Cursive? What is that?

 I woke up this morning remembering the first grade at Nickerson Elementary School.  It was a big two story red brick building just one block down from where Main Street ended.  Why is it that 72 years later I can still remember the buildings in Nickerson, Kansas, but I can not remember what I needed from the grocery store? I think there were 3 or 4 sandstone steps that led up to the double doors that opened into the first floor.  The first floor held the first 4 grades as well as the kitchen where Mrs. Ritchie cooked the meat and potatoes that was the staple noon meal for the kids who could afford to pay for meals.  The little Bartholomew kids carried a sack lunch which was eaten at the other end of the long lunch table.  It was sort of like the lunch counters at Woolsworth where the "blacks" were not allowed to set at all back in the days of segregation.  Kind of funny how some things in life never really leave our psyche.  But I digress.

I was 5 years old when I walked into the hallowed halls of learning.  The first thing I learned was that my coat went on a hook on the wall and not just any hook.  We were assigned a hook in alphabetical order according to our last name.  Which brought us to our first lesson we would learn....the alphabet!  Across the front of the class room was a giant blackboard.  Above the blackboard was mounted the alphabet.  Directly below each letter was a picture that we should associate with that letter.  A a Apple apple.  Bb Boy boy.  Cc Cat cat.  You get the drift.

I can remember how my little mind hungered to learn all the letters.  All 26 of them.  At 5 years of age I somehow knew that if I could learn those letters and if I could learn to count, that the world would be my oyster!  It is funny how the young mind can grasp a concept when it wants to.  Learning was the most important thing I had to do at that age and I was going to do it right!  The fact that about as soon as I mastered those block letters, I would advance to second grade and on to third where the little block letters would fade into "cursive".  The letters I had worked so hard to learn were no longer in use and now I must learn "cursive."

Learning cursive also entailed practicing making loops and swirls until they were all even and my skill at printing now became "penmanship."  I was a natural!  Cursive was much faster than printing.  It looked better.  My mind was now free and unencumbered by the restraints of printing.  I loved to write and to me the greatest gift in the world was a blank tablet and a pencil.  I was enthralled and the love of writing never left me.  For many years it was buried under the guise of motherhood and the need to work to survive.  (Love of alcohol also interfered in that time period.)  But time marches on.

Penmanship became a thing of the past at some point.  I am not sure when that happened, but I was having coffee with my Republican friend in Kansas when he told me he would like me to come to Topeka and write thank you notes for him because I had beautiful handwriting!  While I was flattered at the compliment, I was stunned to learn that schools were no longer teaching "cursive".  I actually thought he was bullshitting me, but he wasn't.  

Since I was am longer in the loop of school age children I do not know what the status of cursive vs printing is.  Maybe someone out there can tell me.  We are in the day of computers and text messages and I think the only pen and paper stuff is the grocery list I make occasionally.  I have, however, become adept at asking the question, "Can you read cursive?" when asked for my address.  Usually I am met with a blank stare.  How sad is that!

I guess I will go google it!  I have a box of stuff from my mother in the closet.  Uncle Ray and mother corresponded regularly and it was always in cursive.  It is sad to think that I should actually throw that stuff on a fire, because no one will be able to read it.  

Bret just came up and I asked him if he can read cursive.  His answer was " I can, but it is confusing."  During our brief discourse  he made this statement:  "It is sad that cursive has been lost, because with the loss of cursive goes the loss of a language.  The Declaration of Independence and all the old documents are written in cursive, so they can not be read in the original form."  

So let me drink a cup of kindness now to the little red brick school house that no longer exists and to the teachers that taught me how to write my name and put my thoughts on paper.  They have faded into posterity, but never from my mind.

Mrs. Breece, Mrs. Wate, Miss Holmes, Mrs. Howe, Miss Swenson, Miss Lauver, Mr. Schrieber, and Mr. Bolinger.  You will live forever in the hallowed halls of my mind.

My friend pool tends to be dwindling!

 I am on facebook.  A couple days ago I was notified of a friend who was having a birthday, so I clicked on the "wish her the best" button and sent her a happy birthday wish.  Yesterday I got a message from her daughter that she had passed away 4 months ago.  Of course I had been meaning to call her.  Mother always said "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."  And of course momma was right.  

So in my inimitable way, I looked for someone else to blame for my neglect of my friend.  Blame it on Covid.  Blame it on my having a 4 year old to take care of while his daddy works.  Blame it on the Pueblo Chieftain for raising the price of a subscription so high that I can not afford the paper and thus can not read the obituaries.  

Darn!  It seemed that only last week I had seen her at Walgreens and we talked about lunch.  Her step daughter and I were friends.  But as I set here thinking back, I do not know the last time I seen her!  It was not this summer, or last summer.  Maybe 3 summers ago.  Nope! Longer than that.  She does not know Bret has a son and that son is now almost 5 years old!  Damn!  I am not sure she even knew about Sherman and he passed in 2012!

A lot of my problem is this damned pandemic!  I could always keep track of time because I attended church every Sunday and that started my week.  My church has been closed since March, so there is no longer a start to my week.  The days just run together.  Monday and Tuesday are Bret's days off, so if he is hanging around the house during the day, I know it is Monday or Tuesday.  After that it is all down hill.  I may have to actually go find a church that will let me in just so I know what day it is.

Now I am setting here realizing that I am suddenly old. My life is marked by milestones.  There is the period before Kenny.  That is anything prior to 1980.  Then there is life after Kenny.  That is 2003.  And there is life now.  Not sure it is very much to write about, but it is what it is.  I tend to spend a lot of time just wondering where this is all going to end.  Hopefully I will just wake up dead some morning and my ride will be over.  This is going to surprise a lot of my kids who are harboring the idea that I will live forever!  And every morning that I open my eyes and look over at that clock that continues to mark the hours and minutes of my life, I am amazed.  Mainly I am amazed that I have managed to spend this many hours, days and years on this little green and blue ball without sending it spiraling off course.  But then I am not done yet, am I?

A friend sent me, completely out of the blue, a gift the other day.  It came in the mail and when I opened it I was pleased to find a beautiful  purple tee shirt.  I love purple!  And this was the perfect shade!  I called him when I got it and before I opened it.  I had a little trouble grasping what it said on the front in big white letters, but reflecting back, I realized that he had summed up my life with these words: 

UNDERESTIMATE ME

That'll Be Fun

So, thanks, Ross Barnhart, for reminding me that there are still people out there who care and think about each other.  I like to think that some day our lives will go back to normal and that we will be able to meet for lunch or pop in Starbucks for coffee.  It is sad that this year had to happen, but maybe it will wake us all up.  Maybe I will start calling people and checking on them.

Or not. 

The gift of forgetfulness.

 Of all the gifts the Lord has given me, I think that not remembering some things is the best gift of all!  I woke up this morning remembering the Stroh place in Nickerson.  The incident was mostly clear in my mind.  I recall a big yellow cat.  I do not recall his name, but he was the resident mouser.  Some times I think I  petted him.  I can recall him rubbing on my legs.  I started school when I was five, and it was summer so I had to be about 4 years old.

This particular day, we were setting on the back step.  It was hot.  Nickerson in summer was always hot.  The big yellow cat came walking across the back yard and into the yard.  In his mouth he carried a newly hatched baby chicken.  He dropped this at my mothers feet.  Now if you know about cats, this was an honor.  This meant that the cat realized mother could not hunt and he brought her the baby chick to feed her.  He loved her.

But mother did not appreciate the gesture at all!  Looking back, I can understand what was going through her mind.  She loved that old cat; we all did.  But this small chicken would have grown into a hen or rooster and made more chickens.  If it was a rooster, it would have ended up as Sunday dinner.  If it was a hen it would have laid eggs which were a staple in every day life either as a source of income or the binder in pancakes or baked goods.  Then it would have ended up as a big pot of chicken and noodles.  Either way, the big yellow tom cat had thwarted Mother's plan.

