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!

Good morning world!

I woke up this morning with my brother on my mind   Sometimes that just happens.  So I went into Picasa because I was wanting to find a picture of him, but then I got side tracked and that is never a good thing.  I found this picture from a year or so ago.

That made me afraid to go downstairs because I know that one came from under the deck.  So I kept looking for Jake's picture.  And I found this.  This one just made me miss my Rowdy bird.

And my sister.

And the other sister.

And Cleo

And finally I found Jake. It is sad that this is the best picture I have of him.  Well, to be honest this and one taken when he was 9 years old are the only pictures I have at all.  So, I miss him, but life goes on and the road winds over hills and down in valleys and life is just pretty much is what it is.  We miss those who are not here, but we also miss those who are.

Today is not a day I want to spend missing anyone.  I got up at 4:30 with hopes of actually getting the garden planted today, yet here I set.  Had a friend tell me the other day that the way he does it is carries a timer.  He decides he will spend 1 hour on yard work and when the timer goes off he moves on to something else.  So I am going to try that one.  First I will go spend one hour in the garden and then 20 minutes in the shower and then off to do a chore in Belmont......

The road to hell is paved with good intentions!!!

I can fly a kite

Growing up in Nickerson was pretty much a challenge.  One of my favorite thing was to follow Jake and his buddy's down the highway and while they went up the creek to the swimming hole, I would dangle my pole in the water and with a little imagination, I could feel a fish bite.  Looking back I am not sure whether I was fishing in Cow Creek or Bull Creek, but either way there was nothing biting but maybe an old turtle.  Could have been a crawdad.  At the height of the spring floods it was probably only about 13 or 14 inches deep.  That was one thing you can still count on in Kansas, it will flood in the spring.  Several years back I took 96 Highway instead of 50 and wondered why I did that.  See, the towns are 7 miles apart because that was what the railroad required when it was building across the country.  Had to have a town every 7 miles so the train could get water.  People built the towns and then just never left them.  Never got any new blood either, so they just set there.
Jake was a great one for building kites.  His always had to be bigger and better than anyone else's.  That was back in the time when building a kite did not mean unwrapping the cellophane and taking it out of the package.  He was especially fond of the box kites and those took several days to complete.  The sticks had to be whittled and then glued and allowed to dry.  Then the tissue paper was placed, glued and that was allowed to dry.  Mother would choose a few colorful rags for the tail which had to be strategically placed.  Then the string was tied on and we were ready.  Jake always insisted on the very best kite string because, as Benjamin Franklin can tell you, there is a lot of strong currents up on the other end of that string tugging at the little kite.  If the string breaks, it is all lost.
Jake knew how to face into the wind, run and feed the string slowly so that the kite would do a little dance, then a small dive and then soar on an unseen breeze.   He would slowly feed it more string until it was very high in the air.  When it was settled he would let me hold the string, but he was always right there to make sure it stayed up and to tell me what to do to keep it steady.  How I loved to feel the pull of that kite!  It was just like a fish on the end of a line.  Ever been fishing?  If you have you know what I mean.
When it came time to bring it in, he would begin to pull it towards him and then quickly wind up the slack in the line.  Landing the kite was a definite art.  If he tried to do it too fast the string might break in which case the kite would soar away and crash to earth some where in a mass of broken sticks and paper.  But if he worked it just right he could bring it down and catch it by the tail and then hang it up to fly another day.  That was always a good feeling.  With Jake, I was a kite flying fool and he was always patient with me.  Not so good out on my own.
Mother gave me a little kite once and Jake helped me get the tail on it and get it up.  But since it was just a store bought thing, he quickly lost interest.  He left and I watched my kite sail higher and higher and then the unthinkable happened!  I lost hold of the string and watched in horror as my little kite sailed across the field toward the cemetery.  I ran as fast as I could, but there was no hope.  And then it stopped.  It stopped because the string was tangled in the top of a very big tree on the edge of the cemetery.  I watched as it dived around trying to get loose and finally in horror as it strained at the string and then spun around and crashed into the top of the tree in a broken mess.  I cried all that night at the loss of my kite.  Oh, the things kids remember.
Now, I have to tell you that many years later when we moved out here and Susie was 9 or 10, I got the urge to fly a kite again.  All these fields and no power lines was just more than I could stand.  So I bought a kite.  I assembled it and tied on the string.  Could not get it up.  Then I remembered about the tail.  So I tied a tail on it.  Still could not get it up.  I ran into the wind.  I ran with the wind.  I ran cross wise to the wind.  Susie very quickly lost interest.   I ran across a board which had a nail in it.  Of course of all the places in the world to step I had to step on that nail!  Kenneth was very understanding and loaded me up and took me to town for a tetanus shot!  He did explain that as tempting as the prospect of me having lock jaw was, the thought of not hearing my lovely voice was more than he could bear.  Sarcastic little shit!
Needless to say, my foot was very sore and when it was not sore any more the desire to fly a kite was gone.  Just wasn't the same without Jake to guide me.  It is fun to think about it and there is no way to describe how exhilarating it is to see your kite dancing across a blue sky, tugging at your hand and wanting you to come play.
There are many things I miss about my brother, but I think that when we were flying the kites we formed a bond that could never be broken.  Years later we would set out in the yard and listen to the Grand Old Opry from Nashville, Tennessee on WSM.  I credit him with instilling in me my love of country music.  These were things the other kids never shared with him.  When you grow up in the era I grew up in, friends were few and far between, but family was always there.  Of course, time would drive us apart, but until the day he died, he was my best friend and I will never see a kite that I will not think of him.
He died the day after Dona Marie's 1st birthday.  Sam was 26 days old.  Funny how time slips away.

