were families living in box cars and chicken coops and eating less than we did.  While I never knew these people, I knew of them.  That was enough.

My mother was there and my father was there.  My sisters and brother were there.  My family.  What I remember most about growing up was not what we ate or did not eat, only that we survived.  We survived and moved on to better times, but we survived.  We grew up playing "Kick the Can". "Blind Man's Bluff, " and "Red Rover, Red Rover."  We could always drag enough kids together to play something and when darkness fell and the streetlight came on over on the other corner, we better get for home.

Clod fights were common place and we needed to use our good common sense when choosing a clod out of a plowed field to lob at someone.  If it was too soft, it fell apart in the air.  If it was too hard it could do some real damage.  Of course, it it was too big and too hard it could kill some one.  As you see we all survived to adulthood and in that day and age, that in itself was a miracle.

I remember setting on the side of a dirt road in my little cotton dress and my bare feet trying to build an ant hill for an ant I had found that I thought was an orphan.  I remember pulling dead wood off of a Cottonwood Tree and lighting it on fire and then blowing on it to keep it burning because I thought it would pass as punk for a fire cracker in case I ever found one of those.

I remember wading in the Arkansas River and the water was so clear I could watch minnows swimming.  I could cup my hands and drink it.  And I could lay in the cool water and then jump up and run home in the warm sun and be dry when I got there.  I was brown as a berry .  Of course I was barefooted!  We got new shoes in the fall when school started and when we grew out of them we passed them down.  I have a closet full of shoes now, but I still long for the days when shoes were an option.

I remember setting on the front yard with my brother and listening to the Grand Ole Opry from WSM in Nashville, Tennessee!  I remember Minnie Pearl and Roy Acuff and a host of others.  I remember stars so bright they were diamonds in a black sky and a moon that lit up the yard like a spotlight.

I remember so much that I have no words for most of it and that is what I am trying to get across here; not the poverty, but it has to be told because it was what it was.  So when I tell you about something, try to see past that to the lesson that is there.

Making soap was how we got soap,  Times are different.  Now if you want soap, you go buy it, but it was not always that way.  We rendered out fat because we needed lard.   We played our little games because that is what we passed time on our way to adulthood.  We had a checker board instead of an XBox.  We played Dominoes instead of turning on a television or booting up the computer.

I grew up in the best of times and I am going to continue to tell you about them.  There was a time that poverty was an inconvenience, but never a time it caused me to lose my zest for life.  It was a time to be gotten through and a time to be thankful when it was over, but there is not a childhood memory in this head of mine that is dominated by poverty.  Poverty was for the people we saw pictures of that were guant and sad looking with a look of silent pleading in thier eyes, not for those Bartholomew kids at 709 Strong Street in Nicherson< Kansas!

PEACE!!

Laundry time at the new place.

Always before doing the laundry had consisted of scrubbing clothes on the scrub board, wringing them out by twisting them and then dropping them into a tub of rinse water where they were swished around by hand, wrung out again and dropped into another tub of water.  A final wringing and then they were placed on a wire "clothes line" to dry.  It was an all day job!  But when we moved in here we were surprised to find that it came with a washing machine.  As I recall it had a gas motor and sat in the kitchen.  The tank on the motor was probably coal oil.  Maybe kerosene.  Maybe gas. The motor caused the agitator to go back and forth, thus beating the clothes clean and eliminating the need for the scrub board.  Mother did, however, pre scrub the collars of the shirts on the scrub board.  We must have been very dirty little kids, especially our necks.
This new washer was great!  It even had a "wringer" which was two rollers and you turned a crank and placed and item of clothes between the rollers and the water ran back into the washer.  This was wonderful and made Mother's work so easy!  But alas!  It had been left there for a reason.  The second time the laundry was done the motor gave out and could not be repaired.  The rollers did not do a good job of wringing.