I recall the sadness in her eyes as she turned to my brother Jake.  My four year old mind does not recall the exact words, but the words do not matter.  He was told to take the Tomcat into the forest out back and "get rid of it."  My beloved cat was no longer a pet.  He was now an "it".  Jake would have been 8 since he and I were born 4 years and 4 days apart.  He went into the house and returned with his single shot rifle.  He always carried a big pocket knife because boys always carried a pocket knife so they could whittle.  Jake could whittle a whistle that was the best whistle in the world.  Boys don't do that anymore.

He picked up the big Tomcat and walked slowly from the back yard, across the barn yard, past the  chicken house and disappeared into the woods out back.  I waited for the shot.  I never heard it.  Mother and baby Donna went inside.  I waited.  A four year old girl has no concept of time.  There is nothing to measure it against until you learn how to count time on the clock on the wall.  I do know mother went inside and I waited for what seemed an eternity.  I finally seen Jake emerge from behind the chicken house.  He was alone.  I could tell by his eyes that he had been crying. 

We never spoke about the incident.  In my mind he turned the big yellow tomcat loose and he found a new home.  Four year old minds can do that.  Minds can forget bad things that happen to us.  I guess it is God's way of letting us survive in a world that is not always pretty.  We do not always remember the things that hurt us and scar our very souls, but that is good.  It lets the big yellow tomcats of our life run free in the forests of life.

And it lets us sleep at night. 

The heart of the home is this table right here!

As a young girl back in Nickerson, I recall doing my homework at the dining room table with a coal oil lamp to light my books.  Now you should know that the "dining room table" was the only table that we had and the room we had it in was between the kitchen and the "front room."  The front room was the first room in the house.  Next was the dining room and then the kitchen/wash room/library/what ever else we needed it to be.  On Saturday nights that is where we all took turns taking a bath in a tin tub.  

There were 2 other rooms in the house and they were both bedrooms.  Now back then bedrooms were exactly that!  Mother had the smallest room which held one bed and she slept there with the 2 youngest girls.  The front bedroom had 2 beds, one of which was my fathers.  The rest of us girls slept in the other bed.  Jake was relegated to the floor.  But this is not about where we slept, this is about the dining room table.

We had electricity, but we rarely ever used it, because we were afraid we would wear it out.  The table was a round oak table much like the one I have in my dining room today.  I am sure the chairs were wooden because we could not afford one of those fancy chrome sets that everyone coveted.  There was a green wooden table in the kitchen, but that was for holding pots and pans and such. 

We ate at the dining room table.  We did our homework at the dining room table.  If someone dropped by they were seated at the dining room table.  Usually we sipped on a glass of water from the well.  The icebox was in the dining room by the door to mother's bedroom.  Once a week the iceman came.  We had a sign that was in our front window.  It was similar to the one in the lower right corner.  The iceman would pick up the size block we wanted with his ice tongs and carry it inside and place it in the icebox.  The money was always left on top of the icebox.  A new block of ice was always a treat because it was so clear and square.  We used to follow the ice wagon on hot days as cool our feet in the water that came off his melting load.  I digress!

  

I tend to get off subject.  The point is that the dining room table was the heart of the home and life has not changed that much.  Kenny and I had not been married very long when we decided we needed a new table.  We went down on Union and found an antique round oak table that suited us perfectly.  Since he was working in Denver we went to the oak furniture store and purchased 6 straight backed chairs and we were in business.

Shortly after that, my mother came for her first visit.  She lived in Hutchinson, Kansas and as I recall she rode the train to LaJunta where I picked her up and brought her home.  She was very happy to see the round oak table and the 6 oak chairs.  She set down and started to reminisce.

"This is the heart of the home.  It is here that everyone gets together to eat and it is where all important decisions are made.  It is here that the family comes together.  It is here that company visits.  This table is where happiness and sadness are always discussed."  And she was right.

When someone comes to my house, even today, we set at the table.  The couch and recliners are only used to watch television.  The heart of the home I grew up in was always the table and it still is today.  Whether it is dinner for 20 people or a cup of tea with a friend, it all happens at the table.  I have a breakfast bar with stools that are never used.  I have an office, but I pay my bills and do my correspondence at the table.  Mail is put on the table.  It is the center of my existence.

My mother has been gone many, many years, but the table will always be where I see her most.  She used to set at that table and work her crossword puzzles.  I can not work a crossword any where but there.  I miss my mother every day of my life.  It never gets better.  Someone asked me once, "How long do you mourn when someone dies?'

My answer to that is "forever."  How could you ever forget the woman who gave you life?  Things come and go, but mothers and dining room tables are forever.  I have pictures of my mother and Kenneth's mother beside my front door.  They are the last thing I see when I leave and the first thing I see when I close the door when I return.

I realize that someday, I will no longer be here.  No doubt there will be an auction and the dining room table will go to a new home, but that is alright, because I will be at the big table across the great divide with my Mother and all my grandma's and there will be a giant table that has room for all of us.

Kinda looking forward to that!

This would be my oldest brother, Richard Nichols.  He was my father's oldest son, by his first wife.

 This is William E. Bartholomew who was my fathers second son by his first wife.  Both of them were in World War II and both of them were shell shocked, Richard more so than Gene.  This picture is from an obituary that Sam found on Ancestry.com.  He apparently lived in Seattle, Washington when he died in1973.

I never really knew my step brothers because they were grown and gone when I was old enough to know I had them.  Since Gene was the only one that was not adopted from the orphanage, he tended to check in with dad occasionally.  I do know he had lived for a while with a family named Banks.  It seemed that they were either from Nebraska or close to that area.    An obituary that my son found on Ancestry shows he died in 1973.  So there was a span of about 20 years that he had a life in Washington.  If anyone has any knowledge of him during that time, I would sure like to know.  I hope he had a family that loved him.  Life is strange.

So I guess I will put that brother to bed since I at least know he has been dead for 46 years.  Rest in peace, Gene.

Over the river and through the woods.

Nickerson was always cold in the winter and snow was always very deep.  I do not know when winter started exactly.  It was some time after school started and before Thanksgiving.  We lived in a house out at 709 Strong Street.  I would like to say it was a "clap board" house, but I am not sure that was accurate.  I think it was called a "clap board" because somebody took boards and "clapped" together and then hammered in a nail for good riddance.  5 rooms and not a bathroom in any of them.  The front room had a pot belly stove that we built wood fires in for warmth.  The kitchen had a giant wood cook stove.

The front of our house faced east toward town and the back faced west toward the cemetery.  The front of the house was the "front room" and Dad's bedroom was on the south with 2 beds.  One was for him and the other was for all of us kids except the 2 little ones and mother.  The next 2 rooms were the dining room and on the right was Mom's bedroom.  The dining room had a built in cupboard and yellow glass dishes were there.  We had a whole set.  They may have come from the oatmeal and corn meal we bought.  I wish I had a set of those dishes today.  I would sell them and retire on a tropical island some where. 

The kitchen ran the whole length of the house on the back.  Well, that is not quite true.  The back door of the kitchen led to a back porch.  One side of the porch was for stacking wood and on the other side was a door that lay at about a 30 degree angle and covered the steps down to the dreaded cellar.  I am sorry, there is no pretty way to put this, but that cellar was the scariest place in the whole world and we lived about a quarter of a mile from the cemetery.  Mother stored sweet potatoes, apples, white potatoes and canned fruits and vegetables down there.  There were spiders down in that hell hole bigger than I was and deadly as shit.  Black widows loved that place.  One of the first lessons I learned was how to take a stick and poke a spider web.  Usually it just broke loose and floated off, but if it were the web of the deadly black widow, it was shiny and crackled when you pulled.  When that happened we were to get the hell out of wherever we were at.  Being a good daughter, I did just that.  It was called a black widow because after breeding and to provide nourishment  for the babies, mother black widow killed and ate her husband. Praying Mantis's do the same thing.  I guess the kid's dad was lucky, huh?