And back to the Stroh place.

Mother had a very big yellow Tom cat.  As with all cats, he was very independent and just did pretty much as he wanted to do.  One day he must have wanted to have his head chopped off because he showed up at the door with one of mother's baby chicken's in his mouth.  Since my brother Jake was the only male present at the time the job was given to him.  Mother handed him the cat, an axe and sent him off to the "forest".  Now the forest was a grove of about 8 trees that was about 50 feet behind the chicken house.  Jake was probably about 9 years old at the time.  You need to remember that times were different back then.  We never were allowed to be "kids" because the mere act of survival made us grow up really fast.  In society today if a 9 year old kid chopped the head off of a cat he would immediately be put into therapy because he had all the makings of a serial killer.  Back then that tiny chicken was part of our cycle of life and no cat was going to snack on mother's chickens that would someday lay eggs for us to eat, hatch more chickens and eventually end up in the stew pot to feed the whole family Chicken and Noodles.  The cat, by killing the baby chicken,  proved he was a chicken killer and that does not work on a farm.  So, off they went to the forest and only one of them came back.

The chicken house was also an attraction to either a Fox or a Weasel.  Dad patched the chicken house fairly regularly, but what ever was getting in was not to be deterred.  One night him and one of his cronies hid in the chicken house and when the varmit surfaced we heard the blast from the shotgun.  That problem was solved, but then there was that gaping hole in the chicken house.  That is another story!

Have you ever gathered eggs?  In the Spring when the chickens first start to lay, several of the old hens also begin ti "set".  The setting is the fine art of laying eggs in a nest and setting on them until the hatch.  The hen has to turn them every day, keep them an even temperature, and be the most patient creature in the world because this takes 28 days setting time.  Did you ever hear the saying "Mad as an old wet hen?"   I used to throw some of my biggest fits when Mother would tell me to go gather the eggs.  She would tell me which nests had the "setting hens" on them and I did not gather those eggs.