So, Mr. Reuben Floyd Bartholomew, land owner went into town and opened a charge account and purchased a brand new, never used, white  washing machine for his wife.  That was the most beautiful thing we had ever seen.  And it was electric!  It plugged into the one plug in that was in the kitchen.  (More about the wonders of electricity later!)  The best part was the stop lever on the wringer.  If you got your fingers in there by accident, you could smack the lever with your free hand and the wringers would stop and open allowing you to retrieve your appendage.  The alternative was to be pulled through the wringer and spit out in the rinse tub!  So wash day now became a joy!

Water would be heated in the 3 legged kettle out back with a wood fire and carried in by buckets to fill the washing machine.  Cold water was carried for the rinse tubs.  The final rinse always had a dab of "bluing" added so the white clothes had a hint of blue instead of the drab gray of the women who did not use bluing.  The first load of clothes washed was always "the whites". The whites were placed on the clothes line to dry and life continued.

 Oh, forgot to tell you the very first thing that happened was the bar of lye soap was grated into the water and agitated until it dissolved.  I must elaborate on how the lye soap came to be.
 When the lye soap supply started getting low, the first step was to clean the ash bin of the stove out and build a fire with a certain kind of wood.  The wood was important as it affected the color, smell, and texture of the soap.  This ash was saved for "soap making day".  On soap making day the 5 gallon bucket of grease we had been saving for this occasion was carefully heated and strained into another clean can.  Only the top was used as the bottom contained water and lord only knows what else.  This was placed on the back of the stove to be kept warm. Mother would place the ashes in a colander lined with several layers of cheese cloth. She then carefully dropped water into the ashes which ran through and was caught in a vessel of some sort underneath the sieve.  When she thought it looked "right" she would place a raw egg still in its shell in the mixture.  As I recall when all was right the egg would do something "proving" the lye.  When that happened there was a flurry in that kitchen like you would not believe!

The kettle of warm grease was set on the floor, someone poured the lye into the grease can while mother stirred frantically with a hammer handle reserved for this purpose only.  Depending on the strength of the lye, the heat of the grease and the humidity of the air the grease would start to "trace" means to  show marks of the hammer handle.  When the trace marks showed the concoction was poured into a wooden box that was lined with cloth.  If any part of the procedure was not perfect two things would happen.  If the mixture did not trace, then lye was off and the whole thing a waste and had to be thrown out.  If it traced to quickly it would set up on the way to the mold.  Usually the hammer handle would be trapped in the soap and could not be retrieved until the soap was all grated.  But if everything was perfect and the grease extra clean we would end up with white soap that actually lathered.  Back then a woman's worth was often connected to that bar of soap she produced, and to her credit, my mother rarely failed!

That scenario is what went through my mind when Chuck Vail gave me a gift certificate to Vitamin Cottage and I saw a book on soap making.  I figured if my mother could do it under the primitive conditions she did it under that I could surely turn out a bar to be proud of and that is what I have done.  Sadly nobody ever asks me what my soap looks like, but I think I will show you anyway.  The best part is what this does for my skin. See, this stuff is made with all natural ingredients so rather than plugging up my pores with petroleum distillates, it opens them and keeps my skin young.  I have a lot of repeat customers for this soap and my lotions.  Just goes to show, that no matter how things change, the more they remain the same.  When I first started making soap I could buy lye at the grocery store, but then the druggies learned how to use it and embalming fluid to make drugs and it is no longer available.  I have to order it online and I am limited how much I can buy and I have to certify that I am not a drug lord.

So while my mother made her own lye and used grease and it was a crap shoot what she would end up with, I have controlled conditions and it always comes out the same.  I use pretty molds and package it for eye appeal.  I keep thinking maybe one of my kids will take up the banner when I can no longer do this, but none of them are showing any interest.  Guess it is what is known as a dying art.  Much as my life has become!  When I take flight for the big homestead in the sky there will be a bunch of kids standing around shaking thier heads and wondering what to do with all the kettles, thermometers, molds, bags, fragrances, oils.  Ah!  An estate auction to die for!!