The kitchen was one step down and could be accessed either through the dining room or mom's bedroom.  The floor was concrete, which was one step above a dirt floor.  The wood cook stove took up the whole corner.  Of course we had a wood box, and an ash bucket there by the stove.  Very little cooking took place through the week.  Mostly we ate cereal, raw potatoes, apples, sweet potatoes or a bread sandwich.  Sundays we cooked.  We had either fried chicken or roast beef.  Supper was stuff like scrapple if mother was lucky enough to score a hogshead.  Fried carp was regular fare and apples in about any method were an everyday occurrence.  I ate raw apples, fried apples, baked apple, boiled apples, sliced apples, dehydrated apples and rehydrated apples.  I made up my mind that when I grew up I would never eat another damn cooked apple and I have managed to keep that vow.  Marriage vows were easily broken, but the vow to never eat a cooked apple has been respected and never broken.  For the record, I do not eat Carp either, but that is just because I never ran across one since mother used to seine for them in Nickerson.

I started this to tell you about how hard the winters were back home.  Our walls had cracks where the boards came together and some times when the wind blew snow came in.  Not very often because mother did paper the walls, but sometimes the paper cracked.  I can remember once when we drove to Hutchinson to have Thanksgiving with my half brother, Earl and his wife and kids.  It took us most of the day to go and come back.  The roads were very snowy, but the cars back in those days were very heavy and pretty much mashed the snow.  If we slid off the road, sooner or later someone would come along and help us out of our dilemma.  We were in turn supposed to do the same for anyone we found in a predicament like that.  That was the good thing about the good old day.  We helped each other.  The "haves and the have nots" were not so far apart as they are today.

The thing about going to Earl's was that he had a house with a furnace.  It was an actual furnace and blew hot air through a grate in the floor.  We were amazed at how hot the grate was and Gertie showed us one of the boys leg where he had been burned by it before he learned.  He had a series of little squares on his leg and we "oohed and aahed" at how lucky he was to be alive.  We then ate whatever we ate and after a little small talk dad "allowed as how we ought to get on the road for the long drive back."  ( I made the drive in later years and it took about 20 minutes and that was driving slow and gawking at everything."  Of course that was not in the old Studebaker now was it?)

Thanksgiving had been great that year.  I do need to tell you that back in those days at the family dinners the order of plates being filled was different than it is today.  First the men filled their plates.  Then the older kids.  Then the mothers fixed plates for the young kids.  At that time it was time for the women to get their food.  When the meal was over, the women folk washed the dishes, dried them and put them away.  Floors were swept and the kitchen "redded up" for the next meal.

I wonder if the kids today know how Thanksgiving came to be a national holiday?  It is this time of year that I pause to think about how the people who were living here in America and surviving for so many years welcomed the newcomers and brought them food.  Guess they kind of thought these people needed help to survive.  I am betting that if they had known then what they know now, there sure as hell would not be any Thanksgiving dinner on the horizon.  But here we are in 2017 in the land of the free because of the brave with racial bias and hate swirling like snowflakes looking for something to be thankful for and coming way short of the goal.

Damn, I wish I could go back to that little shack on Strong Street and get my tongue stuck to the flagpole just one more time.

Whittlin' Joe and Smokin' Johnny Carson

We lived down on Strong Street and they lived up on Highway 96.  They lived the second house in from the corner in a brown tar paper shack.  I call it tar paper but it had a coating on it with flecks of brown, red and black.  You know what I mean, kind of like the asphalt shingles on roofs today.  Their yard was small but it was big enough for a chicken coop and an out house.  It had one tree and that is where Whittlin' Joe could be found every afternoon after school.  He sat on a wooden chair and leaned it back against the tree trunk and whittled his little things he whittled whatever they were.  I suspect he was there all day and not just after school, but that is when I saw him.  The chickens ran free in the yard and some times one could be seen coming out of the house.  They had a small trailer and it was said by my brother (who knew these things) that the trailer was full of things they had whittled and in the summer they went on the road and sold stuff.  I could not argue, because I did not know.  I just know I walked on the other side of the street because they scared me.
I had heard rumors that sometimes Hank Windiate would stop and pass the time of day with them.  Hank lived at the end of our street and was crippled.  I do not know why, just that one arm and one leg were pretty small.  He had a buckboard and an old brown horse which he harnessed and hooked up to it on a daily basis and "went into town."  I have no idea why he went into town every day, but he did.  There were rumors that he had been married at one time and his wife had died.  Hank was another one who let the chickens run in and out of the house.  Hank took sick and died and the town people came and built a fire in his yard and burned everything that was inside.  I never understood that.  And I do not know what happened to the goats, chickens and horse either.  This is just how I remember it.
Between us and Hank were two houses.  First was Rudolph Reinke and his girls, Irene, Delores, Florence and Venita.  He had several more girls who had grown and gone, but Irene was my age and Delores a year or so older.  The mother had died when Irene was a wee tot and Rudolph was left to raise the kids.  He did handyman work and left early and came home late.  He also raised pigs and he could be heard doing his chores and singing hymns in German while he went about his business.  The girls made doughnuts every Saturday morning.  They also had a cow so they made real butter.  They used to trade us butter for the white stuff with a yellow dot that passed for margarine in the old time.  I liked that.  They had a dog on a chain that barked all the time and I do not think anyone ever petted it.
Between Reinke's and Hank was Jake Smith and his wife who I never knew because she looked really mean and stood very straight when she walked.  She walked into town and was a cleaning lady for someone.  Jake was a retired peace officer and he liked to show us his gun and tell us what would happen to us if we ever did anything wrong.  He would arrest us because he still had his badge and he could do that.  He had a chair in the yard and used to tip it back against the tree and nap.  Pretty sure Jake was the instigator of the "sneaking up on Jake Smith while he was asleep and tying him to the tree."  Boy, was he mad!  Of course he was not tied very tight, but it was just the idea of catching him asleep that the boys could not resist.
Walt King lived over on the highway on the other side of our block.  He raised beautiful flowers and a garden to die for, which he did one afternoon.  We saw him sleeping face down in his garden all afternoon and so when mother came home we told her and she and Rudolph went to investigate, but we had to stay home.
The Feins and their son Howard lived between us and Whittlin' Joe on the highway.  Howard was probably 25 years old and still lived at home.  He worked in his garden a lot.  He raised mostly flowers.  I stopped to see him sometimes, but once he made his false teeth jump out at me and scared the living shit right out of me.  I did not even know there were such things as false teeth.  When I told mother she just laughed and said to stay away from there because I was probably aggravating him.  I pretty much avoided him after that.
Right catty cornered from our house was a lot that was a square block with an empty house on one side.  I mean a deserted falling down house with no roof.  Joe Hedrick held his rodeo's there.  I always liked to watch them ride the broncs.  Joe or Jerry.  One was an old man and one was my age.  Today they have an exotic animal farm on the other side of town.  I think it is a bed and breakfast, or it was.  I have not been back in years so I do not know.
Behind our house about half a mile was the cemetary.  I used to love to go there because it was quiet and sometimes there were pretty flowers.  I just looked at them.
So, these are my thoughts this morning.  I sure wonder where they come from?

Family ties.