I would walk into the hen house and several of the nests would have eggs in them where the hens had laid early that morning and then gone off in search of bugs, seeds or whatever.  Those were easy to gather because I just had to pick the eggs up and put them in my basket, but some of the nest's had chickens on them.  I knew which ones not to bother, but I was afraid of those beady eyed chickens any way.  I was terrified of the "setting hens" because they were very protective and I had much respect for thier mothering skills.  I gave them a very wide berth.  However, I was supposed to reach under the hens who were setting on nests that were not designated as nest boxes.  These are the hens that really scared me.  You do know that hens have sharp beaks, right?  Thier beak is thier sole means of defense.  So I would slowly extend my hand while the hen watched my hand with those beady eyes.  Time would stand still as my hand got slowly closer to her body setting on the nest.  If she inclined her head even the smallest bit, I would run screaming from the hen house.  Usually it would scare her so bad she left the nest in fright.  In that case I could go back and get those eggs.  I do not recall if a hen ever pecked me, but in my mind I left the hen house a bloodied mass every time.  And mother knew when I left the house exactly how many eggs I should have when I came back.  Mothers' are intuitive little creatures.  Too few eggs meant I had not done my job.  Too many and one of the last hatching had started laying.

We had a cow also.  Well, as I recall we had several cows and horses.  The horses were used to pull the plow, combine, trailer, or what ever.  Dad did managed to get himself drunk once when he went to Hutch to the sale.  He came home with a Shetland Pony for us kids.  That was like a dream come true.  A pony of our own for us to ride.  OMG!  That was the meanest damned horse I have ever laid eyes on in my life!  That thing came out of the trailer kicking and snorting and I sought the solace of the chicken house!  Scared me out of 4 years growth.  His name was Star.

Star had a pen and went into the barn at night for shelter.  Star had been ours for about a week when friends came by to see our new horse.  The friends had kids our age.  So Jake and a couple of the boys went out to see Star.  By this time it was dark.  How they came up with the next part of the adventure is beyond me, but Jake decided to crawl across the enclosure and scare the horse!  (There was talk of actually "goosing him with a stick" which I am sure is closer to what happened then these boys let on to Mother.)  To make a long story short, Star did not take to well to whatever happened and in typical horse fashion, kicked backwards.  His hoof connected with Jake's right cheek and sent him flying into the fence.  Much scrambling as the friends loaded Jake into thier car and took him and mother to Hutchinson to the emergency room.  It was a very long night.  Jake carried that scar to his grave.  It was about 4 inches long and a 2 inch scar across the bottom.  It looked like a "J" so he told everyone it was his initial.

Star was probably with us for 12-15 years and I do not recall anyone ever riding him.  Well, Josephine might have, but not me.  He died when we were at the Strong Street house.  Dad called the "dead animal wagon" which in those days, made house calls.  They probably still do.  The man pulled out a long length of cable, wrapped it around Star's neck, turned on the wench and drug him across the yard, up the ramp and into the back of the big truck on top of whatever else was in there, and drove away.  Fond memories?  Not for me.

Will try to get back soon and finish off the Stroh house.  Or maybe not.  A lot happened there.

Wrong day yesterday, today is October 29.