709 North Strong, Nickerson, Kansas . Hot bed of the midwest?

Yep!  That is where I started second grade and where I lived until we moved to Hutchinson, Kansas.  Oh, there was that 6 months or so that I was with Grandma Haas and Great Grandma Hatfield, but for the most part, I learned all I needed to know about live there on Strong Street. 
It used to snow back in those days and we would sometimes need to walk home from school in the snow which was up over our knees, or so it seemed.  Of course, my knees were not as far up to as they are today.  Or maybe it just seemed that way to a little kid.  We walked every where we went and it seemed like the walk to and from school was so long, but as I look back now, it was a total of 8 or 9 blocks and it took forever.  I drove it last time I was there and it actually takes about 3 minutes and that is waiting at the highway for the hay wagon to pass.
First block was the school block.
Second block was the people I did not know.
Third block was Eldon Belote and Loren McQueen.
Fourth was Wells(?) and she had delivered her last baby in the bathroom (one of which we did not have inside the house).
Then Darrel Kalb on one side of the street and Jimmy Redford on the other.  (Both of these boys were objects of my 7th and 8th grade crushes.
Then the house where the guy had set it on fire to collect the insurance money, but wound up in jail for his efforts.
Block 7 was Whittlin' Joe and Johnny Carson who let the chickens roost in their house.
Block 8 was Howard Fein who made his lower plate jump out at me once and scared the livin' pee waddin' out of me because I did not know teeth were not attached.  (I did find out later how that worked when momma got her teeth pulled and got false ones which made her look like Tex Ritter, or so I thought.
Then home.  Home was always good.  It was a safe place and there were people there that I liked, or thought I did and then I left home because I did not like them, but then I found out I did, but by then there was no going back.
Behind our house was the cemetery where we liked to play because there was grass there.  And down the road was a sand pit where we were not allowed to go, but we did it anyway, because we were kids and kids do things they are not supposed to do.  We did have to be careful because sometimes a pack of wild dogs would roam the country side and we did not want to be killed and eaten.  Oh, and there was those Gypsy's that camped right outside of town and were known to grab young kids and take them God only knows where and do God only knows what with them.  Luckily I was never kidnapped.  No one in our family or anyone I ever knew was kidnapped.  I never actually seen the Gypsy's and I never knew anyone that did, but still, you could never be too careful!
The high school gymnasium burned down at some point during my high school years.  Now, I must go on record here as saying, I do not remember much about high school.    I do not know whether terrible things tend to be buried deep in our psychic, or the fact that I had a good friend who's dad made home brew might have tended to blur and distort some of my memories.
I do know I was not very interested in boys, not meaning that I was interested in girls.  I mostly liked to just day dream, I think.  I could see a very bright future for me as a writer, an actress, and entertained ideas of every kind, but never the role of wife or mother.  I did date a boy who later proved to be gay.  We had lots of fun and won all the dance contests.  Now I want you to know, that back in the day when we had the "sock hop" at convention hall, there was some dancing going on!  Remember American Bandstand with Dick Clark?  It was mine and Corky's dream to go there.  Course we never made it that far.  We did the over the shoulder, through the legs, toss in the air, stroll, chicken, bebop and anything else you could imagine, but we never made it to Band Stand! 
We did make it to Joyland in Wichita one afternoon.  Unfortuneatly that ended with me throwind up on the Round Up.  Nothing makes a date stand out in time immemorial like the girl hurling her cookies!
I have many memories of those years and I did not know until 55 years later that this was the ground work for Louella Bartholomew to become Lou Mercer.  My biggest regret in life  is probably that life can not be lived in the rear view mirror.  Ah, would I have done things different?  Hell yes!  But would I be the person I am today had I lived it different?  I doubt it.  There is a lot to be said for that song  The roots of my raisin' run deep.  I've come back for the strength that I need.  And help comes no matter how far down I sink.  The roots of my raisin' run deep.
For the record, I am happy with the person I am today.  Not real proud of some of the lessons I learned, but today I am a content woman with my mantra painted on a sign on the deck.  It reads

Love many, trust few.  Always paddle your own canoe! 