And here I am in Kansas.   Right now I am in the room with my sister,  Dorothy at the Hospice House.  We are awaiting the inevitable harbinger.  Then there will be 2 of us.  This is not something I am looking forward to, but it is what it is, nonetheless.
There are a few places I want to visit while I am here, if time permits.  I want to go back to Strong Street.  Donna tells me the only house left standing there is Hank Wingates.  That is hard to imagine as his was the one I would have placed bets on being the first to fall.
 I want to drive to the cemetary which was located about half a mile from our house.  I remember when I was very young having a kite and the wind pulled the string from my hand and the kite ended up caught in a tree.  How sad I was to see it bucking on the end of the string trying to escape.  I slept very little that night and when morning came, I raced to the cemetery to find it crushed and broken in the field with the string held tightly by the relentless tree.
I want to go out the highway to Bull Creek.  That us past Athey's Sandpit.  It used to be a bridge over it, but now I think it is just a trickle.  I want to walk through the field and see if the old swimming hole is still there where Jake and his pals used to swim while I fished for turtles up on the road.  I think they might have swum nekkid!
I want to go see if the Stroh place is still standing.  That is where my memories of life began.  That was where Donna had the turtle stuck on her finger.  That is where we played in the mud holes and Josephine almost beat us to death.  That is where mother pumped cold water over our heads as she washed our hair under the pump in the kitchen.  I swear that woman had 6 arms since she would tuck me under her arm, hold me with her other hand,  wash and rinse my hair with a hand while pumping furiously with yet another hand.
It was also where Dorothy was born.  I must have been about 6.  As I recall, I did not much like her and I was pretty sure we did not need a baby and yet there she was.  I am kind of anxious to see if I really remember accurately or not.
Since I began writing thiis  earlier today my little sister has passed.   So now there are 2 of us left out of 6.  Tomorrow Donna and I will take a trip to Nickerson.   A walk down memory.  I will let you know how that goes, but for now I am just very tired.

DOROTHY ANDERSON
August 20, 1947
December 19, 2015

Landowners at last.

We arrived at the "new" house in grand style.  Our first act as new tenants was to check out the place.  It consisted of 4 rooms and a kitchen area across the back.  Enter the front door of 709 Strong Street in Nickerson, Kansas.  Nothing was to be brought in until the room was "repapered".  This was always the first thing that happened when you took possession back then.  Wall paper has always fascinated me.  You first measure the room and figure out how many square feet of paper you need.  This leads to another conundrum.
You figure how many square feet of paper it will take to cover all four walls of the room.  It matters whether or not it needs to "match" but only when you go to buy it. For the record it usually does need matched, so there you are.  Ceilings were about 10 or 12 feet up there in those days.  This is something I never understood.  No one ever grew to 6 feet in those days, so why the ceiling needed to be so high was more than I could fathom.  These rooms were about 12 x 12.  So 12 x 12 x 4= 576 square feet.  Wall paper is sold by the single roll, but is packaged in one big roll that is called a double roll.  So say a single roll contains 36 square feet then a double roll would contain 72 square feet.  So this job would need 16 single rolls, or 8 double rolls.  Now you have to add a roll or two extra for "in case ofs", and there are a lot of those. 
See this is what happens, you lay a bunch of newspaper, or old towels or sheets or something on the floor.  You then measure you very first strip of wall paper.  It will need to be cut a few inches longer than the wall height, in case you measure wrong.  Then you take the roll and the next strip will be "matched" to the first strip, and make it just a little longer in case you are off a little.  You will do this for the first wall.  So there they lay face up.  One person on each end and flip the whole pile so it is now backside up.  Now the fun begins!  And I really to love to hang wallpaper.  Well, I used to. Little old for that crap now.
The step ladder is brought in and placed in the first corner.  The paste is mixed and the paste brush laid out.  The decision is made that Father will climb the ladder because he is the only one that can be trusted that high up in the air.  The paste is applied to the back of the first strip being sure to "get the edges good."  This is a job for Mother.  The strip is then folded and readied for transport up the ladder.  The top of the strip is folded to the middle paste sides together and then folded back up so the very top edge is free.  The bottom is folded accordion style with the paste sides together leaving a strip that is now about 7 feet long.  Father slides his left arm under the middle of the strip and catches the top free edge and up the ladder he goes.  The first piece is hung in the corner, and then they realize that the room is not "plumb" so an adjustment is made while a string is hung from the ceiling.  The first strip is crucial because if it is not straight, the whole room is "off".
Father pats the first strip overlapping the top where it meets the ceiling.  This is folded down straight and cut so it butts nicely against the ceiling.  While he is doing that Mother is "matching" and us kids are patting and smoothing.  The brush is then brought into play and the strip is smoothed and all bubbles worked out and then Mother cuts the bottom straight with the mop board.  We admire our "new wallpaper" and then in a frenzy we attack the job of "finishing what we started."  With all of us working it is done in just a few hours.  Many hands make light work!
The moving and the papering took most of the day, so we did not completely unload the belongings that night.  We did bring in the beds.  Two for the front bedroom and one for the middle bedroom.  One bed in front for Father and Jake and one for Josephine, Donna, Mary and me.  Mother had the other bedroom with Dorothy.  Sometimes Mary slept in there also since she was "almost" a baby.  Sometimes Mary slept with Father.  And mostly Jake slept on the floor behind the stove.  Sleeping was just something that had to be done in a prone position.  Nothing special about that chore. 
Now I am sure sometimes Mother and Father were at least more than casual acquaintance's, but I was never privy to that!  (Just want to clear that up.)
So ended the first day at the Bartholomew residence on Strong Street.  We would live there many years and make many memories, but tonight we were tired and the front room was papered and we were in our own beds.    So as I lay in my bed I began to worry about what we would have for breakfast since there was no stove to cook on and no pans were inside the house.  While far away in another place kids were dreaming of sugar plums and stuff like that I was dreaming about survival.

Ah, my bicycle and a chance to run head on with a Mack truck!

See me on my bike?  See my bike without me on it?  See that car in the background?  What do you think would happen if I were on the road and I met that car head on?  Think I would damage that grill and leave it a shattered mess?  Or do you think me and my little bike would lose that round?  Pretty sure I know the answer to that one.  But here is what happens every day of my life.

I go some where in the car.  Now I have always been taught that when I ride a bike I am to follow all the rules that a car or motorcycle would follow.  Stay on the right side of the road.  Stop at stop signs.  Use a hand signal to indicate what my next move will be.  Oh, yeah and obey the speed limit.  I have no problem with that.  Can't hardly keep moving without falling over most of the time, but that is irrelevant.

So here I am tooling along and up the road headed straight toward me is a bicycle.  Some times it is a kid and more often than not it is a grown up leading the pack.  Now when I walk I do face oncoming traffic, but be reasonable on this bike thing.  When walking I can easily step over it I need to while on a bike you can not.  You are in the lane of traffic and it is the equivalent of going the wrong way on a one way street!  There you are on your vulnerable little 2 wheels that probably weighs 15 pounds and here I am heading straight for you.  I know you are over on the other side of the white line, almost in the ditch, but I have no choice if you bobble just a little but to run over you.  Think you would like that?  So I can either swerve into oncoming traffic to miss you and kill myself, or I can stop and look at you like you are suicidal, which you are!

Now here is a link for you to read just in case you think I am dreaming this up.  Granted this link is to the California CDOT but last I knew they were part of the United States and under the auspices of  of the federal Department Of Transportation.  I know that you have reasoning powers so think about where you ride your bike logically. 

http://www.dmv.ca.gov/pubs/brochures/fast_facts/ffdl37.htm

When you are driving your car and you come on a slow moving vehicile you slow down.  Then you check oncoming traffic in the left lane.  If it is clear, you accelerate and move into the left lane to pass and then quickly back in to your lane.  But when a bike is coming towards you in your lane, it does not matter what is in the left lane.  You are left with no choices. 

I would not bring this subject up if it were not happening more often especially now that summer is here and more bikes are out.  I think I am going to make bike safety a priority.  I will first stop in the local cop shop and ask them if they could possible consider giving tickets to bicycleists who do not obey the rules.  I realize if I hit one of them I would not be held liable since they were clearly in the wrong, but there is that "morally responsible" thing to consider and I do so love to sleep at night with a fairly clear conscience.  I am afraid the vision of a body hurtling into my windshield would screw that up royally.