Yesterday I started to do this blog and my little mind wandered and I think I wound up chasing the cow down the ditch bank.  This is my older brother.  He is about in about the eighth grade in this picture.  I think that because back in those days, it had to be a special occasion to have our picture taken.  Those were few and far between and usually marked a very big event in our life.  See that scar on his cheek?  Today I will tell you how he got that.
Like I told you yesterday, we were living on the Stroh place right outside of town.  One day Dad went to the sale and came home with a Shetland Pony.  Oh, we were in seventh heaven.  We had our own horse.  Now why we needed a horse is more than Mother could fathom.  Years later as I put the pieces together I came to the conclusion that Dad was probably drunk and meant to buy a milk cow since ours had died.  In his befuddled mind he decided that we would get more use out of a pony then a cow any way.  The mere facts were that my father did not know he had children most of the time and while he did provide for us, the pipe and slippers and kiddies on his knee were not pictures I recall of my childhood. Back in those days, men were not "soft" like they are today and I was not the first nor the last kid in those days to only feel my fathers hand in anger, never love.  More about my father in a different blog, when I can deal with it fully.
But all that aside, a horse it was.  I remember seeing it unloaded in the moonlight.  It was the most beautiful horse I had ever seen and coming down the ramp from the trailer it looked very tall.  Daylight would bring many surprises.  I could barely sleep that night as Jake and I talked into the night about the wonderful horse our wonderful father had brought us.  From sounds drifting into our sleeping area we gathered that Mother was not near as happy as we were.
Morning found us gazing into pen where the horse was.  He was spotted and not very tall.  He had a long mane and it was spotted too.  There was a sort of star looking spot on his forehead so we named him "Star."  He came with his own saddle and blanket, but we were not allowed to saddle him or ride him until Dad was there to show us how.  We had never been this close to a horseso the chances we could saddle it up and ride away were very slim.  Unfortuneately Dad was not feeling well that day, so we only got to stare at the horse through the fence.  I think that we thought if we looked at Star long enough he would grow taller.  Ever see a Shetland pony?  They are by nature much smaller than the big ones we watched Dad work with.  See, my Dad was one of the last men in the area to give up the "team of horses" and go to a tractor, but more about that later.  This is about Jake and his scar.
Mom and Dad played cards once a week with friends and that evening the friends came and brought there kids and we were left to our own devices.  Of course we wanted to show off our new horse, so we gathered at the corral.  I do not remember the exact chain of events, but I do recall the chaos that followed.  Jake was always curious and tonight and the showing off for the kids was no exception.  I remember the kids all screaming and Jake holding his face as blood squirted every where from his right cheek.  Very quickly Mother and Jake were loaded in the back seat of the car and the couple visiting whisk them off the 11 miles to Hutchinson and the nearest medical attention. 
I do remember being so afraid that Jake would die.  We were sent to our beds and the visiting children were made pallets in the front room.  I surely drifted off, because some time in the night Jake woke me up to show me his bandaged face.  I cried.  He had been such a handsome boy and now he had this horrible injury and he would carry the scar the rest of his life.
Over the next few weeks the story of what really occured that night in the moonlight came out in bits and pieces.  Dad was going to shoot the horse and Jake confessed that maybe it was not all the horse's fault.  Seems one of the boys visiting "dared" Jake to creep up with a stick and "goose" the horse.  The horse reacted just like one would expect a horse to react and kicked backwards at the offending stick.  Jake just happened to be on his hands and knees right behind the horse.  And no one could see that coming?
Over the days and weeks ahead Jake slowly healed.  Star remained in the corral because we were all afraid of him.  Sometimes I would try to pet him and he would let me.  Dad did finally saddle him and ride, but the horse was way to short for Dad.  Josephine finally ended up riding him most.  She would put us on his back and give us a ride around the yard, but we were always terrified that Star would kick us so that was really not much fun.  I do not know if you know about Shetland Ponies, but they are mean by nature and I think they were looking right at Star when they wrote that definition.
So, my dear brother carried a very ugly scar on his right cheek until the day he died, but no one seemed to notice.  He was such a charamatic kid that the scar never mattered.  Nothing could have detracted from the personality that was my brother.  And why am I telling you about him today?
Today is October 29, 2012.  On October 29, 1965 I lived in Garden City, Kansas.  I had two daughter's ages 2 & 3 years old. I had a daughter who would turn 1 year old tomorrow.  I had a son who was 25 days old.  Tomorrow  would be my 5th wedding anniversary.  And today, October 29, 1965,  my brother, Jake, was returning home from a day at work and the driver of the pick up he was riding in went through a stop sign near McPherson, Kansas and ran into the side of a loaded gravel truck. 
Tomorrow I would not have parties; tomorrow I would travel to McPherson, Kansas to visit my brother as he lay comatose in a hospital bed with his right leg kicking as if to apply the brake.  He would not know I was there.  He would not know my mother sat by his bed from the moment he was brought there.  Or would he?  I like to think that on some level he knew.
He died early the next morning....Halloween. 

My dear brother, Jake 

 

Delbert Leroy Bartholomew

10/ 4/ 1937-10/31/1965