Back to Nickerson.

For those of you who do not know, this is an iron.  Does not even faintly resemble the Rowenta that sets in my sewing room and give me a burst of steam when I want it.  In our kitchen in Nickerson, was a very big wood cook stove.  It was made of cast iron and burned wood as the fuel source.  It had a tank we kept full of water which came in handy for dish washing and all kinds of stuff.  It was probably 3' by 2 1/2' and had an oven on the bottom part.  That never made sense to me since heat rises, but that is how I remember it.  The cooking area had several lids that could be lifted off to put more wood in when needed.  It had a shelf above where momma kept the salt, pepper, sugar, and a grease can.  The grease can was aluminum and after frying something, the excess grease was poured in there.  It had a strainer in the top to keep out the crumbs.  We used the grease over and over until it became "rancid".  Can you believe that? 
This was not our only source of heat for cooking.  We also had a small stove with four burners that was powered by either butane or propane.  This was used in case of an emergency.  An emergency usually meant we had run out of wood for one reason or another.  Since it was Jake's job to keep the wood pile chopped into manageable size logs, it was most always his fault!  The "good" stove was also used for frying chicken on Sunday.  I think that was because we were not supposed to work on Sunday.  It was a day of rest.  Cooking on the "good" stove was always fun.  Jake and I did that.  Oh, we fried the chicken and boiled the potatoes and I am sure momma made the gravy, although I learned how from some where! 
We did not attend a formal church until I was in seventh grade.  That was when momma got her cancer and had to have a hysterectomy.  The ladies from the church brought us food and made our dresses for school that fall.  Then we started attending the Christian Church up on Main Street between the school and the doctors office.  More about that later.
Back to the kitchen.  The water source was a hand pump and below it was mounted a sink with a pipe that run out the wall into the back yard for drainage.  The health department's of today would have had an absolute stroke when they say the Muscovy ducks playing in the water hole back there.  I am sure in this day and age, looking back on the living conditions, they would have been described as "squalor".  However, I want to go on record right now and tell you that those were the happiest days of my life and I would not trade one minute of them for all the tea in China! 
(That is what we used to say when we really liked something.  We knew if we had all the tea in China we would be very rich and to not trade something for all the tea in China was the highest compliment we could make.)
In the center of the kitchen sat the "wringer washer."  It was called that, because that is what it was.  When we moved in momma had one that had a gasoline motor, but later she got the electric one with the safety feature on the wringer that if you got your hand caught in it and it was going to rip your arm off, you hit the lever on top and it popped open.  The wringer was used to run the clothes through to "wring" the water out of them.  Otherwise, we had to twist them by hand to get it out.  So when wash day came (and if I looked at the tea towels, I would know what day it was, but it seems like it was Monday) we drug the "wash boiler" down from the hook and set it on the stove.  Water was heated on the wood stove in the winter.  Summer was different.  We also had a "three legged"  cast iron kettle in the yard.  We pumped water into buckets and carried it to the kettle where the fire was blazing merrily and began to heat the water.  Again Jake was expected to tend the fire, which meant feeding the fire god logs.    Since we were extra clean, we had two rinse tubs.  These had to be cold water.  In the last rinse tub went just a tiny bit of "bluing" which gave the white clothes the hint of blue which made them appear more white.
But the most important part was the soap.  Tell you where we got our soap.  In the corner of the kitchen set a metal bucket.  In that bucket went all the grease that we did not use for other things.  When it was half full it was strained into a clean metal bucket.  When the time was right, momma dripped water through pure wood ashes and made her own lye.  This was poured into the warm grease and stirred vigorously  with a hammer handle until it began to "trace".  At the first sign of "trace" (which you actually have to see to know what it is) it was poured into a wooden box lined with an old tea towel.  This process was a definite art.  I have seen the soap set up on the way to the box and the hammer handle remain in the mass until all the soap had been grated and it was free at last.  This lye soap varied in color from dark tan to pure white.  The pure white meant that every thing had gone just right and it was perfect. 
Mother was a pioneer woman that I have learned to appreciate more the last 30 years of my life than I ever did before.  I make my own soap now with commercial lye that is called "sodium hydroxide" because the first time I listed "lye" as an ingredient my customers were afraid of it.  And I can not buy it at the store anymore.  I have to order it online and sign all kinds of affidavits that I will not be making "meth" with it.  Phshaw!
I have no doubt repeated myself today and told you things I have already told you on this blog, but I will try to do better next time.  It is just that my childhood was so important to making me who I am today, that I want everyone to know about it.  I left home when I was 18 and was so happy to escape those early years and move on to bigger and better things.  When I turned 50  I decided that I should rethink my childhood and I have become more fulfilled than ever and I want  the whole world to know that the values that were instilled in me at my mother's knee are the driving force behind the woman I have become.  Makes me sad to think what I could have accomplished on this earth if I  had pulled my head out of my ass way back then.