I had a grandson staying with me once who was a teenager and in college.  He rode his bike because that is what he had.  And he rode it on the wrong side of the road because "If someone is going to hit me I want to see them coming.!"  I explained to him that he would.  And he did.  He came home all scuffed up one evening.  Some guy pulled out from the stop sign and never even seen him.  Course not.  I am extra cautious, but not everyone is.  So the guy pulled out and Dameon bounced across his hood.  A second later and he would have been under his wheels; a second earlier and he would have broadsided him.  Did he learn anything?  I doubt it.  Grandma's are not real bright.

So this is my soap box for the day.  And this is your assignment for the day:  When you see someone riding a bicycle on the wrong side of the road, point it out to them that they are endangering not only themselves, but others.  They are setting an example for someone somewhere.  Oh and a little side note here, be diplomatic about it.  The finger gesture does not always convey your thoughts accurately!

 

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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

Tide pods, or what the hell do I do now?

I just saw something horrifying on the news!  You know the pretty little canisters that hold the Tide Soap Pods that I just toss in the washer and forget?  Well, I had one near catastrophe with them so far.  I tossed it into the washer part, it hit the spindle in the middle of the tub and ricocheted between the tub and the liner.  To the best of my knowledge it is probably disintegrated, or a least I hope so.  But worse then that, they are now going to make the canisters child proof!  Remember what I told you yesterday about that?  I thought I was safe in the laundry.  What kid actually wants to eat soap?  Apparently there are a lot of them out there!

Oh, when mine were young they ate soap a time or two before they learned acceptable language and the words I use are two entirely different things!  Now they did snack on the ex-lax once.  That was Debbie and Dorothy Renee.  I do not think either of them eats chocolate to this day.  As I recall, if there was something we did not want them to ingest we put it up very high and if we caught them near anything we had told them "no" to, there was a little thing called  "swat your hiney" that we played.  This was our idea of positive reinforcement.  We also knew how inquisitive the little bugger were so we used a tactic called "watching the kids."  No doubt we were infringing on thier privacy, but trust me here; a trip to the emergency room infringes on a lot of my rights.  So we did it.

There were other cruelties we did to them.  I liked to put them in "time out."  Time out usually meant that they would fall asleep and I could get a break.  Course since I ended up a single mother and child support enforcement at that time was a big joke, the kids were usually under the care of a "babysitter."  This was a person who was paid to come into my home and do the "watch the kids thing" while I worked.  I had a very lovely lady name Mrs. McIver who came daily and the kids loved her.  She read to them and took them for walks and all the things I never had time to do.  There was another lady who came when Mrs. McIver could not.  Her name was Ida Mae.  She was a very quiet lady and did her job of "watching" them.  This coupled with the fact that she had about 14 whiskers on her chin that were 5-9 inches long made them fear her.  She always brought them candy, but they never accepted it.  Could have been the ex-lax factor there.

Getting to the point here.  As an old lady with stiff fingers I am living in terror of what they are going to devise to keep me out of my Tide Pod container.  If they just secure the lid I think I can get the butcher knife and cut the top off and throw it away.  But if they make the container itself  heavier, I have to be careful.  I have scars from trying to chop away the heavy plastic and since my skin is getting thinner the kids are starting to hide my knives.  I think this is why old people end up in the nursing homes!  We are confronted on a daily basis with challenges on these damn child proof things.  So we don't use soap in the laundry, we don't take our pills, and even the bottle of milk sets on the shelf because we can not grab that tiny ring (assuming we know it is there and we can see it).

It is just easier to go to the nursing home and let them do it for us.  Then we get in there and find out they got the laundry mixed up and I now wear underwear that need to be held up with a safety pin and a bra that perches on the tips of my nipples.

I am telling you, this old age shit is for the birds!

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The roots of my raisin' run deep!

This is the top shelf of my computer desk.  I managed to click this photo while Icarus, the devil cat, was on break.  Starting with the big picture in back on the left is Mother.  Then Uncle Charlie, Uncle Frank, Uncle Ray, and Aunt Lola on the end.  This is probably the last picture of all of them together.  This is actually the only picture I know of that has all the 5 in a group.  And now that I think about it, I do not know if there is a formal picture like this of my siblings.  There is a picture somewhere of us 5 girls, but Jake was not in it.  So it would not have been complete.  And we were setting in the kitchen of Dorothy's house when she was married to Ernie and they lived out o 4th Street in Hutchinson.  Course Jake and Josephine are no longer with us so a picture is completely out of the question.
I will tell you about the other pictures and then come back and tell you about my Aunt and Uncles.  The small picture on the left is mom and dad, before they were mom and dad.  You know, back when they were Christine and Rueben Bartholomew.  This is their wedding snapshot, I think.  The picture on the right is mother's high school yearbook picture.  And of course the little angel in the back would be me!  That frame is now 69 years old.  I should sell it on eBay, but I want to keep it, so I will.  I always get what I want!
Now to the family picture.  Most of you probably knew mother, but doubted the existence of any other relatives.  The first is Uncle Charlie Haas.  He was married to Aunt Edith and they lived in Missouri.  Independence, I think.  They had one daughter, Donna.  Donna was not well and could never live on her own.  One year when I lived with Grandma Haas and Great Grandma Hatfield, Uncle Charlie and Aunt Edith sent me a birthday card with a Silver Dollar in it with my birth year.  I damn near broke both legs getting to the general store and getting rid of that money.  Most money I ever had at one time in my life!  At one point Uncle Charlie bought land in Woodland Park, Colorado, and built a new house.  Unfortuneatly he could not live in the high altitude due to his high blood pressure and had to sell it.  Mother and I tried to find it once from his description, but had no luck.  Uncle Charlie died first, then Aunt Edith.  Donna spent her remaining days in a nursing home and passed about 5 years ago.
Uncle Frank married Aunt Lila and lived in Lawrence, Kansas for the duration.  He was a farmer and she was a school teacher.  They had no children.  I was always scared to death of Aunt Lila.  I do not know if it was because she was a teacher, or she just looked very intimidating to poor little me.  When they retired they bought a home on 30th street in Hutchinson, Kansas.  He worked on the old tube type radios and had an extensive collection.  When they could no longer function at home they moved to assisted living in McPherson where they lived until he died and then her.  Mom and I used to go visit and it was so sad.  Uncle Frank was very hard of hearing and had dementia towards the end. The last time we were there he was setting at the desk tearing magazine pages into one inch squares and piling them very neatly.  He smiled at mother with the sweetest smile I have ever seen on a living human being.  He asked her what her name was and she replied "Christine."  His eyes lit up and he said, "Oh, I used to have a sister named Christine!"  At this mother lit up also.  "Why Frank!  It is me!"  He looked at her and you could see the wheels turn and he added. "Oh, no, she died a long time ago."  Of course mother was crushed.  Uncle died soon after that visit.  He was 90 something.
Uncle Ray was the most wonderful man in the world and I shall not try to tell you about him in this post, but will save him for a special time.
The lady on the end was Aunt Lola.  Aunt Lola was married to Alvin Farney and they lived near Plevna, Kansas and of course, were farmers.  They had one son, Carl, and 3 daughters, Alvina, Rosetta, and Marilyn. Marilyn had a very high fever when she was about a year old.  It did brain damage and disfigured her face.  But she was a wonderful girl and helped Aunt Lola keep house and cook.  Aunt Lola died younger than most of her brothers.  See, in our family we live to be 100 years old with amazing regularity.  Good genes and all.  Mom was 80 and that was very young.  So, the kids of Aunt Lola are my cousins and the only ones I actually know/knew.  I am afraid I did not keep up with them.  I do know Alvina and Rosetta married and had children.  Josephine used to keep me up on that stuff, but alas, no more.
When mother used to tell me tales and the grandmother and great grandmother would remember the good old days, I did not listen.  In one ear and out the other, so to speak.  So now here I set and have no clue.  We do have a genealogy book that traces our family roots back to Germany to the 1500's.  I love to read the stories and am absolutely fascinated by what those pioneers went through to bring this squalling little brat into the world.  Stop and think.  If one thing had been different, I would not be here.  It is all in the grand scheme of things.  Everything that transpired all those years ago led to this day and this hour.
Think about it.  My roots run very deep, but they are no different than your roots!  Have a good one!

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Roll of scotch tape; roll of linoleum.

I was thinking last night about how when I was small and we would move into a rented house what would transpire.  First the walls had to be repapered.  Before I could remember that part I understand sometimes the papering was with newspapers.  But we must have been rich because we had actual wall paper.  Usually it was some sort of flower stuff.  We did not always paper every room, but we did like the clean feeling new paper gave to the house.  After the rooms were papered came the most fun of all.

Off the parents went to the place, which was usually the furniture store, to buy our new floor.  Back in those days the furniture store was owned by Mr. Warn and his brother, Doc Warn, owned the appliance store and repair.  The furniture store also carried caskets, in case you died waiting for your new linoleum to arrive!  Did you ever hear of linoleum?  You measured your room and if it was 12' x 12' you told Mr. Warn and he would take you to the size you needed and show you a picture of it to make sure you liked it.  Sometimes there were several to choose.  The linoleum was rolled up and inside a big cardboard tube.  We usually carried it home since we did not have a car and the horses were supposed to be for work and this was fun!

When we got it home Dad would very carefully cut the tube.  Sometimes it would slide out the end and then we had the tube to play with which was way better than the linoleum to my way of thinking!  Any way, after it was out of the tube it had to lay there and rest and loosen up and we were not to touch it for any reason because if we did it would crack.  I think it was straight asbestos with a picture painted on one side.  As it relaxed it started to loosen and unfurl a bit.  At that point we were allowed to very gently unroll it.  If we met with any resistance we had to stop and wait some more.  This is the reason you only bought linoleum in the summer.  Cold weather slowed the process considerably.

After a couple days of tending to the roll it finally was completely unfurled.  It was rolled so when it was unrolled the design was on top.  Otherwise we would have had to flip it.  When it was all the way open we were allowed to walk very gently on it and finish flatening it.  Always in our bare feet.  Hell yes!  Well we never had shoes in the summer anyway!  So now the room was perfect.  And now the furniture could be brought back in from where ever it was.  Well, first, the wood stove had to be placed.  Moving into a new home always meant we got a new thing to put under the wood stove.  That was a big piece of asbestos covered with an enamaled piece of tin. 

You should make note here that asbestos is now illegal and is considered Hazardous Waste.  We did not know that when we were walking on it, setting hot pans on it, and generally using it for every thing imaginable.  Probably had a piece in each hand when we ran through the cooling mist of the machine spraying DDT to kill the mosquitoes on a hot summer night!

Ah, Home Sweet Home!!! 

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When you are over the hill, you pick up speed!

Well, this is one of my more recent snap shots.  I mean this is a more recent snap shot that some one else took of me.  I even look blurry.  Age is not wearing well on me.  And it is happening so fast that I am about ready to jump out of the way of this speeding train.  By the way, my shirt says "Jesus is coming!!!  Quick   Look busy!"  Well actually my shirt just hangs there and does not say anything.  I embroidered that on there as a message to those who have the idle hands in the day to day life we are forced to live.

At one point in time I was into decorating the "Necessary Room"  with wise sayings.  The first to hit the wall was one that had a sheep and said, "Ewe's not fat!  Ewe's Fluffy!"  That was followed closely by "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most!"  I soon tired of that one and replaced it with "Either lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way!"  These little jewels were all made in counted cross stitch that I toiled long and hard over.

Well, now it is many years later and the old eyesight is matching the picture there and the counted cross stitch is a thing of the past.  I used to crochet with the smallest hook and use thread that was like a spider web and make beautiful doilies to put all over the house.  The thread I use is now rug yarn and the doilies have been replaced by a store bought kitchen towel draped through one of the handles of the stove.  I always tilled my own garden, but now I am thinking of having some one come over and do that for me.  Actually I am looking to sell the tiller and do the container gardening thing where I do not actually have to bend over.

When we moved here in 1983 it took me about 35 minutes to mow and trim the yard.  Thank God we had a hot, dry summer last year and the grass refused to grow!  The chore is now up to over an hour and that is not counting the 3 breaks I need to take to rehydrate and dry the sweat that now runs off my head in rivulets!  I thought about hiring this out to my grandson, but when I told him I would pay $20 for the work and he looked at me with disdain, I just wanted to rip his head off his body!  Proving that not only does either one of us know the value of a dollar, but also that my sense of humor is definitely down the crapper.

For the first 55 years of my life I did not need an air conditioner in the summer and a wood stove was fine in the winter.  Shoveling snow was just something I did when it fell on my side walk.  At some point in time I must have blown my thermostat, because now an air conditioner is a must and I ain't chopping that damn wood, no way.  Right before Christmas we had to really big snows and I managed to make it in or out, but this past week when I looked out in the morning and saw that crap I picked up the phone and called the step daughter.  "Was Michael on his way over or shall I go ahead and shovel this stuff myself?'  Dead silence.  We both knew the answer to that one!  And my thoughts on this were almost profound!

Why is youth always wasted on the young?  When we were kids growing up at home and it snowed, we never shoveled.  No one shoveled.  The tallest one went out first and "broke a path"  to wherever we needed to go.  Usually the first path was to the out house.  And luckily that path led past the wood pile so eliminated the need for the second path!  (My momma didn't raise no fools!)  Hopefully someone had chopped and stacked some wood on the back porch before the "storm hit" so there would be dry wood for the necessary parts of life like cooking.  We did have a propane cook stove, but we only used that on Sunday and not always then. 

Winters were hard back then.  The stove would inevitably burn out in the night so we had to rely on the pile of quilts on our beds for survival.  That and shared body heat.  Us kids slept in a pile on two beds.  Now each little angel needs their own room.  And a furnace to keep them the same temperature all night and day.  Course we did not know any better.  That was how the world turned back then.  So let me get to the point and I am sure there must be one.

I do not remember ever doing any manual labor growing up at home.  We must have because I am pretty sure there were dishes to be washed, meals to be cooked, floors to be swept and mopped, laundry to be done, chickens to be fed.  It is just that I do not remember ever doing any of that stuff back when I was young and strong and could have done it very easily.  Back when I could have made a difference in my mother's life I do not remember doing anything.  Youth is wasted on the young, like I just said.

I am drifting from my original goal because thinking back to my younger days always makes me nostalgic, so I am going to wind this up, but I will be back very soon and I am going into the years in Nickerson, Kansas in much greater detail.  For now I just want to tell you to seize the day, which in French is "Carpe diem!"  or something like that.  I now refer back to my final piece of needlework.

When you are over the hill, you pick up speed.

(And the nearer you get to the bottom, it becomes a very slippery slope!)

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Woke up this morning, Nickerson on my mind.

That should be a country western song!  Woke up this morning, you were on my mind.  Forget who sang that, but this morning I woke up remembering when I was a little girl in Nickerson, Kansas and for some reason I was remembering the layout of the school and the lunch room.  Lunch room?  Who am I kidding?  The school was a red brick which was 2 stories tall.  There were 4 double doors to get into the school; two in front and two in back.  Face the school and on your left was the main entrance.