Testing one, two, three...

Ok, I think I   have found the address for the picasa slide show!  It is 5:15 in the morning so I am going to publish this one after while and see if it works.  This is the river by Sherman's house and I think it was taken the spring of 2012, but it might have been 2011.  Anyway, here it is!

 

Still on the Ailmore place.

Just read the last post I made before I wandered off to do my craft shows.  We were on the Ailmore place and had just had our cyclone.  I have a few more memories I need to share there and then I will move on. 
I mentioned Bull Creek being right by our house.  I am going to try to figure out my directions here.  Sorry, I got confused, but if you want to look just click here and you can figure it out.  Just know that the Arkansas river runs on one side of Nickerson, Cow Creek figures in there some where on the other side and Bull Creek is a little furrow you can step across most of the time and has no water in it at all.  But it is, or was at the time, a whole different story in the Spring.  I think it is still the same because I used to make several trips down there every year and some times I like to take 96 Highway just for a change of scenery.  Starting about in Rice County the sheriffs and volunteers would be out to make sure that when cars crossed the flooded parts of the road there were no casualties.  Just one of the hazards of the area.
I recall once leaving our house and walking to check on the Shultz family, which was about 3 blocks away, and wading water all the way.  As quickly as the floods came, they receded and we were left with puddles of water in all the low places.  So we built little boats and sailed them in the puddles.  As I recall, our house was set up off the ground so the water did not get inside.  Most of the houses there were that way.  I do not recall having a pet at the time, but I sure there was an old mangy dog around some where.
Back somewhere in the far recesses of my mind I can recall my father "pulling a prank" on friend of his or at least on his wife.  Her name was Salina.  I think she was married to John Britan, the guy my dad share cropped with for many years.  All I remember is waking up and hearing them laughing and John saying "Just look at the egg my chicken laid!  I am going to take it to the newspaper."  Then they laughed some more.  "Damn, Rueben, where did you get that turkey egg?"  I do not know if anyone ever told Salina Britan that her chicken did not lay that egg, but it was a source of amusement at gatherings for a very long time as it quickly circulated through the town, and I am remembering it over 60 years later.
There are a lot of things I remember on the Ailmore place.  Some one up the road had a car and took the children to school.  They would stop at the end of our drive and let us ride with them if we were out, but if not, then we walked to school.  There was a young man about Jake's age that sometimes hung out at the house, but he preferred to hang with us girls.  Mother, Dad and Josephine would run him off the place.  I did not understand then, but now I think I do.  I thought they were just being mean because he was my "friend", but looking back, that was pretty strange.
The man right across Bull Creek on the way to town raised pigs.  Right now his name escapes me    ( Roy Keating) but some times dad would go do chores when the man left for a few days.  We always went and gathered the eggs.  That was really nice because he had a special little shed built for the eggs to be taken into, cleaned and put in crates.  Our hen house had blown away and our chickens just laid where ever they felt like laying.  Oh, but there is nothing more terrifying than reaching under one of those hens to get the egg.  I lived in mortal terror that I would be pecked.  Still afraid to do it now, so I just don't have chickens.
Jake always wanted to be a mechanic.  I recall once he wanted me to blow in the gas tank while he looked under the hood.  Then he had the bright idea to syphon the gas out of the tank and coerced Donna into sucking on the hose to get it started.  She had no idea what she was doing so she got a big mouth full of gas.  Lordy, mother liked to beat that Jake to death!  And we had to make Donna throw up and maybe there was another trip to the medical place in Hutch.
Lots of gaps in my memory back then, but remember I was very young.  Life back in those days was straight out of a John Stienbeck novel; poverty in it's purest form.  But everyone was in the same boat, the war was just over, and better days lay ahead.  I know cause we heard the adults say so and adults knew every thing!  But we were about to move again.  I had been born on one place, moved to another and was on my way to a third.  I was 7 years old and the world lay before me like an open oyster, and sorry to say, smelled about the same...a little fishy!

I am almost done.

Very soon this will be a part of my past.  Last weekend we had the estate sale.  Last night Ross and I emptied the house almost completely.  I will go over there today and load a couple boxes and run the vacuum.  Then that goes in the car along with me.  Wednesday we will empty the garage. 
It has been a long 2 1/2 years.  I would like to say it was all smooth sailing, but it wasn't.  Dealing with  death is never easy for anyone involved.  I will say this for Sherman, he handled it with  more grace and acceptance than I thought it was possible for one human to muster.  I hope I can do as well when my time comes.  He set the bar pretty high and I am just not sure I can reach it.
I had been a widow 7 years when I met Sherman.  Following that I will be 78 years old before I date again.  Wonder how that is going to work?  If you look carefully at the porch trim on the top you will notice that one of the white pieces is missing.  It was not there when I met him and we always meant to finish that, but never quite got around to it.  Kind of like life, isn't it?  There is always one more thing that needs done!
Miss you Sherman.
 

It happened again!! Honest people!!

Yesterday was a hub of activity at the SWM's estate.  Bikers all over the place for the British Motorcyle Association of Colorado sale as per the terms of the will.  More about that tomorrow, but I have got to tell you this part first.  Remember when I left my purse in the shopping cart at Walmart just a couple weeks ago?  And remember how I got it back just like I left it?  Well, listen up.
This is a lady from St. Louis.  She went to our local Walgreen's right over there on 4th and Abriendo to buy pop and something else, I forget what.  Later in the day, she was going with Libby some where and she looked for her purse.  Then WE looked for her purse and very soon came the sinking realization that it was not in our vicinity. So she and dear hubby lept in the pickup and off to the local Walgreen.

You guessed it!  There it was.  Two ladies had found it in the parking lot in the cart and brought it and turned it in to the clerk who locked it up until someone came to claim it.  Now, I ask you, what does this say about our fair city?  I say it speaks volumes about the caliber of people that we never meet.  I know that sinking sensation when I reach for something and it is not there.  Can you imagine how this would feel to a woman a thousand miles from home?
Now granted a woman's purse is one of those items that has been known to strike fear in the heart of more than one man.  Like my late SWM.
"Do you have a pen?"
"Sure. Get one out of my purse!" 
Fear in the eyes.  "That purse?"
"Yeah."
"You mean open it up?"
"Yeah, just reach in there!"
"You mean with my hand?"
"Well, yeah, unless you have a better solution as to how to get it out."
"So, I have to open it up?"
"I thought we had established that."
"I have to touch it?"
I found it was much easier and a whole lot quicker to just pop it open and get the pen myself.  And yet I see movies where "purse snatchers" grab a purse right off a woman's shoulder and run away with it.  They apparently were raised in a different era than most of the men I know.  Or they are drug crazed maniacs.  Or they have never been in the wonderland of a woman's purse!  Where I came from no self respecting man would ever touch a woman's purse for any reason what so ever. 
Oh, dear, I see I have once more digressed from my message.  This old age is about to be more than I can keep up with.  Seems I spend half of my time getting something and the other half wondering where I put it after I got it.  No wonder I leave things in the shopping cart, but dear Liz, what is your reason?  LOL
So back to the honesty in parking lots.  Maybe it is just easier to be honest if no one is looking.  Or maybe I have just been a pessimist all along.  What ever, my hat is off to Jeffery at the south side Walmart and the two ladies at the Abriendo Walgreen.  I am proud to salute you, who ever you are!
******************************************************************************