Well, here I made a little sketch of it.  It is not drawn to scale, but let me tell you, on top is the bottom floor.  See you come in the main entrance which is the upper left corner.  On your right is the first grade room.  I remember the alphabet marching above the black board.  But that is not why we are here.  See that hallway running down the middle?  See that table and those benches?  That was the lunch room.  At the end of the hall was the kitchen, restrooms and janitor.  Here was the heart of the school as far as I could tell!
Now this is what I looked like back then.  This is actually my mother, but even today I could pass for her.  Look at those shoes!   Button ups!  I wore brown Buster Browns.  Remember that ad?  "Arf!" then "That's my dog Tide.  He lives in a shoe.  I'm Buster Brown, look for me in there too!"  They came in two colors.  Black and Brown.  I mean you could get a pair of Black shoes or a pair of brown shoes.  In later years they introduced white and then combined white with them and the Saddle Oxford was born!  That is a whole nuther story.

Ah, the kitchen!  When we arrived at school the ladies were all ready at work cooking.  Mrs. Ritchie was the cook and her brother-in-law, Mr. Ritchie was the janitor.  I think that was right.  In later years, I think he committed suicide.  I recall her as a short, kind of heavy, very sweet lady.  He was always very kind.  Anyway, at the appointed time the kids were allowed to file past the end of the table and pick up their plates and a carton of milk.  (I think it was actually still in glass bottles at that time.)  That was if you could afford the meals.  If not you took your lunch sack, pail, or box and set at the far end of the table.  Seems like the far end was always more populated than the hot meal kids. Although I remember eating hot meals there, so it must have happened a  time or two any way.  I know I carried my lunch in a paper bag which I must be sure to bring home.  Do not remember what I ate, but I do remember that meat was a rarity and peanut butter was a real treat!  And bread was a nickle a loaf!  (I also remember being very jealous of the kids who had the fancy tin lunch boxes.  And today they sell on eBay like gold!)
And another thing, showing that the government was always taking care of us was that once a month, in the middle of the morning, we were sent down to the tables where we were given a paper cup full of orange juice.  This was given to us so we got out vitamin c and did not develop Rickets or some such incurable disease.  I am sure that the one glass of orange juice once a month was the only thing standing between me and being dead today!  But it sure was good orange juice, and the only time we ever had it!
Now a lunch room is a far different thing.  No way would kids be allowed to eat in the hallway.  I know when they were building the new grade school in Nickerson, one of the selling factors was that it would have a lunch room!  Course it was built after I left grade school, so I never got to see it.
Another thing that stands out in my mind is the music room.  It was at the head of the stairs and very small.  There were shades on the windows that were designed to block out light or to keep light from escaping.  This was in case the Germans or Japanese or  some one came and bombed us.  I do not think we ever used them, but you just never knew back then what might transpire.  Early in my school days, the district purchased an older frame school building and moved it to the property and it became our new Music Room.  When it was time for music we marched single file out the door, across the school yard (being careful to stay on the side walk so as not to step on any of the weeds.), and into the music building, which was very big and very airy and we loved it.  Miss Barkiss was our teacher and some years later she would marry David Houston, son of the principal of our school.  That is all I know about that!
I do remember the last day of school was always cause for celebration.  We would be full of anticipation for the coming summer, but we would be sad because we would not see our friends.  Seems people did not visit then like they do now.  Oh I would walk over to my best friend, Barbara Hawk's house and we would play, but that was a long ways over there and when I left she would walk me half way home.  But school ending was always a big deal.  We may have had a picnic!  I think we did!  And the band would play and we would listen. And my eighth grade year which was my last, a bird flew over and pooped right on Gay as she played her Clarinet and she did not even wince, just kept right on playing!  Always admired her for that though I never told her so.
I often wonder about my teachers. Miss Donough  was first grade and she married a guy I think was named Breece in the middle of the year.  Mrs. Wait was second grade, Miss Holmes was third,  Mrs. Howe was fourth.  (She got a thorn in her intestine and almost died.)  Miss Swenson was 5th, Miss Lauver was sixth, Mr. Bollinger was 7th and Mr. Schriber was 8th.  At least that is how it goes in my mind.  Nobody ever quit.  Nobody ever got fired.  Nobody ever molested anybody and as far as I know they are still all there in Nickerson, Kansas where I left them.  Mr. Bollinger owned the movie theater and tickets were 7 cents.  It was open on Friday night and Saturday afternoon.
When I was in 4th grade Aunt Helen came and enrolled me in Brownies, which was the precursor to Girl Scouts.  Bought me a brownie dress and hat.  She was very rich and had no kids.  Her brother was Frank Wocknitz who made bologna named "Tony's Bologna" and it was the only kind we ever ate and was carried by both grocery stores.  Lord only knew what was in that other bologna.  And when he died, that was the end of the business cause he took the recipe to the grave.
Well, I could gas all day long here, but I need to get busy.  The memory is a wonderful thing.  I am sure mine is accurate.  But if it isn't one of two things will happen; either someone will email me with their memory or they will say, " Oh, I had forgotten that!  I am so glad she remembered!"  But if there is anyone out there who remembers my good old days, and me, give me a holler.  We will have a great visit, if we remember why we came.

Correct the dates on Reuben Bartholomew

There, Debbie, thanks for calling and drawing my attention to the mistakes on the dates. I do not know where I got those, but these seem to be correct now.  You were indeed the apple of your grandfathers eye in your little easter out fit that he had aunt Joanne make for you  and little red shoes that he bought.  I must have a picture of that for this blog.
And I know how to do it.  I have a thing that you feed the picture in and it puts it on a digital form on a flash drive.  I will get that to you soonly. 
For now, I am off to the city.  Enjoy your sharp mind while you still have it!  ;)

Now I have not thought of this man in forever!

  There is no picture of this guy.  Well there is one of him in overalls standing in front of an orphanage.  That was where he lived.  See, many years before he met my mother, my father was married and had 5 kids.  Two of them died of something called "Sand Pneumonia".  A boy and a girl.  Then his wife died.  My father put the remaining 3 sons in an orphanage. Earl was adopted by a family named Siefert.  Richard by a family named Nichols.  Gene was never adopted and eventually left the orphange and went into the Army.  Both he and Richard served in World War II.

 Earl went to work at the power plant in Hutchinson and eventually retired from there.  He had a lovely wife named Gertrude and we of course, called her "Gertie".  They had a daughter, Lorainne, and two sons named Leon and Leonard ( I think).  Earl was a part of our growing up years.  Richard moved to Nebraska and then to Denver.  He never really fit in with society.   He was never married and came to visit us on rare occasions. 

  But Gene!  William Eugene Bartholomew!  There was a character.  I first recall seeing him when I was 4 or 5 years old.  He had just gotten out of the Army and came to our house in Nickerson.  Then he disappeared for several years.  Then he appeared again.  Every time he came he went to the Arkansas River to stay alone for several days. Then, poof! he was gone again.  By the time I reached high school I found out why he was disappearing .  He had a wife.  He had a son.  He had a bad habit of writing checks on some one elses account.  And of course, law enforcement had a bad habit of locking him up! Around this time of my life 2 things happened.  Gene was locked up and the movie "Picnic" was made in our town.  I took my brownie camera my brother Jake had sent me from Germany and went to take pictures.   The assistant director took my camera and went and took pictures of Kim Novak and Bill Holden behind the scenes.  He took 7 or 8 pictures.  I was on cloud nine when those pictures were developed.  I had pictures of movie stars!  So I took my precious treasures and tucked them in an envelope and sent them to my dear brother, Gene, in care of the Lansing Prison there in Eastern Kansas.  He wrote me lots of letters, you know.  Wrote them in Calligraphy!  Practicing his craft, I guess.

  And for years after that I told people that I "used to have pictures of Kim Novak and  Bill Holden that were taken on my very own camera".  I never saw the pictures again.  I do not know where the negatives went.  I never saw my brother Gene after he got out of Lansing.  We did search for him, but the last anyone saw of him was when he was in jail in Nebraska for vagrancy and they let him out on the edge of town headed west.  Never a word after that.  Like he walked off into the sunset and poofed.  Earl and Richard have long since passed and I am sure Gene has also.  But I will let you in on a little secret.  Promise not to tell? 