 

From the back cover

Chapter One...Loose Ends
Lou Mercer

Meg Parker led a simple life.  She was a widow of three years and lived on a chicken farm at the foot of the mighty Rockie Mountains.  Life was good and her little store on eBay made her extra spending money.  But snow and wildlife were not the only things lurking in the forest above her house.  Nor did it stay in the forest for long.

Marshall Purcell came home a wounded veteran from vietnam.  He still had his dreams, but they were of an incestuous past that threatened to consume him.

When Meg and Marshall met it seemed an inconsequential meeting, but it changed both their lives forever.  And change is not always a good thing.

This is adult fiction at its best without all the sex.  Well, maybe just a little bit. 

About the author.  Lou Mercer was born in Nickerson, Kansas. She came to Pueblo, Colorado in 1977 and is now a product of the majestic Rockie Mountains

Lordy! This is a giant bee hive!

Here is the house and what you need to know is that there are bees there!  Well, not exactly in the house but out back.  I needed to clean the yard, so Bret had the brush hog and I went to pick up an old stool and stirred up a nest full under there.  Then he moved a set of saw horses into the garage and another nest full of them.  Well, then we decided we ought to go eat and let them settle down.  As Mark was locking the door one came all the way around the house and stung him on the foot.

Poor Mark!  All he had done while we were stirring them up was to set in the garage and do an inventory sheet.  He had not even stuck his little nose out the door.  I felt really bad about that! 

I expect this home will be listed for sale soon.  Course we have to make it presentable.  You saw the slide show of this and know it is three stories and a basement.  And I just love the interior of this thing.  Something about a Victorian.  If I  were not so firmly ensconced out here on the mesa I would be moving in here myself.  True it needs lots of work, but this would make an absolutely beautiful home.

 This is in a very quiet neighborhood.  The kayak course is right down the hill.  Shopping within walking distance.  Oh, yeah, and Starbucks nearby.  Call for details.

Chapter One...Loose Ends

Available here online.

Is it writer's block or is it just life catching up with me?

Those of you who know me, know that I lost a very dear friend and companion one week ago.  The fact that he passed on Friday the 13th did not escape my notice and indeed did bring a smile to my face and heart because it was so like he had actually chosen that day out of all the others.  He did have that sort of sense of humor.

So now I am here alone again thinking of all the questions I should have asked him about his growing up years, the years he travelled the country, the sail boat he and a friend built and sailed to Guatemala, his business in Denver, and all sorts of things.  And he had very long arms.  I wanted to measure with our elbows together to see where my fingers would end on his arm. 

This picture was taken in front of his house when his brother came to visit.  Poor dear was always cold it seemed.  I would love to tell you all about this part of my life, but I am restricted so I will just tell you this: Yes, he and I were very close and in a different time and place we would no doubt have taken our relationship to a much deeper level, but that did not happen.  We did discuss it at great length even as we knew his time on this earth was limited.  I would have been most honored to have been his wife.

But that is niether here nor there and now I must get my life back together and move on.  I want you all to know that I appreciate your patience and while moving on is not an easy task, it will be done.  This blog is my way of easing a little of the pain I feel and if I have offended anyone about all I can say is "Sorry, but he was mine, too."

******************************************************************************
Want to buy your copy of Chapter One....Loose Ends?  It is available online at www.loumercer3.com

or right here with the paypal button.