  In that closet right over there not 12 feet away is a box.  And in it are my treasures.  I have my grandma's braid.  I have Bret's ponytail.  And I have letters from Gene Bartholomew to our father that were written by a 10 year old boy in an orphange.  In one he is so proud because they got new overalls.  And in one he pleads for his father to write.  Somewhere in this world is a man named Billy Bartholomew.  He may not be alive any longer, but I bet he has heirs that would like to read these letters.  I know I would like to talk  to him.  Isn't it strange how we hide little pieces of our past and never pull them out or think about them and then when we least expect it, we wake up and find our selves recalling so much of the past that we can not even put it all down on paper?  Life has a funny little way of catching up with us and bringing us to our knees.

  And that is where you will find me this morning.  I have lost so much in my life.  Friends, family, pets, memories....  I want something to hold on to.  If there is anyone out there who knows a Bartholomew let me know.  My father, Ruben Floyd Bartholomew was born in Hudson, Kansas and is buried near there now with his son and daughter.  And my brother Delbert Leroy Bartholomew.

It is official, my life is in the crapper, again.

Yep!  I am once more drowning in a sea of "what in the world was I thinking!"  My little life usually goes along on an even keel; some times I win, some times I lose, and all is well, because it is life.  I am busy most, if not all of the time, but I do take time to smell the roses.  Life is good as I stand here like a deer in the headlights and watch the last little bit of freedom I know disappear under a pile of eBay items that need to be listed, quilts that need quilted, thread that needs spun and woven, garden that needs tilled, hats that need embroidered, meals that need cooked, dogs that need petted, and friends that "need to talk".

I have never learned to say no.  It is a word that is completely forgien to my vocabulary.  I have not learned the art of sitting quietly and watching a movie, reading a book, or just contemplating my navel. Lyn and I planned our vacation yesterday.  At least we picked the dates.  She, of course, had to give me the lecture about how this time "You will relax and not be heading for home the next day."  She knows me and I thank her for trying and maybe this time it will work. 

Now, this all sounds good, but this is something that throws me into a tail spin.  We started talking about this a couple weeks ago and the cloud of dread slowly floated over my head and began to settle on my shoulders.  With the cloud of dread came the depression that creeps in at times of dire stress in my life.  So, I bit the bullet and the dates are set.

Do not misunderstand me here, I love to go back home and see the kids, grand kids, sisters, cousins, friends (Hi, Joe!), and just chill.  I love to eat at Skaets.  Kansas City is always a treat with Shirley fussing over us.  I love to drive and take pictures and every moment I am on my vacation, I count the moments until I can get back home.  I can not relax.  I can not remember the last time I just let go and relaxed.  You know, the one where you lay on a hill and watch a cloud float past, or set on a creek bank and wait for that old cat fish to bite?  When I am back there I think how great it would be to live there.  You know, just pick up and move back.  It all sounds so simple; just move.

But with home comes memories and with memories comes sadness.  Sadness for a life that could have been; a life that should have been.  Dreams of a little country home and a picket fence and kids in the yard and a puppy barking at the cat.  And with sadness comes depression.  And with depression comes memories and the cycle starts all over again.  If I could go back and make the choices I should have made, who would I be today?  But, I can not do that, can I?  With age comes wisdom, or so they say.  With age comes hopelessness and dread.  I had one shot at this life and I think I may have screwed it up.  Deer in the head lights!

So this is Holy Week.  I take consolation in that.  I also take consolation in the fact that only a few of my friends and family read this, so they will not know how nuts I actually am.  So maybe some one out there can flip my switch and tell me how I can salvage what is left?  Some one sent me an email the other day, which I read in my typical every other line fashion, but I think I got the gist. 

Lord, help me when I complain about having to fix supper, to remember those who have no food.  When I complain about the cost of gas, help me be thankful that I have a car and can get around.  When I complain about having to clean house, help me be thankful that I have a home.  When I complain about the long walk to the duck house, help me be thankful that I can walk, and see, and feel.  And when I am antsy because a friend drops by to take me from my chores, be thankful that I have friends.  Amen

There!  I might have solved my problems.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DRoVH5u9Qk8&feature=related

Do we ever forget? I mean completely?

Kansas is a very flat state as you enter from the West.  You can see for miles.  Even a Prairie Dog will catch your eye.  So sometimes the foot tends to get a tad bit heavy on the gas pedal.  I know it does for me, especially when I am driving West and headed for my home in Colorado.  I had spotted these two roadside markers on my way down, so I was watching on my way back. 

The stretch of road between Syracuse and Lakin is as straight as a laser beam.  There are a few rolling hills, but if you have ever driven Kansas, you know just how little those rolls are!  The distance is about 35 miles.  That is why I was a little surprised to spot these and the sad part is, they are just a few yards apart and they are very new.

I could have researched this and found out all the details of who, what, when, where and why, as good reporters do, but I did not.  By being on the side of a highway, they by virtue of the location become public.  The details matter, but are of little relevance in this piece.   They can only serve as a reminder and memorial to the  people who placed them there for that purpose. 

I must confess that as I passed the first one, the blue cross, my foot came off the gas just a little.  The second one, brought it up a little more and by that point I was probably obeying the speed limit.  

I know these little markers can be found all along every highway in this proud land.  As we speed past a little beacon flashes on and makes us aware that some one died on that precise spot.  This has been marked by friends or family of the deceased and thereby committed forever to memory.  Or so it seems.  But years will come and go and the memorials will become faded and then turn to dust.  They will be replaced by newer ones with a different name and date.  That is just the way it goes.

My brother Jake was an enigma.  He was my only brother and I loved him dearly.  After I married and left home we sort of drifted apart, but not really.  I knew he was there.  I knew if I needed him he would be where I was, somehow.  His name was Delbert Leroy, but we never called him that.  We called him Jake.  Mostly Shakey Jake.  He made people laugh, and everyone loved him.  He had a scar that ran  from the bottom of his eye, across his cheek and down and back up.  A horrible looking thing that came from a horse kicking him in the face, but nobody ever noticed it.  He was that kind of guy!

My brother was killed in 1964 at an intersection some where near Inman, Kansas, I think.  Or maybe it was McPherson.  I know he had just gotten off work and he and his friend, John Rogers were heading for home.  Probably they were in a hurry.  Jake had only recently discovered the Lord and I think he was hurrying home to go to church.  He was not driving, but that is not important.  What matters is that there on a very lonely stretch of road, my brother and his friend went through a stop sign and into the side of a loaded gravel truck.  Clearly they were at fault.

Efforts were made to save Jake and he did in fact live long enough for me to get home from Western Kansas.  He wrecked on my daughters first birthday which was also my 4th anniversary.  He died on Halloween. I never went to see that intersection.  I never went to see the pickup or the gravel truck.  The day we buried him the doctors amputated Johnny's leg.  Four days later we buried him.  That was a bad year.

I did not put up a cross, but I have one in my heart.  I thank God every day from October 31, 1964 to this very day that he found Jake before he became a statistic.  I need no marker and hardly ever visit his grave.  He lives in my heart today bigger and stronger than ever before.  I think of Johnny occasionally and am secure that all the markers in the world would not make a difference.  I think he and Jake were talking about how great life was when the conversation ended abruptly.  I do not think either of them seen it coming.

So, when I came to this particular place on Highway 50, I stopped.  I stood for a while and thought about Jake.  And I thought about Johnny.  I can still see Jake in my minds eye.  Johnny has fade, but Jake remains there still 29 years old and still with his lopsided smile.  He will never grow old.  He will never loose his boyish grin.  His eyes will forever twinkle and I will forever think of him along a lonely stretch of road, or up in the mountains, or down by the river, and I will pray for him every time I pray.  I will never cease to thank God for the chance to know this little fellow that slipped through my life and brought me so much joy!



Dedicated to my brother

Delbert Leroy Bartholomew

October 5, 1939-October 31,1964